success."

"Not I; but all our friends here," said Bristles. "For two years we
have done nothing but praise you wherever we went. Haven't we sneered
at Bailey, and laughed at the ancient statues? Who wrote the epigram
on Thorwaldsen--was it not our friend now present, Mr Banks? a
gentleman, I must say, perfectly unequaled in the radiance of his wit
and the delicious pungency of his satire. Without us, what would you
have been?"

"Exactly what I am. The only sculptor worth a sixpence since the fine
arts were invented," replied the self-satisfied Mr Stickleback.

"No," said Mr Bristles; "since you force us to tell you what we have
done for you, I will mention it. We have persuaded all our friends, we
have even persuaded yourself, that you have some knowledge of
sculpture; whereas every one who follows his own judgment, and is not
led astray by our puffs, must see that you could not carve an old
woman's face out of a radish; that you are fit for nothing with the
chisel but to smooth gravestones, and cut crying cherubs over a
churchyard door; that your donkey"--

"Well, what of my donkey, as you call it?" cried the enraged sculptor,
"I have heard you praise it a thousand times."

"Of course you have; but do you think I meant it?"

"As much as I meant what I said, when I praised some of your
ridiculous rubbish in the _Universal_."

"Oh, indeed! Then you think my writings ridiculous rubbish?"

"Yes--I do--very ridiculous rubbish."

"Then let me tell you, Mr Stickleback, you are about as good a critic
as a sculptor. My writings, sir, are universally appreciated. To find
fault with _them_ shows you are unfit for our acquaintance; and with
regard to Mr Pitskiver's recommendation to the city building
committee, and your donkey to adorn the pediment of the
Mansion-house--you have of course given up all hopes of any interest
_I_ may possess."

"Gentlemen," said a young man with small piercing eyes and a rather
dirty complexion, with long hair rolling over the collar of his
coat--"are you not a little premature in shivering the friendship by a
blow of temper which had been consolidated by several years of mutual
reciprocity?"

"Silence, Snooksby!--I have been insulted. I was ever a foe to
ingratitude, and grievous shall the expiation be," replied Bristles.

"I now address myself to you, sir," continued Snooksby, turning to the
wrathful sculptor, whose wrath, however, had begun to evaporate in
reflecting on the dimin