King Rufus is cross when he comes to reflect, That, as King, he's been treated with gross disrespect; So he pens a short note to a holy physician, And gives him a rather unholy commission, Viz., to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup, Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up. Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir Walter Perceives, in his walks, this same cup on the altar. As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking, When Miss Faucit, in tears, comes in running like winking; He pauses, of course, and, as she's thirsty too, Says, very politely, "Miss, I after you!" The young lady curtsies, and, being so dry, Raises somehow her fair little finger so high, That there's not a drop left him to "wet t'other eye"; While the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise, She merely says, "Thankee, Sir Walter," and dies. At that moment the King, who is riding to cover, Pops in _en passant_ on the desperate lover, Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him-- So he does--he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him. From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows, The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose; And Sir Walter, thus having concluded the quarrel, Walks down to the footlights, and draws this fine moral: "Ladies and gentlemen, lead sober lives: Don't meddle with other folks' sweethearts or wives!-- When you go out a-sporting take care of your gun, And--never shoot elderly people in fun!" IN A VISITOR'S BOOK [Sidenote: _J.K. Stephen._] Within the bounds of this Hotel, Which bears the name of Pen-y-Gwryd, A black and yellow hound doth dwell, By which my friend and I were worried. Our object is not to imply That he assaulted, bit, or tore us; In fact he never ventured nigh Except when food was set before us. But when the scent of ham and eggs Announced the breakage of our fast, He came and twined about our legs, And interrupted our repast. We drove him from us through the door; He reappeared; we tried the casement; He seemed to rise out of the floor, And importuned us as before, To our unspeakable amazement. But timely succour Fortune brought us; One word of Welsh we chanced to know, And that a fellow-guest had taught us; It meant "Unpleasant creature, go!" Stranger! If you should chance to meet him, Oh do not pull, or kick, or push, Or execrate, or bribe, or beat him, But make a sound resembling "Cwsh"! LETTERS OF FITZ [Sidenote: _Edward FitzGerald_] Mazzinghi tells me that November weather breeds blue devils--so that there is a French proverb, "In October de Englishman shoot de pheasant; in November he shoot himself." This, I suppose, is the case with me: so away with November, as soon as may be....