Messrs. BLACKWOOD are issuing a standard edition of the works of GEORGE ELIOT. _Adam Bede_, of course, comes first, admirably printed in dainty volumes of blue and gold. Glancing over the work brings back to the memory of my Baronite a certain schoolboy who, instead of going home to dinner, used to spend the interval in the reading-room of a free library, literally dining off _Adam Bede_, then just out. It will be interesting to observe how far the public of to-day, more especially the young men and maidens who read novels, will take to GEORGE ELIOT. In this new standard edition opportunity, alike in respect of charm and cheapness, is made alluring. _The Curse of Intellect_ is an unattractive title, suggestive rather of a series of essays on the melancholy lives of certain geniuses than of the weird tale--for such it is--of a Man-Monkey. This story, published by Messrs. BLACKWOOD, and written by MACHIAVELLI COLIN CLOUT, is a modern version of _Frankenstein_, the distinction being that, whereas _Frankenstein_ constructed his own monster, the hero of this romance, one _Reuben Power_, finds a monster ready to hand in a kind of "Mr. Gorilla," whom he educates to speak a strange language, also to read, write, and think in excellent English. This Converted Ape kills his maker, and then considerately puts an end to his own miserable existence; he does not, however, possess a soul (_Frankenstein's_ Monster was also deficient in this respect). "For O it is such a 'norrible tale;" and, except to those who occasionally enjoy "a 'norrible tale," this cannot be recommended by THE BARON DE B.-W. * * * * * BLIND ALLEY-GORIES. BY DUNNO WÄHRIAR. (_Translated from the original Lappish by Mr. Punch's own Hyperborean Enthusiast._) NO. III.--A SOCRATIC EXPERIMENT. The other day I went out for a walk. My thoughts circled round my head like bees in a bonnet, and detached themselves slowly from the loose white honeycomb of my brain to mirror themselves in my soul, as is usual with me on such occasions. And, somewhere round the corner, a voice lurked calling out remarks--what I knew not, only that they were of a highly personal character. The people I met stared at me, and I stared at them, for I had a presentiment that they were talking about me, but I took no notice of them--beyond informing them that they were cowards and blowflies, and requesting to be informed why they enclosed their dirty interiors in glass. For I am Young GARNAWAY, and when I take a walk, I generally exchange amenities of this kind with any persons I happen to meet. At the Market Place, my friend the Tallow-chandler sat inside his shop, dozing under a pale canopy of farthing dips.