Mr. Allgag, though an oyster in intellect, was the small oracle of an insignificant, captious, factious section of the Antiqueeruns. A few hands were held up, and the fulminating fifteenth rule was read aloud, which imposed a fine of five shillings on each intruder, and a forcible ejection from the room. “I blush for these pitiful proceedings,” exclaimed the comical coffin-maker; “and rather than become a party to them, I will vacate the chair.” “Well and good! I'll be your locum trimmings,” (tenens?) rejoined the Holborn Hill Demosthenes; and he half strutted, half waddled from his seat, as if to take possession. The mutes looked grave; even the rebellious vice was panic-struck at the prodigious boldness of Mr. Allgag. “I'll take the cheer. As for the turning out part of the story--” “Who talks of turning out?” cried the Lauréat of Little Britain, bursting suddenly into the room. “Is it you?” addressing the affrighted sexton, who shook his head ruefully in the negative; “or you?” advancing to the terrified mutes, who shook in their shoes. “Not you! good Master Merri-pall,” giving the comical coffin-maker a hearty shake by the hand. “Or is it you, sir?” placing himself in a provokingly pugnacious attitude before the Holborn Hill Demosthenes. “What a bluster about an unintentional intrusion! If, gentlemen, my friends must be fined, I will be their guarantee.” So saying, he ejected us with gentle violence from the room, and in a few minutes after we found ourselves in his elegant little library, where everything was as neat and prim as himself,--not” a bust, bijou, or book out of its place. “A heavy retribution had well nigh fallen upon you, my good friends, for passing my door without looking in. It matters not what chance medley brought me to your rescue; but I'm a merciful man, and the only fine I impose is, that you sit down, be comfortable, and stay till I turn you out.” The fine seemed so very moderate, that we were glad to compromise. “Everything around you,--books, plate, pictures,--ay, my old-fashioned housekeeper into the bargain,--are the selection of Uncle Tim.” “And by this beeswing, Mr. Bosky, we guess Uncle Timothy is butler too.” “Most profoundly opined! Yonder,” pointing to an antique painted glass door, “is his cabinet-- 'There Caxton sleeps, with Wynkyn at his side, One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide.' “An odd thought strikes me. What say you to a dish of conjurors, with a garnish of monsters and mountebanks, served up by mine host of St. Bartlemy, Uncle Tim?” And Mr. Bosky disappeared through the glass door, but returned in an instant, bearing in his hand a smartly-bound volume. “Shall I unclasp the _Merry Mysteries of Bartlemy Fair?_ You may go farther and fare worse.” “We want no whetters or provocatives, Mr. Bosky.” “Well, seeing that, like Justice Greedy, you long to give thanks and fall to, my musical grace shall not be a tedious one.