OUR BOOKING-OFFICE
The Baron's Booking-Office is still decked about with holly, For the Season that at any rate's conventionally "jolly," Is by no means wholly over, and the very hard-worked Baron Feels rather like a sort of tired-out literary Charon, With an over-laden ferry-boat, and passengers too numerous. For seasonable "novelties"—and "notions" quaint and humorous Still crowd on him, and claim his constant critical attention, Some may escape his notice, but a few more he must mention Marcus Ward's are good as usual, and his "Christmas Cheque Book"'s funny; Though rather a sardonic "sell" to parties short of money. Castell Brothers' Cards are charming, but the words "Printed in Germany," The patriotic Baron irk, or may he turn a Merman! He Can't see why pictured prettiness should be beyond home-printing. He doesn't want to dogmatise, but really can't help hinting! Scout's Head, by Langbridge, boys will like. Jerome K. Jerome's Stage-Land, Which Bernard Partridge illustrates, might tickle e'en the sage land Of Puritan Philistia at Clapham-Rise or Barnsbury. And now let us the memory of Christmas Cards and yarns bury In a right bowl of stingo, in the which the Baron cheerily Drinks to his readers heartily, sincerely, and Happy-New-Year-ily!
Once upon a time Mr. Lewis Carroll wrote a marvellously grotesque, fantastic, and humorous book called Alice in Wonderland, and on another occasion he wrote Through the Looking-Glass, in which Alice reappeared, and then the spring of Mr. Lewis Carroll's fanciful humour apparently dried up, for he has done nothing since worth mentioning in the same breath with his two first works; and if his writings have been by comparison watery, unlike water, they have never risen by inherent quality to their original level. Of his latest book, called Sylvie and Bruno, I can make neither head nor tale. It seems a muddle of all sorts, including a little bit of Bible thrown in. It will be bought, because Lewis Carroll's name is to it, and it will be enjoyed for the sake of Mr. Furniss's excellent illustrations, but for no other reason, that I can see. I feel inclined to carol to Carroll, "O don't you remember sweet Alice?" and, if so, please be good enough to wake her up again, if you can.
M. Fréderic Mayer's International Almanack takes my breath away. It is overwhelmingly international. Most useful to the International Theatre-goer, as there are plans of all the principal theatres in Europe, with the seats numbered, so that you have only to wire (answer paid) to the Théâtre Français for fauteuil d'orchestre Number 20, to Drury Lane in the same way, to the Operahaus, Berlin ("Open Haus" sounds so internationally hospitable) for Parquet Number 200 (so as to get a good view), to the Wallner Theater, Berlin, for something of the same sort, or to La Scala, Milan, for the sixth Sedie d'orchestra on the left (as the numbers are not given—why?) and you'll be accommodated. Then with ease the internationalist can learn when the Moon is full, Pleine Lune, Vollmond, Luna Piena and Luna Ilena in five languages. The Italian, the Spaniard, the French, the Englishman, the German and the Dutchman can find out all about the different watering-places of Europe, each one in his own native tongue, and all about "the Court of Arches" in London and Madrid. There is the Jewish and also the Mahommedan Calendar, but I see nothing about the Greek Kalends. I am not quite sure that the Bulgarians will be quite satisfied, and I should say, that the Aborigines of Central Africa will have a distinct grievance, which M. Fréderic Mayer will rectify after an interview with Mr. Stanley. It's a wonderful production, and as it gives postal rates and cab-fares in ever so many languages, it will be of great practical value to the traveller. But no list of cab-fares is perfect without a model row with the driver in eight languages, including some bad language and directions as to the shortest route to the nearest police court.
Our good Doctor Roose in urbe, has just published a brochure, dealing with the origin, treatment, and prevention (for there is apparently no cure) of the fell disease to which, and for a multitude of whose victims, Father Damien died a martyr. If in the Doctor's treatment of this subject after his own peculiar fashion à la Roose, he can help to alleviate present suffering and materially assist the crusade now being undertaken against this common enemy, he will have contributed his share of energy in starting 1890 hopefully.
Those who suffer from indigestion at this festive season, and wish to intensify the effects of the malady, will do well to read a new book entitled Master of his Fate, by J. MacLaren Cobban, who, if he does not write well, that is, judging his style from a hypercritical purist's point of view, yet contrives to interest you with a story almost as sensational as that of Hyde and Jekyl. The Master of his Fate might have had for its second title, Or, The Accomplished Modern Vampire, the hero being a sort of a vampire, but not one of the good old school.
Baron De Book-Worms & Co.
