[Illustration] _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----" "Why, SNOOKS," I said, "don't you remember me? What on earth are you doing?" SNOOKS'S face fell somewhat. "Oh, it's you, is it? I thought it was a customer. You see that I've taken the _Author's_ advice, and am managing my own affairs." "Indeed? And how in the world----"