Julia then drew off, deliberately, first from one hand and then from the other, her silk gloves, of a texture almost as light and delicate as gossamer or a spider’s web (which she placed on the piano), displaying two of the whitest, softest, and most beautifully turned little hands that I think I ever beheld; I doubt if Sir Roger de Coverley’s widow’s could have equalled them. Having run these delicate fingers—like a bevy of white mice—rapidly over the keys, as if to ascertain the force and tone of the instrument, she paused, looked up, and, with a sort of girlish waywardness, said,— “Well, now, what am I to sing?” Tom, with infinite obsequiousness, pointed with his finger to an air he had selected—it was Moore’s exquisite song, “Those Evening Bells,” a song which will endure as long as man retains a right perception of the touching and the beautiful, and which expresses, in the happiest language, what thousands have felt, when that inexplicably sad and sadly pleasing music, the chime of distant bells floating softly over hill and dale, falls on the listening ear. Sweet bard of Erin! embodier of our tenderest thoughts—translator of our dumb emotions—fixer of those painted bubbles of the soul which before thee burst at the touch of words—how many exiles have thy glorious songs made glad! how many solitudes have they cheered! how many pensive spirits have they soothed and delighted! how oft have thy soul-breathed words, sung to the strains of old, and falling on the finest chords of the heart, awakened all its noblest responses, to liberty, patriotism, love and glory! Immortal is thy fame, for it is deeply rooted in human hearts and human sympathies, and long after thou hast joined the choir above, may thy melodious strains float down the stream of time to delight the latest posterity! Julia sung this sweet air, and several others, with a feeling and pathos which convinced me she was not the soulless belle I had at first imagined; indeed, as she sung, every noble and generous emotion beamed from her lovely face. No wonder poor Tom was far gone _à la Chatelar_ though things with him had a somewhat happier termination; as it was, he hung enamoured over her, delighted evidently with the sensation her singing had produced, and, “music being the food of love,” as we have it on the best authority, banqueting evidently on this very exciting _pabulum_. Miss Heartwell having resigned her seat, overwhelmed with praises and acknowledgments, another young lady was prevailed upon to occupy it. Several other songs followed, when there was a pause. The silence was at length broken by the old collector, Mr. Dilkhoob, marching up to our hostess, and addressing her, arms, a-kimbo, with well-simulated sternness and severity, in the following manner:—