Punch (99.1890)

September 20, 1890.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

137

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 Cbewe. Its sole merit would
bookj ll-'lnW I ve keen being in one volume, were it
' not that this form .being a bait to theunwary,
aggravates the offence. The heroine is Lu-
c%nda} a milliner's apprentice. Being com-
promised 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 trans-
ferred 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-Hails,
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 charac-
ters, 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 with1 increased
pleasure, the great scene where Rawdon Crawley, returning home
suddenly, surprises Reeky in her celebrated tete-a-tete with my
Lord Steyne.

With pleasure the Baron welcomes Vol. No. IV. of Routlebge'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 Mediseval romance ? I forget, at this moment, who
wrote_ Uncle Remus—and I beg his pardon for so doing—but who-
ever 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 JEsop'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 Thackebay, 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 Yellow-
plush 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 back-
bone about it," says the Babon be Book-Wobms.

Scarcely time to bring out a pocket edition (like those genuine
pocketable and portable editions, the red-backed Routlebges) of
The Bride of Lammermoor, between now and the date of its produc-
tion, next Saturday, at the Lyoeum. But worth while doing it as
soon as possible. Advice gratis. B. be B.-W.

U.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—saai 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 penoil (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. be B.-W.

GREEN PASTURES OR PICCADILLY?

To the Editor.

Sir,—I see that you have opened your columns to a discussion of
the relative advantages of life in London and the Suburbs. I don't
think that really the two can be compared. If you want perfect
quietude, can you get it better than in a
place where, between nine and six, not a
single male human being is visible, all of
them being in town ? Some people may
call this dull; but I like it. Then every-
thing is so cheap in the Suburbs! I only pay
£100 a year for a nice house in a street, with
a small bath-room, and a garden quite as
large as a full-sized billiard-table. People
tell me I could get the same thing in London,
but of course a suburban street must be nicer
than a London one. We are just outside
the Metropolitan main drainage system, and
our death-rate is rather heavy, but then our rates are light. My
butcher only charges me one-and-twopence a pound for best joints,
and though this is a little dearer than London, the meat is probably
more wholesome from being in such good air as we enjoy. In winter-
time the journey to town, half-an-hour by train, has a most bracing
effect on those capable of bearing severe cold. For the rest, the
incapables are a real blessing to those who sell mustard-plasters
and extra-sized pocket-handkerchiefs. Our society is so select
and refined that I verily believe Belgravia can show nothing
like it! Yours obediently,

Fab ebom the Mabbotg Ceowb.

Snt,—The Suburbs are certainly delightful, if you have a good
train service; but this you seldom get. I do not complain of our
Company taking three-quarters of an hour to perform the distance of
eight and a half miles to the City, as this seems a good average
suburban rate, but I do think the " fast" train (which performs the
distance in that time) might Btart a little later than 8 "30 a.ir. Going
in to business at 10'30 by an " ordinary" train, which stops at six-
teen stations, and takes an hour and a half, becomes after a time
rather monotonous. It involves a painful " Rush in Urbe"to get
through business in time to catch the 4'30 " express" back, a train
which (theoretically) stops nowhere. Cootttby Cussnr'.

Sie,—No more London for me! I've tried it, and know what it's
like. I have found a delightful cottage, twenty miles from town,
and mean to live in it always. Do we ever have one of your nasty
yellow fogs here ? Never! Nothing more than a thick white mist,
which rises from the fields and envelopes the house every night. It
is true that several of our family complain of rheumatism, and when
I had rheumatic fever myself a month ago, I found it a little incon-
venient being six miles from a doctor and a chemist's shop. But
then my house is so picturesque, with an Early English wooden
porch (which can be kept from falling to pieoes quite easily by ham-
mering a few nails in now and then, and re-painting once a week),
and no end of gables, which only let the water into the bedrooms in
case of a very heavy shower. Then think of the delights of a garden,
and a field (for whioh I pay £20 a year, and repair the hedges), and
chickens! I don't think I have spent more than £50 above what I
should have done in London, owing to the necessity of fitting up
chicken-runs and buying a conservatory for my wife, who is pas-
sionately fond of flowers. Unfortunately my chickens are now
moulting, and decline to lay again before next March; so I bring
back fresh eggs from town, and, as my conservatory is not yet full,
flowers from Covent Garden; and I can assure you that, until you
try it, you cannot tell the amount of pleasure and exercise which
walking a couple of miles (the distance of my cottage from the sta-
tion), laden with grooeries and other eatables, can be made to afford.

Yours chirpily, Flelb-Fabe.

Goon foe Spout!—A well-known chartered aecountant, with a
vulpine patronymic, complains of the unkind treatment he recently
received in Cologne at the hands of the German police. He should be
consoled by the thought, that his persecution marked in those
latitudes the introduction of Fox-hunting.