OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Speaking of Reynart the Fox, I was made, by a slip of the printer's hand—I am accustomed to seeing slips from his hand, which is quite another thing—to say that this mediæval romance "presents a truer picture of life than novels in which vice is punished and virtue patiently rewarded." After considering for some time what on earth I could have meant by "patiently rewarded," I remembered that I had written "patently rewarded." The printer put my "i" out; and without an "i" it was very difficult to perceive the sense of the phrase.
Nutshell Novels, by that crack writer—no, not "crack'd"—and poet, whose verses send a frill right through us, Mr. J. ASHBY-STERRY, are coming out. Capital title. As SHAKSPEARE says, "Sermons in stones, novels in nutshells, and good in everything." SHELLEY'S poems might be brought out in pocketable form under a similar title, Nut-Shelley Poems. I have not yet seen the volume in question, only heard tell of it, and should not be surprised to hear that the central novel and the best was a short military novel, entitled The Kernel. Messrs. HUTCHINSON & Co. are the publishers. I hope Mr. STERRY has illustrated them himself. He can draw and paint, but he won't, and there's an end on't. He must follow up the Nutshells with a volume of Crackers, about Christmas time.
Just been looking through London Street Arabs, by Mrs. H.M. STANLEY, published by CASSELL & Co., which firm—whose telegraphic address is "Caspeg, London," and a good name too—writes to the Baron thus:—"In forwarding you an early copy"—small and early—"of Mrs. Stanley's book, we will ask you to be good enough"—("I am 'good enough'" quoth the Baron)—"to confine your extracts from the Introduction to an extent not exceeding one-third of the whole." "Willingly, my dear 'Caspeg,'" replies the Baron, who does not like being dictated to, and, to gratify your wish to the utmost, he will make no extracts at all from the book, a proceeding which ought mightily to delight "Caspeg, London." What next? Will publishers send to the Baron, and request him not even to breathe the names of their books? By all means. He has no objection, as, whether sent to him for review, or purchased by him pour se distraire, the Baron only mentions those he likes, or, if he mentions those he dislikes, 'tis pro bono publico, and there's an end on't. Mrs. STANLEY appreciates humour, as the following anecdote will show—But, dear me, the Baron is forgetful—he begs "Caspeg's" pardon; he mustn't quote. Mrs. STANLEY can be truly sympathetic with sorrow, as the following story proves—no, "Caspeg," the story must not follow. Never mind—the Baron's dear readers will read it for themselves if they feel "so dispoged." The Baron supposes that all this was written and drawn while Mrs. STANLEY was Miss DOROTHY TENNANT, because her recorded opinion, probably, as a spinster, is (and here the Baron "quotes" not, but "alludes"), that you can find better artistic material in this line at home, than you can obtain by seeking it abroad; yet when she married, off she went to Milan, Venice, and so forth. For pleasure, of course, not work; but work to her is evidently pleasure. May happiness have accompanied her everywhere! The drawings are pretty, rather of the goody-good "Sunday-at-home-readings" kind of illustrations. And what on earth has a sort of pictorial advertisement for "Somebody's Soap" got to do with Street Arabs? "Washed Ashore; or, Happy At Last," might be the title of this mer-baby picture, in which two naked children, not Street Arabs, or Arabs of any sort, are depicted as examining the inanimate body of a nondescript creature, half flesh and half fish, which has been thrown up by the waves "to be left till called for" by the next high-tide, when, perhaps, its sorrowing parents, Mr. and Mrs. MERMAN, or its widowed mother, Mrs. MERWOMAN, arrayed in sea-"weeds," may come to claim it and give it un-christian burial. But that the Baron, out of deference to the wishes of "Caspeg, London," does not like to quote one single line, he could give Mrs. STANLEY'S own account of how this picture of the Mer-baby came to be included in the Street Arab Collection. For such explanation the Baron refers the reader to the book itself. "Caspeg," farewell!
I have, the Baron says, commenced the first pages of The Last Days of Palmyra. Good, so far; but several new books have come in, and Palmyra cannot receive my undivided attention, says
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
P.S.—My faithful "Co." has been reading Ferrers Court, by JOHN STRANGE WINTER, author of Bootle's Baby and a number of other novelettes of like kind. He says that he is getting just the least bit tired of Mignon, and the plain-spoken girls, and the rest of them. By the way, he observes that it seems to be the fashion, judging from the pages of Ferrers Court, in what he may call "Service Suckles," to talk continually of a largely advertising lady's tailor. If this custom spreads, he presumes that the popular topic of conversation, the weather, will have to give place to the prior claims for consideration of Somebody's Blacking, or Somebody-else's Soap. This is to be regretted, as, in spite of the sameness of subject of the Bootle's Baby series, JOHN STRANGE WINTER is always more amusing than nine-tenths of his (or should it be her?) contemporaries. B. De B.-W. & Co.
P.S. No. 2.—The Baron wishes to add that on taking up the Bride of Lammermoor in order to refresh his memory before seeing the new drama, he was struck by a few lines in the description of Lucy Ashton, which, during rehearsals, must have been peculiarly appropriate to her representative at the Lyceum, Miss ELLEN TERRY. Here they are:—"To these details, however trivial, Lucy lent patient and not indifferent attention. They moved and interested Henry, and that was enough to secure her ear." "Great Scott!" indeed! Perfectly prophetic, and prophetically perfect. B. DE B.-W.
