“Dancing,” said I, “is the talent of your sex--that pure grace which must result from a symmetrical form, and that elixity of temperament which is the effect of woman’s delicate organization, creates you dancers. And while I beheld your performances this evening, I no longer wondered that the gravity of Socrates could not resist the spell which lurked in the graceful motions of Aspasia, but followed her in the mazes of the dance.” She bowed, and said, I “flattered too agreeably, not to be listened to with _pleasure_, if not with _faith_.” In short, I have had a thousand occasions to observe, that while she receives a decided compliment with the ease of almost _bon ton nonchalance_, a look, a broken sentence, a word, has the power of overwhelming her with confusion, or awakening all the soul of emotion in her bosom. All this I can understand. As the dew of the evening now began to fall, the invalid Prince and his lovely daughter arose to retire. And those who had been rendered so happy by their condescension, beheld their retreat with regret, and followed them with blessings. Whiskey, milk, and oaten bread were now distributed in abundance by the old nurse and the steward; and the dancing was recommenced with new ardour. The priest and I remained behind, conversing with the old and jesting with the young--he in Irish, and I in English, with such as understood it. The girls received my little gallantries with considerable archness, and even with some point of repartee; while the priest rallied them in their own way, for he seems as playful as a child among them, though evidently worshipped as a sakit. And the moon rose resplendently over the vale, before it was restored to its wonted solitary silence. *****