elf. 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.

[Illustration]

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 t