a special line of work by the free exercise of
a malicious flippancy which was then without rival in the periodical
press. When he had thoroughly got his hand in, it fell to Mr Fadge,
in the mere way of business, to review a volume of his old editor's,
a rather pretentious and longwinded but far from worthless essay 'On
Imagination as a National Characteristic.' The notice was a masterpiece;
its exquisite virulence set the literary circles chuckling. Concerning
the authorship there was no mystery, and Alfred Yule had the
indiscretion to make a violent reply, a savage assault upon Fadge, in
the columns of The Balance. Fadge desired nothing better; the uproar
which arose--chaff, fury, grave comments, sneering spite--could only
result in drawing universal attention to his anonymous cleverness, and
throwing ridicule upon the heavy, conscientious man. Well, you
probably remember all about it. It ended in the disappearance of Yule's
struggling paper, and the establishment on a firm basis of Fadge's
reputation.

It would be difficult to mention any department of literary endeavour in
which Yule did not, at one time or another, try his fortune. Turn to
his name in the Museum Catalogue; the list of works appended to it
will amuse you. In his thirtieth year he published a novel; it failed
completely, and the same result awaited a similar experiment five years
later. He wrote a drama of modern life, and for some years strove to
get it acted, but in vain; finally it appeared 'for the closet'--giving
Clement Fadge such an opportunity as he seldom enjoyed. The one
noteworthy thing about these productions, and about others of equally
mistaken direction, was the sincerity of their workmanship. Had Yule
been content to manufacture a novel or a play with due disregard for
literary honour, he might perchance have made a mercantile success; but
the poor fellow had not pliancy enough for this. He took his efforts
au grand serieux; thought he was producing works of art; pursued his
ambition in a spirit of fierce conscientiousness. In spite of all, he
remained only a journeyman. The kind of work he did best was poorly
paid, and could bring no fame. At the age of fifty he was still living
in a poor house in an obscure quarter. He earned enough for his actual
needs, and was under no pressing fear for the morrow, so long as his
faculties remained unimpaired; but there was no disguising from himself
that his life had been a failure. And the thoug