“Mean!” retorted the other, sternly, “just what I’ve said, Ensign MacClaymore, and so just make your most of it; if you’ve more to add, let it be outside.” Several attempts were made to check this angry dialogue, but in vain. All was now confusion; the angry patriots half arose, and darted fierce looks at each other across the table, their more peacefully disposed neighbours endeavouring to quiet and retain them in their seats. Things were fast verging towards “war, horrid war.” Dr. McScreechum now arose, like Satan in Pandemonium, thumped the table to engage attention, and with the voice of a Stentor, proclaimed silence, and called the belligerents to order. “Gentlemen,” said the doctor, “silence if you please, and listen to me. I am the moderator of this assembly, and by vairtue of the pooers confided to me, I proclaim _pax_. I’ll have na quarrelling here; doun wi’ your foolish naytionalities; aren’t we all kintramen and brithers, as my gude old father, the provost, used to say? You, Donald MacClaymore, and you, Denis O’Toole, I’ll fine you each a dozen of claret, and proclaim you baith ootlaws of Griff Hall, unless you shak hands, like sensible fellows; shak hands, ye fire-eating donnard deevils ye, and then I’ll gee ye a sang. ‘Auld lang syne, my dear, for a’ lang syne.’ Wha’s for a sang?” This seasonable interruption, in the doctors peculiar way, turned the tide of war. A furious drumming on the table followed; glasses danced and jingled, and “Auld lang syne for ever!” resounded through the hall. MacClaymore and O’Toole caught the spirit of the movement, shook hands across the table, and the glorious Scottish air broke forth splendidly, like an elegy over buried animosities. The doctor, half-seas-over, was now completely in his element; his huge red head rolled from side to side, and one eye, half shut, leered with Bacchanalian philanthropy around the table. Thus he stood, his arms crossed, and holding the hand of each of his right and left neighbours, as he worked them up and down with a force and energy proportioned to the varying sentiments of that celebrated ditty, which has to answer for being the proximate cause of more boozing and maudlin sentimentality than any ever written; for oh, that potent collocation of words, “for auld lang syne,” goes direct to the exile’s heart, particularly when softened by the genial glass; touches its tenderest chords, and awakens, like the “Ranz de vaches,” the sweetest and most soul-subduing reminiscences of youth, and all its never-to-be-forgotten associations. After this bout, anchovy toasts and broiled bones were put in requisition, Ensign O’Toole insisted upon mulling a saucepanful of port, to keep the beer and claret warm. At length, some fell asleep in their chairs; others, including Grundy and myself, dropped off to bed, though abused by the peep-o’-day boys for our recreant qualities.