OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
A Daughter's Sacrifice. By Messrs. F. C. Philips, and Percy Fendall. For the sake of appearances, one of these authors might have sacrificed the first letter of his name, so that they could have been brought out, at a premium of course, as Philips and Phendall, or Filips and Fendall. However, this is nothing against the novel, which is a goodish sort of bad one, or a baddish sort of good one. Virginibus puerisque? No, the Baron thinks not; likewise the Baroness, who enjoyed it immensely and read it at a single sitting, entertains the same opinion. There is more genuine humour in some of the sketches of scenes and character, not absolutely essential to the plot, in this book, than in any of Mr. Philips's previous works,—as far, that is, as I can remember. The fault of the story is the sanctification, as it were, of suicide. What is the rule with Mr. Philips's heroines, as far as I am acquainted with them? "When in doubt, take poison." With this reservation, the novel is thoroughly interesting, well written, too spun out, but there is plenty of exercise in it for our friend "The Skipper," who will, however, lose much of the humour of the book by the process. It is published by White & Co.
In the New Review, Sir Morell Mackenzie warns smoking vocalists. This is timely in this smoking-concert time. The Merry Andrew-Rider-Lang-Haggard story starts well: may it so finish, and win by two heads. Read "Mary Davies at Home" in The Woman's World: interesting. E. A. Abbey's illustrations to Andrew Lang's—encore Lang!—comments on The Merchant of Venice are in his Abbeyest manner.
My faithful "Co." is employing his Easter holidays in reading "shockers." He has already been dreadfully upset by A Society Scandal, which, he declares, reminds him of "Ouida" toned down with milk and water. It is by "Rita," who, as author of Mystery of a Turkish Bath, Sheba, &c., &c., &c. (see cover), can no longer be called a new writer. Fair Phyllis of Lavender Wharf, by Mr. James Greenwood (the "Amateur Casual"), forms vol. 39 of "The Bristol Library." It is scarcely up to the standard of Called Back, and others of Mr. Arrowsmith's popular shilling publications, but is not uninteresting. Mr. James Skipp Borlase, in The Police Minister, tells "A Tale of St. Petersburg." As an Irishman might say, no one could "Bore lase," so there is really no necessity to Skipp him. It would scarcely be fair to tell the plot of this thrilling narrative, but it may be hinted that The Police Minister is not a chaplain attached to the Court at Bow Street. The illustrated cover to The Mynn's Mystery, by Mr. G. Manville Fenn, shows a gentleman in the act of thrusting a knife into the shaggy body of Bruin, from which it may be gathered that the point of the story is a little hard to bear. But perhaps the best title that has appeared for many years is Stung by a Saint, which should be the sequel to a book called Kissed by a Sinner. My faithful "Co." has not yet had time to read this last contribution to the shilling novelties, but expects to find that the hero or heroine must be either a right-minded wasp, or a more than usually conscientious mosquito.
The Baron de Book-worms & Co.
The Penalties of Greatness.
Be great, my son, and in the public eye
All your life long you'll have to walk in fetters.