Bathos, ineptitude, and lines that refuse to scan are the stigmata of visitors’-book verse. There is no worse “poetry” on earth than that which lurks between those covers, or in the pages of young ladies’ albums, the last refuge of drivel and impertinence. People who would be ashamed to own their verse elsewhere will write and sign it in a Visitors’ Book; and thus we find, for example, at the “King’s Arms” at Malmesbury, the following, signed by Bishop Potter of New York: Three savages from far New York Found rest, refreshment here; And grateful for the King’s Arms, Bear memory of good cheer. All blessings rest on Hostess Jones, And her good spouse as well; Of their kind thought for tired bones Our countrymen will tell. Let us hope his divinity is better than his metrical efforts. The interesting pages of Visitors’ Books are generally those that are not there, as an Irishman might say; for the world is populated very densely with those appreciative people who, whether from a love of literature, or with an instinct for collecting autographs that may have a realisable value, remove the signatures of distinguished men, and with them anything original they may have written. Many years ago Charles Kingsley, Tom Taylor, dramatist and sometime editor of _Punch_, and Thomas Hughes, author of that classic, _Tom Brown’s Schooldays_, were staying at the Penygwryd Hotel, on the summit of Llanberis Pass, North Wales, and wrote a long set of verses in the Visitors’ Book; but the pages were stolen, long, since, and now you do but come to that book by asking very nicely for it, and then it is produced from a locked cupboard. Here are the verses, the respective authors identified by the initials over each. It will clearly be seen that those three were sadly in want of occupation, and were wound up for a long run: T. T. I came to Penygwryd With colours armed and pencils, But found no use whatever For any such utensils; So in default of them I took To using knives and forks, And made successful drawings-- Of Mrs. Owen’s corks! C. K. I came to Penygwryd In frantic hopes of slaying Grilse, salmon, three-pound red-fleshed trout, And what else there’s no saying; But bitter cold and lashing rain, And black nor’-eastern skies, sir, Drove me from fish to botany, A sadder man and wiser. T. H. I came to Penygwryd A-larking with my betters, A mad wag and a mad poet-- Both of them men of letters; Which two ungrateful parties, After all the care I’ve took Of them, make me write verses In Henry Owen’s book. T. T. We’ve been mist-soak’d on Snowdon, Mist-soak’d on Glyder Fawr; We’ve been wet through on an average Every day three times an hour. We’ve walk’d the upper leathers From the soles of our balmorals, And as sketchers and as fishers With the weather have had our quarrels. C. K.