When the singer ended there was no applause; but there was evident sensation among the audience,--a feeling as if something that had given a common enjoyment had ceased. Presently the white Pomeranian dog, who had hitherto kept himself out of sight under the seat of the elm-tree, advanced, with a small metal tray between his teeth, and, after looking round him deliberately, as if to select whom of the audience should be honoured with the commencement of a general subscription, gravely approached Kenelm, stood on his hind legs, stared at him, and presented the tray. Kenelm dropped a shilling into that depository, and the dog, looking gratified, took his way towards the tea-gardens. Lifting his hat, for he was, in his way, a very polite man, Kenelm approached the singer, and, trusting to the alteration in his dress for not being recognized by a stranger who had only once before encountered him he said,-- “Judging by the little I heard, you sing very well, sir. May I ask who composed the words?” “They are mine,” replied the singer. “And the air?” “Mine too.” “Accept my compliments. I hope you find these manifestations of genius lucrative?” The singer, who had not hitherto vouchsafed more than a careless glance at the rustic garb of the questioner, now fixed his eyes full upon Kenelm, and said, with a smile, “Your voice betrays you, sir. We have met before.” “True; but I did not then notice your guitar, nor, though acquainted with your poetical gifts, suppose that you selected this primitive method of making them publicly known.” “Nor did I anticipate the pleasure of meeting you again in the character of Hobnail. Hist! let us keep each other’s secret. I am known hereabouts by no other designation than that of the ‘Wandering Minstrel.’” “It is in the capacity of minstrel that I address you. If it be not an impertinent question, do you know any songs which take the other side of the case?” “What case? I don’t understand you, sir.” “The song I heard seemed in praise of that sham called love. Don’t you think you could say something more new and more true, treating that aberration from reason with the contempt it deserves?” “Not if I am to get my travelling expenses paid.” “What! the folly is so popular?” “Does not your own heart tell you so?” “Not a bit of it,--rather the contrary. Your audience at present seem folks who live by work, and can have little time for such idle phantasies; for, as it is well observed by Ovid, a poet who wrote much on that subject, and professed the most intimate acquaintance with it, ‘Idleness is the parent of love.’ Can’t you sing something in praise of a good dinner? Everybody who works hard has an appetite for food.” The singer again fixed on Kenelm his inquiring eye, but not detecting a vestige of humour in the grave face he contemplated, was rather puzzled how to reply, and therefore remained silent.