Some one by chance read out to me the other day at the seaside your account of poor old Naseby village from "Cromwell," quoted in Knight's "Half-Hours," etc. It is now twelve years ago, at this very season, I was ransacking for you; you promising to come down, and never coming. I hope very much you are soon going to give us something: else Jerrold and Tupper carry all before them. TO "LYDIA LANGUISH" [Sidenote: _Austin Dobson_] "Il me faut des emotions"--_Blanche Amory_ You ask me, Lydia, "whether I, If you refuse my suit, shall die." (Now pray don't let this hurt you!) Although the time be out of joint, I should not think a bodkin's point The sole resource of virtue; Nor shall I, though your mood endure, Attempt a final Water-cure Except against my wishes; For I respectfully decline To dignify the Serpentine, And make _hors-d'oeuvres_ for fishes; But if you ask me whether I Composedly can go, Without a look, without a sigh, Why, then I answer--No. "You are assured," you sadly say (If in this most considerate way To treat my suit your will is), That I shall "quickly find as fair Some new Neæra's tangled hair-- Some easier Amaryllis." I cannot promise to be cold If smiles are kind as yours of old On lips of later beauties; Nor can I, if I would, forget The homage that is Nature's debt, While man has social duties; But if you ask shall I prefer To you I honour so, A somewhat visionary Her, I answer truly--No. You fear, you frankly add, "to find In me too late the altered mind That altering Time estranges." To this I make response that we (As physiologists agree) Must have septennial changes; This is a thing beyond control, And it were best upon the whole To try and find out whether We could not, by some means, arrange This not-to-be-avoided change So as to change together: But had you asked me to allow That you could ever grow Less amiable than you are now,-- Emphatically--No. But--to be serious--if you care To know how I shall really bear This much-discussed rejection, I answer you. As feeling men Behave, in best romances, when You outrage their affection;-- With that gesticulatory woe, By which, as melodramas show, Despair is indicated; Enforced by all the liquid grief Which hugest pocket-handkerchief Has ever simulated; And when, arrived so far, you say In tragic accents, "Go," Then, Lydia, then ... I still shall stay, And firmly answer--No. MARK'S BABY [Sidenote: _Mark Twain_] "Mark, one day, was found at home, in his library, dandling upon his knee, with every appearance of fond 'parientness,' the young Twain--so young as not yet to be able to 'walk upright and make bargains.' Mrs. Twain, on showing the visitor into the sanctum, and finding her spouse thus engaged, said: "'Now, Mark, you _know_ you love that baby--don't you?'