Yes--undoubtedly. The king has ordered some novel spectacle--some gladiatorial exhibition at the Hippodrome--or perhaps the massacre of the Scythian prisoners--or the conflagration of his new palace--or the tearing down of a handsome temple--or, indeed, a bonfire of a few Jews. The uproar increases. Shouts of laughter ascend the skies. The air becomes dissonant with wind instruments, and horrible with the clamor of a million throats. Let us descend, for the love of fun, and see what is going on. This way--be careful. Here we are in the principal street, which is called the street of Timarchus. The sea of people is coming this way, and we shall find a difficulty in stemming the tide. They are pouring through the alley of Heraclides, which leads directly from the palace--therefore the king is most probably among the rioters. Yes--I hear the shouts of the herald proclaiming his approach in the pompous phraseology of the East. We shall have a glimpse of his person as he passes by the temple of Ashimah. Let us ensconce ourselves in the vestibule of the Sanctuary--he will be here anon. In the meantime let us survey this image. What is it? Oh, it is the God Ashimah in proper person. You perceive, however, that he is neither a lamb, nor a goat, nor a Satyr--neither has he much resemblance to the Pan of the Arcadians. Yet all these appearances have been given--I beg pardon--_will be_ given by the learned of future ages to the Ashimah of the Syrians. Put on your spectacles, and tell me what it is. What is it? Bless me, it is an ape! True--a baboon; but by no means the less a Deity. His name is a derivation of the Greek _Simia_--what great fools are antiquarians! But see!--see!--yonder scampers a ragged little urchin. Where is he going? What is he bawling about? What does he say? Oh!--he says the king is coming in triumph--that he is dressed in state--and that he has just finished putting {237} to death with his own hand a thousand chained Israelitish prisoners. For this exploit the ragamuffin is lauding him to the skies. Hark!--here come a troop of a similar description. They have made a Latin hymn upon the valor of the king, and are singing it as they go. Mille, mille, mille, Mille, mille, mille, Decollavimus, unus homo! Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus! Mille, mille, mille! Vivat qui mille mille occidit! Tantum vini habet nemo Quantum sanguinis effudit![1] which may be thus paraphrased. A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, We, with one warrior, have slain! A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand, Sing a thousand over again! Soho!--let us sing Long life to our king, Who knocked over a thousand so fine! Soho!--let us roar, He has given us more Red gallons of gore Than all Syria can furnish of wine!