The unknown tongue had now restored to Billy all the reverence and respect of his auditory, and he continued to expatiate very eloquently on the wholesome advantages to be derived from convivial intercourse, both amongst gods and men; rather slyly intimating that either on the score of the fluids, or the conversation, his own leanings lay towards “the humanities.” “For, after all,” said he, “'tis our own wakenesses is often the source of our most refined enjoyments. No, Mrs. Cassidy, ye need n't be blushin'. I 'm considerin' my subject in a high ethnological and metaphysical sinse.” Mrs. Cassidy's confusion, and the mirth it excited, here interrupted the orator. “The meeting is never tired of hearin' you, Billy,” said Terry Lynch; “but if it was plazin' to ye to give us a song, we'd enjoy it greatly.” “Ah!” said Billy, with a sigh, “I have taken my partin' kiss with the Muses; _non mihi licet increpare digitis lyram_:-- “'No more to feel poetic fire, No more to touch the soundin' lyre; But wiser coorses to begin, I now forsake my violin.'” An honest outburst of regret and sorrow broke from the assembly, who eagerly pressed for an explanation of this calamitous change. “The thing is this,” said Billy: “if a man is a creature of mere leisure and amusement, the fine arts--and by the fine arts I mean music, paintin', and the ladies--is an elegant and very refined subject of cultivation; but when you raise your cerebrial faculties to grander and loftier considerations, to explore the difficult ragions of polemic or political truth, to investigate the subtleties of the schools, and penetrate the mysteries of science, then, take my word for it, the fine arts is just snares,--devil a more than snares! And whether it is soft sounds seduces you, or elegant tints, or the union of both,--women, I mane,--you 'll never arrive at anything great or tri-um-phant till you wane yourself away from the likes of them vanities. Look at the haythen mythology; consider for a moment who is the chap that represents Music,--a lame blackguard, with an ugly face, they call Pan. Ay, indeed, Pan! If you wanted to see what respect they had for the art, it's easy enough to guess, when this crayture represints it; and as to Paintin', on my conscience, they have n't a god at all that ever took to the brush.--Pass up the sperits, Mickey,” said he, somewhat blown and out of breath by this effort. “Maybe,” said he, “I'm wearin' you.” “No, no, no,” loudly responded the meeting. “Maybe I'm imposin' too much of personal details on the house,” added he, pompously. “Not at all; never a bit,” cried the company. “Because,” resumed he, slowly, “if I did so, I 'd have at least the excuse of say in', like the great Pitt, 'These may be my last words from this place.'” An unfeigned murmur of sorrow ran through the meeting, and he resumed:--