OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.--CHATTO AND WINDUS have published, in handy form, cloth bound, and handsomely printed, an edition of JUSTIN MCCARTHY'S novels. There are, ten in all, going at half-a-crown a-piece, and well worth the money. The literary style is excellent--not a matter of course in the writing of novels--the tone wholesome, whilst on every page gleams the light of genuine, if gentle humour. In looking through the pages of this charming little library, my Baronite is inclined to regret that Mr. MCCARTHY should, to some extent, have given up to Politics what was meant for Literature. B. DE B.-W. * * * * * [Illustration: AN EFFECT OF SHYNESS. _Proud Mamma._ "WHICH DO YOU THINK EFFY'S MOST LIKE, MR. JINKS?--HER FATHER, OR ME?" _Mr. Jinks._ "OH--A--I SHOULD SAY SHE'S A PLAIN LIKENESS OF HER FATHER----I MEAN--A--HANDSOME LIKENESS OF HER MOTHER--A--I MEAN--A--A----" [_Stammers hopelessly, upsets his Tea, and wishes himself unborn._] * * * * * THE ASSAULT!! _Beleaguers babble around the Battering-Ram:--_ _Balfourius_ (_musingly_). "Heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall." _Chamberlainus_ (_sardonically_). Heroes tall, indeed! Have the distressed defenders of this untenable Citadel any such? GLADSTONIUS is a sort of hero, perhaps, but hardly tall; HARCOURTIUS is tall indeed, but no hero. Aha! _Saundersonius_ (_sharply_). Yes; and we have had too much of that "tortoise-creeping" business. Sharp's the word now, I hope. BALFOURIUS'S Battering-Ram--though the murderous ruffians--I mean excited politicians--_did_ denounce it, is better than all your tortoises! _Balfourius_ (_completing his quotation_). "Lances in ambush set." _Saundersonius._ Oh yes, they're all very well--in their way. A School of Strategy for our "young bloods," with secret _seances_, and--ahem!--_Fagin_-like rehearsals, is not a bad notion. But on the whole I agree with _Moloch_:-- "My sentence is for open war: of wiles, More inexpert, I boast not: there let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now. For while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to arise, sit lingering here, Prisoners of his tyranny who reigns By our delay? No, let us rather choose, Arm'd with hell-flames and fury all at once, O'er these high towers to force resistless way, Turning Obstruction into horrid arms Against the Obstructor; when to meet the noise Of his 'iniquitous' engine, he shall hear Ulsterian thunder; and for lightning set Green fire and rockets shot with equal rage Among his 'items;' and his seat itself Shake with Tartarean tactics, 'dirty tricks,' His own invented dodges."