stern regard, of any hope, or joy or pain, or sorrow, of the manysorrowed throng; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither, does us wrong!"

66

Right you are!" cried Punch, cordially, Toby yapping assent. He might have said more, but the Bells, the dear familiar Bells, his own dear constant, steady friends, the Chimes, began to ring the joy-peals for a New Year so lustily, so merrily, so happily, so gaily, that he (like poor old Trotty Veck) leapt to his feet, and broke the spell that bound him.

"Yes, that is still the true Spirit of the Chimes," mused Mr. Punch, as he took pen in hand to open up his new Volume. "And that's the spirit I hope to keep up right through the twelve months of just-born Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-two, which I trust may be with my willing assistance,

A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL OF YOU!!!"

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

ONE of the Baron's Critical Faculty sends him his opinion of our Mr. DU MAURIER's latest novel, which is also his first. And here let it be published urbi et orbi that there is no truth whatever in a report which appeared in an evening paper to the effect that Mr. Du MAURIER, however retiring he may be, was about to retire or had retired from Mr. Punch's Staff. The St. James's Gazette has already "authoritatively" denied the assertion; and this denial the Baron for Mr. Punch, decisively confirms. Now, to the notice of the book above-mentioned. Here it is:

SIMPLE STORIES.

"Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!"
FRANK AND THE FOX.

FRANK was a very studious and clever little boy.

He took the keenest delight in music, and when he had mastered his lessons, he was very fond of playing on the concertina, and singing to his own accompaniment. He could already play "The Bells go a-ringing for Sarah!" with considerable finish and expression, and since his Uncle DODDLEWIG had presented him with

half-a-crown for his performance, he had given the air with variations, and the song with every description of embellishment, all over the paternal mansion, and in most corners of the ancestral estate.

To tell the truth, his family were getting somewhat tired of his continued asseverations concerning

the tintina bulatory tribute everlastingly rendered to the excellent young woman. And had he not been so markedly encouraged by rich old Uncle DODDLEWIG, there is every reason to suppose that FRANK and his concertina would have been speedily suppressed.

heard

FRANK his Papa lamenting that foxes were So very scarce, that recently they had had no sport whatever. "There must be plenty of foxes in the country," said the Squire, but they won't show." Now FRANK had been reading about Orpheus,

and how he charmed all the wild beasts with his melody. It was true the boy had not a lyre, but he had no doubt that his concertina would do as well, and he was quite certain he had seen a fox while taking his rambles in Tippity Thicket.

"There has been a certain deliberateness in Mr. DU MAURIER'S incursion into literature that speaks eloquently for his modesty. He is, to our certain knowledge, at least 40 years old, and Peter Ibbetson, which Messrs. OSGOOD & Co. present in two daintily dressed volumes, is his first essay in romantic writing. Reading the book, it is hard to conceive this to be the fact. The work is entirely free from those traces of amateurishness, almost inseparable from a first effort. The literary style is considerably above the average modern novelist; the plot is marked by audacious invention, worked out with great skill; the hero is a One day when he had a holiday, and his Papa had gone a hunting madman, not in itself an with his friends, he strolled off with his concertina to endeavour to attractive arrangement, lure a fox out into the open. He approached the hole where he had but there is such admi- previously seen the fox, and sat down, and began to play vigorously rable method in his mad- on his concertina, and to sing at the top of his voice, The Bells go ness, such fine poetic a-ringing for Say-rah! Say-rah! Say-rah!" Presently he feeling in the conception saw a huge Fox poke his nose out of the hole. He was delighted! of character, and the He sang and played with renewed energy, and began to walk away, ghosts who fit through still singing and playing. the pages of the story are so exceedingly human, that one feels quite at home with Peter, and is really sorry when, all too soon, his madness passes away, and he awakes to a new life, to find himself an old man. Apart from its strong dramatic interest, Peter Ibbetson has rare value, from the pictures of Old Paris in the last days of LOUIS-PHILIPPE, which crowd in charming succession through the first volume. Mr. GEORGE DU MAURIER, the well-known artist in black and white, has generously assisted Mr. GEORGE DU MAURIER, the rising novelist, by profusely illustrating the work. 'Tis a pretty rivalry; hard to say which has the better of it. Wherein a discerning Publie, long familiar with DU MAURIER's sketches, will recognise a note of highest praise for the new departure."

The Fox followed, snarling, and snapping, and appearing very angry. The more he played, the more the Fox snarled and snapped. At last the animal became furious, all the hair on its back stood on end, and it began to make short runs with its mouth open at the young musician.

It sprang upon him! He was terrified! He dropped his song and his concertina at the same moment, and scrambled up the nearest tree.

The Fox's fury then knew no bounds; he trampled on the concertina, he bit it, he tore open the bellows, and having reduced it to a shapeless mass, bore it away to his hole.

When the coast was quite clear, FRANK descended, and slunk home.

The next morning one of the keepers found a dead fox. It had apparently died of suffocation, as sixteen ivory concertina-stops were found in its throat.

and has been even heard to hint that he considers Dr. LEMPRIÈRE a FRANK now has entirely ceased to believe in Ancient Mythology, "For a one-bit of a humbug.

The Baron recommends Mrs. OLIPHANT'S The Railway Man and his Children, which is a good story, with just such a dash of the improbable but there, who can bring improbability as a charge against the plot constructed by any novelist after this great Jewel Case so recently tried? Mrs. OLIPHANT'S types are well drawn; but the story is drawn out by just one volume too much. volume novel commend me," quoth the Baron, "to Miss RHODABROUGHTON-CUM-ELIZABETH-BISLAND'S A Widower Indeed. But wait till after the festivities are over to read it, as the tale is sad. En attendant, A Happy New Year to everyone, says

THE BENIGN BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

No. IX.-TO CROOKEDNESS.

I DISPENSE with all formal opening, and I begin at once. I want to tell you a story. Don't ask me why; for, even if I answered the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, you would hardly believe me. Let me merely say that I want to tell you a story, and tell it without much further preface.

said, beautiful._ Innocence seemed to be throned on her fresh and glowing face. Her smile fascinated, her voice was a poem, and she was musical in the best sense of the word at a time when good music, although it might lack popular support, could always command a small band of enthusiastic votaries in London.

There was at this time living in London an Italian artist, man of letters and musical virtuoso, who was the spoiled darling of Society. All the women raved about him, the men liked him, for he had fought bravely on the field of battle, was a sportsman and had about Two days ago I chanced, for no special reason, to open the drawers him that frank and abundant gaieté de cœur, which powerfully of an old writing-table, which for years past had stood, unused, in attracts the less exuberant Englishman. For his part ĈASANUOVA a corner of an upper room. In one I found a rusty screw, in another (that was his name) bore all his successes with good-nature and a couple of dusty envelopes, in a third a piece of sealing-wax, half-without swagger. Of course there were whispers about him. Where a-dozen nibs, and a broken pencil. The fourth, and last drawer, so many women worshipped, it was certain that two or three would was very stiff. For a long time it defied my efforts, and it was only lose their heads. Amongst this limited number was little Mrs. MILLETT, by a great exertion of strength that I was at last able to wrench it one of Lady CALLENDER's most intimate friends. She made no open. To my surprise I saw two packets of letters, tied together secret of her grande passion. She poured her tale into the ears of with faded ribbon. I took them up, and then remembered, with a Lady CALLENDER, and asked for sympathy and help. Lady start, what they were. They were all in their envelopes, and all CALLENDER promised both, and at the self-same moment, made up were addressed, in the same hand-writing, to Sir CHARLES CALLEN- her mind that she would withdraw from Mrs. MILLETT such affection DER, Bart., Curzon Street, Mayfair. They were his wife's letters, as CASANUOVA had honoured her with, and bring him, not because she and, after the death of Sir CHARLES, whose sole executor I was, they came into my possession,-Sir CHARLES, for some inscrutable reason, never having destroyed them, although, after his wife's death, the reading of them cannot have given him much pleasure. No doubt I ought to have destroyed them. I had never read them; but there, in that forgotten drawer, they had lain, the silent dust accumulating upon them as the years rolled on. They reminded me of the story I am about to relate-a story of which, I think, no one except myself has guessed the truth, and which, in most of its details, I only knew from a paper, carefully closed, heavily sealed, and addressed to me, which I found amongst my friend's documents. It was in his handwriting throughout, but I shall tell it in my own words, and in my own way.

Nobody who was about in London Society some thirty years ago, could fail to know or know about the beautiful Lady CALLENDER. She was of a good county family. She was clever and accomplished. She had married a man rich, generous, amiable, and cultivated, who adored her. Unfortunately they had no children, but, in every other respect, Lady CALLENDER seemed to be very justly an object of envy and admiration to most of the men and women of her circle. Personally I had no great liking for her. I don't take any credit for that-far from it. The reason may have been that her Ladyship (although I was one of her husband's best friends, had been his school chum, and had "kept" with him in the same set of rooms at Cambridge, where his triumphs, physical and intellectual, are still remembered) never much cared for me. She could dissemble her real feelings better than any woman I ever knew, she always greeted me with a smile, she even made a parade of taking my advice on little

cared for him, but merely for the sport of the thing, to her own feet. She succeeded admirably. Under the pretence of bringing CASANUOVA and Mrs. MILLETT together (such things, you know, have been done in good Society) she invited him constantly to her house; she gave musical parties in his honour, she used all her fascinations, and finally, having fooled Ariadne to the top of her bent, she captured Theseus, and bore him off.

Mrs. MILLETT was a foolish and frivolous little woman. Rage and despair made her a demon. She resolved on revenge, and proceeded to it with a cool and astonishing persistency. Now I do not myself believe that Lady CALLENDER cared two straws about CASANUOVA. What she aimed at and enjoyed was the discomfiture of a friend. In order to obtain it, however, she committed a fatal imprudence. She wrote some letters which would have convinced even a French jury of her guilt. By a master - stroke of cunning wickedness, Mrs. MILLETT gained possession of them, and sent them to Sir CHARLES. It happened that about this time Sir CHARLES was in a very low state of health, and his friends were anxious about him. One afternoon, when Sir CHARLES was confined to his bed, Lady CALLENDER was playing the piano to her Italian slave. A message was brought to her that her husband desired to see her for a few minutes, and she tripped gaily away, saying to CASANUOVA, "Wait here; I shall return directly." In a quarter of an hour, however, her maid came to tell him that her Ladyship was suffering, and begged him to excuse her, and he departed. When the maid returned to Lady CALLENDER, she found her lying dead on the floor of her room, with a small phial, which had contained prussic acid, clasped tightly in her hand.

This is what had happened: Sir CHARLES family difficulties, but there was an indefinable something in her had received the letters; they left no doubt in his mind that the wife manner which convinced me that beneath all her smiles she he adored was betraying him, and he, too, resolved on revenge. He bore me no good-will. The fact is that, without any design sent for his wife. When she came in, he at once confronted her with on my part, I had detected her in one or two bits of trickery, her letters, and taxed her with her guilt. A terrible scene of tears, and, in what I suppose I must call her heart of hearts, she never entreaties, and bitter reproaches ensued, but Sir CHARLES was as adaforgave me. The truth is, though her guileless husband only knew mant, and his wife retired to her bedroom in a state of nervous prosit too late, she was perhaps the trickiest and the most heartless tration, which immediately brought on a toothache. At this point woman in England. If there were two roads to the attainment of she sent for her maid, and gave her the message to CASANUOVA. any object, the one straight, broad, smooth and short, the other The Coroner was sympathetic, and did what he could, but the round-about, obscure, narrow and encompassed with pitfalls and evidence in favour of the suicide theory seemed overwhelming, and beset by difficulties, she would deliberately choose the latter for no the jury returned a verdict to this effect, with a rider strongly comother reason that I could ever see except that by treading it she menting on the danger of selling such deadly poisons. But it was might be able to deceive her friends as to her true direction. She never explained how Lady CALLENDER obtained the prussic acid, nor carried to a fine art the small intrigues, the petty jealousies, the why she had selected that particular moment for its use. I ought mean manœuvres in the science of outwitting; the shifts, the to add, that CASANUOVA left England before the inquest, and has stratagems, the evasions by which power in Society is often never returned. On the mystery of the final catastrophe the manusupposed to be confirmed, reputations are frequently ruined, script throws no light. It ends abruptly. But the whole tone of it and lives are almost invariably made wretched. But Sir CHARLES leads me to believe, that in some unexplained manner Sir CHARLES knew none of these things. He was apparently only too proud to be himself had been instrumental in causing his wife's death. But dragged at his wife's chariot-wheels in her triumphant progress. you, no doubt, know, and could tell us if you wished. For the strange part of the business is that there was absolutely no So there, my friend, you have the story. Sorry I couldn't make need for any of her deeply-laid schemes. Success, popularity and it more cheerful. Do you remember the part you played in it ? esteem would have come to her readily without them. She was, as I Yours, &c., DIOGENES ROBINSON.

THE COMING OF NINETY-TWO

TO THE MODERN MERLIN, MR. PUNCH.

"AND DOWN THE WAVE, AND IN THE FLAME WAS BORNE

A NAKED BABE, AND RODE TO PUNCH'S FEET,

WHO STOOPT, AND CAUGHT THE BABE, AND CRIED, 'THE YEAR!

HERE IS AN HEIR FOR NINETY-ONE!'"-Adapted from Tennyson's "Coming of Arthur."