from England into France. The sea is a wall; and if Voltaire—a thing which he very much regretted having done when it was too late—had not built a bridge over to Shakspeare, Shakspeare might still be in England, on the other side of the wall, the captive of an insular glory.
The glory of Gwynplaine had not crossed London Bridge. It was not great enough to re-echo through the city,—at least not yet. But Southwark ought to have sufficed to satisfy the ambition of a clown.
"The money bag grows perceptibly heavier," Ursus remarked one day.
They played "Ursus Rursus" and "Chaos Vanquished." Between the acts, Ursus exhibited his power as an engastrimythist, and executed marvels of ventriloquism. He imitated every sound heard in the audience, each snatch of song or exclamation, so perfectly as to amaze and startle the speaker or singer 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, prescribed for maladies, and even healed the sick. Southwark was enthralled.
Ursus was satisfied, but by no means astonished with the applause of Southwark. "They are the ancient Trinobantes," he said. Then he added, "I must not confound them, for delicacy of taste, with the Atrobates, who people Berkshire, the Belgians, who inhabited Somersetshire, or 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 debauchery. In it there were
