he piany out of spite.
Now comes the singin'; see what faces she makes, how she stretches her
mouth open, like a barn door, and turns up the white of her eyes, like
a duck in thunder. She is in a musical ecstasy is that gall, she feels
good all over, her soul is a goin' out along with that ere music. Oh,
it's divine, and she is an angel, ain't she? Yes, I guess she is, and
when I'm an angel, I will fall in love with her; but as I'm a man, at
least what's left of me, I'd jist as soon fall in love with one that
was a leetle, jist a leetle more of a woman, and a leetle, jist a leetle
less of an angel. But hullo! what onder the sun is she about, why her
voice is goin' down her own throat, to gain strength, and here it comes
out agin as deep toned as a man's; while that dandy feller along side
of her, is singin' what they call falsetter. They've actilly changed
voices. The gall sings like a man, and that screamer like a woman. This
is science: this is taste: this is fashion; but hang me if it's natur.
I'm tired to death of it, but one good thing is, you needn't listen
without you like, for every body is talking as, loud as ever.

"Lord, how extremes meet sometimes, as Minister says. _Here_, how,
fashion is the top of the pot, and that pot hangs on the highest hook on
the crane. In _America_, natur can't go no farther; it's the rael thing.
Look at the women kind, now. An Indgian gall, down South, goes most
naked. Well, a splendiferous company gall, here, when she is _full
dressed_ is only _half covered_, and neither of 'em attract you one mite
or morsel. We dine at two and sup at seven; _here_ they lunch at two,
and dine at seven. The words are different, but they are identical
the same. Well, the singin' is amazin' like, too. Who ever heerd them
Italian singers recitin' their jabber, showin' their teeth, and cuttin'
didoes at a great private consart, that wouldn't take his oath he had
heerd niggers at a dignity ball, down South, sing jist the same, and
jist as well. And then do, for goodness' gracious' sake, hear that great
absent man, belongin' to the House o' Commons, when the chaplain says
'Let us pray!' sing right out at once, as if he was to home, 'Oh! by all
means,' as much as to say, 'me and the powers above are ready to hear
you; but don't be long about it.'

"Ain't that for all the world like a camp-meetin', when a reformed
ring-tail roarer calls out to the minister, 'That's a fact, Welly Fobus,
by Gosh; amen!' or