Well, then.  The victories which I wish especially to commemorate in this paper, are the six great, complete, prodigious, and undeniable victories, achieved by the corps which the editor of the Cornhill Magazine has the honor to command.  When I seemed to speak disparagingly but now of generals, it was that chief I had in my I (if you will permit me the expression).  I wished him not to be elated by too much prosperity; I warned him against assuming heroic imperatorial airs, and cocking his laurels too jauntily over his ear.  I was his conscience, and stood on the splash-board of his triumph-car, whispering, “Hominem memento te.”  As we rolled along the way, and passed the weathercocks on the temples, I saluted the symbol of the goddess Fortune with a reverent awe.  “We have done our little endeavor,” I said, bowing my head, “and mortals can do no more.  But we might have fought bravely and not won.  We might have cast the coin, calling, ‘Head,’ and lo!  Tail might have come uppermost.”  O thou Ruler of Victories!—­thou Awarder of Fame!—­thou Giver of Crowns (and shillings)—­if thou hast smiled upon us, shall we 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