One evening, after a long ramble through the streets of London, we entered the parlour of a tavern in the Strand, in which was a party of Welshmen, who were in the habit of meeting at this house every evening, after the hours of labour, to drink old Welsh ale and sing old Welsh airs. Houses of call, as they are termed, of this kind are numerous in the metropolis. I sat amongst these sons of St. David for some time; there were several good singers present, and all seemed thoroughly to enter into the spirit of the songs; a joyous chorus terminating each verse. "The Maid of Llangollen" elicited a double-encore, and the beautiful air "Of a noble race was Shenkin" was responded to by hearty applause. There was a Welsh harper present, who played any air the company desired; he was a first-rate performer on his instrument, and the blind old man seemed to be as fond of his harp as if it had been a child. There was a youth present, with his father, who had brought him to London a day or two before, for the purpose of placing situation. Our attention was irresistibly drawn towards him, as he sat wrapt in his own thoughts, and seemingly unconscious of the presence of any one besides himself in the room. We could not but think that his heart was far away amongst the mountains, carried thither by the melodies of his native land. How differently was he now situated; yet the throng, the tumult of the mighty metropolis were all forgotten for the time, such power has a simple air to recall the past, and cancel (if we may so speak) the present. Many a time and oft has a national melody made the pulse of the wanderer in foreign lands to beat, and his heart to bound, when far from home and friends; memory has then asserted her power, and the loved, the lost, the distant and the dead, have appeared, wearing almost the semblance of reality. The beautiful air of "Auld lang syne" has caused a tear to dim the eyes of many a hardy Scot; and "Saint Patrick's day in the morning" set many an Irishman's sturdy legs in motion. Music has a power over the most I savage breast, and it seldom exercises it with such power as when it assumes the form of a national melody.