OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The Chronicles of Count Antonio, by Anthony Hope. "Delightful," quoth the Baron; all colour laid on artistically, yet in bold slap-dash style. Broad effects as in scene-painting. He is the Sir John Gilbert of romancers is Count Antonio Hope Hawkins The beau cavalier wins his lady against all odds. It is Walter Scott, G. P. R. James, Lever, Ainsworth, Dumas, Drury Lane drama, ancient Astley's Amphitheatre, essenced; the whole thing done in one readable volume! Genuine romance: all "movement": interest never allowed to flag: drums, alarums, excursions: obstacles everywhere only to be surmounted: dramatic finish and final tableau magnificent! Curtain: loud applause: and calls for author. Great success.
Hugely content is the Baron with a book published by Smith, Elder & Co., and writ by one "Jack Easel," some time a frequent contributor to Mr. Punch's pages. The title of the work is "Our Square and Circle." All is written "on the square," and that the matter is "non-contentious" is evident, as otherwise the author would be "arguing in a circle," which is absurd; or "in a vicious circle," which would of course utterly take away the reputation of his quiet square for eminent respectability. That it is pleasantly written, the reader will find out for himself; that it was a labour of love, and therefore Easel-y writ, goes without saying. The Baron joins issue with him on certain details as to the table, the wines, and dinners generally; though up to now he should have thought himself at one with him [or "at 7.45 with him," which is the more likely hour] on all such important points. The Baron gives the book his "Imprimatur," says "Pass Jack Easel," and is the author's and everybody's
B. de B.-W., their Own Booking Officer.
PLEASURE AND PROFIT.
[It has recently been suggested in the Author that novelists should take the management of their books entirely into their own hands.]
Happening to call lately on my friend Snooks, the eminent novelist, I was rather surprised at the change which had come over the appearance of his drawing-room. The books, which had been scattered over the table in former days, were now methodically arranged along the shelves which covered the entire walls, and in the corner, where a china cabinet had formerly stood, there now figured a sort of counter, behind which stood Snooks himself, arrayed in his shirt-sleeves.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, as I entered, "what can I have the pleasure of showing you to-day? Romances, poetry, travels——"