voice, which was in conversation an echo of the soul's harmony, was powerful in music, which she had been taught scientifically when a child. Many were the pieces in which I was instructed to accompany her, sacred, patriotic, or pathetic. Sometimes she would honor me by enumerating quite a catalogue, and allowing me to choose.
"My child, shall it be 'Pompey's Ghost to his Wife Cornelia,' or 'While Shepherds watched their Flocks by Night,' or 'The poor, distracted Lady,' or 'Indulgent Parents, dear,' or 'Solitude?'" The last-named one was often my selection; the sweet tune and the flowing words of the lyric are still fresh in memory, though never heard save from her sacred lips:
"What voice is this I hear
From yonder grove,
That charms my listening ear,
And wakes my love?
Sure 'tis some heavenly guest
Inviting me to rest
On my Redeemer's breast,
Sent from above."
Did space allow I would gladly copy the whole, which I have never seen in print. And as I inscribe these few words, there comes with them such a gush of happiness, such a thrill of melody, as though an angel hovered near. May it not be so?
