Volume 108 — OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Reading edition
The anonymous author of "Spot," an Autobiography (Houlston and Sons, Paternoster Square), whoever he may be, has a remarkable insight into dog-nature, so far, that is, as one who is not a dog, but a mere lover of dogs, can judge. Spot tells his own story in a straightforward, honest, doggy style, which must commend him at once to the hearts of his readers. His reflections, from the canine point of view, are admirably just. He never cared for flowers. "How vapid," he says, "is the scent of a rose, for instance, compared with that of an old seasoned bone." The force of the remark must be appreciated by anyone who has watched a dog exhuming with furtive labour a bone he had buried a week before. A firm foe to cats, he yet makes an exception in favour of his house-cat, as all civilised cat-destroying dogs do. The bull-dog's greeting to him is, in itself, a revelation of character. "Cheer up, youngster! Any good smells hereabouts?" says that redoubtable animal; whereupon they saunter together round by the back of the house, "passing few smells of any importance until we arrived at the ashpit." But I cannot here quote at greater length from his wise remarks. I can honestly advise all lovers of dogs (boys especially) to read this wholesome, pleasant, clever little book.
The Baron de Book-Worms.
Slight Improvement.—France has "come to the Faure." That's good to begin with, From a Republican to a "Bourgeois" Ministry is not much of a step, but still it is a step, Faure-wards, or rather upwards, as a conscientious, self-respecting Bourgeois can never be an anarchist. Louis Philippe was a "bourgeois king," and, after him, France "went Nap" and returned to Imperialism. But where's the Imperialist ruler now? Is the latest betting Faure to one on the Republic?
BLACK MAGIC.
We'd done the latest picture-shows, Had honoured some with our approval, Expressed a cultured scorn for those That merited a prompt removal. And then, to pass the time away, Disliking melodramas tragic, We chanced to go—oh, hapless day!— To see some "feats of modern magic." I don't deny the tricks were good, Nor could you easily see through them, And few of those who "understood Exactly how they're done," could do them. But when the wizard said he'd try To pass a watch to any distance, And find it in the audience—why Did I afford him my assistance? I thought to spoil the trick he'd planned, Nor did I even feel embittered When made before the crowd to stand, Although my fair companions tittered, But then the scoundrel in their view Remarked, "Is this your usual habit?" And from my pocket calmly drew The watch—suspended from a rabbit! The foolish people laughed and cheered, And as I fled in hasty fashion, My cousins even gaily jeered Instead of showing me compassion! I'd grant them almost any boon, But though they ask it, never that form Will grace, as on this afternoon, A vulgar necromancer's platform!
Rumour.—As ruler of the domain where stands our great theatre and our opera house, Sir Druiolanus, it is reported, is to receive the special distinction of K.C.G., which, in his case, is the Knight of Covent Garden. Bene meruit.