OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The Baron can highly recommend The Wages of Sin, by LUCAS MALET. "I am informed," says the B. DE B.-W., "that this is the nom de plume of an Authoress. This MALET should be Femalet." Be this as it may, the Baron, who is discretion itself, will not attempt to penetrate beyond the veil. Some of the writing is a bit tall; but thank heaven, my old æsthetic friend, "O-the-pity-of-it" occurs only once; and O the pity of it when he does so, and gives a "MAUDLE and POSTLETHWAITE" tone to the passage in question. What does "huffle" mean? (Vol. III., p. 82.) Genius has a right to create words; and when Genius does so, the very sound of the word conveys its meaning with and frequently without the context. "But I'm huffled," says the Baron, "if I understand it here." Still "huffled" is a good-substitute for strong language, when you're ruffled. Don't let the light-hearted reader be deterred by the slow pace of Volume One; but stick to it, and avoid skipping. A selfish mean cuss is the "hero," so to style him; and personally, the Baron would consider him in Society as a first-class artistic bore. The character is drawn with great skill, as are they all. The description of Mrs. Crookendon's after-dinner party is as life-like as if it were a well-staged scene in a well-written and well-cast Drama.
"I have been dipping into Country House Sketches, by C.C. RHYS," says the Baron, "and have come to the conclusion that if the author, youthful I fancy, would give himself time, and have the patience to 'follow my LEVER,' the result would be a Jack Hinton Junior, with a smack of Soapey Sponge in it." The short stories are all, more or less, good, and would be still better but for a certain cocksureness about them which savours of the man in a country house who will insist on telling you a series of good stories about himself, one after the other, until the guests in the smoking-room, in sheer despair of ever getting their turn of talking about themselves, or of turning on the tap of their own good stories, light their candles, yawn, and go pensively to bed.
My "Faithful Co." informs me that he has been reading some very excellent Sketches of England, by a "Foreign Artist," and a "Foreign Author." The latter is no less a person than the genial representative of the Journal des Débats in London, Mons. P. VILLARS. My "Co." says that, take it all round, this is one of the best books upon La Perfide Albion he has ever read. Both scribe and illustrator are evidently fond of the "Foreigners" they find in the British Isles. Mons. VILLARS, however, makes one startling assertion, which has taken my "Co," by surprise. The "Foreign Author" declares that "laughter never struck his ears." Now our Monsieur is an admirable raconteur, and if he ever told one of his capital stories to an Englishman of average intelligence, he must have heard laughter. He has also read a rather strange work called, What will Mrs. Grundy say? My "Co." declares that, considering its subject, the book, which is not without merit, might be recommended as a disciplinary exercise during Lent.
Says "Co. Junior," to the Baron, "Sir, I've just come across AUSTIN DOBSON and his Four Frenchwomen." "Hold!" cries the Baron, frowning. "No scandal." "Nay, Sir," quoth "Co. Junior," nervously. "'tis but the title of a book." "That is another thing," says the Baron, waving his hand, "proceed!" "It is about Mlle. DE CORDAY, Madame ROLAND, the Princesse DE LAMBALLE, and Madame DE GENLIS. I recommend it, Sir. Tolle, Lege! "And with a bow "Co. Junior," withdraws from the presence.
Quoth the Baron, "I was looking again into Saint Monica, just to see if I might like it any better than I did on the first occasion—which, "with me hand upon me hearrt," as Doctor O'Q. says, I cannot say I do,—when I came upon the following misprint,—"This woman, nevertheless, worshipped him as the god of her idoltary." It's a beautiful word, "idoltary," and so much better than the ordinary way of spelling it. So, after all, there is more in Saint Monica than I had expected. In fact, its chief fault is that it is too much spun out; and, just at this time, Saint Monica mustn't be associated in any sort of way with the House at Cambridge where they spin.
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.