No More Learning

]




RHYME?
AND REASON?


BY LEWIS CARROLL


_WITH SIXTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS_
BY ARTHUR B. FROST

_AND NINE_
BY HENRY HOLIDAY


I have had nor rhyme nor reason


_PRICE SEVEN SHILLINGS_
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1883
[_All Rights Reserved_]



London:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR
BREAD STREET HILL, E. C.




Inscribed to a dear Child:
in memory of golden summer hours
and whispers of a summer sea.

* * * * *

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
The tale one loves to tell.

Rude scoffer of the seething outer strife,
Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem, if thou wilt, such hours a waste of life,
Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled;
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
The heart-love of a child!

Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!
Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days
Albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore
Yet haunt my dreaming gaze!




[Of the following poems, ECHOES, A GAME OF FIVES, the last three of the
FOUR RIDDLES, and FAME'S PENNY-TRUMPET, are here published for the first
time. The others have all appeared before, as have also the illustrations
to THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK. ]




CONTENTS.


PAGE

PHANTASMAGORIA, in Seven Cantos:--

I. The Trystyng 1

II. Hys Fyve Rules 10

III. Scarmoges 18

IV. Hys Nouryture 26

V. Byckerment 34

VI. Dyscomfyture 44

VII. Sad Souvenaunce 53

ECHOES 58

A SEA DIRGE 59

Y{E} CARPETTE KNYGHTE 64

HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING 66

MELANCHOLETTA 78

A VALENTINE 84

THE THREE VOICES:--

The First Voice 87

The Second Voice 98

The Third Voice 109

TEMA CON VARIAZIONI 118

A GAME OF FIVES 120

POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR 123

THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK, an Agony in Eight Fits:--

I. THE LANDING 134

II. THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH 142

III. THE BAKER'S TALE 148

IV. THE HUNTING 153

V. THE BEAVER'S LESSON 159

VI. THE BARRISTER'S DREAM 167

VII. THE BANKER'S FATE 173

VIII. THE VANISHING 177

SIZE AND TEARS 181

ATALANTA IN CAMDEN TOWN 186

THE LANG COORTIN' 190

FOUR RIDDLES 202

FAME'S PENNY-TRUMPET 211




PHANTASMAGORIA.


CANTO I.

The Trystyng.

One winter night, at half-past nine,
Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy,
I had come home, too late to dine,
And supper, with cigars and wine,
Was waiting in the study.

There was a strangeness in the room,
And Something white and wavy
Was standing near me in the gloom--
_I_ took it for the carpet-broom
Left by that careless slavey.

[Illustration]

But presently the Thing began
To shiver and to sneeze:
On which I said "Come, come, my man!
That's a most inconsiderate plan.
Less noise there, if you please! "

"I've caught a cold," the Thing replies,
"Out there upon the landing. "
I turned to look in some surprise,
And there, before my very eyes,
A little Ghost was standing!

He trembled when he caught my eye,
And got behind a chair.
"How came you here," I said, "and why?
I never saw a thing so shy.
Come out! Don't shiver there! "

He said "I'd gladly tell you how,
And also tell you why;
But" (here he gave a little bow)
"You're in so bad a temper now,
You'd think it all a lie.

"And as to being in a fright,
Allow me to remark
That Ghosts have just as good a right,
In every way, to fear the light,
As Men to fear the dark. "

"No plea," said I, "can well excuse
Such cowardice in you:
For Ghosts can visit when they choose,
Whereas we Humans ca'n't refuse
To grant the interview. "

He said "A flutter of alarm
Is not unnatural, is it?
I really feared you meant some harm:
But, now I see that you are calm,
Let me explain my visit.

"Houses are classed, I beg to state,
According to the number
Of Ghosts that they accommodate:
(The Tenant merely counts as _weight_,
With Coals and other lumber).

"This is a 'one-ghost' house, and you
When you arrived last summer,
May have remarked a Spectre who
Was doing all that Ghosts can do
To welcome the new-comer.

"In Villas this is always done--
However cheaply rented:
For, though of course there's less of fun
When there is only room for one,
Ghosts have to be contented.

"That Spectre left you on the Third--
Since then you've not been haunted:
For, as he never sent us word,
'Twas quite by accident we heard
That any one was wanted.

"A Spectre has first choice, by right,
In filling up a vacancy;
Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite--
If all these fail them, they invite
The nicest Ghoul that they can see.

"The Spectres said the place was low,
And that you kept bad wine:
So, as a Phantom had to go,
And I was first, of course, you know,
I couldn't well decline. "

"No doubt," said I, "they settled who
Was fittest to be sent:
Yet still to choose a brat like you,
To haunt a man of forty-two,
Was no great compliment! "

"I'm not so young, Sir," he replied,
"As you might think. The fact is,
In caverns by the water-side,
And other places that I've tried,
I've had a lot of practice:

"But I have never taken yet
A strict domestic part,
And in my flurry I forget
The Five Good Rules of Etiquette
We have to know by heart. "

My sympathies were warming fast
Towards the little fellow:
He was so utterly aghast
At having found a Man at last,
And looked so scared and yellow.

[Illustration: "IN CAVERNS BY THE WATER-SIDE"]

"At least," I said, "I'm glad to find
A Ghost is not a _dumb_ thing!
But pray sit down: you'll feel inclined
(If, like myself, you have not dined)
To take a snack of something:

"Though, certainly, you don't appear
A thing to offer _food_ to!
And then I shall be glad to hear--
If you will say them loud and clear--
The Rules that you allude to. "

"Thanks! You shall hear them by and by
This _is_ a piece of luck! "
"What may I offer you? " said I.
"Well, since you _are_ so kind, I'll try
A little bit of duck.

"_One_ slice! And may I ask you for
Another drop of gravy? "
I sat and looked at him in awe,
For certainly I never saw
A thing so white and wavy.

[Illustration]

And still he seemed to grow more white,
More vapoury, and wavier--
Seen in the dim and flickering light,
As he proceeded to recite
His "Maxims of Behaviour. "


CANTO II.

Hys Fyve Rules.

"My First--but don't suppose," he said,
"I'm setting you a riddle--
Is--if your Victim be in bed,
Don't touch the curtains at his head,
But take them in the middle,

"And wave them slowly in and out,
While drawing them asunder;
And in a minute's time, no doubt,
He'll raise his head and look about
With eyes of wrath and wonder.

"And here you must on no pretence
Make the first observation.
Wait for the Victim to commence:
No Ghost of any common sense
Begins a conversation.

[Illustration]

"If he should say '_How came you here? _'
(The way that _you_ began, Sir,)
In such a case your course is clear--
'_On the bat's back, my little dear! _'
Is the appropriate answer.

"If after this he says no more,
You'd best perhaps curtail your
Exertions--go and shake the door,
And then, if he begins to snore,
You'll know the thing's a failure.

"By day, if he should be alone--
At home or on a walk--
You merely give a hollow groan,
To indicate the kind of tone
In which you mean to talk.

"But if you find him with his friends,
The thing is rather harder.
In such a case success depends
On picking up some candle-ends,
Or butter, in the larder.

"With this you make a kind of slide
(It answers best with suet),
On which you must contrive to glide,
And swing yourself from side to side--
One soon learns how to do it.

"The Second tells us what is right
In ceremonious calls:--
'_First burn a blue or crimson light_'
(A thing I quite forgot to-night),
'_Then scratch the door or walls. _'"

[Illustration: "AND SWING YOURSELF FROM SIDE TO SIDE"]

I said "You'll visit _here_ no more,
If you attempt the Guy.
I'll have no bonfires on _my_ floor--
And, as for scratching at the door,
I'd like to see you try! "

"The Third was written to protect
The interests of the Victim,
And tells us, as I recollect,
_To treat him with a grave respect,
And not to contradict him_. "

"That's plain," said I, "as Tare and Tret,
To any comprehension:
I only wish _some_ Ghosts I've met
Would not so _constantly_ forget
The maxim that you mention! "

"Perhaps," he said, "_you_ first transgressed
The laws of hospitality:
All Ghosts instinctively detest
The Man that fails to treat his guest
With proper cordiality.

[Illustration]

"If you address a Ghost as 'Thing! '
Or strike him with a hatchet,
He is permitted by the King
To drop all _formal_ parleying--
And then you're _sure_ to catch it!

"The Fourth prohibits trespassing
Where other Ghosts are quartered:
And those convicted of the thing
(Unless when pardoned by the King)
Must instantly be slaughtered.

"That simply means 'be cut up small':
Ghosts soon unite anew:
The process scarcely hurts at all--
Not more than when _you're_ what you call
'Cut up' by a Review.

"The Fifth is one you may prefer
That I should quote entire:--
_The King must be addressed as 'Sir. '
This, from a simple courtier,
Is all the Laws require_:

"_But, should you wish to do the thing
With out-and-out politeness,
Accost him as 'My Goblin King! '
And always use, in answering,
The phrase 'Your Royal Whiteness! '_

"I'm getting rather hoarse, I fear,
After so much reciting:
So, if you don't object, my dear,
We'll try a glass of bitter beer--
I think it looks inviting. "

[Illustration]


CANTO III.

Scarmoges.

"And did you really walk," said I,
"On such a wretched night?
I always fancied Ghosts could fly--
If not exactly in the sky,
Yet at a fairish height. "

"It's very well," said he, "for Kings
To soar above the earth:
But Phantoms often find that wings--
Like many other pleasant things--
Cost more than they are worth.

"Spectres of course are rich, and so
Can buy them from the Elves:
But _we_ prefer to keep below--
They're stupid company, you know.
For any but themselves:

[Illustration]

"For, though they claim to be exempt
From pride, they treat a Phantom
As something quite beneath contempt--
Just as no Turkey ever dreamt
Of noticing a Bantam. "

"They seem too proud," said I, "to go
To houses such as mine.
Pray, how did they contrive to know
So quickly that 'the place was low,'
And that I 'kept bad wine'? "

"Inspector Kobold came to you--"
The little Ghost began.
Here I broke in--"Inspector who?
Inspecting Ghosts is something new!
Explain yourself my man! "

"His name is Kobold," said my guest:
"One of the Spectre order:
You'll very often see him dressed
In a yellow gown, a crimson vest,
And a night-cap with a border.

"He tried the Brocken business first,
But caught a sort of chill;
So came to England to be nursed,
And here it took the form of _thirst_,
Which he complains of still.

[Illustration: "AND HERE IT TOOK THE FORM OF _THIRST_"]

"Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound,
Warms his old bones like nectar:
And as the inns, where it is found,
Are his especial hunting-ground,
We call him the _Inn-Spectre_. "

I bore it--bore it like a man--
This agonizing witticism!
And nothing could be sweeter than
My temper, till the Ghost began
Some most provoking criticism.

"Cooks need not be indulged in waste;
Yet still you'd better teach them
Dishes should have _some sort_ of taste.
Pray, why are all the cruets placed
Where nobody can reach them?

"That man of yours will never earn
His living as a waiter!
Is that queer _thing_ supposed to burn?
(It's far too dismal a concern
To call a Moderator).

"The duck was tender, but the peas
Were very much too old:
And just remember, if you please,
The _next_ time you have toasted cheese,
Don't let them send it cold.

"You'd find the bread improved, I think,
By getting better flour:
And have you anything to drink
That looks a _little_ less like ink,
And isn't _quite_ so sour? "

Then, peering round with curious eyes,
He muttered "Goodness gracious! "
And so went on to criticise--
"Your room's an inconvenient size:
It's neither snug nor spacious.

"That narrow window, I expect,
Serves but to let the dusk in--"
"But please," said I, "to recollect
'Twas fashioned by an architect
Who pinned his faith on Ruskin! "

"I don't care who he was, Sir, or
On whom he pinned his faith!
Constructed by whatever law,
So poor a job I never saw,
As I'm a living Wraith!

"What a re-markable cigar!
How much are they a dozen? "
I growled "No matter what they are!
You're getting as familiar
As if you were my cousin!

"Now that's a thing _I will not stand_,
And so I tell you flat. "
"Aha," said he, "we're getting grand! "
(Taking a bottle in his hand)
"I'll soon arrange for _that_! "

And here he took a careful aim,
And gaily cried "Here goes! "
I tried to dodge it as it came,
But somehow caught it, all the same,
Exactly on my nose.

And I remember nothing more
That I can clearly fix,
Till I was sitting on the floor,
Repeating "Two and five are four,
But _five and two_ are six. "

What really passed I never learned,
Nor guessed: I only know
That, when at last my sense returned,
The lamp, neglected, dimly burned--
The fire was getting low--

Through driving mists I seemed to see
A Thing that smirked and smiled:
And found that he was giving me
A lesson in Biography,
As if I were a child.

[Illustration]


CANTO IV.

Hys Nouryture.

"Oh, when I was a little Ghost,
A merry time had we!
Each seated on his favourite post,
We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
They gave us for our tea. "

"That story is in print! " I cried.
"Don't say it's not, because
It's known as well as Bradshaw's Guide! "
(The Ghost uneasily replied
He hardly thought it was).

"It's not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet
I almost think it is--
'Three little Ghosteses' were set
'On posteses,' you know, and ate
Their 'buttered toasteses. '

"I have the book; so, if you doubt it--"
I turned to search the shelf.
"Don't stir! " he cried. "We'll do without it;
I now remember all about it;
I wrote the thing myself.

"It came out in a 'Monthly,' or
At least my agent said it did:
Some literary swell, who saw
It, thought it seemed adapted for
The Magazine he edited.

"My father was a Brownie, Sir;
My mother was a Fairy.
The notion had occurred to her,
The children would be happier,
If they were taught to vary.

"The notion soon became a craze;
And, when it once began, she
Brought us all out in different ways--
One was a Pixy, two were Fays,
Another was a Banshee;

"The Fetch and Kelpie went to school,
And gave a lot of trouble;
Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul,
And then two Trolls (which broke the rule),
A Goblin, and a Double--

"(If that's a snuff-box on the shelf,"
He added with a yawn,
"I'll take a pinch)--next came an Elf,
And then a Phantom (that's myself),
And last, a Leprechaun.

"One day, some Spectres chanced to call,
Dressed in the usual white:
I stood and watched them in the hall,
And couldn't make them out at all,
They seemed so strange a sight.

[Illustration]

"I wondered what on earth they were,
That looked all head and sack;
But Mother told me not to stare,
And then she twitched me by the hair,
And punched me in the back.

"Since then I've often wished that I
Had been a Spectre born.
But what's the use? " (He heaved a sigh).
"_They_ are the ghost-nobility,
And look on _us_ with scorn.

"My phantom-life was soon begun:
When I was barely six,
I went out with an older one--
And just at first I thought it fun,
And learned a lot of tricks.

"I've haunted dungeons, castles, towers--
Wherever I was sent:
I've often sat and howled for hours,
Drenched to the skin with driving showers,
Upon a battlement.

"It's quite old-fashioned now to groan
When you begin to speak:
This is the newest thing in tone--"
And here (it chilled me to the bone)
He gave an _awful_ squeak.

"Perhaps," he added, "to _your_ ear
That sounds an easy thing?
Try it yourself, my little dear!
It took _me_ something like a year,
With constant practising.

"And when you've learned to squeak, my man
And caught the double sob,
You're pretty much where you began:
Just try and gibber if you can!
That's something _like_ a job!

"_I've_ tried it, and can only say
I'm sure you couldn't do it, e-
ven if you practised night and day,
Unless you have a turn that way,
And natural ingenuity.

"Shakspeare I think it is who treats
Of Ghosts, in days of old,
Who 'gibbered in the Roman streets,'
Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets--
They must have found it cold.

"I've often spent ten pounds on stuff,
In dressing as a Double;
But, though it answers as a puff,
It never has effect enough
To make it worth the trouble.

"Long bills soon quenched the little thirst
I had for being funny.
The setting-up is always worst:
Such heaps of things you want at first,
One must be made of money!

[Illustration]

"For instance, take a Haunted Tower,
With skull, cross-bones, and sheet;
Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour,
Condensing lens of extra power,
And set of chains complete:

"What with the things you have to hire--
The fitting on the robe--
And testing all the coloured fire--
The outfit of itself would tire
The patience of a Job!

"And then they're so fastidious,
The Haunted-House Committee:
I've often known them make a fuss
Because a Ghost was French, or Russ,
Or even from the City!

"Some dialects are objected to--
For one, the _Irish_ brogue is:
And then, for all you have to do,
One pound a week they offer you,
And find yourself in Bogies! "


CANTO V.

Byckerment.

"Don't they consult the 'Victims,' though? "
I said. "They should, by rights,
Give them a chance--because, you know,
The tastes of people differ so,
Especially in Sprites. "

The Phantom shook his head and smiled.
"Consult them? Not a bit!
'Twould be a job to drive one wild,
To satisfy one single child--
There'd be no end to it! "

"Of course you can't leave _children_ free,"
Said I, "to pick and choose:
But, in the case of men like me,
I think 'Mine Host' might fairly be
Allowed to state his views. "

He said "It really wouldn't pay--
Folk are so full of fancies.
We visit for a single day,
And whether then we go, or stay,
Depends on circumstances.

"And, though we don't consult 'Mine Host'
Before the thing's arranged,
Still, if he often quits his post,
Or is not a well-mannered Ghost,
Then you can have him changed.

"But if the host's a man like you--
I mean a man of sense;
And if the house is not too new--"
"Why, what has _that_," said I, "to do
With Ghost's convenience? "

"A new house does not suit, you know--
It's such a job to trim it:
But, after twenty years or so,
The wainscotings begin to go,
So twenty is the limit. "

"To trim" was not a phrase I could
Remember having heard:
"Perhaps," I said, "you'll be so good
As tell me what is understood
Exactly by that word? "

[Illustration]

"It means the loosening all the doors,"
The Ghost replied, and laughed:
"It means the drilling holes by scores
In all the skirting-boards and floors,
To make a thorough draught.

"You'll sometimes find that one or two
Are all you really need
To let the wind come whistling through--
But _here_ there'll be a lot to do! "
I faintly gasped "Indeed!
"If I'd been rather later, I'll
Be bound," I added, trying
(Most unsuccessfully) to smile,
"You'd have been busy all this while,
Trimming and beautifying? "

"Why, no," said he; "perhaps I should
Have stayed another minute--
But still no Ghost, that's any good,
Without an introduction would
Have ventured to begin it.

"The proper thing, as you were late,
Was certainly to go:
But, with the roads in such a state,
I got the Knight-Mayor's leave to wait
For half an hour or so. "

"Who's the Knight-Mayor? " I cried. Instead
Of answering my question,
"Well! If you don't know _that_," he said,
"Either you never go to bed,
Or you've a grand digestion!

"He goes about and sits on folk
That eat too much at night:
His duties are to pinch, and poke,
And squeeze them till they nearly choke. "
(I said "It serves them right! ")

"And folk that sup on things like these--"
He muttered, "eggs and bacon--
Lobster--and duck--and toasted cheese--
If they don't get an awful squeeze,
I'm very much mistaken!

"He is immensely fat, and so
Well suits the occupation:
In point of fact, if you must know,
We used to call him, years ago,
_The Mayor and Corporation_!

[Illustration: "HE GOES ABOUT AND SITS ON FOLK"]

"The day he was elected Mayor
I _know_ that every Sprite meant
To vote for _me_, but did not dare--
He was so frantic with despair
And furious with excitement.

[Illustration]

"When it was over, for a whim,
He ran to tell the King;
And being the reverse of slim,
A two-mile trot was not for him
A very easy thing.

"So, to reward him for his run
(As it was baking hot,
And he was over twenty stone),
The King proceeded, half in fun,
To knight him on the spot. "

"'Twas a great liberty to take! "
(I fired up like a rocket).
"He did it just for punning's sake:
'The man,' says Johnson, 'that would make
A pun, would pick a pocket! '"

"A man," said he, "is not a King. "
I argued for a while,
And did my best to prove the thing--
The Phantom merely listening
With a contemptuous smile.

At last, when, breath and patience spent,
I had recourse to smoking--
"Your _aim_," he said, "is excellent:
But--when you call it _argument_--
Of course you're only joking? "

[Illustration]

Stung by his cold and snaky eye,
I roused myself at length
To say "At least I do defy
The veriest sceptic to deny
That union is strength! "

"That's true enough," said he, "yet stay--"
I listened in all meekness--
"_Union_ is strength, I'm bound to say;
In fact, the thing's as clear as day;
But _onions_--are a weakness. "


CANTO VI.

Dyscomfyture.

As one who strives a hill to climb,
Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
And votes the thing a bore:

Yet, having once begun to try,
Dares not desert his quest,
But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
On one small hut against the sky,
Wherein he hopes to rest:

Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,
With many a puff and pant:
Who still, as rises the ascent,
In language grows more violent,
Although in breath more scant:

[Illustration]

Who, climbing, gains at length the place
That crowns the upward track;
And, entering with unsteady pace,
Receives a buffet in the face
That lands him on his back:

And feels himself, like one in sleep,
Glide swiftly down again,
A helpless weight, from steep to steep,
Till, with a headlong giddy sweep,
He drops upon the plain--

So I, that had resolved to bring
Conviction to a ghost,
And found it quite a different thing
From any human arguing,
Yet dared not quit my post

But, keeping still the end in view
To which I hoped to come,
I strove to prove the matter true
By putting everything I knew
Into an axiom:

Commencing every single phrase
With 'therefore' or 'because,'
I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,
About the syllogistic maze,
Unconscious where I was.

Quoth he "That's regular clap-trap:
Don't bluster any more.
Now _do_ be cool and take a nap!
Such a ridiculous old chap
Was never seen before!

"You're like a man I used to meet,
Who got one day so furious
In arguing, the simple heat
Scorched both his slippers off his feet! "
I said "_That's very curious! _"

[Illustration: "SCORCHED BOTH HIS SLIPPERS OFF HIS FEET"]

"Well, it _is_ curious, I agree,
And sounds perhaps like fibs:
But still it's true as true can be--
As sure as your name's Tibbs," said he.
I said "My name's _not_ Tibbs. "

"_Not_ Tibbs! " he cried--his tone became
A shade or two less hearty--
"Why, no," said I. "My proper name
Is Tibbets--" "Tibbets? " "Aye, the same. "
"Why, then YOU'RE NOT THE PARTY! "

With that he struck the board a blow
That shivered half the glasses.
"Why couldn't you have told me so
Three quarters of an hour ago,
You prince of all the asses?

"To walk four miles through mud and rain,
To spend the night in smoking,
And then to find that it's in vain--
And I've to do it all again--
It's really _too_ provoking!

[Illustration]

"Don't talk! " he cried, as I began
To mutter some excuse.
"Who can have patience with a man
That's got no more discretion than
An idiotic goose?

"To keep me waiting here, instead
Of telling me at once
That this was not the house! " he said.
"There, that'll do--be off to bed!
Don't gape like that, you dunce! "

"It's very fine to throw the blame
On _me_ in such a fashion!
Why didn't you enquire my name
The very minute that you came? "
I answered in a passion.

"Of course it worries you a bit
To come so far on foot--
But how was _I_ to blame for it? "
"Well, well! " said he. "I must admit
That isn't badly put.

"And certainly you've given me
The best of wine and victual--
Excuse my violence," said he,
"But accidents like this, you see,
They put one out a little.

"'Twas _my_ fault after all, I find--
Shake hands, old Turnip-top! "
The name was hardly to my mind,
But, as no doubt he meant it kind,
I let the matter drop.

"Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!
When I am gone, perhaps
They'll send you some inferior Sprite,
Who'll keep you in a constant fright
And spoil your soundest naps.

"Tell him you'll stand no sort of trick;
Then, if he leers and chuckles,
You just be handy with a stick
(Mind that it's pretty hard and thick)
And rap him on the knuckles!

"Then carelessly remark 'Old coon!
Perhaps you're not aware
That, if you don't behave, you'll soon
Be chuckling to another tune--
And so you'd best take care! '

"That's the right way to cure a Sprite
Of such-like goings-on--
But gracious me! It's getting light!
Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! "
A nod, and he was gone.

[Illustration]


CANTO VII.

Sad Souvenaunce.

[Illustration]

"What's this? " I pondered. "Have I slept?
Or can I have been drinking? "
But soon a gentler feeling crept
Upon me, and I sat and wept
An hour or so, like winking.

"No need for Bones to hurry so! "
I sobbed. "In fact, I doubt
If it was worth his while to go--
And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know,
To make such work about?

"If Tibbs is anything like me,
It's _possible_," I said,
"He won't be over-pleased to be
Dropped in upon at half-past three,
After he's snug in bed.

"And if Bones plagues him anyhow--
Squeaking and all the rest of it,
As he was doing here just now--
_I_ prophesy there'll be a row,
And Tibbs will have the best of it! "

Then, as my tears could never bring
The friendly Phantom back,
It seemed to me the proper thing
To mix another glass, and sing
The following Coronach.

[Illustration: "AND TIBBS WILL HAVE THE BEST OF IT"]

'_And art thou gone, beloved Ghost?
Best of Familiars!
Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast,
Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast,
My meerschaum and cigars! _

'_The hues of life are dull and gray,
The sweets of life insipid,
When thou, my charmer, art away--
Old Brick, or rather, let me say,
Old Parallelepiped! _'

Instead of singing Verse the Third,
I ceased--abruptly, rather:
But, after such a splendid word,
I felt that it would be absurd
To try it any farther.

So with a yawn I went my way
To seek the welcome downy,
And slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
And Leprechaun and Brownie!

For years I've not been visited
By any kind of Sprite;
Yet still they echo in my head,
Those parting words, so kindly said,
"Old Turnip-top, good-night! "

[Illustration]




ECHOES.


Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.

She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four. "

"Kind words are more than coronets,"
She said, and wondering looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea. "




A SEA DIRGE.

[Illustration]


There are certain things--as, a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three--
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the Sea.

Pour some salt water over the floor--
Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
_That's_ very like the Sea.

Beat a dog till it howls outright--
Cruel, but all very well for a spree:
Suppose that he did so day and night,
_That_ would be like the Sea.

I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me--
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the Sea.

Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could--
Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With 'thoughts as boundless, and souls as free':
But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat,
How do you like the Sea?

[Illustration: "AND THIS WAS BY THE SEA"]

There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb 'to flee').
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the Sea.

If you like your coffee with sand for dregs,
A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs--
By all means choose the Sea.

And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
Then--I recommend the Sea.

For _I_ have friends who dwell by the coast--
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I am with them I wonder most
That any one likes the Sea.

They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
To climb the heights I madly agree;
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the Sea.

I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee,
As I heavily slip into every pool
That skirts the cold cold Sea.

[Illustration]




Y{e} Carpette Knyghte.


I have a horse--a ryghte goode horse--
Ne doe I envye those
Who scoure y{e} playne yn headye course
Tyll soddayne on theyre nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force--
Yt ys--a horse of clothes.

I have a saddel--"Say'st thou soe?
Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote? "
I sayde not that--I answere "Noe"--
Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
Parte of y{e} fleecye brute.

I have a bytte--a ryghte good bytte--
As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Y{e} jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
Yt ys--thys bytte of rhyme.

[Illustration: "I HAVE A HORSE"]




HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING.

[In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight
attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer,
with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in
the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha. ' Having, then, distinctly
stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its
merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his
criticism to its treatment of the subject. ]


From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.

[Illustration]

This he perched upon a tripod--
Crouched beneath its dusky cover--
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence--
Said "Be motionless, I beg you! "
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.
First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage;
She would have her picture taken.
_She_ came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.

[Illustration: "FIRST THE GOVERNOR, THE FATHER"]

Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a bouquet
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still? " she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it come into the picture? "
And the picture failed completely.
Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centered in the breast-pin,
Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin
(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
'Modern Painters,' and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason,
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.

[Illustration: "NEXT THE SON, THE STUNNING-CANTAB"]

Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little,
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of 'passive beauty. '
Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left-eye,
Was a drooping of the right-eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways
To the corner of the nostrils.
Hiawatha, when she asked him,
Took no notice of the question,
Looked as if he hadn't heard it;
But, when pointedly appealed to,
Smiled in his peculiar manner,
Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'
Bit his lip and changed the subject.
Nor in this was he mistaken,
As the picture failed completely.
So in turn the other sisters.

[Illustration: "NEXT TO HIM THE ELDEST DAUGHTER"]

Last, the youngest son was taken:
Very rough and thick his hair was,
Very round and red his face was,
Very dusty was his jacket,
Very fidgety his manner.
And his overbearing sisters
Called him names he disapproved of:
Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'
Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy. '
And, so awful was the picture,
In comparison the others
Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy,
To have partially succeeded.
Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
('Grouped' is not the right expression),
And, as happy chance would have it,
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.

[Illustration: "LAST, THE YOUNGEST SON WAS TAKEN"]

Then they joined and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of.
Giving one such strange expressions--
Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
Really any one would take us
(Any one that did not know us)
For the most unpleasant people! '
(Hiawatha seemed to think so,
Seemed to think it not unlikely).
All together rang their voices,
Angry, loud, discordant voices,
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.
But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With the calm deliberation,
The intense deliberation
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train received him:
Thus departed Hiawatha.

[Illustration]




MELANCHOLETTA.


With saddest music all day long
She soothed her secret sorrow:
At night she sighed "I fear 'twas wrong
Such cheerful words to borrow.
Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song
I'll sing to thee to-morrow. "

I thanked her, but I could not say
That I was glad to hear it:
I left the house at break of day,
And did not venture near it
Till time, I hoped, had worn away
Her grief, for nought could cheer it!

[Illustration: "AT NIGHT SHE SIGHED"]

My dismal sister! Couldst thou know
The wretched home thou keepest!
Thy brother, drowned in daily woe,
Is thankful when thou sleepest;
For if I laugh, however low,
When thou'rt awake, thou weepest!

I took my sister t'other day
(Excuse the slang expression)
To Sadler's Wells to see the play,
In hopes the new impression
Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay
Effect some slight digression.

I asked three gay young dogs from town
To join us in our folly,
Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown
My sister's melancholy:
The lively Jones, the sportive Brown,
And Robinson the jolly.

The maid announced the meal in tones
That I myself had taught her,
Meant to allay my sister's moans
Like oil on troubled water:
I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones,
And begged him to escort her.

Vainly he strove, with ready wit,
To joke about the weather--
To ventilate the last '_on dit_'--
To quote the price of leather--
She groaned "Here I and Sorrow sit:
Let us lament together! "

I urged "You're wasting time, you know:
Delay will spoil the venison. "
"My heart is wasted with my woe!
There is no rest--in Venice, on
The Bridge of Sighs! " she quoted low
From Byron and from Tennyson.

I need not tell of soup and fish
In solemn silence swallowed,
The sobs that ushered in each dish,
And its departure followed,
Nor yet my suicidal wish
To _be_ the cheese I hollowed.

Some desperate attempts were made
To start a conversation;
"Madam," the sportive Brown essayed,
"Which kind of recreation,
Hunting or fishing, have you made
Your special occupation? "

Her lips curved downwards instantly,
As if of india-rubber.
"Hounds _in full cry_ I like," said she:
(Oh how I longed to snub her! )
"Of fish, a whale's the one for me,
_It is so full of blubber_! "

The night's performance was "King John. "
"It's dull," she wept, "and so-so! "
A while I let her tears flow on,
She said they soothed her woe so!
At length the curtain rose upon
'Bombastes Furioso. '

In vain we roared; in vain we tried
To rouse her into laughter:
Her pensive glances wandered wide
From orchestra to rafter--
"_Tier upon tier! _" she said, and sighed;
And silence followed after.

[Illustration]




A VALENTINE.

[Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him
when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away. ]


And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb,
And full _dolorum omnium_,
Excepting when _you_ choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep?
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?

The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.

And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow,
I trust to find _your_ heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.




THE THREE VOICES.


The First Voice.