"Die, Villain!"

Latter Day Pamphlets as "mere barking and froth." But, perhaps, the most famous of all Punch's literary animosities was that excited by Alfred Bunn. Bunn, whose claims to literary excellence were indeed infinitesimal, proved a thorn in Punch's side, for after enduring six years of the most persistent and sarcastic attacks he hit back, and in "A Word with Punch" (which, by the way, was illustrated by Sala, afterward a contributor to Punch's column) hit so hard that in future he was not molested.

Let us turn to Punch in his more happy moods. A glance at the leading cartoons shows the reader at once that Punch has always made remarkably successful use of literary quotations and literary personages for illustrating contemporary history. It is striking to notice that it is apparently only in two English authors, Shakespeare and Dickens, that Punch has found characters which would be generally known to the public and likely to convey a definite meaning. Other authors who have yielded characters and quotations for famous cartoons are Sheridan, Stevenson, "Uncle Remus," and Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, whose Little

Lord Fauntleroy has more than once been

pictured with great effect.

Toward writers of fiction Mr. Punch has ever taken up the attitude of mentor, and has emphasised his teachings by using the gentle art of parody to excellent purpose. Thackeray's contributions to these volumes were not only large in quantity but admirable in quality, and perhaps no comic journal in the world can boast of such work as The Snobs of England and Punch's Prize Novelists.

Perhaps the most successful parody that Punch ever contained was Mr. Burnand's "Mokeanna." The first page of Punch for February 21, 1863, came as a shock to many people, including the proprietors, for the parody appeared exactly like a stray leaf from the London Journal. Thackeray was supposed to have perpetrated the burlesque imitation, but as a matter of fact the idea was entirely Mr. Burnand's, who communicated with Mark Lemon, and arranged to keep the matter an entire secret, except from those who had to illustrate the story. The joke caught on, as it deserved to do. The artists fell in with the spirit of the jest in imitation of Sir John Gilbert, who drew the first picture for Mokeanna, burlesquing his own style. Phiz, Charles Keen, George du Maurier, and Sir John

THE MODERN PISTOL.

"Base is the Slave that Pays."

-Punch, May 24, 1890. Millais all took delight in parodying themselves.

Of a later date are Mr. R. C. Lehmann's Prize Novels, of which perhaps the most amusing and successful is "A Buccaneer's Blood-Bath," by L. S. Deevenson, from which we quote the opening of Chapter IV.:

You are to remember that when the events I have narrated befell I was but a lad, and had a lad's horror of that which smacked of the supernatural. As we ran, I must have fallen in a swoon, for I remember nothing more until I found myself walking with trembling feet through the policies of the ancient mansion of Dearodear. By my side strode a young nobleman, whom I straightway recognised as the Master. His gallant bearing and handsome face served but to conceal the black heart that beat within his breast. He gazed at me with a curious look in his eyes.

One of Mr. Lehmann's earliest contributions to these columns was a clever parody of Tennyson's "Throstle," and a glance through these volumes reveals a number of similar contributions by George Augustus Sala, who parodied

The fair authoress of Passionate Pauline, gazing fondly at her own reflection, writes as follows:

"I look into the glass, Reader. What do I see?

"I see a pair of laughing, espiègle, forgetme-not blue eyes, saucy and defiant, a mutine little rosebud of a mouth, with its ever-mocking moue, a tiny, shell-like ear, trying to play hide and seek in a tangled maze of rebellious russet gold, while from underneath the satin folds of a rose-thé dressing gown, a dainty foot peeps coyly forth in the exquisitelypointed gold morocco slipper," etc., (Vide Passionate Pauline, by Parbleu.)— Punch, January 24, 1891.

etc.

Tennyson's. "Princess" and his own style. in "Eyes of the Week," Milliken's "Fitzdotterel," a parody of Lytton's "Glendaveril," and, of course, Mr. Anstey's delightful "Pocket Ibsen."

Punch's poetry has been as a whole of notably good quality, especially distinguished in "obituary" verse, which will bear quotation. Naturally Thackeray would receive kindly notice, and the pen of Shirley Brooks did justice to the "hand that was still":

He was a cynic. By his life all wrought

Of generous acts, mild words, and gentle

ways:

His heart wide open to all kindly thought,

His hand so quick to give, his tongue to praise.

And if his acts, affections, works and ways

Stamp not upon the man the cynic's sneer, From life to death, oh, public, turn your gaze

The last scene of a cynical career!

Those uninvited crowds, this hush that lies, Unbroken, till the solemn words of prayer From many hundred reverent voices rise Into the sunny stillness of the air.

These tears, in eyes but little used to tears, Those sobs, from manly lips, hard set and

grim,

Of friends, to whom his life lay bare for years, Of strangers, who but knew his books, not him.

To Dickens, too, Punch bore eloquent tribute:

He sleeps as he should sleep-among the great
In the old Abbey: sleeps amid the few
Of England's famous thousands whose high

state

Is to lie with her monarchs-monarchs too. Monarchs, who men's minds 'neath their sway could bring

By might of wit and humour, wisdom, lore, Music of spoken line or sounded string,

Of Art that lives when artists are no more.

His grave is in this heart of England's heart, This shrine within her shrine: and all

around

Is no name but in letters or in Art

Sounds as the names of the immortal sound.

And then in 1889 to Robert Browning:

In mid-winter, in the silent songless snowtime,

Your last song, all gallant glee,

Flashed upon us-and while yet we gladly listened,

Low you lay in sunny Venice that you loved

So,

Singer free!

England loved you, though your song was oft mistaken,

For your Muse, scarce trim, was true. Nothing hopeless, nothing maudlin or unmanly,

Nought of sick, erotic, hot hysteric drivel
Came from you.

One who never wooed the night, but loved the daytime,

Never doubted dawn would break, Never dreamed delirious dim narcotic visions,

Never culled pale flowers of sin in Stygian

meadows.

Sleep-to wake.

You at noonday, in the struggle of men's toiltime,

Gave us song to strengthen, cheer;

Now you sleep, but not your fame: the world you wakened

Will not let your memory die, but hold it ever Sweet and dear!

In which verse Punch declares very distinctly the hatred he has always, all honour to him, shown to the "unwholesome" in literature.

"LITERARY STARS."

But, after all, we cannot but feel that this casual survey has borne in upon us that these pages are worthy of more deliberate study. They teem, if not with. direct references, at any rate with distinct allusions to the literature and the literary life of the Queen's reign. To the social student of that most striking period in English history one of its most distinctive traits is the gradual amelioration of manners. When Punch first set forth on his genial course he lived and moved in the pleasant land of Bohemia-so did most of his contributors; and, be it remembered, most of them were leaders in the literary republic. In his early days Mr. Punch made few and slight references to literary affairs and men of letters, for the simple reason that, even if interested in books, his readers were not much or desired to be much acquainted with writers. Now all this is changed; an author not only publishes his books, but puts himself before the public. So far does this hold good, that the reverse is not seldom the case, and a man puts himself forward first, and then on a foundation of notoriety endeavours to build an edifice of literary reputation.

The lot of the satirist is not altogether happy; he makes many enemies, but few friends, but Punch, throughout his long and worthy career, has been so impartial,

so just, that a word of praise from him is to the literary man worth a volume of adulation from others. Punch has created a good school of literature not only directly in his own pages, but by his ever ready encouragement to all that is worthy, honest, healthy in the world of books.

Truth to tell, we have turned over these ever-refreshing volumes quite at random, and have chosen to take notice of those items in the vast bill of fare which appealed to our own peculiar taste. Punch is an inexhaustible storehouse not only of good writing, but of good writing about writers; he is a candid and judicious critic, milder in his manners now than he was wont to be, while just as fair. Punch of fifty, of forty, of thirty years ago is but a shadow of a name to most of us; to turn to him again is to renew a friendship with one whom we chiefly have known in his old age.

The evolution of the novel from the story of mere incident or adventure to the ethical study is an indication of the deepening interest in real life. Romantic tales fail to satisfy a generation becoming more alive to the great duty of man

to man.

Interest now centres in the characters rather than in the story. Modern fiction is a study of men and women and their environments-a revelation of the heights and depths of human nature. In the presentation of the manifold conditions and relations of mankind the novel is a reflection of the whole surface of life on which float the social and individual problems of civilisation.

With the progress of the world has come the advancement of woman and a contemporary development of the women. of fiction. The sentimental "ladye faire" has given place to

A creature not too bright nor good
For human nature's daily food.

Instead of the moonlight of romance silvering shallow ripples, we have the sunlight of truth illuminating "the life currents that ebb and flow in human hearts."

To the spirit of insight tracing the course of these currents the commonest lives become significant. In the search for truth, every phase of life is studied, and as a result fiction abounds in almost as many types of womanhood as the work-a-day world we live in. There are women of history and of fancy, royal dames and provincial maids, fashionable belles and practical girls-all with the same problem of life to evolve under various conditions.

The women of fiction created by the great writers often seem more real to us than the women of history as presented in the novel. Indeed, one must sometimes question if historical fiction does not give us a picture of the women rather than an acquaintance with them. The externals are correct-scenery, costumes, incidents; but if we find the essentials of mind and heart at all, they are oftener remodelled than reproduced. For instance, when Sir Walter Scott shows us Queen Elizabeth at Kenilworth, it is quite evident that he was more concerned with

dramatic and scenic effects than with the secrets of the woman's heart. Unless the inner life of the woman is penetrated with clear-seeing eyes, we can have nothing but a lay figure. Even Sir Walter's touch does not make a genuine woman out of a stately figure trailing erminelined robes through scenes of romance.

The historical women of fiction seem unreal to us because their portrayers have lacked the wide sympathies that unbar the doors of the past and embrace foreign beliefs and moralities. Until the women of history are impregnated by the spirit that is just because it is great enough to understand, they will always seem less real than the women born of imagination.

Is any historical woman in fiction as human in her nobleness as Romola, "the visible Madonna," as natural in her hypocrisy as the adventuress, Becky Sharp, or as womanlike in her misery as Anna Karénina? These women and many others created by master minds are so endowed with the warmth of life that their very heart-throbs reach us. We hearken to the keynote of "the still, sad music of humanity" to which the current of their lives is set. Human nature with all its harmony and discord is revealed in the hearts of these women.

The very pulse of selfishness beats in Balzac's Baroness de Nucingen, a woman willing to sacrifice her father that she might grace a Paris salon, as surely as the true spirit of self-denial shines in the patience of Eugénie Grandet, whose life was from first to last subjected to the miserly calculations of her father. In these two women Balzac has shown us the selfishness and unselfishness of daughterhood so completely that life itself could teach us little more.

It has been said that no man ever understood the mystery of a woman's heart as Balzac did. But after the French master few men have portrayed women better than Hawthorne. If all the women of fiction were to pass before a mirror, not one would cast a truer reflection of noble simplicity than Hilda. She is like a wild rose growing among exotics-sweet and pure among many deceits-and the quiet New Englander has so faithfully drawn the outlines and