_The Chronicle_ publishes a most interesting letter received from Mr. G.
B. BURGIN, who lately, if our memory serves us right, completed his
fiftieth novel. He writes:--
"A hitch has arisen about the publication of my novel,
_The Rubber Princess_. It deals with an air raid on
London, etc., and it has been pointed out to me that if
it appears before the War is over it will probably be
suppressed, and that I shall be mulcted in pains and
penalties. I have therefore withdrawn it and substituted
(for the Spring), with Hutchinsons, _The Hut by the
River_, of which I have great hopes. It is a Canadian
romance, with a pretty love story and a nice little
mystery at the end."
It will, we are sure, be a consolation to Mr. BURGIN, to whose agility
and versatility we desire to render our homage, to learn that he is not
singular in his experience.
Only a few days ago we received a letter from Mr. Bimbo Posh, the famous
Suffolk realist, recounting the circumstances which have led to the
postponement of his eagerly-expected romance, _The Synthetic Sovereign_.
It appears that Mr. Posh, a man of a most scientific imagination,
assigned the _rôle_ of hero in his story to a marvellous automaton.
Unfortunately for him he was not content with generalities, but
described the process by which this artificial superman was produced in
such minute detail that his publishers realised that it might be
positively prejudicial to our safety to make it known. The sequel had
best be told in Mr. Posh's own pathetic words:--
"At first I was fearfully upset, though convinced by the
arguments of my publishers (Messrs. Longbow and
Green-i'-th'-Eye). But a happy inspiration seized me as
I was ascending the escalator at Charing Cross, and in
exactly a fortnight I had finished another novel,
entirely divorced from the present, entitled, _In Dear
Old Daffy-land_. It is an idyllic story of Suffolk in
the days of the Heptarchy, founded on an ancestral
tradition of the Posh family. It runs to about 60,000
words, and Mr. Longbow, who read it at a sitting, thinks
it the finest thing I have done."
Curiously enough, just as we go to press comes a letter from Miss Miriam
Eldritch, apologising for the withdrawal of her volume of poems, _Attar
of Roses_, in view of the fact that one of the leading establishments
for the distilling of this perfume is in Bulgaria. Miss Eldritch,
however, has proved fully equal to the occasion, for by a great effort
she has composed, in little over one hundred hours, a cycle of one
hundred lyrics, to which she has given the title, at once alluring and
innocuous, of _Love in Lavender_.
* * * * *
"Perturbabantur Constantinopolitani Innumerabilibus sollicitudinibus."
["Constantinople is much perturbed."
_Daily Press._]
In flouting Zeus and Themis, his
Heart set on cheating Nemesis,
The Constantinopolitan
Now rues his impious blunders,
And fears approaching thunders
Trinitrotoluolitan.
* * * * *
"Gentleman's dark grey fur lined motor coat, fit fairly
big man, lined with about 150 selected natural musquash
skins, real Persian lamb collar, the property of a peer,
in the pink of condition."--_The Bazaar._
We trust his lordship will remain so in spite of the inclemency of the
weather.
* * * * *
[Illustration: JOB'S DISCOMFORTER.
UNCLE SAM (_to JOB_). "SAY, PATRIARCH, THEY TELL ME YOU
HOLD THE WORLD'S RECORD FOR PATIENCE. WAL, WE CLAIM TO
HAVE GOT A MAN HERE THAT CAN KNOCK SPOTS OFF YOU!"]
* * * * *