But at night the Ark became alive. Soon after supper, Mr. Barlow arrived
and "Brother Mark Barlow" and Lovell. Then the little room began to fill
rapidly. We adjourned to the "parlor" and the melodeon.
"Oh, I do think them plaster Paris picters are so beautiful, don't yew?"
said Mrs. Barlow, enraptured over a statuette or two of that truly vague
description, which adorned the mantelpiece. But she became perfectly
lost in delight when Lovell began to sing.
Lovell's was the one execrable voice among the Wallencampers--if anything
so weak could be designated by so strong a term--and his manner of
keeping time with his head was clock-like in its regularity and painfully
arduous; yet, out of that pristine naughtiness which found a hiding-place
in the hearts of the Wallencamp youth, Lovell was frequently encouraged
to come to the front during their musicals, and if not actually beguiled
into executing a solo, was generously applauded in the performance of
minor parts. There was comfort, however, in the reflection that if Lovell
had indeed possessed the tuneful gift of a Heaven-elected artist, he
could not have been so supremely confident of the merit of his own
performances, nor could his mother have been more delighted at their
brilliancy.
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