ed 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.

[Illustration: "Poor fellow! he is now under
restraint."]

"MY DEAR SIR,--Being well aware of the interest you take in the
fragments of DIONYSIUS SCYTOBRACHION, I have requested my publish