_Golden Bells_, rung by DEAN AND SON,--quite appropriately
ecclesiastical this,--and edited by Mrs. ELIZABETH DAY, will ring
forth peals of delight in the nursery, it being the Christmas number
of _The Little One's Own Paper_.
[Illustration]
_Arrowsmith's Christmas Annual_, by WALTER BESANT, bears the cheerful
and seasonable title of "_The Demoniac_."
Mr. HYNE's _Four Red Nightcaps_ is somewhat in the style of _Three Men
in a Boat_, only there are "Four men in a Yacht."
Most of the Magazines have their special numbers of these. _The
English Illustrated Harper's_, _The Century_, are got up with the most
charming illustrations.
_The Gentlewoman_ has her first Christmas Number, and,--so like
her!--a coloured satin picture! _The Pictorial World_ has two good
pictures for framing.
The Baron liketh much the latest contribution to the Rosslyn Series,
edited by Earl HODGSON, who is of the Peerage of Parnassus, as you
won't find this Earl in _Brett's Peerage_. The Baron congratulates
the Earl, and has also sent an order for a pound of laurels wherewith
to decorate the brow of WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK. Among the many gems
of his songs let me select "A Continuation"--there would have been
"a pair of continuations," could he have rivalled himself; then
"_Lalage_," and "_The Chansonnette_," which, with "_Rizzio to Marie
Stuart_," ought to be set to music by a gifted composer. There are
also some delightful verses to "_Old Court Trinity_," which will
delight all Trinitarians of Cambridge--"_cum multis aliis_"--to quote
the ancient Roman singer, so, as a short way with our Poet POLLOCK,
the classic Baron, remembering how the ancients swore "By Pollux!"
adapts the ejaculation, and says, "Buy POLLOCK's--book."
All Meredithians must possess _George Meredith, Some Characteristics,
by Richard Le Gallienne_. The book is a complete and excellent guide
to the novelist and the novels, a sort of Meredithian _Bradshaw_,
with pictures of the traffic superintendent, and of the head office at
Boxhill. Even Philistines may be won over by the blandishments of Mr.
Le GALLIENNE, from whom I learn, by the way, that GEORGE MEREDITH is
"the HARVEY of the Ego," and that he is not ADRIAN HARLEY. I hear,
also, that "daily, from one quarter or another, come critical cuff
and kick, to impress upon a numb public the latest example of its
immemorial purblindness." And the Baron adds this cufflet to the rest.
Mr. JOHN LANE has added a Bibliography, which is a model of minute
industry. So here's to the book of RICHARD and JOHN.
Among the Arts for obvious reasons not known to Ancient Greece is _The
Art of Cooking by Gas_. In a little book under this title, published
by CASSELL, Mrs. SUGG has undertaken to disclose its mysteries, and
set forth its attractions. No one could be better qualified for the
task, since Mrs. SUGG is the wife of WILLIAM SUGG of Charing Cross,
who has thrown more light on Modern London than CAMDEN did on its
ancient ways. Cooking by gas, Mrs. SUGG shows, is cleaner, cheaper,
more convenient, and more artistic than the older style. So widely
is the practice now established, that gas-cooking apparatus are made
to suit all conditions of life, from the kitchen of the Grand Hotel
to the "Little Connaught," which you can (if you like) carry about
in your waistcoat-pocket; yet when properly extended it will roast
fowls, and small joints, grill chops, steaks, and fish, boil eggs,
and vegetables, and keep a large family in hot water. "To gentlemen
residing in Chambers, or those reading for the Bar," Mrs. SUGG writes
of another treasure, "this little kitchener with the two grillers will
prove a great boon." If Sir HENRY JAMES had really been going to the
Bench, he could not have done better than study this book, and set
himself up with a "Little Connaught" or a "Double Griller." Since
that is not the case, it may be asked, Would they be worth the LORD
CHANCELLOR's attention? We unhesitatingly reply, "Why, Sugg'nly!"
"Are you asleep, BUCHANAN?" inquired ARCHER. This is the first
sentence of a shilling novel, by BUTIFFE SKOTTOWE, with a very
sensational picture on the cover. I "read no more that day," but
closed the book, dreading lest, of the two figures on the thrilling
frontispiece, one should be _the_ BUCHANAN, and the other _the_ only
ARCHER in the world of Ibsenish proclivities.