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in his jacket pocket. We found out, afterwards, that one was a letter from his fiancée, and the other a draft of a political speech which he was about to deliver that week, and we told him that he would most likely get mixed over the two—spout out to his electors the sweetest portions of his love-letter, and declare to the lady his unalterable attachment to the Constitution!"

We sat down by the black oak writing-table.

Edmund Yates.

The conversation of Mr. Yates is as pleasant as his writings. He reviews, so to speak, his own life with the same delicacy which has been so characteristic of the pen that has travelled many miles on behalf of the lighter branches of literature, which Mr. Yates has done so much to father. He has done excellent work, honest work, work worthy of high eulogium; but its author refers to it very simply. "My name is Yates, Edmund Yates," he almost says; "and if anybody likes to tack any kind words on to that name, well, so much the happier for me." He is essentially a modest man. He works hard, but not so hard as he did a year or two ago. He likes to talk and walk, and gets through much by dictation. Would strongly advise this to those young men who aim at being good speakers. He is an early riser. The busiest day of the week with him is Monday—the day on which the World goes to press. This calls him to town, and he rarely leaves his paper until it is fairly well on its way to the machines. He has a remarkable memory, and frequently wires a full stop, or a comma, or a semi-colon to the office when on his way home on press nights, should he think such would improve a sentence or make its meaning more apparent! Save when he is abroad, he reads every line that appears in the pages of his paper.

Mrs. Yates and Eldest Son (now Major Yates.

He loves old faces as he does old memories—be they either of a business or domestic nature. The publisher of the first number of the World—which has been established nearly twenty years—occupies that position to-day; whilst as for Spencer, his coachman, he has been in his employ twenty years last Good Friday, and was reminded of the fact by the presentation of a watch and chain. A distinct trait in his character is that he is the first to give credit to a man who has truly earned it. It is not much, perhaps, to hear a man say to you in referring to his secretary: "Splendid fellow—knows where to find everything," but it's the "Knows where to find everything" that does it.

Little Edmund was born on the 3rd July, 1831, at Edinburgh, and his early years were passed in the somewhat close atmosphere of the theatre. Both his parents were members of the theatrical profession. His father—Frederick Henry Yates—was a very eminent comedian of his day, and it was whilst fulfilling an engagement in the Scotch capital that Mrs. Yates brought a small son into the world. The engagement over, the latest addition to the Yates family was brought to London, and christened with due ceremony at Brompton Church.