"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.