_(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)_
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Readers of this journal will be surprised to learn that I am penning
these lines from Blancheville, which as everybody, except the chief
of the chowder-heads, knows is the most important town of one of the
principal departments of France. Nothing but an overwhelming sense of
what is due to myself, to my readers, and to my country, would have
dragged me from the Metropolis at this season of the year. But a
distinction was offered to me, a distinction so unique and so dazzling
that I felt that it would not be fair to my fellow countrymen, of all
ages, and of every party, if I failed to take advantage of it,
and thus to present to the envious world the proud spectacle of an
Englishman honoured by the great French nation. I will narrate the
matter as briefly as is consistent with my respect for accuracy, and
with my contempt for the tapioca-brained nincompoops who snarl,
and chatter, and cackle at me in the organ of Mr. J. Last Friday I
received this telegram:--
_Blancheville, Friday._
The inhabitants of Blancheville, in public meeting assembled,
felicitate you on stupendous success of all your prophecies. Desiring
to honour you in the name of France, the mother of glorious heroes,
and the eldest daughter of Liberty, they have awarded to you the
Montyon prize for virtue, and have selected you as _Rosier en
perpétuité de Blancheville_, a new post never before held by a man.
Presentation on Sunday. Come at once.
_(Signed)_