Although some years have passed since first we were made free of that circle, distinctly do we remember the manner of our greeting--"This," said our introducer, "is a room rendered famous by the celebrated Addison." He emphasised the "celebrated" owing to an evident misgiving that we might not perhaps be intimate with the name of that personage. "Kitty Clive, the actress," he continued, "lodged in the upper floors,"--which was true--"and Dr. Johnson is said to have worn away the wainscot with his wig in the further corner,"--which was not. We were already lingering over the notice-board and letter-rack, reminded probably by the associations of a similar contrivance at Will's Coffee House, when Parson Swift came in the mornings to seek for letters from Stella, when the voice of our cicerone again summoned us. "Drop into a seat," it whispered, "and I'll show you the best men in London." The best men in London were engaged for the most part in imbibing various amber-coloured fluids, and shouting out at intervals the burden of a well-known chorus. An entertainment known as a "sing-song" was vociferously going on. Vocalisation of a very fair order was being given, whenever any one of the hearty Scufflers had sufficiently wetted his throat to "oblige." We were in time to hear the 'Friar of Orders Gray' performed very creditably, and 'When Joan's ale was new' brought out a ringing chorus. We must have stayed some hours in listening to this minstrelsy. Hospital songs, ditties well-known at Bartholomew's and Guy's; poaching songs that bore the flavour of the honest shire of Somerset; pieces from the comic operas; all were given with the utmost good-humour and vivacity. But what seemed most to invigorate the spirits of the Scufflers was a song that had been demanded more than once during the evening and was at length only given after extreme pressure upon the part of the audience. We do not know the name of the song; we are not certain we should recollect the tune; but we are positive of the words, such of them at least as formed the refrain of the melody. In every stanza there was held up to reprobation some unpopular type. The severer virtues were no less mercilessly handled, while all authority of the more invidious kind, from that of the beak to that of the exciseman, was subjected to the same unceremonious treatment. Every versicle--well do we remember it--concluded with the exordium, "Damn their eyes!" Never can we forget the rapturous reception that was accorded to this piece of harmony. The men literally shrieked with delight. "Damn their eyes!"--they grasped convulsively at tumblers and decanters and banged them on the table. "Damn their eyes!"--they hurrahed, they shouted, they raved, they swore. "Damn their eyes!"--they bestrode chairs and benches, as they might have bestridden hobby-horses, and tournamented about the room. Was this then the paean or war-song of the Scufflers' Club?