themselves to some harmonic meeting. As a matter of curiosity let
us follow them thither for a few moments.

In a lofty room of spacious dimensions, are seated some eighty or a
hundred guests knocking little pewter measures on the tables, and
hammering away, with the handles of their knives, as if they were
so many trunk-makers. They are applauding a glee, which has just
been executed by the three 'professional gentlemen' at the top of
the centre table, one of whom is in the chair--the little pompous
man with the bald head just emerging from the collar of his green
coat. The others are seated on either side of him--the stout man
with the small voice, and the thin-faced dark man in black. The
little man in the chair is a most amusing personage,--such
condescending grandeur, and SUCH a voice!

'Bass!' as the young gentleman near us with the blue stock forcibly
remarks to his companion, 'bass! I b'lieve you; he can go down
lower than any man: so low sometimes that you can't hear him.'
And so he does. To hear him growling away, gradually lower and
lower down, till he can't get back again, is the most delightful
thing in the world, and it is quite impossible to witness unmoved
the impressive solemnity with which he pours forth his soul in 'My
'art's in the 'ighlands,' or 'The brave old Hoak.' The stout man
is also addicted to sentimentality, and warbles 'Fly, fly from the
world, my Bessy, with me,' or some such song, with lady-like
sweetness, and in the most seductive tones imaginable.

'Pray give your orders, gen'l'm'n--pray give your orders,'--says
the pale-faced man with the red head; and demands for 'goes' of gin
and 'goes' of brandy, and pints of stout, and cigars of peculiar