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"THE MISSING WORD." (?)

["The Agricultural Conference unhappily seems to have made up its mind to defy the recognised laws of economic science, instead of endeavouring to adapt their farming methods to them. The first of the two operative resolutions passed yesterday was an undisguised proposal for the re-adoption of Protection."—The Times.]

THE MAN WHO WOULD.

IV.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A CRITIC.

St. Barbe, as a literary man and critic, always professed a desire to live in a quiet neighbourhood. Therefore, as I approached his house, on the almost inaccessible slopes of Campden Hill, I was amazed to see a large and increasing crowd assembled in the vicinity. Pushing my way through, I saw that St. Barbe's windows were broken, glass was in a weak minority in the panes, and, what was more singular, the breakage seemed to be done from within! Objects were flying out into the garden, and those objects were books. I had the curiosity and agility to catch a few as they fell, and to pick others up. They were mostly volumes of Poetry, and, in every case, they bore St. Barbe's name on the fly-leaf, with a flattering manuscript inscription by the author. Some of the authors' names were unknown to me; in others I recognised ladies of title whom I had read about in the Society Journals. Urging my way through a hot fire of octavos, I rang the bell. The maid who opened the door said, "You're not an Interviewer, Sir?"

"Great Heavens, no!" I replied.

"It is lucky for you, Sir; he's got an air-gun, and winged two Interviewers to-day, and shot one in the hat."

"I am a friend of Mr. St. Barbe's." I explained, scarcely audible amidst the yells of that man of letters.

"He's awful bad to-day, Sir, assaulted a parcels-delivery man, who was too heavy for him."

So speaking, the maid led me to St. Barbe's study. He was now quiet, and only groaning softly as he reposed on the sofa; the fragments of furniture and the torn letters which covered the floor, proved, however, that the crisis had been severe, for a man who likes a quiet neighbourhood. I felt his pulse, injected morphine, and asked him how he did?

"Better," said St. Barbe, feebly. "I've been clearing them out."

"Clearing what out?" I asked.

"Presentation copies of books, from the authors," he said; and added, "and the devils of publishers."

At this moment the postman knocked, and the maid brought in some letters with an air of anxiety.

St. Barbe tore the envelopes open, "There, and there, and there!" he cried, thrusting them into my hands, while his features bore a satanic expression of hatred and contempt.

As he seemed to wish it, I read his correspondence, while he absently twirled the poker in his hands, and gnashed his teeth.

"What is the matter with you, old man?" I asked. "These notes seem to be very modestly and properly expressed:—

"Dear Sir,—You will be astonished at receiving a letter from a total stranger; but the sympathy of our tastes, which I detect in all you write, induces me to send you my little work on The Folk Lore of Tavern Signs."

Here St. Barbe sat down on the hearth, and scattered ashes on his head, in a manner unbecoming an Englishman.

"I don't see what annoys you so," I remarked, "or in this:—

"Dear Mr. St. Barbe,—You will not remember me, but I met you once at Lady Caerulea Smithfield's, and therefore I take the liberty of sending you my little book of verses."

Here he rolled on the floor and gnawed the castor of a chair. I had heard of things like this in the time of the Plantagenets, but I never expected to see nowadays such ferocity of demeanour.

"It is signed Mary Middlesex," I said. "She's very pretty, and a Countess, or something of that sort. What's the matter with you?"

"Try the next," he said.