Our evening amusements commenced with music, and finished with merry games. Miss Barbara touched a sonata of Beethoven's with deep expression, in which that great composer deplores the loss of one most dear to him. It threw us into a pensive mood, when Carlton, to give a turn to such sensations, called upon me to sing the lines of his favourite poet, Sir Walter Raleigh, which harmonized with the incident of the day:—

O shepherd, what is love, I pray? / It is a yea--it is a nay ; / A pretty kind of sportive play ; / it is a thing will soon away. / Takes vantage, nymphs, while yet you may, / And this is love ! I hear you say.