The song, roared out in grand chorus by the midshipmen, was caught up, after the first verse, by the marines in their berth, close to them; and from them passed along the lower deck as it continued, so that the last stanzas were sung by nearly two hundred voices, sending forth a volume of sound, that penetrated into every recess of the vessel, and entered into the responsive bosoms of all on board, not excepting the captain himself, who smiled, as he bent over the break of the gangway, at what he would have considered a breach of subordination in the ship's company, had not he felt that it arose from that warm attachment to their country which had created our naval pre-eminence. The song ended with tumultuous cheering fore and aft, and not until then did the captain send down to request that the noise might be discontinued. As soon as it was over, the grog was loudly called for in the midshipmen's berth, and made its appearance. "Here's to the white cliffs of England," cried one, drinking off his tumbler, and turning it upside down on the table. "Here's to the Land of Beauty." "Here's to the Emerald Isle." "And here's to the Land of Cakes," cried Stewart, drinking off his tumbler, and throwing it over his shoulder. "Six for one for skylarking," cried Prose. "A hundred for one, you damned cockney, for all I care." "No--no--no," cried all the berth; "not _one_ for _one_." "You shall have a song for it, my boys," cried Stewart, who immediately commenced, with great taste and execution, the beautiful air-- Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? "Well, I've not had my toast yet," said Jerry, when the applause at the end of the song had discontinued:--"Here's to the shady side of Pall-mall." "And I suppose," said Stewart, giving Prose a slap on the back, which took his breath away, "that you are thinking of Wapping, blow you." "I think I have had enough of whopping since I've been in this ship," answered Prose. "Why, Prose, you're quite brilliant, I do declare," observed Jerry. "Like a flint, you only require a blow from Stewart's iron fist to emit sparks. Try him again, Stewart. He's like one of the dancing dervishes, in the Arabian Nights: you must thrash him to get a few farthings of wit out of him." "I do wish that you would keep your advice to yourself, Jerry." "My dear Prose, it's all for the honour of Middlesex that I wish you to shine. I'm convinced that there's a great deal of wit in that head of yours; but it's confined, like the kernel in a nut: there's no obtaining it without breaking the shell. Try him again, Stewart." "Come, Prose, I'll take your part, and try his own receipt upon himself. I'll thrash him till he says something witty." "I do like that, amazingly," replied Jerry. "Why, if I do say a good thing, you'll never find out. I shall be thrashed to all eternity. Besides, I'm at too great a distance from you." "What do you mean?"