In the Salon this year, the Athenæum says, "a Grand Salon de Repos will be provided." For pictures of "still life" only, we suppose. Will Sir FREDERICK, P.R.A., act on the suggestion, and set aside one of the rooms in Burlington House as a Dormitory?
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Aha! special attraction in The New Review! "April Fool's Day Poem," by ALFRED AUSTIN, and, an announcement on the cover that "This number contains a Picture of Miss ELLEN TERRY in one of her earliest parts." Oh, dear! I wish it didn't contain this picture, which is a bleared red photograph of Misses KATE and ELLEN TERRY, "as they appeared" (as they never could appear, I'm sure) in an entertainment which achieved a great success in the provinces—but not with this red-Indian picture as a poster. Of course it may be intended as compliment-terry; it may mean "always entertaining and ever reddy." However, the picture is naught, except as a curiosity; but the first instalment of our ELLEN's reminiscences is delightfully written, because given quite naturally, just as the celebrated actress herself would dictate—(of course she never has to "dictate," as her scarcely-breathed wish is a law)—to her pleasantly-tasked amanuensis. Next lot, please!
In Macmillan's for this month, ANDRÉ HOPE tells a fluttering tale in recounting "A Mystery of Old Gray's Inn." It would have come well from that weird old clerk, to whom Mr. Pickwick listened with interest during the convivialities at the "Magpie and Stump." It should take a prominent place in the proposed new issue of Half Hours with Jumpy Authors.
The Baron has just read a delightful paper on "The Bretons at Home," by CHARLES G. WOOD, in the Argosy, for this month. The Baron who has been there, and still would go if he could, but, as he can't, he is contented to let "WOOD go" without him, and to read the latter's tales of a traveller.
Turf Celebrities I have Known, by WILLIAM DAY, is a gossipy, snarly sort of book; casting a rather murky or grey Day-light on a considerable number of Celebrities who were once on the turf, and are now under it. But the Baron not being himself either on the turf or under it, supposes that this DAY is an authority, as was once upon a time, that is, only the other day, the Dey of ALGIERS. But this DAY is not of Algiers, but of All-gibes. Ordinarily it is true that "Every dog has his day." Exceptions prove the rule, and it would appear from this book—"not the first 'book,' I suppose," quoth the Baron, "that Mr. DAY has 'made' or assisted in 'making,'"—that not every dog did not 'have' this particular Day, but that some dogs did. The writer has missed the chance of a good title—not for himself, but for his book. He should have it an autobiography, and then call it, "De Die in Diem; or, Day by Day."
Everyone's truly, THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.