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present, he addressed himself again to me, and asked me whether I liked music, adding. "You are too young to play yourself." I felt rather piqued at this, and told him I could both sing and play. He then asked me to sing, and I sang, as well as I could, the Scotch song, "Ye banks and braes."

When I finished, he said it was the prettiest English air he had ever heard. I replied it was a Scottish ballad, not English: and he remarked, he thought it too pretty to be English: "their music is vile—the worst in the world." He then inquired if I knew any French songs, and among others, "Vive Henri Quatre." I said I did not. He began to hum the air, became abstracted, and, leaving his seat, marched round the room, keeping time to the song he was singing. When he had done, he asked me what I thought of it: and I told him I did not like it at all, for I could not make out the air. In fact, Napoleon's voice was most unmusical, nor do