WINTER AT BURLINGTON HOUSE.

It is emphatically pleasant. From a Fine-Art point of view, it is "the winter of our great content." Only a few weeks ago we had an Exhibition of the Young Masters, and very-much-alive English Artists—to wit, the students of the Royal Academy—at Burlington House, and now Sir Frederick Leighton has waved his wand, and has given us a transformation scene in the way of a collection of works by the Old Masters and Deceased Painters of the British School. And a very good show it is, and very grateful we feel to those who have for a time stripped their rooms in order that we may enjoy a sight of their treasures. Very restful to the eye and soothing to the spirit are these grand contributions by the Old Boys. They may say what they please about the progress of modern Art, but Mr. Punch is of opinion that many of these fine specimens of Crome, Gainsborough, Jansen, Murillo, Mulready, &c., are bad to beat. How time slips away! It only seems the other day that these Winter Exhibitions were started by the Royal Academy, and yet the present one is the twenty-first.

STATESMEN AT HOME.

DCXLI. Earl Granville, K.G., at Walmer Castle.

As you walk down Beach Street, reading the Commentaries, which you have brought down in your coat-tail pocket, you recognise the "plain and open shore" which Cæsar describes as being reached after passing the cliffs of Dover.

Here he landed, now many years ago, and your host who, eager for your coming, even now stands on the top of the great round tower that dominates his castle-home, can look upon the very spot on which the Conqueror stepped ashore. Presently he takes you to see the marks of the intrenchment, plainly visible to this day. With heightened colour and dramatic gesture the belted Earl tells how, on the fourth night after the arrival of the Roman fleet, that great storm which ever comes to Britain's aid in such emergencies, arose, wrecking J. Cæsar's galleys, and driving them far up the shingly beach.

"What's to be done now?" Cæsar's quartermaster asked.

"Done?" said J. Cæsar in the colloquial Latin of the day. "Why, haul the fleet up on to the beach."

So they brought the ships ashore; Cæsar intrenched them within a camp, and remained there till the weather improved. Your host presses upon your acceptance a handful of soil from the tumuli.

"Cæsar's foot may have pressed it," he says, as you, with a perhaps exaggerated appearance of pleasurable interest, pocket the dust, being careful to turn your pocket inside out as soon as you are beyond sight of the castle on your homeward way.

As your hansom pulls up abruptly under the shadow of the ancient castle, you find your further progress stopped by a fosse, across which is haughtily flung a sixteenth-century drawbridge. Henry the Eighth, in a rare moment of leisure from domestic affairs, built Walmer Castle for the defence of the coast. You are much struck with the architectural design, which resembles in some degree a mass of blancmange turned out of a mould. Four round lunettes of stone, wearily worked by hands now cold, stand four-square to all the winds that blow. In the middle is a great round tower, with a cistern on the top, and underneath an arched cavern which you are pleased to learn is bomb-proof. As you cross the drawbridge, you feel bound to admit that the prospect is not inviting. It seems as if you were going to prison instead of to visit, at his marine residence, one of the most courtly and (peradventure) the most hospitable noblemen of his age. The severe stonework frowns upon you; the portholes stare, and you almost wish that, regardless of expense, you had kept your hansom waiting.

But all uneasiness vanishes as you cross the reverberating stone floor, and pass into the apartments fronting the sea. You feel as if you had journeyed into a new world, a sunnier clime. Your host, with outstretched hand, welcomes you to Walmer, and makes kindly inquiries as to the incidents of your journey.

"It is, I expect, very cold in London," he says, with his genial smile; "you will find it Walmer here."

You protest that varieties of temperature are of very inconsiderable concern to you, and, throwing yourself on the walnut couch by the recess window, daintily draped with orange-and-blue chintz, you gaze forth on the varied scene without. The stately ships go on to their haven under the hill; the ever-changing procession presses on, homeward or outward bound; and, beyond, the unbroken, treacherous barrier of the Goodwin Sands.

"It's strange you should choose that place," your host says, in his soft, liquid tones; "that was the favourite corner of a former predecessor in the honourable office I now hold. In the first year of this century, as you know, William Pitt was Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, and, tradition says, used, when he came down here, to sit at that very window by the hour, gazing across the Downs towards the coast of France, where his great enemy was preparing for a descent on the British coast."

Naturally pleased by this coincidence, you endeavour to make your eyes flash as you look across the sea (you remember to have read somewhere that Pitt had "an eagle eye;" perhaps two, but only one is mentioned); try and think what Pitt looked like generally, and what he did with his arms, which you finally decide to fold across your chest, though conscious that you more resemble Napoleon crossing the Alps than the Great Commoner sitting at his drawing-room window in Walmer Castle.

Your host is pardonably proud of his Arboretum, which he has set out on the roof where, in Tudor times, the cistern flaunted the breeze. Here, bared to the winter sun, droops the long fronds of the Fucus spungiosus nodosus. Close by is a specimen of that rare plant the Fucus Dealensis pedicularis rubrifolio. Here, too, is the Rhamnoides fructifera foliis satiris, rarely seen so far north. Here, coyly hang the narrow leaves of the Silene conoidea; and here, slowly rocking in the S.S.W. wind, is the sand willow (Salix arenaria). You fancy that somewhere you have seen a finer Hippophae rhamnoides, but the Dianthus cariophyllus, with its pleasant smell of cloves, well deserved the look of appreciation which your host bends upon it. Here, too, are the Geranium maritinum, and the wallflower-scented Hottonia palustris and even the humble Brassica oleracea.

"I have gathered them all in this district myself," your host says, opening the violet velvet smoking-jacket (for which he has exchanged the warlike garb he usually wears at Walmer) and casually displaying the belt that marks his earldom.

You would like to ask whether a belted Earl ever wears braces, but whilst you are thinking of how so delicate a question may be framed, Granville, George, Leveson-Gower, Earl Granville, Knight of the Garter and Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, relates, with that never failing flow of natural humour which so greatly endears him to Lord Salisbury, the story of his chequered career, since he left Christchurch, Oxford, now more than half a century ago and became Attaché to the Embassy at Paris. The narrative which is full of point, agreeably occupies the time up to half-past one, when the beating of a huge drum announces luncheon. You make a feint of at once leaving, and Lord Granville, with that almost excessive politeness which distinguishes him, hesitates to oppose your apparent inclination.

As you pass out, skirting the piece of old ordnance dragged from the sea in 1775, near the Goodwin Sands, by some fishermen who were sweeping for anchors in the Gull-stream, you reach the conclusion, that politeness may sometimes be carried too far. "Deale," notes Leland, in his interesting Itinerary, "is half a myle fro the shore of the sea, a Finssheher village iii myles or more above Sandwich." That is all very well for Deal; but a gentleman of healthy habits, who left London at ten o'clock this morning would, as the afternoon advances, certainly not be so much as three miles above a sandwich if it were offered.

Pleased with this quaint conceit, in which there is peradventure some little humour, you drop in at a confectioner's, and fortify yourself with a nineteenth-century bun, with which you trifle whilst the train tarries.

A Sporting Correspondent, who says "he isn't in the know," asks "what we think of Garter for the Derby?" A word to the wise is sufficient. "Garter" rhymes to "Starter." The Motto of the Garter is, Honi soit qui mal y pense. We have spoken.

THE MYSTIC LETTERS.

PUZZLES FOR THE NEW YEAR.

The Emperor of Germany.—To make a couple of public speeches without making use ten times of the first personal pronoun.

Mr. Stanley.—To escape an overwhelming and universal ovation on his return.

The Czar.—To increase the Naval and Military Estimates of his country with one hand, and at the same time succeed in controlling so-called "legitimate National aspirations" with the other.

The Sultan.—To pay his way, and yet preserve a smiling countenance.

The Gas-Stokers' Union.—To learn the lesson taught them by the course of recent events, and grow wise in time, without making further mischievous efforts to alienate public sympathy.

Mr. Barnum.—To prove to the grumblers, who write to the Papers to complain of the "Booking" arrangements in connection with "The Greatest Show on Earth," that the management is perfect, and could not be better.

The Emperor of Brazil.—To make ends meet on an income of nothing a-year.

The Covent Garden Lion.—To find that his quite sedate, leisurely, and altogether proper performance is watched every night in breathless suspense by an excited audience.

Mr. Augustus Harris.—To think already how he can manage to make his next year's Christmas Pantomime outdo even his,—this season's,—latest triumphant effort.

Mr. Gladstone.—How to fit the items of his new Radical programme nicely in with his Home-Rule Scheme, with a view to making some sort of stir with both in the approaching Parliamentary Session.

The Recently Unrolled Mummy.—To discover how he came to be so long neglected in a back room in Gower Street, and to find out, now that they have pounced on him, who the dickens he was when "up and doing" in Old Egypt thirty centuries back.

The Authorities at the War Office.—How to satisfy an inquisitive public that 18,000 troopers can be comfortably and efficiently mounted on the 12,000 horses, the total number provided for them for that purpose by those who are responsible for their supply.

The London Omnibus Horse.—How to get supplied with a proper shoe, that will enable him to keep on his legs with equal facility on granite, Macadam, wood, or asphalte.

The First Lord of the Admiralty.—How to satisfy the country, from his place in Parliament, that the "Department" is turning out big guns in any number, and that, when they are turned out, he'll pledge his word that they won't burst—unreasonably.

"Killaloe Dam Gone."—Under this heading, boldly displayed, the Scottish Leader announces that the inundation of the Shannon has caused further serious damage to the new drainage works at Killaloe. The way of putting it is undoubtedly terse and emphatic. It sets forth in three words the consternation that fell upon Killaloe when the Shannon rose, and the ruthless ruin that whelmed the town when the waters retired. At the same time it is not quite the language we would have expected from an able and responsible journal which has bearded the Scotsman in its den, and shown that, after all, it is possible to establish a prosperous Liberal newspaper in the Lowlands.

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

No. III.—THE MAN-TRAP.

This Drama, which, like our last, has been suggested by a poem of the Misses Taylors', will be found most striking and impressive in representation upon the Music-hall stage. The dramatist has ventured to depart somewhat from the letter, though not the spirit, of the original text, in his desire to enforce the moral to the fullest possible extent. Our present piece is intended to teach the great lesson that an inevitable Nemesis attends apple-stealing in this world, and that Doom cannot be disarmed by the intercession of the evil-doer's friends, however well-meaning.

THE MAN-TRAP!

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

William (a Good Boy).  Mr. Harry Nicholls.    } who have kindly
Thomas (a Bad Boy).   Mr. Herbert Campbell. } offered their services.

Benjamin (neither one thing nor the other).    Mr. Samuel Super.

The Monster Man-trap                              Mr. George Conquest.

Scene—An elaborate set, representing, on extreme left, a portion of the high road, and wall dividing it from an orchard; realistic apple-and pear-trees laden with fruit. Time, about four o'clock on a hot afternoon. Enter William and Thomas, hand-in-hand, along road; they ignore the dividing wall, and advance to front of stage.

Duet.—William and Thomas.

Wm.    I'm a reg'lar model boy, I am; so please make no mistake.
It's Thomas who's the bad 'un—I am good!

Thos.  Yes, I delight in naughtiness for naughtiness's sake,
And I wouldn't be like William if I could!

Chorus.

Wm.    Ever since I could toddle, my conduct's been model,
There's, oh, such a difference between me and him!

Thos.    While still in the cradle, I orders obeyed ill,
And now I've grown into a awful young limb!

Second Verse.

Wm.    If someone hits him in the eye, he always hits them back!
When I am struck, my Ma I merely tell!
On passing fat pigs in a lane, he'll give 'em each a whack!

Thos.    (impenitently.) And jolly fun it is to hear 'em yell!

Third Verse.

Fourth Verse.

Fifth Verse.

Benj.   (exultantly). See, William, now he's coming ... here's his shoe for you!

The Man-trap   (with an accent of genuine regret), I'm sorry—but that's all that I can do for you!

Wm.   (raising the shoe and the leg of pantaloons, and holding them sorrowfully at arm's length).
He's met the fate which moralists all promise is
The end of such depraved careers as Thomas's!
Oh, Benjamin take warning by it be-time!
(More brightly). But now to wash our hands—'tis nearly tea-time!

"A Montagu! A Montagu!"—Our common-sense Magistrate, Mr. Montagu Williams, heavily fined a steam-rolling demon, which comes in our streets as anything but a boon and a blessing to men and horses. À propos of this "worthy beak," when are his "Reminiscences" to appear? The book is bound,—no, not yet, or it would have been published,—but, when it is ready, it is bound to be amusing.

NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case he returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.