not be thankful? There is a Saturnine philosopher, standing at the
door of his book-shop, who, I fancy, has a pooh-pooh expression as the
triumph passes. (I can't see quite clearly for the laurels, which
have fallen down over my nose.) One hand is reining in the two white
elephants that draw the car; I raise the other hand up to--to the
laurels, and pass on, waving him a graceful recognition. Up the Hill
of Ludgate--around the Pauline Square--by the side of Chepe--until it
reaches our own Hill of Corn--the procession passes. The Imperator is
bowing to the people; the captains of the legions are riding round the
car, their gallant minds struck by the thought, "Have we not fought as
well as yonder fellow, swaggering in the chariot, and are we not as good
as he?" Granted, with all my heart, my dear lads. When your consulship
arrives, may you be as fortunate. When these hands, now growing old,
shall lay down sword and truncheon, may you mount the car, and ride
to the temple of Jupiter. Be yours the laurel then. Neque me myrtus
dedecet, looking cosily down from the arbor where I sit under the arched
vine.

I fancy the Imperator standing on the steps of the temple (erected
by Titus) on the Mons Frumentarius, and addressing the citizens:
"Quirites!" he says, "in our campaign of six months, we have been
engaged six times, and in each action have taken near upon a HUNDRED
THOUSAND PRISONERS. Go to! What are other magazines compared to
our magazine? (Sound, trumpeter!) What banner is there like that of
Cornhill? You, philosopher yonder!" (he shirks under his mantle.)
"Do you know what it is to have a hundred and ten thousand readers?
A hundred thousand readers? a hundred thousand BUYERS!" (Cries of
"No!"--"Pooh!" "Yes, upon my honor!" "Oh, come!" and murmurs of applause
and derision)--"I say more than a hundred thousand purchasers--and I
believe AS MUCH AS A MILLION readers!" (Immense sensation.) "To these