“Do, dear William,” said his mother; “but do not let it be one song,” and here the tears filled her eyes. William, affected by the allusion to an air, which he knew was the delight of his revered father, requested his friend Mortimer to sing, promising he should go on next. The penetration of Mrs. Somerive saw that a tender string had been touched, and her feeling heart was affected. Mrs. Hamilton now proposed to withdraw, saying, she would hear William’s other song after tea. The ladies retired, and Miss Mortimer was very expeditious, both in ordering and announcing coffee. Meanwhile, the captain had promoted a very quick circulation of the bottle, and begun a round of toasts, which he insisted should be completed, before any of the gentlemen should leave him. Dr. Wentbridge and his venerable father claimed a privilege of exemption, by all allowed to belong to their cloth, _though very frequently not claimed_, and was suffered to join the female part of the company. Before this round was over, Etterick had become remarkably facetious, cracked jokes, and told comical stories; but his countenance, though somewhat exhilarated, still retained the characteristic gravity of a long Scottish face. He also entered into narratives, which, in point of subject, formed a great contrast with the seriousness of voice and manner. His composure of countenance did not arise from a desire of enhancing the mirth by apparent sedateness, but from habitual cast of muscles. Their young companions left the three old gentlemen to themselves; Hamilton, though not intoxicated, was in that state, which, without much disordering the understanding, opens the heart. Accosting Mrs. Somerive, he asked her, whether she, who was such an exquisite judge, and perfect exhibitor of beauty, had ever seen, or could conceive any object, more lovely and fascinating than his charming Maria? But she resembles Sophia Western more than any of your beauties; she has the taste and genius of your heroine; the understanding of her first friend, with all the fascinating softness of your hero’s younger sister. Maria, wishing to shift the subject of conversation from herself, made some remark on the one who first appeared likely to prove the hero, and wished it had been possible to have carried on the story without his death; but I don’t see how it could have been managed. “I could have been very well pleased,” said Hamilton, “if that fiery youth had wreaked his vengeance on the villainous attorney and his two sons.” Maria now, at the request of Hamilton, favoured them with a song, which happened to be “One day I heard Mary say,” which she performed with exquisite taste and pathos, and appeared to our hero to dwell with peculiar softness on the words, “I’ll never leave thee;” Hamilton thought he had never seen her so bewitching, and whispered to her, that he could live no longer without her; and that unless she consented to be immediately his, his reason,