Alfred whispered, "No, no, dearest; sing something suitable to you and
me."

"Out of the question. Then go farther away, dear; I shall have more
courage."

He obeyed, and she turned over two or three music-books, and finally sung
from memory. She cultivated musical memory, having observed the contempt
with which men of sense visit the sorry pretenders to music, who are
tuneless and songless among the nightingales, and anywhere else away from
their books. How will they manage to sing in heaven? Answer me that.

The song Julia Dodd sang on this happy occasion, to meet the humble but
heterogeneous views of Messrs. Sampson and Hardie, was a simple eloquent
Irish song called Aileen Aroon. Whose history, by-the-bye, was a curious
one. Early in this century it occurred to somebody to hymn a son of
George the Third for his double merit in having been born, and going to a
ball. People who thus apply the fine arts in modern days are seldom
artists; accordingly, this parasite could not invent a melody; so he
coolly stole Aileen Aroon, soiled it by inserting sordid and incongruous
jerks into the refrain, and called the stolen and adulterated article
Robin Adair. An artisan of the same kidney was soon found to write words
down to the degraded ditty: and, so strong is Flunkeyism, and so weak is
Criticism, in these islands, that the polluted tune actually superseded
the clean melody; and this sort of thing--

Who was in uniform at the ball?
Silly Billy,

smothered the immortal lines.