get it." There are thousands of cheques in the
world,"Mr. Grampus would say to himself, as
he carelessly thrust the document into his pocket,
"but how many works by Grampus?" If this
City man does not go into the City, there are
plenty of others who will do just as well instead,
but if I don't sit down to my easel, who besides
can produce Grampuses?" This was no doubt
very true; but then, on the other hand, our
genius should have remembered that not
everybody, even in the City, would be prepared to
exchange cheques for Grampuses.

Never mind. Our City man seemed to like
being treated with contempt. There is much to
be done by bullying in this world, perhaps more
even than by cringing. When this patron of
art got snubbed at every turn by Grampus and
others of the like nature, it showed him simply
what a tremendous set of fellows he had got
among, men so exalted that they could afford to
look down upon him—a man looked up to in the
City by everybody. Yes, Grampus and Co. were
tremendous fellows, and it was no end of a privilege
to be allowed to associate with them on any
terms. For the City men never entered into any
competition with the geniuses. They listened,
but talked little, nor were they unwise in so
doing. The geniuses were of the irritable sort,
and would cut up rough at a moment's notice.
On one occasion, for instance, when Mr. Brown,
of the Stock Exchange, happened to state in
conversation with a friend, but unhappily within
hearing of Grampus, that Mr. Brogg senior
"was decidedly one of the very first men of the
day," on this occasion, I say, he was laid hold of
and gored and trampled upon by Grampus in a
most merciless fashion.

"Hear this man," cried Grampus to some of
his colleagues who had not been attending.
"Here is the old leaven appearing. Here is an
instance of what Bacon says, that 'nature is
often hidden, sometimes overcome, seldom
extinguished.' Here is Brown, totally unable to
extinguish his nature, falling back into his normal
condition of money-worship. The feeling has
burst from him at the mere mention of one of
the high-priests by whom the worship is
conducted. Our worthy host here he designates as
one of 'the first men of the day.' Mark our
friend's enthusiasm. The subject is one which
he understands, and which appeals to his money-
grubbing tastes. Brown, I am ashamed of you!
And this after all the pains that have been
bestowed upon you in this very house. With
all your pretended taste for better things, I
believe that your heart's in the City at this very
moment."

It entered the mind of C. J. Brogg to give
an entertainment of a somewhat novel kind, a
sort of social conference of all the most
remarkable men of the day, in order that they
might give their opinions on the different
subjects. It was so far in favour of C. J.'s
project that most of these distinguished
persons had some knowledge of the house, having
been invited by Mrs. Brogg on many previous
occasions. Out of this good lady's invitations,
one out of eighteen—on an average—had been
accepted by these great men, so that nearly all
of them had at one time or another found his
way to Poets' Corner, and it was a curious
thing that not one of these illustrious ones ever
visited that abode of intellect more than once.
It was thus the happy privilege of C. J. to be
able to invite some of the most remarkable men
of the age to join his social conference, not
merely as one great man claiming a sort of
fellowship with another, but as, to some extent,
personal acquaintances also. It was with a feeling
of conscious pride that the Reverend Smear, who
undertook to put the letters of invitation in the
post, glanced over the remarkable names inscribed
on the envelopes, and he could not help
speculating as to what would be the feelings of the
post-office keeper as he observed the names in
stamping the letters.

Of course the conference was not to be entirely
composed of these eminent individuals. Other
privileged persons, private friends, and acquaintances,
were also invited, and these were mostly
informed what sort of company they were
likely to find themselves in. "Dear——," C. J. would
say in writing to his more familiar friends,
"Buster, the great engineer; Thunderson, the
poet; Savile Rowley, the doctor; Shammy,
R.A.; and some other men of mark are coming
here on Thursday next, to discuss matters of general
interest. Will you join us at half-past eight?
Yours, C. J. BROGG." And the reader may here
remark that our great man feels so confident as
to the readiness of his fellows to join the
conference, that he does not say that he has "asked"
Buster and the rest, but that they are "coming."
And what can be more natural than that he
should so speak? What an opportunity was this
for Buster and the others for learning each
other's opinions and profiting by them. It was
to be a meeting of flints and steels, so to speak,
and what volleys of sparks—sparks of the fire of
genius—might not confidently be looked for.

They did not all come, it is true. Those
who did, however, found great preparations
made for them in the shape of tea and picnic
biscuits, and they found, moreover, C. J.
Brogg standing in the middle of the room holding
what appeared to be several letters in his
hand, and wearing an expression of as much
annoyance as was compatible with the character of
a philosopher and man of genius. The members
of the conference, up to half-past nine o'clock,
consisted of Grampus and the geniuses under his
command, the men of commerce, admirers of the
above, the Brogg family, and those outsiders
who had been invited specially to meet Buster
and Thunderson, and a long list of individuals
bearing names equally distinguished, but who
were not present. The company did not converse,
or rather "confer," and everybody looked
towards the door incessantly—everybody, that is,
except Grampus and friends. They didn't care