Growling listened with an expression of as much dissatisfaction as if he had been drinking weak punch.

"I see you don't like that," said the widow to him, under her breath; "ah, you're too hard, doctor--consider she sung out of good-nature."

"I don't know if it was out of good-nature," said he; "but I am sure it was out of tune."

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Widow Flanagan's Party]

James Reddy led back Miss Riley to her mamma, who was much delighted with the open manifestations of "the poet's" admiration.

"She ought to be proud, sir, of your _conjunction_, I'm sure. A poet like you, sir!--what beautiful rhymes them wor you did on the 'lection."

"A trifle, ma'am--a mere trifle--a little occasional thing."

"Oh! but them two beautiful lines--

"We tread the land that bore us Our green flag glitters o'er us!"

"_They_ are only a quotation, ma'am," said Reddy.

"Oh, like every man of true genius, sir, you try and undervalue your own work; but call them lines what you like, to my taste they are the most beautiful lines in the thing you done."

Reddy did not know what to answer, and his confusion was increased by catching old Growling's eye, who was chuckling at the _mal-a-propos_ speech of the flourishing Mrs. Riley.

"Don't you sing yourself, sir?" said that lady.

"To be sure he does," cried the Widow Flanagan; "and he must give us one of his own."

"Oh!"

"No excuses; now, James!"

"Where's Duggan?" inquired the poetaster, affectedly; "I told him to be here to accompany me."

"I attend your muse, sir," said a miserable structure of skin and bone, advancing with a low bow and obsequious smile: this was the poor music-master, who set Reddy's rhymes to music as bad, and danced attendance on him everywhere.

The music-master fumbled over a hackneyed prelude to show his command of the instrument.

Miss Riley whispered to her mamma that it was out of one of her first books of lessons.

Mrs. Flanagan, with a seductive smirk, asked, "what he was going to give them?" The poet replied, "a little thing of his own--'Rosalie; or, the Broken Heart,'--sentimental, but rather sad."

The musical skeleton rattled his bones against the ivory in a very one, two, three, four symphony; the poet ran his fingers through his hair, pulled up his collar, gave his head a jaunty nod, and commenced:

ROSALIE;

OR, THE BROKEN HEART.

Fare thee--fare thee well--alas!

Fare--farewell to thee!

On pleasure's wings, as dew-drops fade, Or honey stings the bee, My heart is as sad as a black stone Under the blue sea.

Oh, Rosalie! Oh, Rosalie!

As ruder rocks with envy glow, Thy _coral_ lips to see, So the weeping waves more briny grow With my salt tears for thee!

My heart is as sad as a black stone Under the blue sea.

Oh, Rosalie! Oh, Rosalie!

After this brilliant specimen of the mysteriously-sentimental and imaginative school was sufficiently applauded, dancing was recommenced, and Reddy seated himself beside Mrs. Riley, the incense of whose praise was sweet in his nostrils. "Oh, you _have_ a soul for poetry indeed, sir," said the lady. "I was bewildered with all your beautiful _idays_; that 'honey stings the bee' is a beautiful _iday_--so expressive of the pains and pleasures of love. Ah! I was the most romantic creature myself once, Mister Reddy, though you wouldn't think it now; but the cares of the world and a family takes the shine out of us. I remember when the men used to be making hats in my father's establishment--for my father was the most extensive hatter in Dublin--I don't know if you knew my father was a hatter; but you know, sir, manufactures must be followed, and that's no reason why people shouldn't enjoy po'thry and refinement.

Well, I was going to tell you how romantic I was, and when the men were making the hats--I don't know whether you ever saw them making hats----"

Reddy declared he never did.

"Well, it's like the witches round the iron pot in _Macbeth_; did you ever see Kemble in _Macbeth_? Oh! he'd make your blood freeze, though the pit is so hot you wouldn't have a dhry rag on you. But to come to the hats. When they're making them, they have hardly any crown to them at all, and they are all with great sprawling wide flaps to them; well, the moment I clapt my eyes on one of them, I thought of a Spanish n.o.bleman directly, with his slouched hat and black feathers like a hea.r.s.e. Yes, I a.s.sure you, the broad hat always brought to my mind a Spanish n.o.ble or an Italian n.o.ble (that would do as well, you know), or a robber or a murderer, which is all the same thing."

Reddy could not conceive a hat manufactory as a favourable nursery for romance; but as the lady praised his song, he listened complacently to her hatting.

"And that's another beautiful iday, sir," continued the lady, "where you make the rocks jealous of each other--that's so beautiful to bring in a bit of nature into a metaphysic that way."

"You flatter me, ma'am," said Reddy; "but if I might speak of my own work--that is, if a man may _ever_ speak of his own work----"

"And why not, sir?" asked Mrs. Riley, with a business-like air; "who has so good a right to speak of the work as the man who _done_ it, and knows what's in it?"

"That's a very sensible remark of yours, ma'am, and I will therefore take leave to say, that the idea _I_ am proudest of, is the _dark_ and _heavy_ grief of the heart being compared to a _black_ stone, and its _depth_ of misery implied by the _sea_."

"Thrue for you," said Mrs. Riley; "and the _blue_ sea--ah! that didn't escape me; that's an elegant touch--the black stone and the blue sea; and black and blue, such a beautiful conthrast!"

"I own," said Reddy, "I attempted, in that, the bold and daring style of expression which Byron has introduced."

"Oh, he's a fine _pote_ certainly, but he's not moral, sir; and I'm afeard to let my daughter read such combustibles."

"But he's grand," said Reddy; "for instance--

'She walks in beauty like the night.'

How fine!"

"But how wicked!" said Mrs. Riley. "I don't like that night-walking style of poetry at all, so say no more about it; we'll talk of something else. You admire music, I'm sure."

"I adore it, ma'am."

"Do you like the piano?"

"Oh, ma'am! I could live under a piano."

"My daughter plays the piano beautiful."

"Charmingly."

"Oh, but if you heerd her play the harp, you'd think she wouldn't lave a sthring on it" (this was Mrs. Riley's favourite bit of praise); "and a beautiful harp it is, one of Egan's double action, all over goold, and cost eighty guineas; Miss Cheese chuse it for her. Do you know Miss Cheese? she's as plump as a partridge, with a voice like a lark; she sings elegant duets. Do you ever sing duets?"