At the “thrum-thrum” on the harp-strings, which wound up the song, frenzied shouts were raised for a repetition.  Emilia was perfectly willing to gratify them; Captain Gambier appeared to be remonstrating with her, but she put up her joined hands, mock-petitioningly, and he with great affability held out the book anew.  Wilfrid was thinking of moving to her to take her forcibly away when she recommenced.

At the same instant—­but who, knowing that a house of glass is about to be shattered, can refrain from admiring its glitter in the beams?—­Ipley crooned a ready accompaniment:  the sleepers had been awakened:  the women and the men were alive, half-dancing, half-chorusing here a baby was tossed, and there an old fellow’s elbow worked mutely, expressive of the rollicking gaiety within him:  the whole length of the booth was in a pleasing simmer, ready to overboil with shouts humane and cheerful, while Emilia pitched her note and led; archly, and quite one with them all, and yet in a way that critical Wilfrid could not object to, so plainly did she sing to give happiness.

I cannot delay; but I request you, that are here privileged to soar aloft with the Muse, to fix your minds upon one point in this flight.  Let not the heat and dust of the ensuing fray divert your attention from the magnanimity of Beer.  It will be vindicated in the end but be worthy of your seat beside the Muse, who alone of us all can take one view of the inevitable two that perplex mortal judgements.

For, if Ipley had jumped jovially up, and met the Hillford alarum with laughter,—­how then?  Why, then I maintain that the magnanimity of Beer would have blazed effulgent on the spot:  there would have been louder laughter and fraternal greetings.  As it was, the fire on the altar of Wisdom was again kindled by Folly, and the steps to the altar were broken heads, after the antique fashion.

In dismay, Ipley started.  The members of the Club stared.  Emilia faltered in horror.

A moment her voice swam stemming the execrable concert, but it was overwhelmed.  Wilfrid pressed forward to her.  They could hear nothing but the din.  The booth raged like an insurgent menagerie.  Outside it sounded of brazen beasts, and beasts that whistled, beasts that boomed.  A whirlwind huddled them, and at last a cry, “We’ve got a visit from Hillford,” told a tale.  At once the stoutest hearts pressed to the opening.  “My harp!” Emilia made her voice reach Wilfrid’s ear.  Unprovided with weapons, Ipley parleyed.  Hillford howled in reply.  The trombone brayed an interminable note, that would have driven to madness quiescent cats by steaming kettles, and quick, like the springing pulse of battle, the drum thumped and thumped.  Blood could not hear it and keep from boiling.  The booth shook violently.  Wilfrid and Gambier threw over half-a-dozen chairs, forms, and tables, to make a barrier for the protection of the women.