nd "Chaos Vanquished."

Between the acts Ursus exhibited his power as an engastrimist, and
executed marvels of ventriloquism. He imitated every cry which occurred
in the audience--a song, a cry, enough to startle, so exact the
imitation, the singer or the crier himself; and now and then he copied
the hubbub of the public, and whistled as if there were a crowd of
people within him. These were remarkable talents. Besides this he
harangued like Cicero, as we have just seen, sold his drugs, attended
sickness, and even healed the sick.

Southwark was enthralled.

Ursus was satisfied with the applause of Southwark, but by no means
astonished.

"They are the ancient Trinobantes," he said.

Then he added, "I must not mistake them, for delicacy of taste, for the
Atrobates, who people Berkshire, or the Belgians, who inhabited
Somersetshire, nor for the Parisians, who founded York."

At every performance the yard of the inn, transformed into a pit, was
filled with a ragged and enthusiastic audience. It was composed of
watermen, chairmen, coachmen, and bargemen, and sailors, just ashore,
spending their wages in feasting and women. In it there were felons,
ruffians, and blackguards, who were soldiers condemned for some crime
against discipline to wear their red coats, which were lined with black,
inside out, and from thence the name of blackguard, which the French
turn into _blagueurs_. All these flowed from the street into the
theatre, and poured back from the theatre into the tap. The emptying of
tankards did not decrease their success.

Amidst what it is usual to call the scum, there was one taller than the
rest, bigger, stronger, less poverty-stricken, broader in the shoulders;
dressed like the common people, but not ragged.

Admiring and applauding everything to the skies, clearing his way with
his fists, wearing a disordered periwig, swearing, shouting, joking,
never dirty, and, at need, ready to blacken an eye or pay for a bottle.

This frequenter was the passer-by whose cheer of enthusiasm has been
recorded.

This connoisseur was suddenly fascinated, and had adopted the Laughing
Man. He did not come every evening, but when he came he led the
public--applause grew into acclamation--success rose not to the roof,
for there was none, but to the clouds, for there were plenty of them.
Which clouds (seeing that there was no roof) sometimes wept over the
masterpiece of Ursus.

His enthusiasm caused Ursus to remark this