ugh my
exercise, sir.'--'Indeed, sir!'--'Shall I do it now, sir?'--'If you
please, sir; come, sir--make haste' (a cut with the long whip, and 'Ha'
done now--I don't like it,' from the clown). Here the clown throws
himself on the ground, and goes through a variety of gymnastic
convulsions, doubling himself up, and untying himself again, and making
himself look very like a man in the most hopeless extreme of human agony,
to the vociferous delight of the gallery, until he is interrupted by a
second cut from the long whip, and a request to see 'what Miss Woolford's
stopping for?' On which, to the inexpressible mirth of the gallery, he
exclaims, 'Now, Miss Woolford, what can I come for to go, for to fetch,
for to bring, for to carry, for to do, for you, ma'am?' On the lady's
announcing with a sweet smile that she wants the two flags, they are,
with sundry grimaces, procured and handed up; the clown facetiously
observing after the performance of the latter ceremony--'He, he, oh! I
say, sir, Miss Woolford knows me; she smiled at me.' Another cut from
the whip, a burst from the orchestra, a start from the horse, and round
goes Miss Woolford again on her graceful performance, to the delight of
every member of the audience, young or old. The next pause affords an
opportunity for similar witticisms, the only additional fun being that of
the clown making ludicrous grimaces at the riding-master every time his
back is turned; and finally quitting the circle by jumping over his head,
having previously directed his attention another way.

Did any of our readers ever notice the class of people, who hang about
the stage-doors of our minor theatres in the daytime? You will rarely
pass one of these entrances without seeing a group of three or four men
conversing on the pavement, with an indescribable public-house-parlour
swagger, and a kind of conscious air, peculiar to people of this
description. They always seem to think they are exhibiting; the lamps
are ever before them. That young fellow in the faded brown coat, and
very full light green trousers, pulls down the wristbands of his check
shirt, as ostentatiously as if it were of the finest linen, and cocks the
white hat of the summer-before-last as knowingly over his right eye, as
if it were a purchase of yesterday. Look at the dirty white Berlin
gloves, and the cheap silk handkerchief stuck in the bosom of his
threadbare coat. Is it possible to see him for an instant, and not