Punch (99.1890)

November 22, 1890.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

245

the Master. His gallant bearing and handsome face served bnt to
conceal the black heart that beat within his breast. He gazed at me
with a curious look in his eyes.

" Squaretoes, Squaretoes," said he—it was thus he had named
me, and by that I knew that we were in Scotland, and that my name
was become Mackellar—"I have a mind to end your prying and
your lectures here where we stand."

" End it," Baid I, with a boldness which seemed strange to me even
as I spoke; "end it, and where will you be? A penniless beggar
and an outeaBt."

"The old fool speaks truly," he continued, kicking me twice
violently in the back, but otherwise ignoring my presence; " and if
I end him, who shall tell the story ? Nay, Squaretoes, let us make
a compact. I will play the villain, and brawl, and cheat, and murder;
you shall take notes of my actions, and, after I have died dramatically
in a North American forest, you shall set up a stone to my memory,
and publish the story. "What say you ? Your hand upon it."

Such was the fascination of the man that even then I could not
withstand him. Moreover, the measure of his misdeeds was not yet
full. My caution prevailed, and I gave him my hand.

"Done!" said he; "and a very good bargain for you, Squake-
toes!"

Let the public, then, judge between me and the Master, since of his
house not one remains, and I alone may write the tale.

(To be continued.'—Author.) The End.—Ed. Punch.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Children of the Castle, by Mrs. Molesworth (published by
Macmillan), will certainly be a favourite with the children in the
house. A quaintly pretty story of child life and fairies, such as she
can write bo well, it is valuably assisted
with Illustrations by Walter Crane.

Geoiige Routledge evidently means to
catch the youthful book-worm's eye by
the brilliancy of his bindings, but the
attraction will not stay
there long, for the con-
tents are equal to the
covers.

These are days of re-
miniscences, so 11 Bob,"
the Spotted Terrier,
writes his own tale, or,
wags it. Illustrations
by Harrison Weir.
'\i And here for the tiny
ones, bless 'em, is The
Souse that Jack Built,
— a paper book in ac-
"^CUS" ^'J;, ! tually the very shape of

the house he built!
And then there's the melancholy but moral tale of Froggy would
a-Wooing Go. " Recommended," says the Baron.

Published by Dean and Son, who should call their publishing
establishment "The Deanery," is The Boyle Fairy Book, a splendid
collection of regular fairy lore ; and the Illustrations are by Richard
Doyle, which needs nothing more.

The Mistletoe Bough, edited by M. E. Braddon, is not only very
strong to send forth so many sprigs, but it is a curious branch, as
from each sprig hangs a tale. The first, by the Editor and Authoress,
His Oldest Friends, is excellent.

Flowers of The Hunt, by Finch Mason, published by Messrs.
Fores. Rather too spring-like a title for a sporting book, as it
suggests hunting for flowers. Sketchy and amusing.

Hachette and Cie. getting ahead of Christmas, and neck and
neck with the New Year, issue a Nouveau Calendrier Perpeteul,
" Zes Amis Fideles," representing three poodles, the first of whioh
carries in his mouth the day of the week, the second the day of the
month, and the third the name of the month. This design is quaint,
and if not absolutely original, is new in the combination and appli-
cation. Unfortunately it only suggests one period of the year, the
dog-days, but in 1892 this can be improved upon, and amplified.

No nursery would be complete without a Chatterbox, and, as a
reward to keep him quiet, The Prize would come in useful. Welis,
Darton, & Gardner, can supply both of them.

F. Warne has another Birthday-book, Fortune's Mirror, Set in
Gems, by M. Haxfobd, with Illustrations by Kate Cratjeord. A
novel idea of setting the mirror in the binding; but, to find your
fortune, you must look inside, and then you will see what gem
ought to be worn in the month of your birth.

Wtxlert Beale's Light of Other Days is most interesting to
those who, like the Baron, remember the latter days of Grisi and
Mario, who can call to mind Mario in Les Huguenots, in Trovatore,
in Rigoletto ; and Grisi in Norma, Valentina, Fides, Lucrezia, and

some others. It seems to me that the centre of attraction in these
two volumes is the history of Mario and Grisi on and off the stage;
and the gem of all is the simple narrative of Mrs. Godfrey Pearse,
their daughter, which M. Willert Beale has had the good taste to
give verbatim, with few notes or comments. To think that only twenty
years ago we lost Grisi, and that only nine years ago Mario died in
Rome 1 Peace to them both I In Art they were a glorious couple,
and in their death our thoughts oannot divide them. Grisi and
Mario, Queen and King of song, inseparable. I have never looked
upon their like again, and probably never shall. My tribute to their
memory is, to advise all those to whom their memory is dear, and
those to whom their memory is but a tradition, to read these Remi-
niscences, of them and of others, by Willert Beam, in order to
learn all they can about this romantic couple, who, caring little
for money, and everything for their art, were united in life, in love,
in work, and, let us, peccatores, humbly hope, in death. Willert
Beale has, in his Reminiscences, given us a greater romance of real
life than will be found in twenty volumes of novels, by the most
eminent authors. Yet all so naturally and bo simply told. At least
so, with moist eyes, says your tender-hearted critic,

The Sympathetic Baron De Book-Worms,

WIGS AND EADICALS.

[" As a protest against the acceptance by the Corporation of Sunderland
of robes, wigs, and cocked hats, for the Mayor and Town Clerk, Mr.
Stgrey, M.P., has sent in his resignation of the office of Alderman of that
body."—Daily Paper.]

Brutus. Tell us what has chanced to-day, that Storey looks so sad,

Casca. Why, there was a wig and a cocked hat offered him, and
he put it away with the back of his hand, thus; and then the
Sunderland Radicals fell a-shouting.

Brutus. What was the second noise for ?

Casca. Why, for that too.

Brutus. They shouted thrice—what was the last cry for ?
Casca. Why, for that too—not to mention a municipal robe.
Brutus. Was the wig, &c, offered him thrice ?
Casca. Ay, marry, was it, and he put the things by thrice, every
time more savagely than before.
Brutus. Who offered him the wig ?

Casca. Why, the Sunderland Municipality, of course—stoopid 1

Brutus. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.

Casca. I can as well be hanged, as tell you. It was mere foolery,
I did not mark it. I saw the people offer a cocked hat to him—yet
'twas not to him neither, because he's only an Alderman, 'twas to
the Mayor and Town Clerk—and, as I told you, he put the things
by thrice ; yet, to my thinking, had he been Mayor, he would, fain
have had them. And the rabblement, of course, cheered Buoh an
exhibition of stern Radical simplicity, and Storey called the wig
a bauble, though, to my thinking, there's not much bauble about
it, and the cocked-hat he called a medieval intrusion, though, to
my thinking, there were precious few oocked-hats in the Middle
Ages. Then he said he would no more serve as Alderman; and
the Mayor and the Town Clerk cried—"Alas, good soul!"—and
accepted his resignation with all their hearts.

Brutus. Then will not the Sunderland Town Hall miss him ?

Casca. Not it, as I am a true man I There '11 be a Storey the less
on it, that's all. Farewell!

"Not there, Not there, My Child!"

By some misadventure I was unable to attend the pianoforte
recital of Paddy Rewski, the player from Irish Poland at the St.
James's Hall last Wednesday. Everybody much pleased, I'm told.
Glad to hear it. I was " Not there, not there, my child! " But
audience gratified—

" And Stalldom shrieked when Paddy Rewsxi played,"

as the Poet says, or something like it. I hear he made a hit. The
papers say he did, and if he didn't it's another thumper, that's all.

"So No Mayer at Present from Yours Truly the Entre-
preneur of the French Plays, St. James's Theatre."—It is
hard on the indefatigable M. Mayer, but when Englishmen, can so
easily cross the Channel, and so_ willingly brave the mal-de-mer for
the sake of a week in Paris, it is not likely that they will patronise
French theatricals in London, even for their own linguistic and
artistic improvement, or solely for the benefit of the deserving and
enterprising M. Mayer. Even if it be mal-de-mer against bien de
Mayer, an English admirer of French acting would risk the former
to get a week in Paris. We are sorry 'tis so, but so 'tis.

"The Magazlne Rifle."—Is this invention patented by the
Editor of The Review of Reviews ? Good title for the Staff of that
Magazine, " The Magazine Rifle Corps."