by the name of the artist, which is EYRE CROWE, A.

No. 519. "Gorse." By DAVID MURRAY. Good? Why certainly, as a matter of gorse.

No. 697. Rather mixed subject, being "Eventide" by KNIGHT.

No. 1161. "A Maiden Fair." By G.A. STOREY, A. Never heard of such a thing as "a Maiden Fair," except in Oriental countries. She seems to be having all the fun of the Fair to herself. This concludes a series of Storeys in four numbers, 356, 704, 1043 and 1161, making up his "Tale." "And now my STOREY's done," that is, for this Season.

SCULPTURE.

No. 1962. "Triumph" of ADRIAN JONES. It is so. Quite a triumph. The SMITHS, BROWNS and ROBINSONS nowhere compared with A. JONES.

No. 2001. "H.M. Stanley—bust." Is he? Poor STANLEY! It is to be hoped that the EMIN-ent explorer will forgive the sculptor, who is C.B. BIRCH, A. Fancy the indomitable STANLEY never yet beaten, but BIRCH'd at last!

MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.

No. XVIII.—MARIAN MUFFET: A ROMANCE OF BLACKMORE.

(By R.D. EXMOOR, Author of "Born a Spoon;" "Paddock Rowel;" "Wit and Witty;" "Tips for Marriers;" "Scare a Fawn;" "'Brellas for Rain," &c., &c., &c.)

["This," writes Mr. EXMOOR, "is another of my simple tales. Yet I send it forth into the world thinking that haply there may be some, and they not of the baser sort, who reading therein as the humour takes them, may draw from it nurture for their minds. For truly it is in the nature of fruit-trees, whereof, without undue vaunting, I may claim to know somewhat, that the birds of the air, the tits, the wrens, ay, even unto the saucy little sparrows, whose firm spirit in warfare hath ever been one of my chiefest marvels, should gather in the branches seeking for provender. So in books, and herein too I have some small knowledge, those that are of the ripest sort are ever the first to be devoured. And if the public be pleased, how shall he that made the book feel aught but gratitude. Therefore I let it go, not being blind in truth to the faults thereof, but with humble confidence too in much compensating merit."]

CHAPTER I.

Fate, that makes sport alike of peasants and of kings, turning the one to honour and a high seat, and making the other to lie low in the estimation of men, though haply (as 'tis said in our parish) he think no small beer of himself, hath seemingly ordained that I, THOMAS TIDDLER, should set down in order some doings wherein I had a share. And herein I make no show of learning, being but an undoctrined farmer and not skilled in the tricks of style, as the word is in these parts, but trusting simply to strength and honesty (whereof, God knows, there is but little beyond the limits of our farm), and to that breezy carriage of the pen which favoureth a plain man treading sturdily the winding paths and rough places of his native tongue. Notwithstanding I take no small encouragement from this, that whereas of those that have made to my knowledge the bravest boasting and the loudest puffing (though of this I am loth to speak, never having had a stomach for the work), the writings often perish neglectfully and nothing said, some, writing afar in quiet places removed from the busy rabblement of towns, not seldom steer their course to fame and riches, whereof, thanks be to Heaven, I never yet had covetousness, deeming theirs the happier lot to whom a dry crust with haply a slice of our good country cheese and a draught of the foaming cider bring contentment. Each to his own fashion, say I, and the fashion of the TIDDLERS hath always been in a manner plain and unvarnished, like to the large oak press wherein mother stores her Sunday gown and other woman's finery such as the mind of man, being at best but a coarse week-day creature, hath never fairly conceived. But lo! I am tarrying on my way, losing myself in a maze of cheap fancies, while the reader perchance yawns and stretches his limbs as though for bed. All I know is paper and ink are cheaper than when I began to write.

CHAPTER II.

Now it fell on a Summer morning, I being then but newly come home from the Farmers' College, in the ancient town of Cambridge, that our whole household was gathered together in our parlour. Mother sat by the head of the great table, ladling out a savoury mess of porridge, not rashly, as the custom of some is, but carefully, like a prudent housewife, guarding her own. And by her side sat MOLLY and BETTY, her daughters, and next to them the maids, and they that pertained to the work of the house. First came old POLLY THISTLEDEW, gaunt of face, and parched of skin, the wrinkles running athwart her face, and over her hooked nose, like to the rivers drawn with much labour of meandering pen in the schoolboys' maps, though for such my marks were always low, I being better skilled in the giving of raps with the closed fist than in the making of maps with inky fingers—a bootless toil, as it always hath seemed to me. Next to her sat SALLY, the little milkmaid, casting coy glances at mother, who would have none of them, but with undue sternness, as I thought then, and still think, tossed them back to the shame-faced SALLY. Lower down sat JOHN TOOKER, "GIRT JAN DOUBLEFACE" he was ever called, not without a sly hint of increasing obesity, for JOHN, though a mighty man of thews and sinews, was no small trencherman, and, as the phrase is, did himself right royally whenever porridge was in question. All these sat, peaceably swallowing, while I, at the table's foot, faced mother, stirring my steaming bowl with my forefinger, forgetting the heat thereof, but not daring to wince, lest BETTY, whose tongue cut shrewdly when she had a mind, should make sport of me.

CHAPTER III.

Although I had, for the most part, so very stout an appetite that my bowl stood always first for the refilling, I had no desire for my food that day, but idly sat and stirred, and the burden of my thoughts wore deeply inward with the dwelling of my mind on this view and on that of it. But, on a sudden, what a turmoil, what a rising of maids, what a jumping on chairs, what a drawing up of gowns, and what a scurrying! For, out of a corner, comes the great brown rat, gliding sedately, and never so much as asking by your leave or with your leave. Then mother's old tom-cat, Trouncer, slowly rising, stretches his limbs, and bares his claws, making ready for what is to come, but not, me-thinks, with much alacrity for the conflict, for rats have teeth, as Trouncer knows—ay, and can use them to much purpose. Therefore Trouncer, making belief to be brave, as is the custom both of cats and of others that walk on two legs, and have thumbs to their fore-paws, gathers himself to the spring, but springs not. Then comes GIRT JAN's terrier, Rouser, at last—where hath the terrier been tarrying? Terriers should not tarry—and, with scant ceremony, leaps upon Trouncer. Cuff, cuff, go the claws. Trouncer swears roundly. Nay, Trouncer, 'tis a coward's part to fly beneath the chair. To him, good Rouser, to him, my man. But Rouser hath forgot the claw-bearer, though his bleeding nose for many a day shall remember. Rouser hath the rat in view. Round the parlour they go, helter-skelter, Rouser on the tracks of the life-desiring rat, while the maids upon the chairs show ankles, in proof of terror, until, lo! he hath him pinned fast, never more to stir, or clean his whiskers in rat-land.

And then all come down, and JAN boasts loudly how he all but trod him flat, ay, and could have done so had rat