“And all these articles sell largely?”

“Very largely, indeed.  And so they should; for they are well worth the money they cost.”

“Indeed they are, or I should not find them in your establishment.”

“You are very good.  And now, a propos of your journal, will you permit me to pay a return compliment?”

“Certainly,” we replied.  “You have noticed an improvement in our columns?”

“Unquestionably I have,” returned Mr. BROWN, emphatically.  “I have observed that of late you have given much interesting matter in the body of your paper that heretofore used to be reserved for the pages exclusively devoted to advertisements.  I congratulate you!”

And with a courteous wave of his hand and a bow of dismissal, the Eminent Pillar of Commerce delicately intimated to us that our interview was at an end.

* * * * *

’ARRY ON THE SINCEREST FORM OF FLATTERY.

[Illustration]

  DEAR CHARLIE,—­Your faviour to ’and in doo course, as the quill-drivers
    say;
  Likeways also the newspaper cuttins enclosed.  You’re on Rummikey’s lay. 
  Awful good on yer, CHARLIE, old chummy, to take so much trouble for me;
  But do keep on yer ’air, dear old pal; I am still right end uppards,
    yer see.

  You are needled along of some parties,—­er course you ain’t fly to their
    names,—­
  As has bin himitating Yours Truly.  Way-oh!  It’s the oldest o’ games,
  Himitation is, CHARLIE.  It makes one think DARWIN was right, anyhow,
  And that most on us did come from monkeys, which some ain’t so fur from
    ’em now.

  You start a smart game, or a paying one—­something as knocks ’em, dear
    boy,
  No matter, mate, whether it’s mustard, or rhymes, or a sixpenny toy;
  They’ll be arter you, nick over nozzle, the smuggers of notions and nips,
  For the mugs is as ’ungry for wrinkles as broken-down bookies for tips.

  Look at DICKENS, dear boy, and Lord TENNYSON—­ain’t they bin copied all
    round? 
  Wy, I’m told some as liked ALFRED’s verses at fust, is now sick of the
    sound;
  All along o’ the parrots, my pippin.  Ah, that’s jest the wust o’ sech
    fakes! 
  People puke at the shams till they think the originals ain’t no great
    shakes.

  ’Tain’t fair, CHARLIE, not by a jugful, but anger’s all fiddle-de-dee;
  They may copy my style till all’s blue, but they won’t discombobulate me. 
  Names and metres is anyone’s props; but of one thing they don’t get the
    ’ang;
  They ain’t fly to good patter, old pal, they ain’t copped the straight
    griffin on slang.

  ‘Tisn’t grammar and spellin’ makes patter, nor yet snips and snaps of
    snide talk. 
  You may cut a moke out o’ pitch-pine, mate, and paint it, but can’t make
    it walk. 
  You may chuck a whole Slang Dixionary by chunks in a stodge-pot of chat,
  But if ’tisn’t alive, ’tain’t chin-music, but kibosh, and corpsey at
    that.