Act 2. Sir Walter has dress'd himself up like a Ghost, And frightens a soldier away from his post; Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher, Draws it over his ears, and pretends he's a Friar. This gains him access to his Sweetheart, Miss Faucit; But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet, Where, oddly enough, among some of her things He discovers some arrows he's sure are the King's, Of the very same pattern with that which he found Sticking into his father when dead on the ground! Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door, Bounces into the Drawing-room, stamps on the floor, With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye, And blows up King William the Second sky-high, Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs, That his Majesty bids his men kick him down stairs.
Act 3. 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 F., 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 his quarrel, Walks down to the foot-lights, 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 for fun!"
JOHN POOLEDOUNE,
THE VICTIM OF IMPROVEMENTS!
It was on a fine warm day in June, several years before Beulah Spa was invented, that, eviting leafy Hampstead, and airy Highgate, and woody Hornsey, John Pooledoune, with a party of companions, sought the delights of a rural ramble and pic-nic, amid the sylvan scenery of Norwood. Of the journey thither, the sporting there, the banquet on the grass, the hilarious after-dinner bumpers, the casting away of bottles, and the wide-spread waste of orts, there is no occasion to speak; suffice it to state, that the frolic and profusion attracted a visit from a couple of dark-haired and bright-glancing Gipsies, whose sojourn was thereabouts, and who, though reckless of the present, were, or pretended to be, deeply read in the future. Their appearance added to the merriment of the occasion; and, with that natural curiosity which belongs to human nature, our revellers agreed to have a peep into futurity palmed upon them, at the small cost of a few silver coins. One after another were their lines submitted to Sibyllic inspection; and loud were their laughs as the pretty "brows of Egypt" bent over their destinies, and told of coming estates, and wives, and children, and, sooth to add, little amours and indiscretions which nevertheless promised pleasures hardly less acceptable to the expectant listeners. At length it fell to the turn of Jack Pooledoune, who was indeed so well off in the world, that he had little either to hope or to fear from the fickle goddess; when, all at once, a sudden chill crept over the group, "a change came o'er the spirit of their dream," and the hitherto gay and giggling priestesses of mystery assumed aspects of horror and dismay. What before was curiosity was now intense interest. Whence the cause of this awful alteration?—why had mirth in a moment given place to these boding looks and signs of terror? Time and our tale will show; and we have only here to record the prediction reluctantly wrung from one of the distraught and shuddering Gipsies.
"Oh! strange unfortunate Fortunate!" she exclaimed as she conned John Pooledoune's hand,
"By making rich, made poor; By making happy, miserable; By amending, hurt; by curing, slain;
never Lost on earth, alive or dead, yet Found by numbers; bodiless corpse; The Victim of Improvement, for ever to improve;—