Chapter XVII: Part 17

"'No such thing,' persisted the young lady. 'Did I not hear you over and over again say, "Lilla, come down to me?" Though I never was allowed to see a play or read a novel, I am not such a fool that I cannot understand when people want to run away with me. By Lilla you of course meant me, just as much as if you had said Maria.'

"'On my honour,' I expostulated, 'you are entirely mistaken. Only permit me to explain'--

"'Nonsense,' interrupted the lady; 'the song was plain enough. And so I got ready, and stole down stairs as quickly as possible. Alderman Pickwick always sits up late at night, and rises before day to write for the newspapers. He lives just round the corner, and never objects to marry any couple that comes to him. So let's be off.'

"'I entreat you,' said I, 'to listen to me for one moment.'

"'Did you bring a ring with you?' continued the fair eloper, whose present volubility surprised me no less than her pertinacity, having hitherto considered her as one of the numerous young ladies that are never expected to talk.

"'A ring!' I repeated; 'you must pardon me, but I really had no such thought.'

"'How careless!' exclaimed Maria. 'Don't you know that plain rings are the only sort used at weddings? I wish I had pulled one off the window curtain before I came down. I dare say, Squire Pickwick would never notice whether it was brass or gold.'

"'There is no need of troubling yourself about a ring,' said I.

"'True,' replied she, 'Quakers get married without, and why should not we? But come, we must not stand parleying here. You can't think, Mr. Merrill, how glad I am that you came for me before any one else. I would much rather run away with you, than with Mr. Simpson, or Mr. Tomlins, or Mr. Carter. Pa' says if ever he does let me marry, he'll choose for me himself, and I have no doubt he'll choose some ugly fright. Fathers are such bad judges of people.'

"'Miss Maria,' said I, 'you mistake me entirely, and this error must be rectified at once. I must positively undeceive you.'

"At that moment, the door half opened--a hand was put out, and seizing the arm of Maria, drew her forcibly inside. The door was then shut, and double locked; and I heard her receding voice, loudly exclaiming--'Oh! pa'--now, indeed, pa'--who'd have thought, pa', that you were listening all the time!'

"I stood motionless with joy and surprise at this opportune release--and I recollected that once during our scene on the door-step, I had thought I heard footsteps in the entry.

"Presently the father put his head out of his own window and said to me--'Young man, you may go, I have locked her up.'--I took him at his word and departed, not a little pleased at having been extricated in so summary a way from the dilemma in which the absurdity of Strange Maria had involved me."

* * * * *

About a week after this conversation, Cavender inquired of his friend, who was visiting him at his office, if he had again been out solus on a serenading excursion.

"No," replied Merrill, "I have had enough of that nonsense. There is no better cure for folly, and particularly for romantic folly, than a good burlesque; and I find I have been parodied most ridiculously by that prince of fools, old Pharaby, the bachelor in an auburn wig and corsets, that lives next door to Miss Osbrook. This said Pharaby assumes a penchant for my opposite neighbour, the rich and handsome young widow, Mrs. Westwyn. Taking a hint from my serenading Emily Osbrook, but far outdoing me, he has every night since presented himself under the windows of the fair widow, and tinkled a guitar--which instrument he professes to have learned during a three months' consulship in one of the Spanish West India Islands. He plays Spanish, but sings Italian; and with a voice and manner to make Paggi tear his hair, and Pucci drop down dead.

"Mrs. Westwyn, whom I escorted home last evening from a visit to Miss Osbrook, was congratulating herself on the appearance of rain; as it would of course prevent her from being disturbed that night by her usual serenader, the regularity of whose musical visitations had become, she said, absolutely intolerable.

"About twelve o'clock, however, I heard the customary noise in front of Mrs. Westwyn's house, notwithstanding that the rain had set in, and was falling very fast. I looked out, and beheld the persevering inamorato standing upright beneath the shelter of an umbrella held over his head by a black man, and twitching the strings of his guitar to the air of 'Dalla gioja.' I was glad when the persecuted widow, losing all patience, raised her sash, and in a peremptory tone, commanded him to depart and trouble her no more; threatening, if he ever again repeated the offence, to have him taken into custody by the watchman. Poor Pharaby was struck aghast; and being too much disconcerted to offer an apology, he stood motionless for a few moments, and then replacing his guitar in its case, and tucking it under his arm, he stole off round the corner, his servant following close behind with the umbrella. From that moment I abjured serenades."

"What! all sorts?" inquired Cavender.

"All," replied Merrill--"both gregarious and solitary. The truth is, I this morning obtained the consent of the loveliest of women to make me the happiest of men, this day three months; and therefore I have something else to think of than strumming guitars or blowing flutes about the streets at night."

"I congratulate you, most sincerely," said Cavender, shaking hands with his friend; "Miss Osbrook is certainly, as the phrase is, possessed of every qualification to render the marriage state happy. And though I and my other associates in harmony have not so good an excuse for leaving off our musical rambles, yet I believe we shall, at least, give them up till next summer--and perhaps, by that time, we may have devised some other means of obtaining the good graces of the ladies."

"But apropos to music," continued Cavender; "if I can obtain my sister's permission, I will show you a letter she received some time since from a young friend of hers with whom she is engaged in a whimsical correspondence under fictitious names, somewhat in imitation of the ladies of the last century. Both girls have been reading the Spectator, and have consequently taken a fancy to the Addisonian plan of occasionally throwing their ideas into the form of dreams or visions; addressing each other as Ariella Shadow and Ombrelina Vapour."

Cavender then withdrew to his sister's parlour, and in a few minutes returned with the letter, which he put into Merrill's hand, telling him to read it while he finished looking over some deeds that had been left with him for examination.

Merrill opened the letter, and perused its contents, which we will present to our readers under the title of

A DREAM OF SONGS.

MY DEAR OMBRELINA,

Last evening, on my return from Melania Medley's musical party,
where nothing was played or sung that had been out more than two or
three weeks, I could not but reflect on the fate that attends even
the most meritorious compositions of the sons of song: honoured for
awhile with a short-lived popularity, and then allowed to float
down the stream of time unnoticed and forgotten--or only remembered
as things too entirely _passé_ to be listened to by "_ears
polite_"--or even mentioned in their presence. It is true that as
soon as a song becomes popular it ceases to be fashionable; but is
not its popularity an evidence of its merit, or at least of its
possessing melody and originality, and of its sounds being such as
to give pleasure to the general ear? Who ever heard a dull and
insipid tune played or sung in the streets, or whistled by the
boys?

Falling asleep with these notions in my head, they suggested a
dream in which I imagined myself visited by impersonations of
almost innumerable songs, many of which had been "pretty fellows in
their day," but have now given place to others whose chief
characteristic is that of having no character at all.

The following outline may give you, dear Ombrelina, a slight idea
of my vision, making due allowance for the confusion, incoherence,
and absurdity that are always found in those pictures that
imagination, when loosened from the control of reason, presents to
the mind's eye of the slumberer.

"I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls," being mistress of a
handsome and spacious mansion in a fine romantic country, whose
hills and woodlands sloped down towards the ocean. I seemed to be
duly prepared for the reception of a numerous party of visiters,
whom I recognised intuitively, as soon as I saw them, for the
heroes and heroines of certain well-known songs--also being
familiar with the characters of many of them from my intimate
acquaintance with Aunt Balladina's old music-books.

The earliest of my guests were some much-esteemed friends,
descendants of the "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled"--they wore "The
Tartan Plaidie" and "The White Cockade"--and they looked as if they
had all been "Over the Water to Charlie." I felt particularly
honoured by the presence of that gallant chieftain, "Kinloch of
Kinloch," who, for the express purpose of making me a visit, had
relinquished for a time his grouse-shooting excursions "O'er the
moor among the heather"--had given up his musings on "The banks and
braes o' Bonnie Doon," and bade for awhile "Adieu, a heartwarm fond
adieu" to "The Birks of Aberfeldy."

Next arrived the ancient laird "Logie o' Buchan;" and then "Auld
Robin Gray" came tottering along supported by his pensive daughter
Alice, and by "Duncan Gray," his laughter-loving son, well known
among the lasses as "The Braw Wooer." The Gray family took their
seats at "The Ingle Side," where old "John Anderson" and his wife
had already established themselves close together in two
arm-chairs. "Logie o' Buchan" joined them; but his habits being
somewhat taciturn, it was not till they talked of "Auld lang syne"
that he was induced to mingle in the conversation--yet the ice once
broken, he was as merry in his reminiscences as either of his
companions.

Robin Gray reminded the laird of Buchan of his elopement with that
extreme blonde the "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," who, when
only "Within a mile of Edinburgh," had given him the slip and ran
off with "Jockey to the Fair." The laird retaliated by laughing at
Robin for having been one of the six-and-thirty suitors of that
ugliest of heiresses, "Tibby Fouller o' the Glen." John Anderson
was made to recollect his having been deserted in his youth by the
beautiful but mercenary "Katrine Ogie," who afterwards became
"Roy's wife of Aldivalloch," and in taking the carle and leaving
her Johnnie, furnished another illustration of the fallacy of the
remark, "Oh! say not woman's heart is bought."

These old stories were at first very amusing, but they continued so
long and with so many episodes and digressions, that we at length
discovered "We were a' noddin." Finally they were interrupted by
the arrival of "Bonnie Jean," "The Lass of Patie's Mill," "Bessie
Bell and Mary Gray," and other "Flowers o' the Forest," who were
following that gay deceiver "Robin Adair," himself a verification
of the well-known fact that "Though love is warm awhile, soon it
grows cold."

Robin Adair, whose mind, after all, seems to have run chiefly on
balls and plays (a visit to Paris having quite spoiled him for the
society of "The Braes of Balquither"), had first made love to the
unfortunate "Highland Mary," and then gayly and heartlessly quitted
her with that useless piece of advice which nobody ever took, "Sigh
not for love." Next he paid his devoirs to "Jessie the flower o'
Dumblane," as he met her one morning "Comin' thro' the rye." And he
had subsequently entered into a flirtation with "Dumbarton's bonny
Belle"--a young lady whose literary and scientific achievements had
lately procured for her the unique title of "The Blue Bell of
Scotland." But it was whispered in the most authentic circles that
she had recently frightened him away by asking him that puzzling
question "Why does azure deck the sky?"

Yet, however the follies and inconstancies of Robin Adair might
have rendered him a favourite with the ladies (who often tapped him
with their fans, saying, "Fly away pretty moth"), he did not seem
to be held in equal esteem by his manly compatriots. On his
presuming to clap "Young Lochinvar" on the shoulder, and accost him
as "Friend of my soul," that high-spirited chieftain immediately
proceeded to "Draw the sword o' Scotland," with a view of
chastising his familiarity. But "Swift as the flash," Robin eluded
the blow, and danced out of the room singing "I'd be a Butterfly."

At the desire of several of the ladies, I accompanied them to the
veranda to look at the prospect of the beautiful surrounding
country, and our attention was soon arrested by notes of distant
music.

"What airy sounds!" was our unanimous exclamation; and we almost
fancied that they must have proceeded from the "Harp of the winds,"
till presently we heard the tramp of horses, and beheld a numerous
company descending by its circuitous path the hill that rose in
front of the house. As "I saw them on their winding way," I had no
difficulty in recognising each individual of the troop.

Foremost came "The Baron of Mowbray" mounted on his "Arab Steed,"
and accompanied by a "Captive Knight" whom he had rescued from a
Saracen prison, and I soon discovered that it was "Dunois the young
and brave." Dunois was followed by his accomplished but wilful
page, "The Minstrel Boy," who, having broken his harp in a fit of
spite, was obliged to substitute an inferior instrument, and to
strike "The Light Guitar," which he retained as "The Legacy" of a
"Gallant Troubadour" who had fallen beside him in battle, and of
whose untimely fate he had sent notice to his "Isabelle" by a
"Carrier Pigeon."

Behind the youthful minstrel strode a "Happy Tawny Moor" performing
powerfully on "The Tartar Drum."

"The Young Son of Chivalry" brought with him a beautiful damsel
whom he had found in a "Bower of Roses by Bendameer's Stream"--and
whose eyes, resembling those of "The Light Gazelle," identified her
as "Araby's Daughter." "Rich and rare were the gems she wore;" and
she had testified her readiness to "Fly to the Desert" with her
bravo Dunois; to glide with him "Thro' icy valleys," in the wilds
of Siberia; or to accompany him even across "The sea--the sea--the
open sea." No music would have sounded so sweetly in her ear as
"The Bridemaid's Chorus," and she would willingly have given all
her pearls and diamonds in exchange for "The plain gold ring."

Next came a gentleman in naval uniform, whom I gladly recognised as
my former acquaintance, "The Post Captain;" for the last time "We
met--'twas in a crowd"--and I had not an opportunity of saying more
than a few words to him. He was not in his usual spirits, having
lately been jilted by the beautiful but "Faithless Emma," who knew
not how to value "The Manly Heart" that had so long been devoted to
her. He was accompanied by a "Smart Young Midshipman," and followed
at a respectful distance by some hardy-looking "Tars of Columbia,"
who, whether exposed to the storms of "The Bay of Biscay," or
sailing before the wind with "A wet sheet and a flowing sea," or
engaged in contest with "The Mariners of England," are always ready
to venture life and limb in the cause of "America, Commerce, and
Freedom."

After them came a motley group whose homes were to be found in
every part of the world, and amongst whom even "The Gipsies' Wild
Chant" was heard at intervals. Looking as if he had just issued
from "The vale of Ovoca," and wrapping around him a damp overcoat,
threadbare wherever it was whole, came an "Exile of Erin," who
proved to be the famous serenading robber, "Ned of the Hills." Near
him was another outlaw, "Allen-a-Dale," who, being something of an
exquisite (notwithstanding his deficiency in ploughland and
firewood) looked with hauteur on "The wayworn Traveller." The
Hibernian freebooter was not, it is true, as well supported as when
"Proudly and wide his standard flew;" having found by recent
experience that it is not always safe to go a-robbing with flying
colours: but he was not without his followers (what Irishman is?)
and he and they returned with interest the contemptuous glances of
the English brigand.

There were representatives of every nation and of every period in
which the voice of music has been heard. Some were serious and some
were gay--some were dignified, and others very much the
contrary--some had always moved in the first circle, and some were
in the people's line. I saw a "Bavarian Broom Girl" endeavouring to
persuade "Mynheer Van Clam" to waltz with her round the hill: but
finding it impossible to induce in him a rotatory motion, and that
his steps never could be made to describe a circle, she wisely gave
him up for a "Merry Swiss Boy," who whirled round with her to her
heart's content, though his sister would not dance, but was
perpetually wailing "Oh! take me back to Switzerland." There was
also the disdainful "Polly Hopkins" sailing round her ill-used but
persevering lover, "Tommy Tompkins." Among others came the foolish
"Maid of Lodi," ambling on her poney; the deplorable "Galley
Slave;" the moaning "Beggar Girl;" and several others with whose
company I could well have dispensed.

The sound of voices now came from the sea, and we saw several boats
approaching the shore--"Faintly as tolls the evening chime," we
distinguished the Canadian rowers. Next came the fellow-fishermen
of Masaniello chanting their Barcarole; and next we recognised the
swiftly-gliding and "Bonnie Boat" of a party of musical Caledonians
on their return from a fruitless attempt to wake the "Maid of
Lorn." I looked in vain for my sensible and excellent friend, "The
Pilot," whom I was afterwards informed by his daughter, "Black-eyed
Susan," had gone to the assistance of an endangered vessel, whose
"Minute Gun at Sea" he had heard the night before.

I went down with the other ladies to the portico to receive the
company that was every moment arriving, and I found the avenue that
led to it already filled. Among the Hibernians, we saw a wandering
musician who had "Come o'er the sea" to pursue his profession.
However, he succeeded but badly; after several attempts, finding it
impossible even to "Remember the glories of Brian the Brave." The
truth is, he was confused and disconcerted by discovering, when too
late, that the harp he had in haste brought with him, was the
identical one which had hung so long on Tara's walls that its soul
of music was undoubtedly fled; all the strings being broken. This
_contre-tems_ excited the sneers of the English part of his
audience, but I besought them to "Blame not the bard," whose
countrymen I saw were beginning to kindle in his behalf, and
knowing that "Avenging and bright are the swift swords of Erin," I
made peace by ordering refreshments to be brought out, and sending
round among them the "Crooskeen Lawn."

Again the sound of distant music floated on the air from "Over the
hills and far away." At first, we thought that "The Campbells were
coming" (none of that noble and warlike clan having accompanied the
numerous "Sons of the Clyde" that had already arrived), and the
male part of our company were preparing to "Hurrah for the Bonnets
of Blue." But as the sounds approached, they were easily
distinguished for the ever-charming and exhilarating notes of "The
Hunters' Chorus," that splendid triumph of musical genius. We soon
saw the bold yagers of the Hartz forest descending the path that
led round the hill, their rifles in their hands, their oak-sprigs
in their hats, and looking as much at home as if they were still in
their "Father-land."

I welcomed the whole company, though well aware that among them all
there was "Nobody coming to marry me;" and, as "Twilight dews were
falling fast," I invited them into the house, which fortunately was
large enough to accommodate them. The evening was spent in much
hilarity. "Merrily every bosom boundeth," and "Away with
melancholy," was the general feeling. A toast was suggested in
compliment to their hostess; but unwilling that they should "Drink
to me only," I proposed "A health to all good lasses," and it went
round with enthusiasm.

Our festivity met with a little interruption from "The Maid of
Marlivale," who, while taking one of her usual moonlight rambles,
had been frightened by something that she supposed to be "The Erl
King," and she rushed in among us, in a state of terror which we
had some difficulty in appeasing.

After supper, at which "Jim Crow" was chief waiter (till his
antics obliged me to dismiss him from the room), music and dancing
continued till a late hour. At length "I knew by the smoke" that
the lamps were about to expire, and I was not sorry when the party
from Scotland broke up the company by taking leave with "Gude
night, and joy be wi' you a'"--and in a short time "All the blue
bonnets were over the border." I must tell you in confidence, my
dear Ombrelina, that "A chieftain to the highlands bound" presented
me "The last rose of summer," and was very importunate with me to
become the companion of his journey and the lady of his castle; but
I had no inclination to intrust my happiness to a stranger, and to
bid "My native land, good night."

Hitherto, whenever, "I've wandered in dreams," it has generally
been my unlucky fate to lose all distinct recollection of them
before "The morn unbars the gates of light." This once I have been
more fortunate. But still, my dear Ombrelina, I think it safest to
intrust to your care this slight memorandum of my singular vision.
And should you lose it, and I forget it, we have still the
consolation that "'Tis but fancy's sketch."

ARIELLA SHADOW.

"In truth," said Merrill, folding up the letter, after making various comments upon it, "on the subject of music, this young lady seems quite _au naturel_. I fear for her success in society."

"Then," observed Cavender, "you must exert your influence in inducing her to change or suppress her opinion on this topic, and perhaps on some others in which she may be equally at variance with _les gens comme il faut_."

"My influence?" replied Merrill. "Is it possible that I know the lady?"

"You know her so well," answered Cavender, "that I wonder you are unacquainted with her autograph; but I suppose your courtship has been altogether verbal."

"Emily Osbrook!" exclaimed Merrill. "Is she, indeed, the author of this letter? It is singular enough that I have never yet happened to see her handwriting; and once seen, I could not have forgotten it. But I can assure you that she has sufficient knowledge of the art to be fully capable of appreciating its difficulties and understanding its beauties, and of warmly admiring whatever of our fashionable music is really good; that is, when the sound is not only a combination of beautiful tones, but also an echo to the sense. We have often lamented that so many fine composers have deigned to furnish charming airs for common-place or nonsensical poetry, and that some of the most exquisite effusions of our poets are degraded by an association with tasteless and insipid music. But when music that is truly excellent is 'married to immortal verse,' and when the words are equal to the air, who does not perceive that the hearers listen with two-fold enjoyment?"

"Two-fold!" exclaimed Cavender.--"The pleasure of listening to delightful notes, with delightful words, uttered with taste and feeling by an accomplished and intellectual singer, is one of the most perfect that can fall to the lot of beings who are unable to hear the music of the spheres and the songs of Paradise."

SOCIABLE VISITING.

"Shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it."--ADDISON.

After a residence of several years at their country-house in the vicinity of Philadelphia, circumstances induced Mr. Heathcote to establish himself again in the city. This removal gave great satisfaction to his family, particularly to his wife and to his two elder children, Harriet and Albert, as they all had very good reasons for preferring a decided town-life to the numerous conveniences of ruralizing at a villa both in winter and summer. They were called on in due time by all their former city friends; most of whom, indeed, had sedulously kept up their acquaintance with the Heathcote family by frequent visits to them during their long sojourn in the country.

By all these friends, the Heathcotes were invited to tea in form, sometimes to large parties, sometimes to small parties, and sometimes to meet only the family circle. And Mrs. Heathcote had made a return for these civilities by giving an evening party, which included the whole range of her friends and acquaintances, while her husband got rid of his similar obligations by a series of dinners.

These duties being over, and the family settled quietly down into every-day life, the invitations for particular times became less frequent; gradually subsiding into pressing entreaties from their friends to waive all formality, and to come sociably and take tea with them whenever they felt an inclination, without waiting for the ceremony of being regularly asked. These intimations were at once declined by Mrs. Heathcote, who declared herself "no visitor," her large family (for she had eight children) giving her always sufficient occupation at home. Such excuses, however, were not admitted from Harriet, who was handsome, lively, and intelligent, and much liked by all who knew her. She was fond of society, and had no objection to visiting in all its branches. Her days were generally passed in constant and rational employment, and though her evenings were pleasant enough at home, still she liked variety, and thought it would be very agreeable to visit her friends occasionally on the terms proposed; and she anticipated much quiet enjoyment at these extemporaneous tea-drinkings. We must premise that the sociable visits performed by our heroine did not, in reality, all follow each other consecutively, though, for the sake of brevity, it is expedient for us to relate them in that manner. Between some of them were long intervals, during which she, of course, received occasional invitations in regular form; and a due proportion of her evenings was spent in places of public amusement. Our present design is merely to give a sketch of the events which ensued when Harriet Heathcote, taking her friends at their word, availed herself of their earnest entreaties to visit them _sociably_: that is, without being either invited or expected.

In compliance with the oft-repeated request of her old acquaintances, the two Miss Drakelows, to spend a long afternoon with them, coming early and bringing her sewing, our heroine set out on this visit at four o'clock, taking her work-basket in her hand. The Miss Drakelows, indeed, had urged her to come immediately after dinner, that they might have the longer enjoyment of her company; and Harriet, for her part, liked them so well (for they were very agreeable girls), that she had no apprehension of finding the visit tedious.

On arriving at the house, the servant who opened the door informed her that both the young ladies were out. Harriet, much disappointed, was turning to go home again, when their mother, old Mrs. Drakelow, appeared at the door of the front parlour, and hastening forward, seized her by both hands, and insisted on her coming in, saying that Ellen and Fanny had only gone out shopping with Mrs. Eastwood (their married sister), and that she was in momentary expectation of their return. Harriet found it so difficult to resist the entreaties of the old lady, who was always delighted to see visiters, that she yielded and accompanied her into the parlour.

"Well, my dear Miss Harriet," said Mrs. Drakelow, "I am really very glad that you have come, at last, just as we wished you, without any ceremony. I always think a visit the more agreeable for being unexpected. Do take off your cloak. My daughters will be at home in a few minutes, and I dare say they will bring Mrs. Eastwood with them, and then we will make her stay to tea. We shall have a charming evening."

Miss Heathcote took out her work, and Mrs. Drakelow resumed her knitting, and endeavoured to entertain her guest by enumerating those among her own acquaintances that persisted in using knitting-sheaths, and those that could knit just as well without them by holding the needles in a different manner. She also discussed the relative merits of ribbed welts and rolled welts, and gave due honour to certain expeditious ladies that could knit a pair of large stockings in three days; and higher glory still to several that had been known to perform that exploit in _two_ days.

In truth, the old lady was one of those dull wearisome people, that are only tolerated because they are good and respectable. She had no reading; no observation, except of trifles not worth observing; no memory, but of things not worth remembering, and her ideas, which were very limited in number, had all her life flowed in the same channel. Still, Mrs. Drakelow thought herself a very sensible woman, and believed that her conversation could not be otherwise than agreeable; and therefore, whenever she had an opportunity, she talked almost incessantly. It is true, that when her daughters were present, she was content to be comparatively silent, as she regarded them with great deference, and listened to them always with habitual admiration.

Evening came, and the young ladies did not return; though Mrs. Drakelow was still expecting them every moment. Finally, she concluded that Mrs. Eastwood had prevailed on them to go home and take tea with her. "So much the better for me," said Mrs. Drakelow, "for now, my dear Miss Harriet, I shall have you all to myself." She then ordered tea to be brought immediately, and Harriet saw nothing in prospect but a long, tedious evening with the prosing old lady; and she knew that it would be at least nine o'clock, or perhaps ten, before her brother came to see her home.

The evening, as she anticipated, was indeed tedious. Mrs. Drakelow took upon herself "the whole expense of the conversation," talked of cheap shops and dear shops, and specified the prices that had been given for almost every article of dress that had been purchased by her daughters or herself during the last year. She told a long story of a piece of linen which her friend Mrs. Willett had bought for her husband, and which went to pieces before it was made up, splitting down in streaks during the process of stroking the gathers. She told the rent that was given by all her acquaintances that lived in rented houses, and the precise price paid by those that had purchased their dwellings. She described minutely the particulars of several long illnesses that had taken place among her relations and friends; and the exact number of persons that attended their funerals when they died, as on those occasions she said she made it a rule always to count the company. She mentioned several circumstances which proved to demonstration, that the weather was usually cold in winter and warm in summer; and she gave a circumstantial history of her four last cats, with suitable episodes of rats and mice.

The old lady's garrulity was so incessant, her tone so monotonous, and her narratives so totally devoid of either point or interest, that Miss Heathcote caught herself several times on the verge of falling asleep. She frequently stole anxious glances at the time-piece, and when it was nine o'clock she roused herself by the excitement of hoping every moment for the arrival of Albert.

At length she heard the agreeable sound of the door-bell, but it was only a shoemaker's boy that had brought home a pair of new shoes for Mrs. Drakelow, who tried them on, and talked about them for half an hour, telling various stories of tight shoes and loose shoes, long shoes and short shoes. Finally, Albert Heathcote made his welcome appearance, and Harriet joyfully prepared for her departure; though the old lady entreated her "to sit awhile longer, and not to take away her brother so soon."

"You cannot imagine," said Mrs. Drakelow, "how disappointed the girls will feel, at happening to be from home on this afternoon above all others. If they had had the most distant idea of a visit from you to-day, they would, I am sure, have either deferred their shopping, or made it as short as possible. But do not be discouraged, my dear Miss Harriet," continued the good old lady, "I hope you will very soon favour us with another sociable visit. I really do not know when I have passed so pleasant an evening. It has seemed to me not more than half an hour since tea."

About a fortnight afterwards, Miss Heathcote went to take tea, sociably, with her friend Mrs. Rushbrook, who had been married about eighteen months, and whom she had known intimately for many years. This time, she went quite late, and was glad to be informed that Mrs. Rushbrook was at home. She was shown into the parlour, where she waited till long after the lamp was lighted, in momentary expectation of the appearance of her friend, who had sent down word that she would be with her in a few minutes. Occasionally, whenever the nursery door was opened, Harriet heard violent screams of the baby.

At length Mrs. Rushbrook came down, apologized to Miss Heathcote for making her wait, and said that poor little George was very unwell, and had been fretful and feverish all day; and that he had just been got to sleep with much difficulty, having cried incessantly for more than an hour. Harriet now regretted having chosen this day for her visit (the baby being so much indisposed), and she offered to conclude it immediately, only requesting that the servant-man might see her home, as it had long been quite dark. But Mrs. Rushbrook would not listen to Harriet's proposal of going away so soon, and insisted on her staying to tea as she had intended; saying that she had no doubt the baby would be much better when he awoke. At her pressing instances, Miss Heathcote concluded to remain. In a short time Mr. Rushbrook came home, and his wife detailed to him all the particulars of the baby's illness. Harriet, who was accustomed to children, saw that in all probability the complaint would be attended with no serious consequences. But young married people are very naturally prone to take alarm at the slightest ailment of their first child: a feeling which no one should censure, however far it may be carried, as it originates in the best affections of the human heart.

Though Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook tried to entertain their visitor, and to listen to her when she talked, Harriet could not but perceive that their minds were all the time with the infant up-stairs; and they frequently called each other out of the room to consult about him.

After tea, the baby awoke and renewed its screams, and Mr. Rushbrook determined to go himself for the doctor, who had already been brought thither three times that day. Finding that it was a physician who lived in her immediate neighbourhood, Harriet wisely concluded to shorten her unlucky visit by availing herself of Mr. Rushbrook's protection to her own door. Mrs. Rushbrook took leave of our heroine with much civility, but with very evident satisfaction, and said to her at parting, "To tell you the truth, my dear Harriet, if I had known that you designed me the pleasure of a visit this evening, I would have candidly requested you to defer it till another time, as poor little George has been unwell since early in the morning."

Harriet's next sociable visit was to the two Miss Brandons, who had always appeared to her as very charming girls, and remarkable for their affectionate manner towards each other. Being left in affluent circumstances at the decease of their father (the mother died while they were children), Letitia and Charlotte Brandon lived together in a very genteel establishment, under the protection of an unmarried brother, who was just now absent on business in the West. Harriet had always imagined them in possession of an unusual portion of happiness, for they were young, handsome, rich, at their own disposal, with no one to control them, and, as she supposed, nothing to trouble them. She did not know, or rather she did not believe (for she had heard some whispers of the fact), that in reality the Miss Brandons lived half their time at open war; both having tempers that were very irritable, and also very implacable, for it is not true that the more easily anger is excited, the sooner it subsides. It so happened, however, that Miss Heathcote had only seen these young ladies during their occasional fits of good-humour, when they were at peace with each other, and with all the world; and at such times no women could possibly be more amiable.

On the morning before Harriet Heathcote's visit, a violent quarrel had taken place between the two sisters, and therefore they were not on speaking terms, nor likely to be so in less than a fortnight; that being the period they generally required to smooth down their angry passions, before they could find it in their hearts to resume the usual routine of even common civility. There was this difference in the two ladies: Charlotte was the most passionate, Letitia the most rancorous.

When Harriet arrived, she found the Miss Brandons alone in the back parlour, sitting at opposite sides of the fire, with each a book. Charlotte, who was just the age of Harriet, looked pleased at the sight of a visiter, whose company she thought would be preferable to the alternative of passing the evening with her sister in utter silence; and she had some faint hope that the presence of Miss Heathcote might perhaps induce Letitia to make some little exertion to conceal her ill-humour. And therefore Charlotte expressed great pleasure when she found that Harriet had come to spend the evening with them. But Letitia, after a very cold salutation, immediately rose and left the room, with an air that showed plainly she did not intend to consider Miss Heathcote as in part her visiter, but exclusively as her sister Charlotte's.

Charlotte followed Letitia with her eyes, and looked very angry, but after a few moments, she smothered her resentment so far as to attempt a sort of apology, saying, "she believed her sister had the headache." She then commenced a conversation with Harriet, who endeavoured to keep it up with her usual vivacity; but was disconcerted to find that Charlotte was too uncomfortable, and her mind evidently too much abstracted, either to listen attentively, or to take the least interest in anything she said.

In a short time the table was set, and Charlotte desired the servant to go up-stairs and ask Miss Letitia if she was coming down to tea, or if she should send her some. The man departed, and was gone a long while. When he returned--"Is Miss Letitia coming down to tea?" asked Charlotte anxiously; "Miss Letitia don't say," replied the man. Charlotte bit her lip in vexation, and then with something that resembled a sigh, invited Harriet to take her seat at the table, and began to pour out. When tea was about half over, Letitia made her appearance, walking with great dignity, and looking very cross. She sat down in silence, opposite to Harriet. "Sister," said Charlotte, in a voice of half-suppressed anger, "shall I give you black tea or green? you know you sometimes take one and sometimes the other." "I'll help myself," replied Letitia, in a voice of chilling coldness. And taking up one of the tea-pots she proceeded to do so. As soon as she put the cup to her lips, she set it down again with apparent disgust, saying--"This tea is not fit to drink." Charlotte, making a visible effort to restrain herself, placed the other tea-pot within her sister's reach; Letitia poured out a few drops by way of trial, tasted it, then pushed it away with still greater disgust than before, and threw herself back in her chair, casting a look of indignation at Charlotte, and murmuring,--"'Tis always so when I do not preside at the tea-table myself."

Charlotte sat swelling with anger, afraid to trust herself to speak, while Harriet, affecting not to notice what was passing, made an attempt to talk on some indifferent subject, and addressed to Letitia a few words which she did not answer, and handed her some waffles which she would not take. Never had Harriet been present at so uncomfortable a repast, and heartily did she wish herself at home, regretting much that she had happened to pay a visit during this state of hostilities.

After the failure of both sorts of tea, Letitia sat in silent indignation till the table was cleared, leaning back in her chair, eating nothing, but crumbling a piece of bread to atoms, and pertinaciously averting her head both from Charlotte and Harriet.

When tea was over, Harriet hoped that Letitia would retire to her own room, but on the contrary the lady was perversely bent on staying in the parlour. Charlotte and Harriet placed themselves at the sofa-table with their sewing, and Letitia desired the servant-man to bring her one of the new table-cloths that had been sent home that morning. Then making him light a lamp that stood in the corner of the mantel-piece, she seated herself under it on a low chair, and commenced silently and sedulously the task of ravelling or fringing the ends of the table-cloth, while Charlotte looked at her from time to time with ill-suppressed resentment. Now and then, Harriet, in the hope of conciliating Letitia into something like common civility, addressed a few words to her in as pleasant a manner as possible, but Letitia replied only by a cold monosyllable, and finally made no answer at all. Charlotte was too angry at her sister to be able to sustain anything that could be called a conversation with Miss Heathcote, and Harriet, rather than say nothing, began to describe a very entertaining new novel that had lately appeared, relating with great vivacity some of its most amusing scenes. But she soon found that Charlotte was too much out of humour with her sister to be able to give much attention to the narrative, and that her replies and comments were _distrait_ and _mal-à-propos_.

Letitia sat coldly fringing the table-cloth, and showing no sort of emotion, except that she threw the ravellings into the fire with rather more energy than was necessary, and occasionally jogged the foot that rested on a cushion before her; and she resolutely refused to partake of the refreshments that were brought in after tea.

Miss Heathcote sat in momentary dread of an explosion, as she saw that the angry glances of Charlotte towards the lady fringing the table-cloth, were becoming more frequent and more vivid, that her colour was heightening, and the tremor of her voice increasing. Our heroine was heartily glad of the arrival of her brother about nine o'clock, an hour earlier than she expected him. He explained, in a few words, that being desirous of returning to the theatre to see a favourite after-piece, he had thought it best to come for his sister as soon as the play was over, rather than keep her waiting for him till near eleven, before which time it was not probable that the whole entertainment would be finished. Charlotte, who was evidently impatient for an outbreak, saw Miss Heathcote depart with visible satisfaction, and Letitia merely bowed her head to the adieu of our heroine, who, vexed at herself for having volunteered her visit on this ill-omened day, felt it a relief to quit the presence of these unamiable sisters, and "leave them alone in their glory."

The black girl that had brought down her hood and cloak, ran forward to open the street door, and said in a low voice to Harriet, "I suppose, miss, you did not know before you came, that our ladies had a high quarrel this morning, and are affronted, and don't speak. But I dare say they will come to, in the course of a few weeks, and then I hope you'll pay us another visit, for company's _scace_."

When Harriet equipped herself to pass a _sociable_ evening with the Urlingford family, who were among the most agreeable of her friends, she could not possibly anticipate any _contre-tems_ that would mar the pleasure of the visit. She arrived about dusk, and was somewhat surprised to find the whole family already at their tea. Mrs. Urlingford and the young ladies received her very cordially, but looked a little disconcerted, and Harriet apologized for interrupting them at table, by saying, that she thought their tea-hour was not till seven o'clock.

Mrs. Urlingford replied, that seven o'clock _was_ their usual hour for tea, but on that evening they had it much earlier than usual, that it might be over before the arrival of some of their musical friends, who were coming to practise with her daughters.

"Really, my dear Harriet," pursued Mrs. Urlingford, "I am rejoiced that you happened to fix on this evening for favouring us with an unceremonious visit. Though I know that you always decline playing and singing in company, and that you persist in saying you have very little knowledge of music, yet I think too highly of your taste and feeling not to be convinced of your fondness for that delightful art, and I am certain you will be much gratified by what you will hear to-night, though this is only a private practising; indeed a mere rehearsal. Next week we will have a general music-party, the first of a series which we have arranged to take place at intervals of a fortnight, and to which we intend ourselves the pleasure of sending invitations to you and all our other friends. This, of to-night, is, I repeat, nothing more than a rehearsal, and we expect only a few professional musicians, whose assistance we have secured for our regular musical soirées. I am very glad, indeed, my dear Harriet, that you chance to be with us this evening. As I said, we have tea earlier than usual, that the music may begin the sooner, and at ten o'clock we will have coffee and other refreshments handed round."

By this time, the table was newly set, fresh tea was made, and some additional nice things were produced. Harriet, who was very sorry for having caused any unnecessary trouble, sat down to her tea, which she despatched in all possible haste, as she knew that Mrs. Urlingford must be impatient to have the table cleared away, previous to the arrival of the musicians, who were now momentarily expected. Just as Harriet was finishing, there came in a German that played on the violon-cello, and was always very early. On being asked if he had taken tea, he replied in the affirmative, but that he would have no objection to a little more. Accordingly he sat down and made a long and hearty meal, to the evident annoyance of the family, and still more to that of Harriet Heathcote, who knew that the table would long since have been removed, had it not been detained on her account. There was nothing now to be done, but to close the folding-doors, and shut in the German till he had completed his repast, as others of the company were fast arriving. And though Harriet had been told that this was merely a private practising, she soon found herself in the midst of something that very much resembled a large party; so many persons having been invited exclusive of the regular performers. She understood, however, that nobody had been asked to this rehearsal, who had not a decided taste for music.

Our heroine, for her part, had no extraordinary talent for that difficult and elegant accomplishment; and, after taking lessons for about a year, it was considered best that she should give it up, as her voice was of no great compass, and there was little probability of her reaching any proficiency, as an instrumental musician, that would compensate for an undue expense of time, money, and application. Therefore, Harriet had never advanced beyond simple ballads, which she played and sang agreeably and correctly enough, but which she only attempted when her audience consisted exclusively of her own family; and none of her brothers and sisters had as yet shown any taste for that sort of music which is commonly called scientific.

The Urlingfords, on the contrary, could all sing and play; the girls on the harp, piano, and guitar; and the boys on the flute, and violin. They all had voices of great power, and sung nothing but Italian.

The evening was passed in the performance of pieces that exhibited much science, and much difficulty of execution: such pieces, in short, as Dr. Johnson wished were "impossible." Being totally at variance with the simplicity of Harriet's taste, she found them very uninteresting, and inconceivably fatiguing, and after a while she had great difficulty in keeping herself awake. Of course, not a word was uttered during the performance, and the concertos, potpourris, arias, and cavatinas succeeded each other so rapidly that there was no interval in which to snatch a few moments of conversation. It is true the purport of the meeting was music, and music alone.

Miss Heathcote almost envied a young lady, who, having learnt all her music in Europe, had come home with an enthusiasm for feats of voice and finger, that on all these occasions transported her into the third heaven. She sat with her neck stretched forward, and her hands out-spread, her lips half open, her eyes sometimes raised as in ecstasy, and sometimes closed in overpowering bliss. But Harriet's envy of such exquisite sensations was a little checked, when she observed Miss Denham stealing a sly glance all round, to see who was looking at her, and admiring her enthusiasm. And then Harriet could not help thinking how very painful it must be (when only done for effect) to keep up such an air and attitude of admiration during a whole long evening.

Our heroine was also much entertained in the early part of the performance, particularly during a grand concerto, by observing the musician who officiated as leader, and was a foreigner of great skill in his profession. In him there was certainly no affectation. To have the piece performed in the most perfect manner, was "the settled purpose of his soul." All the energies of his mind and body were absorbed in this one object, and he seemed as if the whole happiness of his future life, nay, his existence itself, depended on its success. The piece was proceeding in its full tide of glory, and the leader was waving his bow with more pride and satisfaction than a monarch ever felt in wielding his sceptre, or a triumphant warrior in brandishing his sword. Suddenly he gave "a look of horror and a sudden start," and turning instantly round, his eyes glared fiercely over the whole circle of performers in search of the culprit who had been guilty of a false note; an error which would scarcely have been noticed by any of the company, had it not been made so conspicuous by the shock it had given to the chief musician. The criminal, however, was only discovered by his injudiciously "hiding his diminished head." Better for him to have been "a fine, gay, bold-faced villain."

Harriet could not help remarking that though the company all applauded every song that was sung, and every piece that was played, and that at the conclusion of each, the words "charming," "exquisite," "divine," were murmured round the room, still almost every one looked tired, many were evidently suppressing their inclination to yawn--some took opportunities of looking privately at their watches; and Mr. Urlingford and another old gentleman slept a duet together in a corner. The entrance of the coffee, &c., produced a wonderful revival, and restored animation to eyes that seemed ready to close in slumber. The company all started from the listless postures into which they had unconsciously thrown themselves, and every one sat up straight. As soon as she had drunk a cup of the refreshing beverage, Miss Heathcote was glad to avail herself of her brother's arrival and take her leave; Mrs. Urlingford, congratulating her again on having been so fortunate as to drop in exactly on that evening, and telling her that she should certainly expect her at all her musical parties throughout the season.