No
more does Honeyman. On a Saturday, when he is composing his valuable
sermons (the rogue, you may be sure, leaves his work to the last day, and
there are, I am given to understand, among the clergy many better men
than Honeyman, who are as dilatory as he), he begs, he entreats with
tears in his eyes, that Miss Cann's music may cease. I would back little
Cann to write a sermon against him, for all his reputation as a popular
preacher.
Old and weazened as that piano is, feeble and cracked her voice, it is
wonderful what a pleasant concert she can give in that parlour of a
Saturday evening, to Mrs. Ridley, who generally dozes a good deal, and to
a lad, who listens with all his soul, with tears sometimes in his great
eyes, with crowding fancies filling his brain and throbbing at his heart,
as the artist plies her humble instrument. She plays old music of Handel
and Haydn, and the little chamber anon swells into a cathedral, and he
who listens beholds altars lighted, priests ministering, fair children
swinging censers, great oriel windows gleaming in sunset, and seen
through arched columns and avenues of twilight marble.
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