see the journalistic intruder. To tell the truth, of late—much to my annoyance—reports have been in circulation rather prejudicial to my pecuniary credit. I am not a rich man. In these hard times who is? But for all that I am able to keep the wolf from the door, and maintain a position not derogatory to the status of barrister-at-law. It occurred to me, as I requested Portington to admit the visitor, that perhaps the meeting might lead to satisfactory results. If the caller happened to be an interviewer, I might "inspire" him.

"Mr. A. Briefless, Jun., I think," said the new comer, as he seated himself in a chair and referred to a pocket-book. I bowed. "This is not your private address—these are your chambers?"

"Certainly," I returned; "but perhaps, before we go further, you will be so good as to tell me what you want?"

"Well, briefly, a statement of your affairs for the last three years. I will not trouble you for anything of an earlier date."

I again inclined my head. I was not altogether pleased with my visitor's manner. He was certainly abrupt, and he adopted a tone of authority that jarred upon my nerves. Possibly he wished to give the account of our interview to our cousins across the Atlantic. If this were so, I need not be over-scrupulous in my statements. Americans are accustomed to the rouge of exaggeration on the cheek of fact. So I would convey a false impression if I omitted, so to speak, the magnifying cosmetic.

"You do not propose to make public anything in this country?"

"Assuredly not," he replied. "All you say will be treated confidentially, save with the necessary exceptions."

I was satisfied. Of course the exceptions would be the people in the Republic of the West. I told him that my practice was a large one.

"Indeed?" As it struck me that the exclamation savoured of surprise, I thought it advisable to repeat the statement with emphasis.

"Yes," I continued, "there are many of my brethren at the Bar, better known to the world than I am, who would be pleased to change places with me. Because my name does not appear very frequently in the newspapers you must not imagine that I am idle. On the contrary, my chamber practice is immense—distinctly immense."

"Really," he murmured, and then mentioned the names of two or three of my learned friends whose incomes were decidedly considerable, and asked me if I deemed my practice equal to theirs.

"You put me in rather a delicate position," I returned with a smile. "Of course, I do not know the exact amount of the takings of the gentlemen to whom you have referred, but personally, I should consider my own practice more lucrative than theirs."

"Well, I do know their receipts," said my interviewer, "so I can estimate yours. Thank you very much. And now is there any other source of income omitted? Have you houses or shops, or anything of that sort?"

"As a barrister, I am prevented from trading," I replied, again with hauteur. And then I continued: "I am afraid you take too deep an interest in the commercial side of my career. What you should wish to learn, as my introducer to the American public, is my opinion on matters of the day. Now, for instance, I believe——"

"Pardon me," interrupted my visitor, rather brusquely. "But you have told me all I desire to know."

I bowed, and then I asked in what publication I might expect to see the interview.

"See the interview!" exclaimed the caller. "What interview?"

"Why," I explained, rather angrily, "the interview between you and me. You are a journalist, are you not?"

"A journalist! Certainly not! What made you think that?"

"Then, Sir," I cried, indignantly, "what right had you to force yourself into my presence, and waste my time in asking a number of useless, and, I may add, impertinent questions?"

"I had the right, and the questions were neither useless nor impertinent."

"Explain yourself, Sir."

"With pleasure;" and then he added, with a smile that did not provoke its fellow on my own countenance, "you must know that I am an assessor of income tax!"

Comment would be superfluous!

(Signed) A. Briefless, Jun.

Pump-handle Court, October 10, 1895.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Messrs. Blackwood have got as far as Felix Holt in the re-publication in popular form of the works of George Eliot. It would be interesting to know how the venture has fared with the popular fancy for which it was designed. It is said young men and maidens of the present date cannot read the Charles Dickens whose books enthralled their fathers and mothers. How does George Eliot, who in her day held a position with the novel-reading public second only to Charles Dickens, withstand the changes of fancy and fashion? My Baronite has been trying the experiment on himself by reading again, after the lapse of many years, The Mill on the Floss. He reports that he finds the first volume flag a little, by reason of the minute record of childhood's troubles and schoolday tasks. But in the second volume, where the tragedy of love is worked out with surpassing power and infinite skill, the old spell is woven again. The Mill on the Floss is certainly one of the best of George Eliot's novels, being completed before the malign influence of schoolmaster George Henry Lewes made itself felt. To this extent, it is not a fair test of the problem suggested. But the collection as a whole is rich in value. In "the Standard edition" Messrs. Blackwood present it in daintiest form, and at a marvellously cheap price.

The Shoulder of Shasta is not a new joint from an entirely new animal, as those who are tired of "the Shoulder of Mutton" may be sorry to hear; but, it is a charming romance, in one volume, written by Bram Stoker at his best. The heroine's name is "Esse"; and the whole interest of the story lies in the question, "Esse or non Esse"—"to be or not to be" the wife of "Mr. Dick." For there is a "Mr. Dick"—not in any way related to Dickens's "Mr. Dick,"—who is a kind of Buffalo Bill among the Indians. There is a Miss Gimp, a governess, whose peculiarities certainly do recall those of Mrs. Nickleby. Mr. Bram Stoker's plot is a boîte à surprise, and yet a most simple and natural story. Go to your butcher's and order The Shoulder of Shasta, to be served up "à la Stoker." N.B.—For "butcher's" read "bookseller's"; 'tis published by "A Constable" who "knows what subjects to take up," says the thoughtful

Baron de Book-Worms.

Cursory Rhyme.

(By an Elderly Victim of Cyclomania.)

Rush-a-by, rush-a-by, biking man!
Kick up a shindy as loud as you can.
Frighten me, floor me, then chortle with glee,
And fly away fast from the gutter and me.

Racing Note.—"Fiorizel II." seems to be an unfortunate name for a horse expected and intended to be "Fiorizel the First."