Without your Gold mere
Knowledge
fails
To sate the swinish appetite!
To sate the swinish appetite!
Lewis Carroll
_
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new
It was matter for general remark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
In his zeal to discover the Snark.
But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,
A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh
And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,
For he knew it was useless to fly.
He offered large discount--he offered a cheque
(Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten:
But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck
And grabbed at the Banker again.
Without rest or pause--while those frumious jaws
Went savagely snapping around--
He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,
Till fainting he fell to the ground.
The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared
Led on by that fear-stricken yell:
And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared! "
And solemnly tolled on his bell.
He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace
The least likeness to what he had been:
While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white--
A wonderful thing to be seen!
[Illustration: "SO GREAT WAS HIS FRIGHT THAT HIS WAISTCOAT TURNED WHITE. "]
To the horror of all who were present that day,
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express.
Down he sank in a chair--ran his hands through his hair--
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.
"Leave him here to his fate--it is getting so late! "
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
"We have lost half the day. Any further delay,
And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night! "
Fit the Eighth.
_THE VANISHING. _
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
They shuddered to think that the chase might fail,
And the Beaver, excited at last,
Went bounding along on the tip of its tail,
For the daylight was nearly past.
"There is Thingumbob shouting! " the Bellman said.
"He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found a Snark! "
They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed
"He was always a desperate wag! "
They beheld him--their Baker--their hero unnamed--
On the top of a neighbouring crag,
Erect and sublime, for one moment of time.
In the next, that wild figure they saw
(As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm,
While they waited and listened in awe.
"It's a Snark! " was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers:
Then the ominous words "It's a Boo--"
Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A weary and wandering sigh
That sounded like "--jum! " but the others declare
It was only a breeze that went by.
[Illustration: "THEN, SILENCE"]
They hunted till darkness came on, but they found
Not a button, or feather, or mark,
By which they could tell that they stood on the ground
Where the Baker had met with the Snark.
In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away--
For the Snark _was_ a Boojum, you see.
SIZE AND TEARS.
[Illustration]
When on the sandy shore I sit,
Beside the salt sea-wave,
And fall into a weeping fit
Because I dare not shave--
A little whisper at my ear
Enquires the reason of my fear.
I answer "If that ruffian Jones
Should recognise me here,
He'd bellow out my name in tones
Offensive to the ear:
He chaffs me so on being stout
(A thing that always puts me out). "
Ah me! I see him on the cliff!
Farewell, farewell to hope,
If he should look this way, and if
He's got his telescope!
To whatsoever place I flee,
My odious rival follows me!
For every night, and everywhere,
I meet him out at dinner;
And when I've found some charming fair,
And vowed to die or win her,
The wretch (he's thin and I am stout)
Is sure to come and cut me out!
[Illustration: "HE'S THIN AND I AM STOUT"]
The girls (just like them! ) all agree
To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what on earth they see
About him to admire?
They cry "He is so sleek and slim,
It's quite a treat to look at him! "
They vanish in tobacco smoke,
Those visionary maids--
I feel a sharp and sudden poke
Between the shoulder-blades--
"Why, Brown, my boy! You're growing stout! "
(I told you he would find me out! )
"My growth is not _your_ business, Sir! "
"No more it is, my boy!
But if it's _yours_, as I infer,
Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man, whose business prospers so,
Is just the sort of man to know!
"It's hardly safe, though, talking here--
I'd best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
Must shortly sink the beach! "--
Insult me thus because I'm stout!
I vow I'll go and call him out!
[Illustration]
ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN.
Ay, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had heard all that nonsense before. "
She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought
into fashion.
[Illustration]
I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri--
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn't abide that
Dundreary. "
Then I thought "'Tis for me
That she whines and she whimpers! "
And it soothed me to see
Those sensational simpers,
And I said "This is scrumptious! "--a phrase I had learned from the
Devonshire shrimpers.
And I vowed "'Twill be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange-blossoms
are yellow! "
O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise--
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs.
And I whispered "'Tis time!
Is not Love at its deepest?
Shall we squander Life's prime,
While thou waitest and weepest?
Let us settle it, License or Banns? --though undoubtedly Banns are the
cheapest. "
"Ah, my Hero," said I,
"Let me be thy Leander! "
But I lost her reply--
Something ending with "gander"--
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand
her.
THE LANG COORTIN'.
The ladye she stood at her lattice high,
Wi' her doggie at her feet;
Thorough the lattice she can spy
The passers in the street.
"There's one that standeth at the door,
And tirleth at the pin:
Now speak and say, my popinjay,
If I sall let him in. "
Then up and spake the popinjay
That flew abune her head:
"Gae let him in that tirls the pin:
He cometh thee to wed. "
O when he cam' the parlour in,
A woeful man was he!
"And dinna ye ken your lover agen,
Sae well that loveth thee? "
[Illustration]
"And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,
That have been sae lang away?
And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?
Ye never telled me sae. "
Said--"Ladye dear," and the salt, salt tear
Cam' rinnin' doon his cheek,
"I have sent thee tokens of my love
This many and many a week.
"O didna ye get the rings, Ladye,
The rings o' the gowd sae fine?
I wot that I have sent to thee
Four score, four score and nine. "
"They cam' to me," said that fair ladye.
"Wow, they were flimsie things! "
Said--"that chain o' gowd, my doggie to howd,
It is made o' thae self-same rings. "
"And didna ye get the locks, the locks,
The locks o' my ain black hair,
Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box,
Whilk I sent by the carrier? "
"They cam' to me," said that fair ladye;
"And I prithee send nae mair! "
Said--"that cushion sae red, for my doggie's head,
It is stuffed wi' thae locks o' hair. "
"And didna ye get the letter, Ladye,
Tied wi' a silken string,
Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,
A message of love to bring? "
"It cam' to me frae the far countrie
Wi' its silken string and a';
But it wasna prepaid," said that high-born maid,
"Sae I gar'd them tak' it awa'. "
"O ever alack that ye sent it back,
It was written sae clerkly and well!
Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,
I must even say it mysel'. "
Then up and spake the popinjay,
Sae wisely counselled he.
"Now say it in the proper way:
Gae doon upon thy knee! "
The lover he turned baith red and pale,
Went doon upon his knee:
"O Ladye, hear the waesome tale
That must be told to thee!
"For five lang years, and five lang years,
I coorted thee by looks;
By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,
As I had read in books.
"For ten lang years, O weary hours!
I coorted thee by signs;
By sending game, by sending flowers,
By sending Valentines.
"For five lang years, and five lang years,
I have dwelt in the far countrie,
Till that thy mind should be inclined
Mair tenderly to me.
"Now thirty years are gane and past,
I am come frae a foreign land:
I am come to tell thee my love at last--
O Ladye, gie me thy hand! "
The ladye she turned not pale nor red,
But she smiled a pitiful smile:
"Sic' a coortin' as yours, my man," she said
"Takes a lang and a weary while! "
And out and laughed the popinjay,
A laugh of bitter scorn:
"A coortin' done in sic' a way,
It ought not to be borne! "
[Illustration: "AND OUT AND LAUGHED THE POPINJAY"]
Wi' that the doggie barked aloud,
And up and doon he ran,
And tugged and strained his chain o' gowd,
All for to bite the man.
"O hush thee, gentle popinjay!
O hush thee, doggie dear!
There is a word I fain wad say,
It needeth he should hear! "
Aye louder screamed that ladye fair
To drown her doggie's bark:
Ever the lover shouted mair
To make that ladye hark:
Shrill and more shrill the popinjay
Upraised his angry squall:
I trow the doggie's voice that day
Was louder than them all!
The serving-men and serving-maids
Sat by the kitchen fire:
They heard sic' a din the parlour within
As made them much admire.
[Illustration: "O HUSH THEE, GENTLE POPINJAY! "]
Out spake the boy in buttons
(I ween he wasna thin),
"Now wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay this deadlie din? "
And they have taen a kerchief,
Casted their kevils in,
For wha should tae the parlour gae,
And stay that deadlie din.
When on that boy the kevil fell
To stay the fearsome noise,
"Gae in," they cried, "whate'er betide,
Thou prince of button-boys! "
Syne, he has taen a supple cane
To swinge that dog sae fat:
The doggie yowled, the doggie howled
The louder aye for that.
Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane--
The doggie ceased his noise,
And followed doon the kitchen stair
That prince of button-boys!
[Illustration: "THE DOGGIE CEASED HIS NOISE"]
Then sadly spake that ladye fair,
Wi' a frown upon her brow:
"O dearer to me is my sma' doggie
Than a dozen sic' as thou!
"Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:
Nae use at all to fret:
Sin' ye've bided sae well for thirty years,
Ye may bide a wee langer yet! "
Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor
And tirled at the pin:
Sadly went he through the door
Where sadly he cam' in.
"O gin I had a popinjay
To fly abune my head,
To tell me what I ought to say,
I had by this been wed.
"O gin I find anither ladye,"
He said wi' sighs and tears,
"I wot my coortin' sall not be
Anither thirty years:
"For gin I find a ladye gay,
Exactly to my taste,
I'll pop the question, aye or nay,
In twenty years at maist. "
[Illustration]
FOUR RIDDLES.
[These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.
No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a
ball at an Oxford Commemoration--and also as a specimen of what might be
done by making the Double Acrostic _a connected poem_ instead of what it
has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable
subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a
Cyclopaedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each
subsequent stanza one of the cross "lights. "
No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of
"Hamlet. " In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.
No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr.
Gilbert's play of "Pygmalion and Galatea. " The three stanzas respectively
describe "My First," "My Second," and "My Whole. "]
I.
There was an ancient City, stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,
And danced the night away.
I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:
They pointed to a building gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered "Step inside, my lad,
And then you'll see it all. "
* * * * *
Yet what are all such gaieties to me
Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?
x{2} + 7x + 53
= 11/3.
But something whispered "It will soon be done:
Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while! "
A change came o'er my Vision--it was night:
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:
The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.
Within a marble hall a river ran--
A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;
And here one offered to a thirsty fair
(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A tooth-ache in each spoonful.
There comes a happy pause, for human strength
Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.
At such a moment ladies learn to give,
To partners who would urge them over-much,
A flat and yet decided negative--
Photographers love such.
There comes a welcome summons--hope revives,
And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and chicken.
Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion--
Much like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.
And thus they give the time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.
And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.
How late it grows! The hour is surely past
That should have warned us with its double-knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last--
"Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock? "
The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.
It _may_ mean much, but how is one to know?
He opes his mouth--yet out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.
II.
Empress of Art, for thee I twine
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!
* * * * *
O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?
And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!
But all is lost: that mighty mind o'erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
"Doubt that the stars are fire," so runs his moan,
"Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee! "
A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?
Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leaden-footed hours.
III.
The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there's an end to mirth and play.
Ah, well-a-day!
Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, well-a-day!
O fair cold face! O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
"Leave us not thus! " we fondly pray.
"We cannot let thee pass away! "
Ah, well-a-day!
IV.
My First is singular at best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralest--
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!
My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.
My First to get at wisdom tries--
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.
My First is ageing day by day:
My Second's age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.
My Whole? I need a poet's pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men--
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes--
A flashing light--a fleeting shade--
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised! Go, seek _her_ aid,
If you would read my riddle!
FAME'S PENNY-TRUMPET.
[Affectionately dedicated to all "original researchers" who pant for
"endowment. "]
Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back--
Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!
Fill all the air with hungry wails--
"Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite! "
And, where great Plato paced serene,
Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty!
Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days
By naming them along with you.
They sought and found undying fame:
They toiled not for reward nor thanks:
Their cheeks are hot with honest shame
For you, the modern mountebanks!
Who preach of Justice--plead with tears
That Love and Mercy should abound--
While marking with complacent ears
The moaning of some tortured hound:
Who prate of Wisdom--nay, forbear,
Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,
Trampling, with heel that will not spare,
The vermin that beset her path!
Go, throng each other's drawing-rooms,
Ye idols of a petty clique:
Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,
And make your penny-trumpets squeak:
[Illustration: "GO, THRONG EACH OTHER'S DRAWING-ROOMS"]
Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds
Of learning from a nobler time,
And oil each other's little heads
With mutual Flattery's golden slime:
And when the topmost height ye gain,
And stand in Glory's ether clear,
And grasp the prize of all your pain--
So many hundred pounds a year--
Then let Fame's banner be unfurled!
Sing Paeans for a victory won!
Ye tapers, that would light the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun--
Who still shall pour His rays sublime,
One crystal flood, from East to West,
When ye have burned your little time
And feebly flickered into rest!
THE END.
[TURN OVER.
WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL.
ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With Forty-two Illustrations by TENNIEL.
Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6_s. _ Seventy-first Thousand.
TRANSLATIONS OF THE SAME--into French, by HENRI BUE--into German, by
ANTONIE ZIMMERMANN--and into Italian, by T. PIETROCOLA ROSSETTI--with
TENNIEL'S Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6_s. _ each.
THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With Fifty
Illustrations by TENNIEL. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6_s. _
Fifty-second Thousand.
RHYME? AND REASON? With Sixty-five Illustrations by ARTHUR B. FROST, and
Nine by HENRY HOLIDAY. (This book is a reprint, with a few additions, of
the comic portion of "Phantasmagoria and other Poems," and of "The Hunting
of the Snark. " Mr. Frost's pictures are new. ) Crown 8vo, cloth, coloured
edges, price 7_s. _
N. B. In selling the above-mentioned books to the Trade, Messrs. Macmillan
and Co. will abate 2_d. _ in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per
cent. discount for payment within six months, and 10 per cent. for cash.
In selling them to the Public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent.
discount.
MR. LEWIS CARROLL, having been requested to allow "AN EASTER GREETING" (a
leaflet, addressed to children, and frequently given with his books) to be
sold separately, has arranged with Messrs. HARRISON, of 59, Pall Mall, who
will supply a single copy for 1_d. _, or 12 for 9_d. _, or 100 for 5_s. _
MACMILLAN & CO. , LONDON.
LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
Transcriber's Notes:
Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.
Superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}.
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1. F. 3.
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new
It was matter for general remark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
In his zeal to discover the Snark.
But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,
A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh
And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,
For he knew it was useless to fly.
He offered large discount--he offered a cheque
(Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten:
But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck
And grabbed at the Banker again.
Without rest or pause--while those frumious jaws
Went savagely snapping around--
He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,
Till fainting he fell to the ground.
The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared
Led on by that fear-stricken yell:
And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared! "
And solemnly tolled on his bell.
He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace
The least likeness to what he had been:
While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white--
A wonderful thing to be seen!
[Illustration: "SO GREAT WAS HIS FRIGHT THAT HIS WAISTCOAT TURNED WHITE. "]
To the horror of all who were present that day,
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express.
Down he sank in a chair--ran his hands through his hair--
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.
"Leave him here to his fate--it is getting so late! "
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
"We have lost half the day. Any further delay,
And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night! "
Fit the Eighth.
_THE VANISHING. _
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
They shuddered to think that the chase might fail,
And the Beaver, excited at last,
Went bounding along on the tip of its tail,
For the daylight was nearly past.
"There is Thingumbob shouting! " the Bellman said.
"He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found a Snark! "
They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed
"He was always a desperate wag! "
They beheld him--their Baker--their hero unnamed--
On the top of a neighbouring crag,
Erect and sublime, for one moment of time.
In the next, that wild figure they saw
(As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm,
While they waited and listened in awe.
"It's a Snark! " was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers:
Then the ominous words "It's a Boo--"
Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A weary and wandering sigh
That sounded like "--jum! " but the others declare
It was only a breeze that went by.
[Illustration: "THEN, SILENCE"]
They hunted till darkness came on, but they found
Not a button, or feather, or mark,
By which they could tell that they stood on the ground
Where the Baker had met with the Snark.
In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away--
For the Snark _was_ a Boojum, you see.
SIZE AND TEARS.
[Illustration]
When on the sandy shore I sit,
Beside the salt sea-wave,
And fall into a weeping fit
Because I dare not shave--
A little whisper at my ear
Enquires the reason of my fear.
I answer "If that ruffian Jones
Should recognise me here,
He'd bellow out my name in tones
Offensive to the ear:
He chaffs me so on being stout
(A thing that always puts me out). "
Ah me! I see him on the cliff!
Farewell, farewell to hope,
If he should look this way, and if
He's got his telescope!
To whatsoever place I flee,
My odious rival follows me!
For every night, and everywhere,
I meet him out at dinner;
And when I've found some charming fair,
And vowed to die or win her,
The wretch (he's thin and I am stout)
Is sure to come and cut me out!
[Illustration: "HE'S THIN AND I AM STOUT"]
The girls (just like them! ) all agree
To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what on earth they see
About him to admire?
They cry "He is so sleek and slim,
It's quite a treat to look at him! "
They vanish in tobacco smoke,
Those visionary maids--
I feel a sharp and sudden poke
Between the shoulder-blades--
"Why, Brown, my boy! You're growing stout! "
(I told you he would find me out! )
"My growth is not _your_ business, Sir! "
"No more it is, my boy!
But if it's _yours_, as I infer,
Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man, whose business prospers so,
Is just the sort of man to know!
"It's hardly safe, though, talking here--
I'd best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
Must shortly sink the beach! "--
Insult me thus because I'm stout!
I vow I'll go and call him out!
[Illustration]
ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN.
Ay, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had heard all that nonsense before. "
She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought
into fashion.
[Illustration]
I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri--
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn't abide that
Dundreary. "
Then I thought "'Tis for me
That she whines and she whimpers! "
And it soothed me to see
Those sensational simpers,
And I said "This is scrumptious! "--a phrase I had learned from the
Devonshire shrimpers.
And I vowed "'Twill be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange-blossoms
are yellow! "
O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise--
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs.
And I whispered "'Tis time!
Is not Love at its deepest?
Shall we squander Life's prime,
While thou waitest and weepest?
Let us settle it, License or Banns? --though undoubtedly Banns are the
cheapest. "
"Ah, my Hero," said I,
"Let me be thy Leander! "
But I lost her reply--
Something ending with "gander"--
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand
her.
THE LANG COORTIN'.
The ladye she stood at her lattice high,
Wi' her doggie at her feet;
Thorough the lattice she can spy
The passers in the street.
"There's one that standeth at the door,
And tirleth at the pin:
Now speak and say, my popinjay,
If I sall let him in. "
Then up and spake the popinjay
That flew abune her head:
"Gae let him in that tirls the pin:
He cometh thee to wed. "
O when he cam' the parlour in,
A woeful man was he!
"And dinna ye ken your lover agen,
Sae well that loveth thee? "
[Illustration]
"And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,
That have been sae lang away?
And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?
Ye never telled me sae. "
Said--"Ladye dear," and the salt, salt tear
Cam' rinnin' doon his cheek,
"I have sent thee tokens of my love
This many and many a week.
"O didna ye get the rings, Ladye,
The rings o' the gowd sae fine?
I wot that I have sent to thee
Four score, four score and nine. "
"They cam' to me," said that fair ladye.
"Wow, they were flimsie things! "
Said--"that chain o' gowd, my doggie to howd,
It is made o' thae self-same rings. "
"And didna ye get the locks, the locks,
The locks o' my ain black hair,
Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box,
Whilk I sent by the carrier? "
"They cam' to me," said that fair ladye;
"And I prithee send nae mair! "
Said--"that cushion sae red, for my doggie's head,
It is stuffed wi' thae locks o' hair. "
"And didna ye get the letter, Ladye,
Tied wi' a silken string,
Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,
A message of love to bring? "
"It cam' to me frae the far countrie
Wi' its silken string and a';
But it wasna prepaid," said that high-born maid,
"Sae I gar'd them tak' it awa'. "
"O ever alack that ye sent it back,
It was written sae clerkly and well!
Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,
I must even say it mysel'. "
Then up and spake the popinjay,
Sae wisely counselled he.
"Now say it in the proper way:
Gae doon upon thy knee! "
The lover he turned baith red and pale,
Went doon upon his knee:
"O Ladye, hear the waesome tale
That must be told to thee!
"For five lang years, and five lang years,
I coorted thee by looks;
By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,
As I had read in books.
"For ten lang years, O weary hours!
I coorted thee by signs;
By sending game, by sending flowers,
By sending Valentines.
"For five lang years, and five lang years,
I have dwelt in the far countrie,
Till that thy mind should be inclined
Mair tenderly to me.
"Now thirty years are gane and past,
I am come frae a foreign land:
I am come to tell thee my love at last--
O Ladye, gie me thy hand! "
The ladye she turned not pale nor red,
But she smiled a pitiful smile:
"Sic' a coortin' as yours, my man," she said
"Takes a lang and a weary while! "
And out and laughed the popinjay,
A laugh of bitter scorn:
"A coortin' done in sic' a way,
It ought not to be borne! "
[Illustration: "AND OUT AND LAUGHED THE POPINJAY"]
Wi' that the doggie barked aloud,
And up and doon he ran,
And tugged and strained his chain o' gowd,
All for to bite the man.
"O hush thee, gentle popinjay!
O hush thee, doggie dear!
There is a word I fain wad say,
It needeth he should hear! "
Aye louder screamed that ladye fair
To drown her doggie's bark:
Ever the lover shouted mair
To make that ladye hark:
Shrill and more shrill the popinjay
Upraised his angry squall:
I trow the doggie's voice that day
Was louder than them all!
The serving-men and serving-maids
Sat by the kitchen fire:
They heard sic' a din the parlour within
As made them much admire.
[Illustration: "O HUSH THEE, GENTLE POPINJAY! "]
Out spake the boy in buttons
(I ween he wasna thin),
"Now wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay this deadlie din? "
And they have taen a kerchief,
Casted their kevils in,
For wha should tae the parlour gae,
And stay that deadlie din.
When on that boy the kevil fell
To stay the fearsome noise,
"Gae in," they cried, "whate'er betide,
Thou prince of button-boys! "
Syne, he has taen a supple cane
To swinge that dog sae fat:
The doggie yowled, the doggie howled
The louder aye for that.
Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane--
The doggie ceased his noise,
And followed doon the kitchen stair
That prince of button-boys!
[Illustration: "THE DOGGIE CEASED HIS NOISE"]
Then sadly spake that ladye fair,
Wi' a frown upon her brow:
"O dearer to me is my sma' doggie
Than a dozen sic' as thou!
"Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:
Nae use at all to fret:
Sin' ye've bided sae well for thirty years,
Ye may bide a wee langer yet! "
Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor
And tirled at the pin:
Sadly went he through the door
Where sadly he cam' in.
"O gin I had a popinjay
To fly abune my head,
To tell me what I ought to say,
I had by this been wed.
"O gin I find anither ladye,"
He said wi' sighs and tears,
"I wot my coortin' sall not be
Anither thirty years:
"For gin I find a ladye gay,
Exactly to my taste,
I'll pop the question, aye or nay,
In twenty years at maist. "
[Illustration]
FOUR RIDDLES.
[These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.
No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a
ball at an Oxford Commemoration--and also as a specimen of what might be
done by making the Double Acrostic _a connected poem_ instead of what it
has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable
subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a
Cyclopaedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each
subsequent stanza one of the cross "lights. "
No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of
"Hamlet. " In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.
No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr.
Gilbert's play of "Pygmalion and Galatea. " The three stanzas respectively
describe "My First," "My Second," and "My Whole. "]
I.
There was an ancient City, stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,
And danced the night away.
I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:
They pointed to a building gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered "Step inside, my lad,
And then you'll see it all. "
* * * * *
Yet what are all such gaieties to me
Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?
x{2} + 7x + 53
= 11/3.
But something whispered "It will soon be done:
Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while! "
A change came o'er my Vision--it was night:
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:
The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.
Within a marble hall a river ran--
A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;
And here one offered to a thirsty fair
(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A tooth-ache in each spoonful.
There comes a happy pause, for human strength
Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.
At such a moment ladies learn to give,
To partners who would urge them over-much,
A flat and yet decided negative--
Photographers love such.
There comes a welcome summons--hope revives,
And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and chicken.
Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion--
Much like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.
And thus they give the time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.
And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.
How late it grows! The hour is surely past
That should have warned us with its double-knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last--
"Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock? "
The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.
It _may_ mean much, but how is one to know?
He opes his mouth--yet out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.
II.
Empress of Art, for thee I twine
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!
* * * * *
O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?
And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!
But all is lost: that mighty mind o'erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
"Doubt that the stars are fire," so runs his moan,
"Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee! "
A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?
Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leaden-footed hours.
III.
The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there's an end to mirth and play.
Ah, well-a-day!
Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, well-a-day!
O fair cold face! O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
"Leave us not thus! " we fondly pray.
"We cannot let thee pass away! "
Ah, well-a-day!
IV.
My First is singular at best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralest--
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!
My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.
My First to get at wisdom tries--
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.
My First is ageing day by day:
My Second's age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.
My Whole? I need a poet's pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men--
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes--
A flashing light--a fleeting shade--
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised! Go, seek _her_ aid,
If you would read my riddle!
FAME'S PENNY-TRUMPET.
[Affectionately dedicated to all "original researchers" who pant for
"endowment. "]
Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back--
Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!
Fill all the air with hungry wails--
"Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite! "
And, where great Plato paced serene,
Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty!
Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days
By naming them along with you.
They sought and found undying fame:
They toiled not for reward nor thanks:
Their cheeks are hot with honest shame
For you, the modern mountebanks!
Who preach of Justice--plead with tears
That Love and Mercy should abound--
While marking with complacent ears
The moaning of some tortured hound:
Who prate of Wisdom--nay, forbear,
Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,
Trampling, with heel that will not spare,
The vermin that beset her path!
Go, throng each other's drawing-rooms,
Ye idols of a petty clique:
Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,
And make your penny-trumpets squeak:
[Illustration: "GO, THRONG EACH OTHER'S DRAWING-ROOMS"]
Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds
Of learning from a nobler time,
And oil each other's little heads
With mutual Flattery's golden slime:
And when the topmost height ye gain,
And stand in Glory's ether clear,
And grasp the prize of all your pain--
So many hundred pounds a year--
Then let Fame's banner be unfurled!
Sing Paeans for a victory won!
Ye tapers, that would light the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun--
Who still shall pour His rays sublime,
One crystal flood, from East to West,
When ye have burned your little time
And feebly flickered into rest!
THE END.
[TURN OVER.
WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL.
ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With Forty-two Illustrations by TENNIEL.
Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6_s. _ Seventy-first Thousand.
TRANSLATIONS OF THE SAME--into French, by HENRI BUE--into German, by
ANTONIE ZIMMERMANN--and into Italian, by T. PIETROCOLA ROSSETTI--with
TENNIEL'S Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6_s. _ each.
THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With Fifty
Illustrations by TENNIEL. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6_s. _
Fifty-second Thousand.
RHYME? AND REASON? With Sixty-five Illustrations by ARTHUR B. FROST, and
Nine by HENRY HOLIDAY. (This book is a reprint, with a few additions, of
the comic portion of "Phantasmagoria and other Poems," and of "The Hunting
of the Snark. " Mr. Frost's pictures are new. ) Crown 8vo, cloth, coloured
edges, price 7_s. _
N. B. In selling the above-mentioned books to the Trade, Messrs. Macmillan
and Co. will abate 2_d. _ in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per
cent. discount for payment within six months, and 10 per cent. for cash.
In selling them to the Public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent.
discount.
MR. LEWIS CARROLL, having been requested to allow "AN EASTER GREETING" (a
leaflet, addressed to children, and frequently given with his books) to be
sold separately, has arranged with Messrs. HARRISON, of 59, Pall Mall, who
will supply a single copy for 1_d. _, or 12 for 9_d. _, or 100 for 5_s. _
MACMILLAN & CO. , LONDON.
LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
Transcriber's Notes:
Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.
Superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}.
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