[Illustration]

One more instance, and I have done. Do you remember TOMMY TIPSTAFF at
Trinity? I do. He was, of course, a foolish youth, but he might have
had a pleasant life in the fat living for which his family intended
him. In his second year at the University, he met Sir JAMES SPOOF,
an undergraduate Baronet, of great wealth, and dissolute habits. Poor
TOMMY was dazzled by his new friend's specious glare and glitter, and
his slapdash manner of scattering his money. They became inseparable.
The same dealer supplied them with immense cigars, they went to
race meetings, and tried to break the ring. When Sir JAMES wished to
gamble, TOMMY was always ready to keep the bank. And all the time poor
Mrs. TIPSTAFF, in her country home, was overjoyed at her darling's
success in what she told me once was the most brilliant and remarkable
set at Cambridge.

Where is TOMMY now? The other day a ragged man shambled up to me,
with a request that I should buy a box of lights from him. There was
a familiar something about him. Could it be TOMMY? The question was
indirectly answered, for, before I could extract a penny, or say a
word, he looked hard at me, turned his head away, and made off as fast
as his rickety legs would carry him. Most men must have had a similar
experience, but few know, as I do, that you, my dear SOCIAL AMBITION,
urged the wretched TOMMY to his destruction.

On the whole, I dislike you. Those who obey you become the meanest of
God's creatures.

Pardon my candour, and believe me, Yours, without respect, DIOGENES