On his being presented to a newly-arrived prominent American at a public dinner, this gentleman opened the conversation by saying that he had been privileged, on the voyage with Sir Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, to read _King Arthur_ in the lady’s own copy containing the author’s charming dedication. A pause ensued, when Joe--thinking himself on solid ground--said: “Well, sir, I hope you liked the play?” What was his astonishment at the Yankee’s gentle reply! “Well, not very much!” said he, “You see I had Lord Tennyson in my mind.” Silence ensued but I think Joe explained with urbanity that he had taken an entirely different view of the old legend, founded in a measure on Sir Thomas Malory’s version. _A propos_ of this old name, Joe has himself told of the arrival at the theatre of a batch of press cuttings addressed to that knight of the days of chivalry, the title tactfully supplemented by the affix of “Bart.” Perhaps scarcely less funny and more unpardonable was the question of the Society lady who asked him, in the case of _Tristram and Iseult_, how he had obtained Mme. Wagner’s consent to tamper with her husband’s book. A play--_The Lonely Queen_--on which he spent much care, still remains to be performed when a suitable actress shall present herself for the strong and sympathetic part of the girlish ruler over a wild land. The piece opens on a hillside overlooking an Eastern city--a scene shewn again later on in sinister circumstances; and with dance and laughter, a group of girls crown their wayward young mistress with a wreath of flowers in merry mimicry of the weightier diadem she will soon be called to wear. And presently, in a lonely mood of apprehension, she meets as a stranger, the patriot-poet who is to be both her bane and her salvation in the future. He enjoyed writing this play and was pleased with the following lyric, which he read to me--as I am proud to think, he generally read anything with which he was satisfied or on which he wanted such criticism as I could give--on the very morning when he had written it. THE POET TO A GIRL-QUEEN UNKNOWN. Oh Lady of the Lily Hand! Whose face unseen we long to greet, At whose command this desert land Springs into flower about thy feet. Fair maiden whom we know not yet, Yet know thy heart can know no fear, Queen, who shalt teach us to forget The wounds of many a wasted year. The curtains of the night are drawn, Its shadows all have fled away, For in thine eyes there dwells the dawn And in thy smile the new born day. A people’s love that waits thee now Is thine to take and thine to hold, Till God shall set upon thy brow A crown that is not forged of gold. Twixt Right and Wrong He yields thee choice, Heed not the worship of the weak, That in a maiden’s fearless voice The clarion voice of God may speak.