the
suitable accompaniments of iced punch, potent ale, and generous
Madeira. When the cloth was drawn, the burly preses arose, with all he
could muster of the port of John Kemble, and spouted with a sonorous
voice the formula of Macbeth:--

"Fill full!
I drink to the general joy of the whole table!"

This was followed by "The King, God bless him!" and second
came--"Gentlemen, there is another toast which never has been nor
shall be omitted in this house of mine--I give you the health of Mr.
Walter Scott with three times three!" All honor having been done to
this health, and Scott having briefly thanked the company with some
expressions of warm affection to their host, Mrs. Ballantyne retired;
the bottles passed round twice or thrice in the usual way; and then
James rose once more, every vein on his brow distended, his eyes
solemnly fixed upon vacancy, to propose, not as before in his
stentorian key, but with "'bated breath," in the sort of whisper by
which a stage conspirator thrills the gallery,--"_Gentlemen, a bumper
to the immortal Author of Waverley!_" The uproar of cheering, in which
Scott made a fashion of joining, was succeeded by deep silence, and
then Ballantyne proceeded--

"In his Lord Burleigh look, serene and serious,
A something of imposing and mysterious"--

to lament the obscurity in which his illustrious but too modest
correspondent still chose to conceal himself from the plaudits of the
world, to thank the company for the manner in which the _nominis
umbra_ had been received, and to assure them that the Author of
Waverley would, when informed of the circumstance, feel highly
delighted--"the proudest hour of his life," etc., etc. The cool,
demure fun of Scott's features during all this mummery was perfect;
and Erskine's attempt at a gay _nonchalance_ was still more
ludicrously meritorious. Aldiborontiphoscophornio, {p.258} however,
bursting as he was, knew too well to allow the new novel to be made
the subject of discussion. Its name was announced, and success to it
crowned another cup; but after that, no more of Jedediah. To cut the
thread, he rolled out unbidden some one of his many theatrical songs,
in a style that would have done no dishonor to almost any
orchestra--The Maid of Lodi--or perhaps, The Bay of Biscay, O!--or The
Sweet Little Cherub that Sits up Aloft. Other toasts followed,
interspersed with ditties from other performers;--old George Thom