OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Reading edition
Good supply of all sorts of game at Christmas, and especially from the preserves of Messrs. De la Rue. Try "Animal Snap" and see how you like it. Thanks to Dean and Son—i.e., Senior Dean and Junior Dean—for their Golden Hours, The Prize, Peeps into Paradise, and The Venetian Blind Moveable Picture Book, the last being the best of all. And Dean's Cracker Toy-books will certainly go off well. As we Sweep through the Deep. "Quite the light publishers for tales of the sea are 'Nelson and Sons,'" quoth the Baron, "and no doubt they hope that every man will do his duty at Christmas time and go in for Nelsonian boys and girls books." "As we Sweep" is by that true Horse Marine (if there is anything in a name), yclept Dr. Gordon Stables, R.N.
The Baroness recommends The Rosebud Annual. A lovely posy of pictures and tales to be found on the shelf of James Clarke & Co., Publishers, and, the Baroness supposes, Nursery Gardeners. "Natural this," quoth a Baronite, "here is a Miss Parson's Adventures told by a Clark Russell!" If you want it send to Chapman and Hall. And all the Baronites say many thanks to Macmillan & Co. for a delightful new edition of Miss Mary Mitford Russell's Our Village.
Our compliments to Mrs. Lovett Cameron on A Tragic Blunder. A blow given by mistake to the wrong person nearly ruins the entire happiness of several people, but it all comes right at the end of two vols. from Mrs. Cameron's pen. It is a nice light entertainment with which to while away an hour or two.
"I like Richard Escott," says the Baron, laying down the Macmillanitish one-volume novel of that name written by E. H. Cooper. "It is an interesting story, and might be the first of a series similar to the Rougon Macquart family, as, when this tale finishes, there are sufficient Escotts alive to carry on the story of their family through many generations, only, unfortunately, the date of this story cannot be taken further back than, say, about ten years ago, if that. To give the family breathing-time, we should require some stories about the Escotts under Queen Anne and the Georges, and then we could return to the fortunes of the sons and daughters the Richard Escott.
"With fear and trembling, yet with a sensation of enjoying some secret wicked pleasure," quoth the Baron, confidentially, "I retired with Mr. Ashby Sterry's Naughty Girl into my sanctum, which, as its name implies, is just the very place to which I ought to retire with a young lady bearing such a character." A Naughty Girl is published in the "Modern Library Series" brought out by Messrs. Bliss, Sands, and Foster; and how happy would Sands be—run out, of course—and where would Foster be unless foster'd by the other two—without Bliss, who makes quite a little 'eaven below of this Publishing Firm. Blissful must have been Mr. Ashby Sterry's state when he wrote so excellent a Dickensian description, as he has done in the earlier part of this book, of Boxing Night at Drury Lane, and when he gave a finishing touch to this story in showing how Beryl and Jack were brought together in spite of a temporary misunderstanding and estrangement. "Bravo Pantalaureate of many a frilling poem! A Happy Christmas to you and your readers!" quoth the warm-hearted and appreciative
Baron de Book-Worms.
An "Up to Date" Young Man.
"'TWAS IN TRAFALGAR"'S THEATRE.
As in the case of the old farcical play The Three Hunchbacks, on which an opéra bouffe was founded, and of all plays ancient and modern depending for their success on the exact physical resemblance existing between three distinct persons, directly the audience has grasped the fact, they enter heartily into the humour of the complications. Now, in Tom, Dick and Harry, the audience, having once mastered and allowed the given thesis, viz., that Mr. Charles Hawtrey, Mr. Ernest Percy, and Mr. Arthur Playfair are so exactly alike that even their own wives and sweethearts are unable to distinguish one Antipholus from another Antipholus, and both or either from a third Antipholus, then the fun of the confusion gains upon them, and Mrs. R. Pacheco's three-act farce at the Trafalgar Square Theatre gives the spectators fits, which assume the proportion of convulsions of laughter absolutely dangerous to the safety of various individuals. For this deponent can testify to the effect of the fun of the farce on a small boy in a box, who literally jumped with joy—quite a little Jack-in-the-Box—and in his excitement would have precipitated himself into the stalls, but for the united energies of the family party, which retained him amongst them by sheer force. He had been less wildly enthusiastic about Pickwick, owing, perhaps, to the restraining appearance of Tommy Bardell, whose presence on the stage the Boy in the Box might, perhaps, have been inclined to view with disfavour, though giving a rapturous welcome to Miss Jessie Bond's charming impersonation of Mrs. Bardell, to Mr. Little's life-like Pickwick, and to Mr. Charles Hawtrey's sentimental but sulky Baker. However he made up for any show of envy towards Tommy by cordially applauding Mr. Edward Solomon's catching melodies, which are not less humourously than skilfully orchestrated; and his (I am still speaking of the Boy in the Box) genuine applause throughout the evening quite led that of the house, and was a real treat to witness, culminating as it did in a volcanic eruption of irrepressible joy at the conclusion of the second act of Tom, Dick and Harry. Miss Vane Featherston, the Misses Esmond and Williams, the ever-clever Miss Sophie Larkin, in a difficult part, Mr. W. F. Hawtrey as Dr. Wagner, the Specialist—specially good—and Mr. John Beauchamp, who quite revives the otherwise worn-out peppery stage-Indian General of old Haymarket and Adelphi farces,—all do their very best, and, with Mr. C. Hawtrey,—make the piece what it is, a thorough-going success. At least such is the opinion of
The Other Boy.
THE WESTMINSTER PLAY.
Scene—The Dormitory of St. Peter's College.
For three or four centuries Westminster's taught us To struggle with Terence and wrestle with Plautus; This time the Trinummus once more reappears, With a "run" on the boards of two thousand odd years. Alma Mater of Comedy truly's the "Dorter," Where long may each rôle find a youthful supporter! If ever from "college" they're driven away, The Queen's Scholars' fate were "All work and no Play!"
Seasonable Duett for the Zierenbergs (adapted for their use by Henry Labouchere, Esq., M.P.). "Home, Home, Home, Sweet Home!"
Toast for the Inhospitable.—"Friends—at a distance!"
"SPEED THE PARTING GUEST."
"So you and George have been staying with my dear old Friends Sir Isaac and Lady Lincrusta Walton! Didn't you find them very nice to you?"
"Yes; especially when we were leaving!"
A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.
Father Neptune loquitur:—
John Bull, my friend, if an ear you'll lend to your true old messmate Neptune, It may do you good. We are mates in mood, and our hearts have always kept tune. The Isle that's right, and extremely tight— which I trust that mayn't mean "groggy"— Is our care, old chum! Well, the outlook's rum, and the prospect rather foggy! Oh! keep on your hair! There's no cause for Scare, though some party men, and papers, Do their best to raise a new Naval Craze. These be old, old party capers; For your angry Outs always swell with doubts, whilst the Cocksure Ins, complacent, Swear that cause for care may be found— Nowhere, or the parts thereto adjacent. You are not so green that mere party spleen, and the bogus bosh of boobies, Can play the fool with your judgment cool; 'tis a richer dower than rubies. Still a Fleet, old boy, is no party toy, no theme for factious scoffing, And—well, John, I spot a tremendous lot of "furrin'" ships in the offing! Keep a weather eye upon sea and sky, and I think John, altogether, You will deem it right to get all things tight, and prepare for dirty weather. "Britons never, never," sounds bold and clever; Britannia won't act as "slavey," But if "Missus" would keep her "home on the deep," you must keep up a spanking Navy! Statistics fog, and there's no such bog as the brain of an average Briton When his Naval Nobs, and Finance Dry Bobs have got their fighting fit on. They talk great bosh, half their "facts" won't wash, and as to their figures endless,— If from stern to stem you could see through them you would have more, John, and spend less! A word in your lug! There is no Hum-bug like that of a Naval Oracle, When he's "out in the wet"; on that you may bet—ah! an ironclad to a coracle! He may mean well, but The Truth to tell in a fashion straight and steady, Without "cavort" or a "list to port," is as hard—as song to a Neddy! Johnny, old boy, you must just employ your own wits on this business; Party debate will addle your pate, ex-parte "facts" bring dizziness. Look for yourself, and you'll save much pelf, and good value get for your money, Squelch party fudge, be your own best judge, and you'll floor the croakers, Johnny!
Still, Johnny mine, on my breadths of brine, you must keep first place, or perish. 'Tis with that thought you have paid and fought, and that thought you still must cherish. Better plank down your last half-crown, than lose the Crown I gave you, Let gold and blood flow in full flood, than let the foe enslave you!
A rhyme, a rhyme for the Christmas time! It may not, John, sound jolly, But to pipe and dance whilst your foes advance, were the maddest sort of folly. With pockets full Peace's pipe to pull, or to sip your grog and slumber, Is nice; but you'll wake to a huge mistake if your foes your Fleet outnumber! Get your Fleet, old man, cheap if you can, but at all costs get your Fleet, John! Ships, guns and crew more than any two of the foes you are like to meet John! Take your old friend's tip, let no chance slip, and be foiled by no pretence, John; Keep eye on the foe, build all you know, and big big D the expense, John!
OUR BARTERERS.
Bicycle.—Thoroughly heavy, lumbering, out-of-date machine, recently doctored up to look like new, for sale. Cost, second-hand, six years ago. £4. Will take £12 for it. Bargain. Would suit a dyspeptic giant, or a professional Strong Man in want of violent exercise.
Safety Cycle.—Pneumatic tyres. A real beauty. Makers well known in Bankruptcy Court. Owner giving up riding in consequence of the frame being thoroughly unsafe, and the tyres constantly bursting. Would exchange for one of Broadwood's grand pianos or a freehold house in the country.
Turkey Carpet.—Never used, as seller is not an absolute fool. Wretched condition guaranteed. As it has been kept for a year or two in a mouldy attic at a second-hand furniture shop, it is simply teeming with moths, but it is confidently anticipated that it will not fall to pieces in time for a purchaser to detect the fraud. Price, only double that of a first-rate new carpet of same kind.
Rare Opportunity.—A ten-pound note will buy my genuine Spiderette Arabesque Dunmow Beestof a Patent Safety Tricycle. Weighs only sixteen ounces. Seventy-four championships won on it, including that of Sierra Leone. Runs away up-hill. Impossible to stop it down-hill. Folds into a small biscuit tin. Every part equally fragile. A collar-bone and six ribs broken off it in one week's practise. Made at Coventry, and ought to be sent there. First applicant has it.
