by any ordinary member. That Carpew
will never let you say anything without requiring
a reason for it if you allow him so much liberty.
And then the agreeable circle at Poets' Corner,
how little you frequent it now, going forth instead
among strangers who don't know what you are
as we do. Why should you leave a society where
you were understood, where you were recognised
by every member of it as a great man, and pass
your time among unsympathising people, who
will never understand or appreciate you as you
deserve?"

"Ah, Bradshaw," he said, "I used to think
that I was a great man once."

"And so you are," I answered, eagerly, for I
didn't like the despondent tone at all. "What
do you mean by saying 'you used to think?'"

"I mean that I've found out my mistake."

"'Mistake,'" I repeated. "What are you
talking about? Look at the opinion of the
world—of the people you're surrounded by. Do
they think you a great man, or do they not?"

"Ah," said my friend, sadly, "that is just it.
The opinion of my friends. A small circle, a
narrow clique. You began just now to speak of
the world. I have forgotten the world, or rather
have supposed that the world consisted of half a
dozen of my personal friends."

"Yes, but what friends? The very pick of
society," I answered. "Besides, your whole life
has been that of a great man——"

"Without the greatness," interrupted my
friend, in a sad tone. "Upon my life and soul,"
he added, "I almost believe that I have been an
impostor. I have gone on as if I really had a
claim on the belief of all the world, and have
never paused to inquire in what such a claim
consisted. It has been a delusion, a horrid and
abominable self-delusion, and you, my good
friend, have helped to foster it."

"No," I cried, stoutly. "It was no delusion.
This—this is the delusion which has got possession
of you now. Shake it off, sir, shake it off
without delay, and be yourself again. Come
among us again your own self. Brush up your
hair again into its accustomed form; I'm
shocked to see it thus flat and dishevelled.
Resume your old manner. I declare it's quite
altered. Put these vile fancies away, for
Heaven's sake, or I shall go mad. As you are now, I
should hardly recognise you. You leave me
without rudder or compass in the world. Get
back with all speed to be the great C. J. Brogg
of the good old times, and let us be happy in the
good old way."

"I am afraid, my dear Bradshaw," replied this
god of my idolatry, after a short pause, "that
your words are wasted. I have spent some time
just lately in a searching investigation into my
way of life, and everything, whether of a bodily
or mental nature, connected with it, and the
result of that examination, while it has been
humiliating, has been altogether final. Why,
consider yourself for a moment, what claim have
I to greatness?"

"The claim of being great," I replied, doggedly.

"And how has that been shown?" was the
next question.

"In a thousand ways," I answered. "Look at
your power of retort. Look at your conversational
ability. Look at your—at the very look
of you, then, when your hair was different, who
could mistake you for a moment for anything
but a——"

"Ah, my dear friend," interposed C. J., mournfully,
"you can't make anything of it. If I ever
made a good retort, which I begin to doubt, it
was pondered over, and led up to, very carefully.
In those, and in my conversation generally, I
was helped by my poor brother James, who was
never tired of trying to draw me out, and lead the
way to something in connexion with which he
thought that I might find opportunity for
display. And I have encouraged him to do so, and
even directed him which way to lead the conversation,
in order that I might get in my effects."

I was at my wits' end. "This never can be,
never must be, never shall be," I cried, in the
bitterness of my soul. "If you are going to take
ideas of this sort into your head, you will leave
me with nobody to believe in, nothing to care
about in the world. We were such a happy little
circle——"

"Little enough," murmured Brogg,
abstractedly.

"So much the better," I went on; "we
understood each other. "The world is such a
vast place, and society is such a vast institution,
that people who would fain sound each other's
depths, and really know themselves and their
fellows, must necessarily go aside out of the
crowd, and live to some extent apart. And very
happy we were, and now you're going to spoil it
all, and we shall all drop asunder and be lost.
Our strength is in union, and, the union gone,
where shall we be? For my part, I tell you
fairly that I shall lapse back into being a mere
worldling. I shall go to plays for other purposes
than to furnish a criticism to the 'Mutual.' I
shall read the newspapers. I shall walk in the
Park—go to the dogs altogether, most likely."

"Better go to the dogs along with the rest of
your fellow-creatures, than go in the same direction,
as we were doing, with a sense that we
were better than everybody else, believing so
mainly because we never ventured to undergo
the test of comparison, and shrunk from a
competition in which doubtless we should have
broken down."

"You break down! Ha, ha!" I said, savagely.

"As likely as not. The great world outside is
hard to excel in. A man can sing his song with
but a weak piping-note in a boudoir and win a
wealth of applause, who, trying his abilities in
the concert-hall, would be laughed to scorn, just
as the artist paints a picture as our friend Smear
does, which, though admired in his own studio,
goes for nothing when exhibited along with
others in Trafalgar-square. Why, even the
really great men who can stand, and have stood,