considerable distance off, whence, after a variety of troubles, he goes abroad as a travelling watering-place clergyman. After this, his wife becomes a Roman Catholic for six months, and then developes into a thoroughpaced infidel of generally loose character. She takes up with a Lion Comique of the Music-Halls, who is summarily kicked down-stairs by the Reverend Mr. Smith on his return home one evening. And at this point I closed the book, not caring one dump what became of any of the characters, or of the book, or of the writer, and unable to wait for the moral of this highly "moral story," which, I dare say, might have done me a great deal of good. So I turned to Vanity Fair, and re-read for the hundredth time, and with increased pleasure, the great scene where Rawdon Crawley, returning home suddenly, surprises Becky in her celebrated tête-à-tête with my Lord Steyne.

With pleasure the Baron welcomes Vol. No. IV. of ROUTLEDGE's Carisbrooke Library, which contains certain Early Prose Romances, the first and foremost among them being the delightful fable of Reynart the Fox. Have patience with the old English, refer to the explanatory notes, and its perusal will well repay every reader. How came it about that modern Uncle Remus had caught so thoroughly the true spirit of this Mediæval romance? I forget, at this moment, who wrote Uncle Remus—and I beg his pardon for so doing—but whoever it was, he professed only to dress up and record what he had actually heard from a veritable Uncle Remus. Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox, and Old Man Bar, are not the creatures of Æsop's Fables; they are the characters in Reynart the Fox. The tricks, the cunning, the villany of Reynart, unredeemed by aught except his affection for his wife and family, are thoroughly amusing, and his ultimate success, and increased prosperity; present a truer picture of actual life than novels in which vice is visibly punished, and virtue patiently rewarded. And once more I call to mind the latter days of Becky's career.

Speaking of THACKERAY, Messrs. CASSELL & Co. have just brought out a one-and-threepenny edition ("the threepence be demmed!") of the Yellowplush Papers, with a dainty canary-coloured Jeames on the cover. At the same time the same firm produce, in the same form, The Last Days of Pompeii, The Last Days of Palmyra, and The Last of the Mohicans. Odd, that the first issue of this new series should be nearly all "Lasts." The Yellowplush Papers might have been kept back, and The Last of the Barons been substituted, just to make the set of lasts perfect. The expression is suggestive of Messrs. CASSELL going in for the shoemaking trade. The Last Days of Palmyra I have never read. "I will try it," says the bold Baron.

But what means this new style of printing on thin double sheets? One advantage is that no cutting is required. If this form become the fashion, better thus to bring out the Utterbosh Series, which shall then escape the critics' hands,—no cutting being required. There are, as those who use the paper-knife to these volumes will discover, in this new issue of Messrs. CASSELL's, two blank pages for every two printed ones, so that a new novel might be written in MS. inside the printed one. The paper is good and clean to the touch; but I prefer the stiff cover to the limp, "there's more backbone about it," says the

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

Scarcely time to bring out a pocket edition (like those genuine pocketable and portable editions, the red-backed ROUTLEDGES) of The Bride of Lammermoor, between now and the date of its production, next Saturday, at the Lyceum. But worth while doing it as soon as possible. Advice gratis. B. DE B.-W.

P.S.—(Important to Authors and Scribblers.)—Unfortunately the Baron has been compelled to take to his bed (which he doesn't "take to" at all—but this by the way), and there write. Once more he begs to testify to the excellence both of The Hairless Author's Pad—no The Author's Hairless Pad—and of the wooden rest and frame into which it fits. Nothing better for an invalid than rest for his frame, and here are rest and frame in one. Given these (or, if not "given," purchased), and a patent indelible-ink-lead pencil (whose patent I don't know, as, with much use, the gold-lettering is almost obliterated from mine, and all I can make out is the word "Eagle"), and the convalescent author may do all his work in comfort, without mess or muddle; and hereto, once again, I set my hand and seal, so know all men by these presents, all to the contrary nevertheless and notwithstanding. B. DE B.-W.

GREEN PASTURES OR PICCADILLY?

To the Editor.

Sir,—I see that you have opened your columns to a discussion of the relative advantages of life in London and the Suburbs. I don't think that really the two can be compared. If you want perfect quietude can you get it better than in a place where, between nine and six, not a single male human being is visible, all of them being in town? Some people may call this dull; but I like it. Then everything is so cheap in the Suburbs! I only pay £100 a year for a nice house in a street, with a small bath-room, and a garden quite as large as a full-sized billiard-table. People tell me I could get the same thing in London, but of course a suburban street must be nicer than a London one. We are just outside the Metropolitan main drainage system, and our death-rate is rather heavy, but then our rates are light. My butcher only charges me one-and-twopence a pound for best joints, and though this is a little dearer than London, the meat is probably more wholesome from being in such good air as we enjoy. In wintertime the journey to town, half-an-hour by train, has a most bracing effect on those capable of bearing severe cold. For the rest, the incapables are a real blessing to those who sell mustard-plasters and extra-sized pocket-handkerchiefs. Our society is so select and refined that I verily believe Belgravia can show nothing like it! Yours obediently,

FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD.

Sir,—The Suburbs are certainly delightful, if you have a good train service; but this you seldom get. I do not complain of our Company taking three-quarters of an hour to perform the distance of eight and a half miles to the City, as this seems a good, average suburban rate, but I do think the "fast" train (which performs the distance in that time) might start a little later than 8.30 A.M. Going in to business at 10.30 by an "ordinary" train, which stops at sixteen stations, and takes an hour and a half, becomes after a time rather monotonous. It involves a painful "Rush in Urbe" to get through business in time to catch the 4.30 "express" back, a train which (theoretically) stops nowhere.

COUNTRY CUSSIN'.

Sir,—No more London for me! I've tried it, and know what it's like. I have found a delightful cottage, twenty miles from town, and mean to live in it always. Do we ever have one of your nasty yellow fogs here? Never! Nothing more than a thick white mist, which rises from the fields and envelopes the house every night. It is true that several of our family complain of rheumatism, and when I had rheumatic fever myself a month ago, I found it a little inconvenient being six miles from a doctor and a chemist's shop. But then my house is so