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To me, who am a genuine lover of human nature, and who sit cur-tained round in a stage-box, as it were, unnoticed by every one, and noticing every one, there is a chuckling delight in looking, not upon the actors of the scene, but on the motley crowd, and listening to such speeches as are naturally drawn from the occasion.

'I'll tell you one thing, and that aint two,' remarks a spectator to his neighbor, 'that the boy is wonderful, but if the clown isn't the old one, he is a nigh kin to him.'

'That 's a fact.'

'He can twist himself wrong side out, he can.'

'Ay, ay, you're right there, and he can tie himself into a bow knot.'

'These fellows,' says another, 'have n't got no bones into their bodies; they are made of Ingen rubber.'

'Bill,' remarks the ostler to his bare-footed companion, usually yclept Villiam Viggins, a very bad boy, 'fine sort of life, eh, Bill? What say to try fortunes with 'em? Jeffries, the head man, gin me a fair offer this mornin' to go along with him, and see a little of the world, what I've always had a great hankerin' for, and the great folks of the world, and a sight of things that I and you never dreamed of, and wont never dream of, if we stay here from now to never. I say, Bill, I 've a mighty great notion of it, and should be glad of you for your company. You are prudenter than I be, by a good sight con-trariwise I am a better bruiser than you be, though I say it. We could pull together han'somely, and make our fortunes. It's a-high time, Bill, that we should 'stablish a ch'racter. But what takes my eye, these circus-actors live like gentlemen. They crack their jokes, they do, drink their wine, and live on the fat o' the land. Why can't we do the same, Bill? I can't see what 'a to perwent it. There's no two ways about it, and if it is not all true, just what I tell you, then your name's not Villiam Viggins. And then it must be mighty agreeable to be dressed in such fine clothes, and to ride on such flashy horses, and to have nothin' to do but to be looked at, and to be laughed at, and to go a-larkin' and' a travellin', and seein' all the world, and to be admired at by all the girls in the country. I say, Bill, the notion takes you, you dog; I see it does. And now come let 's go out, and have a glass o' beer, and a long nine betwixt us, and talk the matter over a little, afore the entertainments begin ag'in.'

'In the country where I was fetched up,' said the son of Anak, 'no such doings as these is permitted. Two years ago, come next May, a company of circus-actors crossed over the Sound, and come to Bozrah. They sot themselves down, but did n't stay long, I guess, before they were attackted by the town-officers, and sent packing. They pulled up stakes, and took away their duds, and never come back, as I know on. For the people sot their faces like a flint agin 'em. Some few was for letting them act, but Deacon Giles opposed the motion, and carried his p'int, and on the Sabbath followin' stopped a load of hay on full drive through the town of Bozrah.'

In such conversation and exchange of sentiments, the interval 'be-tween the acts' is wiled away. The second part of the diversions is a fescennine dialogue, made up of alternate strokes of rude raillery, interspersed with songs and merriment, affording as keen a relish as the best Attic salt.

'De gustibus non disputandum'

Last of all, comes 'BILLY BUTTON, OR THE HUNTED TAILOR.' I forget the plot of this piece, exactly, which is yearly enacted with much acceptation in every considerable village in the country. There are some very good points about it, that never come amiss to a rural audience, as when the perverse pony shakes off the cabbaging tailor from his back, not allowing him to mount, or, dangerously acting on the offensive, chases him around the ring. And now the entertain-ments are about to conclude, let us indulge a wish that the ladies who have been seated near the crevices in the awning, may not catch their death a-cold, and that no evil whatever may result from the occasion. The clown bounces into the arena with a bow; doffs his harlequin aspect, and assumes the serious air of an every-day man. 'Ladies and gentlemen, the entertainments of the evening are concluded, We thank you for your polite attendance.' In a twinkling the canvass is rent down over your heads, the lights are extinguished, and while the equestrians are already preparing to depart to the next village, the motley assemblage moves homeward through the dark night, yelping like savages.