Suddenly, a new charm is added to the picturesque scene. Maiden figures advance over the grassy lawn; bright eyes glimmer; glossy ringlets are lifted by the fingers of the wind; tinkling laughter is heard;--and over all rings the wild sonorous music of the bugle! The days pass rapidly thus. The nights bring merriment, not sleep. The general goes with his staff to the hospitable mansion, and soon the great drawing-room is full of music and laughter. The song, the dance, the rattling banjo follow. The long hours flit by like a flock of summer birds, and Sweeney, our old friend Sweeney, is the king of the revel. For Sweeney rattles as before on his banjo; and the “Old Gray Horse” flourishes still in imperishable youth! It is the same old Sweeney, with his mild and deferential courtesy, his obliging smile, his unapproachable skill in “picking on the string.” Listen! his voice rings again as in the days of ‘61 and ‘62. He is singing still “Oh Johnny Booker, help this nigger!” “Stephen, come back, come back, Stephen!” “Out of the window I did sail!” “Sweet Evelina,” and the grand, magnificent epic which advises you to “Jine the Cavalry!” Hagan listens to him yonder with a twinkle of the eye--Hagan the black-bearded giant, the brave whose voice resembles thunder, the devotee and factotum of Stuart, whom he loves. And Sweeney rattles on. You laugh loud as you listen. The banjo laughs louder than all, and the great apartment is full of uproar, and mirth, and dance. Then the couples sink back exhausted; a deep silence follows; Sweeney has made you laugh, and is now going to make you sigh. Listen! You can scarcely believe that the singer is the same person who has just been rattling through the “Old Gray Horse.” Sweeney is no longer mirthful; his voice sighs instead of laughing. He is singing his tender and exquisite “Faded Flowers.” He is telling you in tones as soft as the sigh of the wind in the great oaks, how “The cold, chilly winds of December, Stole my flowers, my companions from me!” Alas! the cold, chilly winds of the coming winter will blow over the grave of the prince of musicians! Sweeney, the pride and charm of the cavalry head-quarters, is going to pass away, and leave his comrades and his banjo forever! You would say that the future throws its shadow on the present. Sweeney’s tones are so sweet and sorrowful, that many eyes grow moist--like Rubini, he “has tears in his voice.” The melting strains ascend and sigh through the old hall. When they die away like a wind in the distance, the company remain silent, plunged in sad and dreamy revery. Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:-- “Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the blues. Sing the ‘Old Gray Horse’ again, or ‘Jine the Cavalry!’”