“Confound the scoundrel!” said Sandy, indignantly; “he was no mair like my maister than a Dutch skipper is like a chief of the Delawares. Has the creature lost his senses a'togither?” “By no manner of manes. He wakes up every now and then wid a speech, or a bit of poethry, or a sentiment.” “Ay,” said another, “or if a couple came in to be married, see how the old chap's eyes would brighten, and how he would turn the other side of his wig round before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'” This was literally correct, and was the simple manouvre by which Holy Paul converted himself into a clerical character, the back of his wig being cut in horse-shoe fashion, in rude imitation of that worn by several of the bishops. “Watch him now--watch him now!” said one in Sandy's ears; and the old fellow passed his hand across his eyes as if to dispel some painful thought, while his careworn features were lit up with a momentary flash of sardonic drollery. “Your health, sir,” said he to Sandy; “or, as Terence has it, 'Hic tibi, Dave'--here 's to you, Davy.” “A toast, Paul! a toast! Something agin the Union,--something agin old Darcy.” “Fill up, gentlemen,” said Paul, in a clear and distinct voice. “I beg to propose a sentiment which you will drink with a bumper. Are you ready?” “Ready!” screamed all together. “Here, then,--repeat after me:-- “Whether he's out, or whether he's in, It does n't signify one pin; Here's every curse of every sin On Maurice Darcy, Knight of Gwynne.” “Hold!” shouted Sandy, as he drew a double-barrelled pistol from his bosom. “By the saul o' my body the man that drinks that toast shall hae mair in his waim than hot water and whiskey. Maurice Darcy is my maister's friend, and a better gentleman never stepped in leather: who dar say no?” “Are we to drink it, Paul?” “As I live by drink,” cried Paul, stretching out both hands, “this is my _alter ego_, my duplicate self, Sanders M'Grane's, 'revisiting the glimpses of the moon,' _post totidem annos!_” And a cordial embrace now followed, which at once dispelled the threatened storm. “Mr. M'Grane's health in three times three, gentlemen;” and, rising, Paul gave the signal for each cheer as he alone could give it. Sandy had now time to throw a glance around the table, where, however, not one familiar face met his own; that they were of the same calling and order as his quondam associates in the same place he could have little doubt, even had that fact not been proclaimed by the names of various popular journals affixed to their hats, and by whose titles they were themselves addressed. The conversation, too, had the same sprinkling of politics, town gossip, and late calamities he well remembered of yore, interspersed with lively commentaries on public men which, if printed, would have been suggestive of libel. [Illustration: 292]