The best, perhaps the only tolerable scintillation of wit struck out by the “laughter-maker,” is to be found, after the circus-girl who accompanies the Syracusan showman has leaped through the hoop in which knives are planted with every point towards the passing leaper. Philip has then a fling at an Athenian alderman who belonged to the Peace-party of his day:--“Ah!” he exclaims, “what pleasure should I enjoy to see Pisander, that grave counsellor, taking lessons from this girl; he that is ready to swoon away at the sight of a lance, and says it is a barbarous cruel custom to go to war and kill men!” This is not extremely lively, but it is at least as good a joke as when he says to Socrates, on the assertion of the philosopher that he intended to dance: “Well, I believe your thighs and shoulders are of the same weight; and that if you put the one into one scale, and the other into another, just as the constable weighs bread in the market-place, you will not be in danger of being forfeited, so justly poised will be the respective weights.” And, therewith, the buffoon expresses a desire to dance with Socrates, and begins awkwardly imitating the previous graceful dancing of the girl, raising peals of mirth from the little company of nobles and sages, and ending, heated and panting, with a sly look towards the slaves standing in grim repose before the board on which was placed the wine. With a sly remark, he wishes they were like coachmen, who are the more prized for being quick in their driving and dexterous in turning. This remark, of course, sets the wine-bearers rapidly moving towards Philip and among the company generally. This professional fool, it is to be observed, is proud of his profession. “I suppose you value yourself,” says Lycon, “on your power to make men laugh?” “Ay, truly,” answers Philip;--“and have I not better reason for being proud of this, than the finical Callipides of piquing himself at making men weep at his tragic verses in the theatre?--Proud of my trade!” he subsequently exclaims, “oh, oh, I should think so; for see you, when people are in the way of good fortune, they invite me to their houses; but when misfortune or misery falls upon them, they carefully avoid meeting me.” Nicerates is struck by the remark, for he is one of those men whose friends, ruined by their extravagance, expect him to extricate them from their difficulties. He sighs, when he compares his own condition with that of the fool, whose vocation at this renowned banquet terminates by a taste of his craft, when he approvingly winks to the Syracusan, and, after his fashion, says _Amen_ to that lucky showman’s prayer, soliciting the gods to send plenty of everything, wherever he came, save of judgment and good sense. This is his last joke, for Socrates grows weary of him and of his chattering. “But it is not proper,” says Philip, a little nettled, “that we should be silent at a feast.”