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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Publisher of The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, earnestly requests the reviewer, appealing to his heart in the reddest of red ink, on a slip of paper pasted on to the cover of the Magazine, not to extract and quote more than one column of “Talleyrand’s Memoirs,” which appear in this number for January.  The Publisher of the C.I.M.M. does not appeal personally to the Baron—­who is now the last, bar one, of the Barons, and that bar one is one at the Bar,—­but, for all that, the Baron hereby and hereon takes his solummest Half-a-Davey or his entire Davey, that he will not write, engrave, or represent, or cause to be, &c, for purposes of quotation, one single word, much less line, of Tallyho—­beg pardon, of Talleyrand,—­extracts from whose memoirs are now appearing in the aforesaid C.I.M.M. But all he will say at present is this, that, if the secret and private Memoirs haven’t got in them anything more thrilling or startling, or out of the merest common-place, than appears in this number of the C.I.M.M., then the Baron will say that he would prefer reading such contributions as M. de BLOWITZ’s story of “How he became a Special,” or The Pigmies of the African Forest by HENRY M. STANLEY in the same number of this Mag.

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What the Baron dearly loves is, ELLIOT STOCK-IN-TRADE The Book-worm, always most interesting to Book-worms, and almost as interesting to Book-grubs or Book-butterflies.  By the way, the publishing office of The Book-worm ought to be in Grub Street.  For what sort of fish is The Book-worm an attractive bait?  I suppose there are queer fish in the Old Book trade that can take in any number of Book-worms, as is shown from a modern instance, well and wisely commented upon in this very number for January, No. 38, which is excellent food for worms; the whole series, indeed, must be a very Diet of Worms.  Success to the Book-worm!  May it grow to double the size, and be a glow-worm, to enlighten us in the bye-paths of literature. “Prosit!” says the Baron.

I would that some one would write of BROWNING’s work as HENRY VAN DYKE has written of TENNYSON’s.  To the superficial and cursory reader of the Laureate, the Baron, sitting by the fire on a winter’s night, the wind howling over the sea, and the snow drifting against the window, and being chucked in handfuls down the chimney, and frizzling on the fire, says, get this book, published by ELKIN MATHEWS:  ca donne a penser, and this is its great merit.  “Come into the Garden, Maud”—­no, thank you, not to-night; but give me my shepherd’s pipe, with the fragrant bird’s-eye in it, with [Greek:  ton grogon], while I sit by the cheerful fire, in the best of good company—­my books.