Traters, I will here remark, are a onfornit class of peple.  If they wasn’t, they wouldn’t be traters.  They conspire to bust up a country—­they fail, and they’re traters.  They bust her, and they become statesmen and heroes.

Take the case of Gloster, afterwards Old Dick the Three, who may be seen at the Tower on horseback, in a heavy tin overcoat—­take Mr. Gloster’s case.  Mr. G. was a conspirator of the basist dye, and if he’d failed, he would have been hung on a sour apple tree.  But Mr. G. succeeded, and became great.  He was slewed by Col.  Richmond, but he lives in history, and his equestrian figger may be seen daily for a sixpence, in conjunction with other em’nent persons, and no extra charge for the Warder’s able and bootiful lectur.

There’s one king in this room who is mounted onto a foaming steed, his right hand graspin a barber’s pole.  I didn’t learn his name.

The room where the daggers and pistils and other weppins is kept is interestin.  Among this collection of choice cuttlery I notist the bow and arrer which those hot-heded old chaps used to conduct battles with.  It is quite like the bow and arrer used at this day by certain tribes of American Injuns, and they shoot ’em off with such a excellent precision that I almost sigh’d to be an Injun when I was in the Rocky Mountain regin.  They are a pleasant lot them Injuns.  Mr. Cooper and Dr. Catlin have told us of the red man’s wonerful eloquence, and I found it so.  Our party was stopt on the plains of Utah by a band of Shoshones, whose chief said: 

“Brothers! the pale-face is welcome.  Brothers! the sun is sinking in the west, and Wa-na-bucky-she will soon cease speakin.  Brothers! the poor red man belongs to a race which is fast becomin extink.”

He then whooped in a shrill manner, stole all our blankets and whisky, and fled to the primeval forest to conceal his emotions.

I will remark here, while on the subjeck of Injuns, that they are in the main a very shaky set, with even less sense than the Fenians, and when I hear philanthropists bewailin the fack that every year “carries the noble red man nearer the settin sun,” I simply have to say I’m glad of it, tho’ it is rough on the settin sun.  They call you by the sweet name of Brother one minit, and the next they scalp you with their Thomas-hawks.  But I wander.  Let us return to the Tower.

At one end of the room where the weppins is kept, is a wax figger of Queen Elizabeth, mounted on a fiery stuffed hoss, whose glass eye flashes with pride, and whose red morocker nostril dilates hawtily, as if conscious of the royal burden he bears.  I have associated Elizabeth with the Spanish Armady.  She’s mixed up with it at the Surrey Theatre, where Troo to the Core is bein acted, and in which a full bally core is introjooced on board the Spanish Admiral’s ship, giving the audiens the idee that he intends openin a moosic-hall in Plymouth the moment he conkers that town.  But a very interesting drammer is Troo to the Core, notwithstandin the eccentric conduct of the Spanish Admiral; and very nice it is in Queen Elizabeth to make Martin Truegold a baronet.