Volume 100 — OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

I see three ladies in a drawing-room, each with a green volume. "What is it?" No, they won't hear. Each one is intent on her volume, and an irritable answer, in a don't bother kind of manner, is all that I can obtain. The novel is Miss BRADDON's latest, One Life, One Love (but three volumes, for all that), in which they are absorbed. Later on, at intervals, I get the volumes, and, raven-like, secrete them. I can quite understand the absorption of my young friends. Marvellous, Miss BRADDON! Very few have approached you in sensation-writing, and none in keeping up sensationalism as fresh as ever it was when first I sat up at night nervously to read Aurora Floyd, and Lady Audley's Secret. In this bad time of year (I am writing when the snow is without, and the North-East wind is engaged in cutting leaves), the Baron recommends remaining indoors with this Three-volume Novel as a between lunch and dinner companion, only don't take it up to your bed-room, and sit over the fire with it, or—but there, I won't mention the consequences. Keep it till daylight doth appear. The Baron being a busy man—no, Sir, not a busy-body,—is grateful to the authors of good short stories in Magazines. Many others agree with the Baron, who wishes to recommend "Saint or Satan" in The Argosy; The story of an "Old Beau," which might have been advantageously abbreviated in Scribner; an odd tale entitled, "The Phantom Portrait," in the Cornhill; which leaves the reader in doubt as to whether he has been egregiously "sold" or not; and, above all, the short and interesting—too short and most interesting—paper on THACKERAY, in Harper's Monthly, with fac-similes of some of the great humorist's most eccentric and most spirited illustrations, conceived in the broadly burlesquing spirit that was characteristic of GILRAY and ROWLANDSON. THACKERAY, philosopher and satirist, who can take us behind the scenes of every show in Vanity fair, who can depict the career of the scoundrel Barry Lyndon, of the heathen Becky Sharp, and the death-bed of the Christian soldier and gentleman, dignissimus, Colonel Newcome, could on occasion, and when a rollicking spirit moved him, put on a pantomime mask (have we not his own pathetic vignette representing him doing this?) to amuse the children, or give us some rare burlesque writing and drawing to set us all on the broad grin. The Baron trusts that Mrs. RITCHIE will give us more of this, and sincerely hopes that there may be a "lot more" caricatures in that portfolio "where these came from." I heartily thank you for so much, and respectfully ask for more, says yours, very gratefully,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

In Memoriam.

ARTHUR AND COMPOSER.—Saturday, January 31.—First night of SULLIVAN's Ivanhoe in D'OYLEY CARTE's new Theatre. Full inside, all right. Sir ARTHUR's success. We congratulate him Arthurly, CARTE called before horse,—should say before Curtain, but t'other came so naturally,—looked pale,—quite carte blanche; but, like SULLIVAN's music, composed. Could get a CARTE, but no cab. Gallant gentlemen and delicate ladies braving rain and slosh. More in our next, but for the present ... (Paroxysm of sneezing).

ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. AN ICE PICTURE.

Fair Damsel. "WHAT A LOT OF HOLIDAYS YOU SEEM TO GET, MR. MINIVER!"

Pet Curate. "WELL, YES. I KEEP A RECTOR, YOU KNOW."