But, although the Miss O’D--------s are very charming girls, although their mother seems a very rational and amiable being, and although their governess appears to be a young woman of distinguished education and considerable talent; yet I in vain sought in their conversation for that soul-seizing charm which, with a magic, undefinable influence breathes round the syren _Princess of Inismore_. O! it was requisite I should mingle, converse with other women to justly appreciate all I possess in the society of Glorvina; for surely she is _more_, or every other woman is _less_ than mortal! Before the men joined us in the drawing-room, I was quite _boudoirized_ with these unaffected and pleasing girls. One wound her working-silk off my hands, another would try my skill at battledore, and the youngest, a charming little being of thirteen, told me the history of a pet dove that was dying in her lap; while all in-treated I would talk to them of the Princess of Inismore. “For my part,” said the youngest girl, “I always think of her as of the ‘Sleeping Beauty in the Wood,’ or some other princess in a fairy tale.” “We know nothing of her, however,” said Mrs. O’D---------, “but by report; we live at too great a distance to keep up any connexion with the Inismore family; besides, that it is generally understood to be Mr. O’Melville’s wish to live in retirement.” This is the first time I ever heard my soi-disant Prince mentioned without his title; but I am sure I should never endure to hear my Glorvina called Miss O’Melville. For to me, too, does she appear more like the Roganda of a fairy tale, than “any mortal mixture of earth’s mould.” The gentlemen now joined us, and as soon as tea was over, the piper struck up in the hall, and in a moment every one was on their feet. My long journey was received as a sufficient plea for my being a spectator only; but the priest refused the immunity, and led out the lady mother; the rest followed, and the idol amusement of the gay-hearted Irish, received its usual homage. But though the women danced with considerable grace and spirit, they did not, like Glorvina, “Send the soul upon a jig to heaven.” The dance was succeeded by a good supper; the supper by a cheerful song, and every one seemed unwilling to be the first to break up a social compact over which the spirit of harmony presided. As the priest and I retired to our rooms, “You have now,” said he, “had a specimen of the mode of living of the Irish gentry of a certain rank in this country; the day is devoted to agricultural business, the evening to temperate festivity and innocent amusement; but neither the avocations of the morning nor the engagements of the evening suspend the rites of hospitality.”