Nothing could resist the hilarity of Mr. Rumfiz. The tragedy queen gave a lop-sided smile from under the ruins of a straw-bonnet; the motion-master grinned approbation; Mr. Glumfiz was tumultuously tickled. At this moment an infantine tumbler, dressed in a tinselled scarlet jacket dirty-white muslin-fringed trousers, and yellow leather pumps, made a professional entry on his head and hands, to summon the two conjurors from their cups to their balls. “Keep the blue fire hot till I come, Mr. Glumfiz!” said the Lauréat. “It won't cool,” replied the lean conjuror. The tragedy queen now received a call from Cardinal Wolsey, to relieve Miss Narcissa Nimble-pins on the Pandean pipes and double drum. The little Melpomene assured Mr. Bosky of her high consideration, and, leaning on the mountebank messenger's arm, bobbed and backed out of the parlour very gracefully. But the motion-master would have been immoveable, had not his tawdry better-half, who had nothing of a piece but her tongue, hurried in with, the news that their stage-manager, having spitefully cut the wires, puppets and trade were at a stand-still. The Lauréat being left solus, exhibited a disposition to compose himself over a cigar, an indulgence at which his eyes sympathetically winked. Should we draw aside the curtain between his box and ours? A note from Mr. Bosky's nose Seem'd to say, “Away! away! Leave me, leave me to repose!” Our glasses were empty, and the fair was filling; so we took the hint and our hats, and were soon among the lions. An Ancient Pistol-looking scarecrow with a cockaded something, between an old cocked hat, and an old hat cocked, on his shaggy pole; a black patch over one eye; a sham lame left leg; half a pair of half boots, and a jacket without sleeves, brandishing harlequin's wooden sword, and belabouring a cracked drum, beat up for recruits, and thus accompanied his tattoo. With his brigade of brags Captain Bobadil comes; Soldiers furl your flags, Crape and muffle your drums! Let John Bull and the bell Both be dismally told! One, for a funeral knell; One, the reward of the bold. From Harry to Arthur, you Britons! would conquer or die-- 'Pon my soul it's true; What will you lay it's a lie? Bobadil trump'd up a story-- “Fighting's the time o' day! All for honour and glory, Provender, plunder, and pay. It vastly better, by Jove, is To be for liberty bang'd; Than for prigging, my covies, To stay behind and be hang'd!