Bob was charmed with the view down Waterloo Place. “That,” said his Cousin, pointing to the Arcade at the opposite corner of Pall Mall, “is the Italian Opera-house, which has recently assumed its present superb appearance, and may be ranked among the finest buildings in London. It is devoted to the performance of Italian operas and French ballets, is generally open from December to July, and is attended by the most distinguished and fashionable persons. The improvements in this part are great. That church, which you see in the distance over the tops of the houses, is St. Martin's in the fields.” “In the fields,” inquired Bob; “what then, are we come to the end of the town?” ~80~~“Ha! ha! ha!” cried Tom--“the end--no, no,--I was going to say there is no end to it--no, we have not reached any thing like the centre.” “_Blood an owns, boderation and blarney_,” (said an Irishman, at that moment passing them with a hod of mortar on his shoulder, towards the new buildings, and leaving an ornamental patch as he went along on Bob's shoulder) “but I'll be a'ter _tipping turnups_{l} to any b----dy rogue that's tip to saying--_Black's the white of the blue part of Pat Murphy's eye_; and for that there matter,” dropping the hod of mortar almost on their toes at the same time, and turning round to Bob--“By the powers! I ax the Jontleman's pardon--tho' he's not the first Jontleman that has carried mortar--where is that _big, bully-faced blackguard_ that I'm looking after?” During this he brushed the mortar off Tallyho's coat with a snap of his fingers, regardless of where or on whom he distributed it. The offender, it seemed, had taken flight while Pat was apologizing, and was no where to be found. “Why what's the matter?” inquired Tom; “you seem in a passion.” “Och! not in the least bit, your honour! I'm only in a d----d rage. By the mug of my mother--arn't it a great shame that a Jontleman of Ireland can't walk the streets of London without having _poratees and butter-milk_ throw'd in his gums?”--Hitching up the waistband of his breeches--“It won't do at all at all for Pat: its a reflection on my own native land, where-- “Is hospitality, All reality, No formality There you ever see; The free and easy Would so amaze ye, You'd think us all crazy, For dull we never be.” These lines sung with an Irish accent, to the tune of “Morgan Rattler,” accompanied with a snapping of his fingers, and concluded with a something in imitation of 1 _Tipping Turnups_--This is a phrase made use of among the _prigging_ fraternity, to signify a turn-up--which is to knock down. ~81~~an Irish jilt, were altogether so truly characteristic of the nation to which he belonged, as to afford our Heroes considerable amusement. Tom threw him a half-crown, which he picked up with more haste than he had thrown down the mortar in his rage.