The Baron, on behalf of small Baronites, thanks Messrs. Cassell & Co. for Fairy Tales in Other Lands, by Julia Goddard, as they are dear old friends with new faces.
One of the Assistants in the Baronial Office says, that The Coming of Father Christmas is most exquisitely heralded by E. F. Manning, in the daintiest of books. 'Tis published by Frederick Warne & Co. So if you warne't to make a nice present, you know where to go and get it.
If Dean and Son are "limited," their stock is unlimited; and, all things considered as far as possible, the Baron's Chief Retainer opines that the picture-books from the Deanery of Dean and Son are still the best, and, in kind, the most varied for children. "Which nobody can Dean-y!" The Little One's Own Wonderland is a delightful realm, wherein the very little ones can wander with interest through coloured pictures and easy fairy tales. Among the coloured picture series, the Old Mother Hubbard of 1793, with its contrast, Old Mother Hubbard of To-day, is very amusing.
J. S. Fry and Sons send out through Sell's Advertising Agency samples of their daintiest specialities in bonbonniÈres. Being issued by a Sell, one fears a take in; but as 'tis all good, the agency of Sell secures a Sale. The chocolates are sure to go down with everyone.
We all know what the sincerest form of flattery is, and certainly our dear old pet, Alice in Wonderland, whose infinite variety time cannot stale, will gracefully acknowledge the intenseness of the compliments conveyed in Olga's Dream, as written by Norley Chester, illustrated by Messrs. Furniss and Montagu (the illustrations will carry the book), and published by Messrs. Skeffington. It would be a preternaturally wise child who could quite grasp some of the jokes and up-to-date allusions. However, the real original Alice (in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-glass) with the great Master's, John Tenniel's, illustrations, is still, as Mr. Sam Weller said of the Governor, "paramount."
Light and airy are the Soap Bubble Stories blown by Fanny Barry through her pen-pipe. Wonder is that, in this advertising age, she didn't dedicate them to Pears.
The Baron's Assistant has a word to say about the Diaries for this next year. If you want a useful Diary, the B. A. would recommend the "Registered Back-loop Pocket Diary," got up, like a sportsman, in the best of leathers by John Walker & Co., or, "as Friend Johnnie observes," Henry Irving would say—"to put it briefly, 'Walker—London.'"
The Baron has recently received two books, not strictly speaking "Christmas Books," though they are, et cela va sans dire, books published at Christmas-tide, the one practical and parliamentary, the other philosophical and phenomenal; the former dedicated to the Right Honourable Arthur Balfour by Lucy, and the latter dedicated to Lord Halifax by Lilly. Two prettier names for authors, or rather, to judge of the writers' sex by the sound of the names, for authoresses, could not well be chosen. But authors masculine they are, the pair of them. Mr. W. S. Lilly is to be congratulated on his very taking title, The Great Enigma, and all classes of readers will be glad to be informed that it has nothing whatever to do with the Irish Question. If any reader expects to find the Great Enigma solved by the Lilly who toils and spins, then he must not be surprised if the author says to him in effect, "Davus sum, non Œdipus."
From A Diary of the Salisbury Parliament, by Mr. H. Lucy, anyone can quaff or sip, just as his thirst for Parliamentary knowledge may be feverish or moderate, but healthy. It is thoroughly interesting, most amusing, and really valuable for reference withal. 'Tis written, too, in so impartial a spirit, that it would be difficult to gather from these pages to which political Party the Diarist belongs, but for his exuberant eulogy of the wonderful Grand Old Man. Mr. Lucy is the Parliamentary Pepys. The sketches are by an Old Parliamentary Hand, yclept Harry Furniss, and assist the reader unfamiliar with the House of Commons to form a pretty accurate idea of the men who are, and of the men who were, and what they wear, and how they wear.
The most interesting part of James Payn's latest novel, A Stumble on the Threshold, to Cambridge men or Camford men (for in this story the names are synonymous), will be the small-beer chronicle of small College life in their University some thirty years ago. The slang phrases of that remote period are perhaps somewhat confused with those of a more modern time, just as an old Dutch Master will introduce his own native town and the costume of his fellow-countrymen into a picture representing some great Scriptural subject, thus bringing it, so to speak, up to date, and giving us an artistic realisation of what may be concisely termed "the historic present." In the second volume (this novel is complete in two volumes) the sketches of river-life, including a delightful one of the old lock-keeper, are refreshingly breezy. The story, slight in itself, is skilfully worked out; and the only disappointing part of it—that is, at least to the Baron's thinking—is, that the villain of the earlier part of the tale does not turn up again as the real culprit, though the Baron is certain that every reader must expect him to do so, and must feel quite sure that, in spite of the author's reticence on the subject, it was he who really committed the murder, and escaped even the author's detection, unless, out of sheer soft-heartedness towards the puppets of his own creation, James Payn knowingly let him off at the last moment. The judicial portion of the novel, including the scene in the Coroner's court, is just what would have been expected from an impartial "J.P."
A Degree Better.—The Degree of Doctor of Music is to be revived at Cambridge. The duties will be to attend ailing Musicians and Composers. When appointed, the Doctor will go out to Monte Carlo, or thereabouts, to see how Sir Arthur Sullivan is getting on. Sir Arthur will, of course, regulate his conduct at the tables by the prescriptions of his Medical Adviser.
Mr. Waggstaff and His Doctor.—He was ordered by his Doctor to walk two miles a day. "Can't do it in London," was the patient's reply; "never walk more than one mile. But," he said, brightening up, "I'll go to Paris, as one mile there is equal to double the distance in England. How's that? I'll tell you. I do half a mile out, half a mile back: one mile; et voilÀ two!"
"Little Tich" and "Collins."—The former, not the Little Tich of Drury Lane Pantomime, but Sir Henry Tichborne, Bart., has, for absence of mind and body, thus not fulfilling his duties as High Sheriff, been fined by Mr. Justice Collins five hundred pounds—quids pro quo—unless he can show some just cause or impediment. "He wants Tich-ing up a bit," thought Mr. Justice, but he didn't say so.
Reports of Crackers.—If among our old friend Sparagnapane & Co.'s Crackers there are any that will "go off" better than others it will be those called The True Lovers' Code Cosaques. This is the latest addition to the School-Board Education Code for the Christmas Holidays.
"SET A THIEF TO CATCH A THIEF!"
Mrs. Brown (a victim of secret social ambitions). "Oh, as for poor Mrs. Robinson, her only object in life is to drop all her Old Friends and know Titled People! Isn't it Loathsome and Sickening?"
Mrs. Jones (who is consumed inwardly by just the same desire). "Yes, indeed, if it's true! But what makes you think she wants anything so utterly Despicable and Mean?"
Mrs. Brown (naÏvely). "Because she was so precious hard on Mrs. Smith for trying to know Lord and Lady Snooks!"
