OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Odd Volumes.
From The Personal Remembrances of Sir Frederick Pollock (Macmillan & Co.) I had, I confess, expected a great deal more than I found in the two volumes. And I hold that I had a right to expect something more than usually interesting from the Remembrances of the Queen's Remembrancer. What Sir Frederick remembers as Remembrancer to the Queen is very little, though quite sufficient for the office; but his own recollections as his own Remembrancer are very pleasant reading, being full of information given in an unpretentious conversational style, about Cambridge University life, the Bench and the Bar, and Literary Society generally. There is a good deal of eating and drinking recorded—not too much, perhaps, for the necessities of social life; and the "C. C. S.," or Cambridge Conversazione Society seems to have been very regular in its intellectual gatherings at various places where good food is provided. This Club, limited to twelve members, was called somewhat profanely "The Twelve Apostles," though of what they were Apostles I cannot make out. They have evidently an Apostolic Succession, as the Club is still in existence, I believe. Altogether, among this sudden glut in the market of literary confidences in the shape of ducal, journalistic, artistic, and egotistic recollections, this may be taken up as a chatty and readable book.
Woman's World for December, edited by our Oscar Wilde, is full of woman's wit, and some of the illustrations, especially in the department of The Fashions, are charming. What a change from the old style of painted doll inanities, dressed up in a style never seen in real life! The picture of the three pretty women preparing for a ball is a candle to attract male moths—"male moths" being obviously the opposite to "ma'am—moths," as that undefeated punster Samuel Johnson would have said under certain circumstances. Mrs. Campbell Praed's account of Royat is very amusing; but, though I have been several times up to La Charrade, yet never have I had the good fortune to come across Madame Grenon, who, if her portrait, as given in this number, is a genuine likeness, ought to be one of the attractions of the environs of Royat. Good, honest, kindly faces I saw at Charrade, but why this uncommonly pretty one hid herself, as she must have done whenever she saw this distinguished water-drinker coming to Charrade is a charade to me. The general remarks on the Stage by the lamented Authoress of John Halifax, whose recent loss we all deplore, are very interesting, as recording the impressions of a good, pure-minded woman, whose acquaintance with the vie intime of the Theatre was limited. The portraits of Miss Anderson are not particularly flattering—rather shady, which is the one thing that no one shall ever unchallenged say of our sweet and gentle Perdita in the hearing of your rather deaf Polixenes, Baron de Book Worms.
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