The servants, too, were of the Rum-Johnny order—a dissolute, dirty set of Mahomedans, whom I have before described—those usually picked up by young officers on account of their speaking the English language, a qualification which is pretty certain to insure their rejection by old Indians. The dingy attire and roguish looks of these fellows harmonized well with the style of the entertainment. The doctor took the head of the table; the noble fraternity of Griff Hall and their guests were soon seated. The khanseman-jee appeared, staggering under a huge dish, which he deposited at the head of the table; having done so, he lifted up the cover with the air of a major-domo, and there smoked the rooee muchee already mentioned. “Wha’s for fesh?” asked the doctor, plying the fish-knife with the vigour of an Irish bricklayer when handling his trowel. “Wha’s for fesh? Here’s a bonnie fellow; ‘a sight like this is gude for sair een,’ as my old father, the provost, used to say.” The rooee muchee was in great request, and other viands followed, all very good of their kind, I thought, and proving the efficacy of the rattan in some cases. Great was the talking and laughing, and the dinner sped merrily. Never has it been my lot to encounter a more light-hearted, thoughtless, and jovial set of fellows than the inmates of Griff Hall. The cloth removed, hookhas bubbled; the bottle passed freely, and the conversation became animated; among other things, the scenes and flirtations at the band that evening were passed in review. “Who noticed Miss Simper, the new spin, talking to that old fellow, MacGlashum?” said Ensign O’Toole, a young Hibernian; “sure I hope she’s not going to take that broken-winded old fellow.” “By my saul, I don’t know,” replied Ensign MacClaymore; “but I think if she gets a major, and a gude Scotchman to boot, she could na do better.” “Faith, I think she’d find an Irishman suit her better than an old or a young Scotchman aither: oh, an Irishman’s heart for the ladies!” “Meaning yourself, I suppose,” retorted the Highlander, dryly; “you Paddies think there’s nought like yeer’sels in the world.” “Faith, now, I don’t think we’ve half the consait of your Scotchmen, at all,” replied O’Toole, “though a grate dale more to be proud of. Where will you find janius like that which auld Ireland has produced—such poets, statesmen, and haroes?” “Proud!” said the other contemptuously; “hooever may fall short in those respects, thank Gude, auld Scotland was never conquered,—never conquered, sir, as some other countries have been.” “I’ll tell you the reason,” said the other bitterly; “the poor beggarly country was never worth the trouble and expense of conquering.” “Eh! sir,” said the young Caledonian, his eyes flashing fire, “what’s that you say, sir? I’ll no sit here and listen to that. What do you mean, sir?”