 aimed high, and failed to hit the
circulation essential to its existence. Fadge, a younger man, did reviewing for
The Balance; he was in needy circumstances, and had wrought himself into Yule's
good opinion by judicious flattery. But with a clear eye for the main chance Mr
Fadge soon perceived that Yule could only be of temporary use to him, and that
the editor of a well-established weekly which lost no opportunity of throwing
scorn upon Yule and all his works would be a much more profitable conquest. He
succeeded in transferring his services to the more flourishing paper, and struck
out 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 long-winded 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 sérieux; thought he
