OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Why doesn't some publisher bring out The Utterbosh Series, for, upon my word, says the Baron, the greater part of the books sent in for "notice" are simply beneath it. Here's one on which I made notes as I went on, as far as I could get through it. It is called Nemesis: a Moral Story, by SETON CREWE. Its sole merit would have been its being in one volume, were it not that this form, being a bait to the unwary, aggravates the offence. The heroine is Lucinda, a milliner's apprentice. Being compromised by a young gentleman under age, who suddenly quits the country, she goes to confess her sin to the simple-minded Curate, who sees no way out of the difficulty except by marrying his penitent, which he does, and after the christening of her first-born, a joyous event that occurs at no great interval after the happy wedding-day, the Curate, the Reverend Mr. Smith, is transferred by his Bishop from this parish to somewhere else a considerable distance off, whence, after a variety of troubles, he goes abroad as a travelling watering-place clergyman. After this, his wife becomes a Roman Catholic for six months, and then developes into a thoroughpaced infidel of generally loose character. She takes up with a Lion Comique of the Music-Halls, who is summarily kicked down-stairs by the Reverend Mr. Smith on his return home one evening. And at this point I closed the book, not caring one dump what became of any of the characters, or of the book, or of the writer, and unable to wait for the moral of this highly "moral story," which, I dare say, might have done me a great deal of good. So I turned to Vanity Fair, and re-read for the hundredth time, and with increased pleasure, the great scene where Rawdon Crawley, returning home suddenly, surprises Becky in her celebrated tête-à-tête with my Lord Steyne.
With pleasure the Baron welcomes Vol. No. IV. of ROUTLEDGE's Carisbrooke Library, which contains certain Early Prose Romances, the first and foremost among them being the delightful fable of Reynart the Fox. Have patience with the old English, refer to the explanatory notes, and its perusal will well repay every reader. How came it about that modern Uncle Remus had caught so thoroughly the true spirit of this Mediæval romance? I forget, at this moment, who wrote Uncle Remus—and I beg his pardon for so doing—but whoever it was, he professed only to dress up and record what he had actually heard from a veritable Uncle Remus. Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox, and Old Man Bar, are not the creatures of Æsop's Fables; they are the characters in Reynart the Fox. The tricks, the cunning, the villany of Reynart, unredeemed by aught except his affection for his wife and family, are thoroughly amusing, and his ultimate success, and increased prosperity; present a truer picture of actual life than novels in which vice is visibly punished, and virtue patiently rewarded. And once more I call to mind the latter days of Becky's career.
Speaking of THACKERAY, Messrs. CASSELL & Co. have just brought out a one-and-threepenny edition ("the threepence be demmed!") of the Yellowplush Papers, with a dainty canary-coloured Jeames on the cover. At the same time the same firm produce, in the same form, The Last Days of Pompeii, The Last Days of Palmyra, and The Last of the Mohicans. Odd, that the first issue of this new series should be nearly all "Lasts." The Yellowplush Papers might have been kept back, and The Last of the Barons been substituted, just to make the set of lasts perfect. The expression is suggestive of Messrs. CASSELL going in for the shoemaking trade. The Last Days of Palmyra I have never read. "I will try it," says the bold Baron.
But what means this new style of printing on thin double sheets? One advantage is that no cutting is required. If this form become the fashion, better thus to bring out the Utterbosh Series, which shall then escape the critics' hands,—no cutting being required. There are, as those who use the paper-knife to these volumes will discover, in this new issue of Messrs. CASSELL's, two blank pages for every two printed ones, so that a new novel might be written in MS. inside the printed one. The paper is good and clean to the touch; but I prefer the stiff cover to the limp, "there's more backbone about it," says the
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
Scarcely time to bring out a pocket edition (like those genuine pocketable and portable editions, the red-backed ROUTLEDGES) of The Bride of Lammermoor, between now and the date of its production, next Saturday, at the Lyceum. But worth while doing it as soon as possible. Advice gratis. B. DE B.-W.
P.S.—(Important to Authors and Scribblers.)—Unfortunately the Baron has been compelled to take to his bed (which he doesn't "take to" at all—but this by the way), and there write. Once more he begs to testify to the excellence both of The Hairless Author's Pad—no The Author's Hairless Pad—and of the wooden rest and frame into which it fits. Nothing better for an invalid than rest for his frame, and here are rest and frame in one. Given these (or, if not "given," purchased), and a patent indelible-ink-lead pencil (whose patent I don't know, as, with much use, the gold-lettering is almost obliterated from mine, and all I can make out is the word "Eagle"), and the convalescent author may do all his work in comfort, without mess or muddle; and hereto, once again, I set my hand and seal, so know all men by these presents, all to the contrary nevertheless and notwithstanding. B. DE B.-W.