literary success, than the sour GRUBLET turned upon him, and rent him.
"This fellow," said GRUBLET, "will get too uppish--I must show up his
trash"; and accordingly he fulminated against his friend in the organ
that he had by that time come to consider as his own. This baseless
sense of proprietorship, in fact, it was that wrecked GRUBLET. In an
evil moment for himself he tried to ride rough-shod over CHEPSTOWE,
and that temporary genius dismissed him with a promptitude that should
stand to his credit against many shortcomings. GRUBLET, I believe,
still exists. Occasionally, in obscure prints, I seem to detect traces
of his style. But no one now pays any attention to him. His claws
are clipped, his teeth have been filed down. He shouts and struts,
unregarded. For we live, of course, in milder and more reasonable
days, and the GRUBLETS can no longer find a popular market for their
wares.

Only one question remains. How in the world can even you, oh respected
SWAGGER, have derived any pleasure from witnessing the performances
that GRUBLET went through, after you had persuaded him that he was
a man of some importance? I do not expect an answer, and remain as
before,

DIOGENES ROBINSON.

* * * * *

IN BANCO.--The stability of the concern having been effectually proved
by the way in which the Birkbeckers got out of the fire and out of the
trying pan-ic, and the ease with which they were quite at home to the
crowds of callers coming to inquire after their health, should earn
for them the subsidiary title of the Birk-beck-and-call Bank.