last? Now, Mr. Nabbem, note me,—reverse the portrait: we are fallen, our career is over—the road is shut to us, and new plunderers are robbing the carriages that once we robbed.—Is not this the lot of—no, no! I deceive myself!—Your Ministers, your jobmen, for the most part milk the popular cow while there's a drop in the udder. Your Chancellor declines on a pension,—your Minister attenuates on a grant,—the feet of your great rogues may be gone from the Treasury benches, but they have their little fingers in the Treasury. Their past services are remembered by his Majesty,—ours only noted by the Recorder: they save themselves, for they hang by one another; we go to the Devil, for we hang by ourselves: we have our little day of the public, and all is over; but it is never over with them. We both hunt the same fox, but we are your fair riders: they are your knowing ones—we take the leap, and our necks are broken: they sneak through the gates, and keep it up to the last!"
As he concluded, Tomlinson's head drooped on his bosom, and it was easy to see that painful comparisons, mingled perhaps with secret mur-
