five or six feet in width, four in height, and perhaps eighteen inches or two feet in depth.  Upon this are a variety of figures, about fourteen inches long, gorgeously arrayed in crimson, purple, emerald-green, blue, and orange draperies, and loaded with gold and tinsel, and sparkling stones and spangles, all doubled in splendour by the reflection of a mirror in the background.  The figures, set in motion by the same machinery which grinds the incomprehensible overture, perform a drama equally incomprehensible.  At the left-hand corner is Daniel in the lion’s den, the lion opening his mouth in six-eight time, and an angel with outspread wings, but securely transfixed through the loins by a revolving brass pivot, shutting it again to the same lively movement.  To the right of Daniel is the Grand Turk, seated in his divan, and brandishing a dagger over a prostrate slave, who only ventures to rise when the dagger is withdrawn.  Next to him is Nebuchadnezzar on all fours, eating painted grass, with a huge gold crown on his head, which he bobs for a bite every other bar.  In the right-hand corner is a sort of cavern, the abode of some supernatural and mysterious being of the fiend or vampire school, who gives an occasional fitful start, and turns an ominous-looking green glass-eye out upon the spectators.  All these are in the background.  In the front of the stage stands Napoleon, wearing a long sword and cocked hat, and the conventional gray smalls—­his hand of course stuck in his breast.  At his right are Tippoo Saib and his sons, and at his left, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.  After a score or so of bars, the measure of the music suddenly alters—­Daniel’s guardian angel flies off—­the prophet and the lion lie down to sleep together—­the Grand Turk sinks into the arms of the death-doomed slave.  Nebuchadnezzar falls prostrate on the ground, and the fiend in the gloomy cavern whips suddenly round and glares with his green eye, as if watching for a spring upon the front row of actors, who have now taken up their cue and commenced their performance.  Napoleon, Tippoo Saib, and Queen Victoria, dance a three-handed reel, to the admiration of Prince Albert and a group of lords and ladies in waiting, who nod their heads approvingly—­when br’r’r! crack! bang! at a tremendous crash of gongs and grumbling of bass-notes, the fiend in the corner rushes forth from his lair with a portentous howl.  Away, neck or nothing, flies Napoleon, and Tippoo scampers after him, followed by the terrified attendants; but lo! at the precise nick of time, Queen Victoria draws a long sword from beneath her stays, while up jumps the devouring beast from the den of the prophet, and like a true British lion—­as he doubtless was all the while—­flies at the throat of the fiend, straight as an arrow to its mark.  Then follows a roar of applause from the discriminating spectators, amidst which the curtain falls, and, with an extra flourish of music, the collection of copper coin commences.  This is always a favourite spectacle