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Frost + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Phantasmagoria + and Other Poems + + +Author: Lewis Carroll + + + +Release Date: March 28, 2013 [eBook #651] +[This file was first posted on September 17, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHANTASMAGORIA*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1911 Macmillan and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>PHANTASMAGORIA<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND OTHER POEMS</span></h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +LEWIS CARROLL</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS</i><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br /> +ARTHUR B. FROST</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED<br /> +ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON<br /> +1911</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span><span class="smcap">Richard Clay and +Sons</span>, <span class="smcap">Limited</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, +S.E.,</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>First published in</i> 1869.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pagev"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. v</span>Inscribed to a dear Child:<br /> +in memory of golden summer hours<br /> +and whispers of a summer sea.</p> + +<div class="gapshortdoubleline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,<br /> + Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well<br /> +Rest on the friendly knee, intent to ask<br /> + The tale one +loves to tell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rude scoffer of the seething outer strife,<br +/> + Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,<br /> +Deem, if thou wilt, such hours a waste of life,<br /> + Empty of all +delight!</p> +<p class="poetry">Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy<br +/> + Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguilded.<br /> +Ah, happy he who owns the tenderest joy,<br /> + The heart-love +of a child!</p> +<p class="poetry">Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no +more!<br /> + Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days,<br /> +Albeit bright memories of the sunlit shore<br /> + Yet haunt my +dreaming gaze.</p> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Phantasmagoria</span>, in +Seven Cantos:—</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Trystyng</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Hys Fyve Rules</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page10">10</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Scarmoges</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Hys Nouryture</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Byckerment</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VI.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Dyscomfyture</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VII.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Sad Souvenaunce</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Echoes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>A <span class="smcap">Sea Dirge</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Ye Carpette +Knyghte</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Hiawatha’s +Photographing</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Melancholetta</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>A <span class="smcap">Valentine</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Three +Voices</span>:—</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p> The First Voice</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p> The Second Voice</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p> The Third Voice</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span><span class="smcap">Tèma Con +Variaziòni</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>A <span class="smcap">Game of Fives</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page120">120</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Poeta fit</span>, <span +class="smcap">non nascitur</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Size and Tears</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page131">131</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Atalanta in +Camden-Town</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Lang +Coortin</span>’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Four Riddles</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Fame’s +Penny-Trumpet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page163">163</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>PHANTASMAGORIA</h2> +<h3>CANTO I<br /> +The Trystyng</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">One</span> winter night, at +half-past nine,<br /> + Cold, tired, and cross, and +muddy,<br /> +I had come home, too late to dine,<br /> +And supper, with cigars and wine,<br /> + Was waiting in the study.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a strangeness in the room,<br /> + And Something white and wavy<br /> +Was standing near me in the gloom—<br /> +<i>I</i> took it for the carpet-broom<br /> + Left by that careless slavey.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +2</span>But presently the Thing began<br /> + To shiver and to sneeze:<br /> +On which I said “Come, come, my man!<br /> +That’s a most inconsiderate plan.<br /> + Less noise there, if you +please!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p2b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The Thing standing by chair" +title= +"The Thing standing by chair" +src="images/p2s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>“I’ve caught a cold,” the Thing +replies,<br /> + “Out there upon the +landing.”<br /> +I turned to look in some surprise,<br /> +And there, before my very eyes,<br /> + A little Ghost was standing!</p> +<p class="poetry">He trembled when he caught my eye,<br /> + And got behind a chair.<br /> +“How came you here,” I said, “and why?<br /> +I never saw a thing so shy.<br /> + Come out! Don’t shiver +there!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He said “I’d gladly tell you +how,<br /> + And also tell you why;<br /> +But” (here he gave a little bow)<br /> +“You’re in so bad a temper now,<br /> + You’d think it all a +lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And as to being in a fright,<br /> + Allow me to remark<br /> +That Ghosts have just as good a right<br /> +In every way, to fear the light,<br /> + As Men to fear the +dark.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>“No plea,” said I, “can well excuse<br +/> + Such cowardice in you:<br /> +For Ghosts can visit when they choose,<br /> +Whereas we Humans ca’n’t refuse<br /> + To grant the interview.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He said “A flutter of alarm<br /> + Is not unnatural, is it?<br /> +I really feared you meant some harm:<br /> +But, now I see that you are calm,<br /> + Let me explain my visit.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Houses are classed, I beg to state,<br +/> + According to the number<br /> +Of Ghosts that they accommodate:<br /> +(The Tenant merely counts as <i>weight</i>,<br /> + With Coals and other lumber).</p> +<p class="poetry">“This is a ‘one-ghost’ house, +and you<br /> + When you arrived last summer,<br +/> +May have remarked a Spectre who<br /> +Was doing all that Ghosts can do<br /> + To welcome the new-comer.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>“In Villas this is always done—<br /> + However cheaply rented:<br /> +For, though of course there’s less of fun<br /> +When there is only room for one,<br /> + Ghosts have to be contented.</p> +<p class="poetry">“That Spectre left you on the +Third—<br /> + Since then you’ve not been +haunted:<br /> +For, as he never sent us word,<br /> +’Twas quite by accident we heard<br /> + That any one was wanted.</p> +<p class="poetry">“A Spectre has first choice, by right,<br +/> + In filling up a vacancy;<br /> +Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite—<br /> +If all these fail them, they invite<br /> + The nicest Ghoul that they can +see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The Spectres said the place was low,<br +/> + And that you kept bad wine:<br /> +So, as a Phantom had to go,<br /> +And I was first, of course, you know,<br /> + I couldn’t well +decline.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +6</span>“No doubt,” said I, “they settled +who<br /> + Was fittest to be sent<br /> +Yet still to choose a brat like you,<br /> +To haunt a man of forty-two,<br /> + Was no great +compliment!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’m not so young, Sir,” he +replied,<br /> + “As you might think. +The fact is,<br /> +In caverns by the water-side,<br /> +And other places that I’ve tried,<br /> + I’ve had a lot of +practice:</p> +<p class="poetry">“But I have never taken yet<br /> + A strict domestic part,<br /> +And in my flurry I forget<br /> +The Five Good Rules of Etiquette<br /> + We have to know by +heart.”</p> +<p class="poetry">My sympathies were warming fast<br /> + Towards the little fellow:<br /> +He was so utterly aghast<br /> +At having found a Man at last,<br /> + And looked so scared and +yellow.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page7"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 7</span> +<a href="images/p7b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"In caverns by the water-side" +title= +"In caverns by the water-side" +src="images/p7s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>“At least,” I said, “I’m glad to +find<br /> + A Ghost is not a <i>dumb</i> +thing!<br /> +But pray sit down: you’ll feel inclined<br /> +(If, like myself, you have not dined)<br /> + To take a snack of something:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Though, certainly, you don’t +appear<br /> + A thing to offer <i>food</i> +to!<br /> +And then I shall be glad to hear—<br /> +If you will say them loud and clear—<br /> + The Rules that you allude +to.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thanks! You shall hear them by and +by.<br /> + This <i>is</i> a piece of +luck!”<br /> +“What may I offer you?” said I.<br /> +“Well, since you <i>are</i> so kind, I’ll try<br /> + A little bit of duck.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>One</i> slice! And may I ask +you for<br /> + Another drop of gravy?”<br +/> +I sat and looked at him in awe,<br /> +For certainly I never saw<br /> + A thing so white and wavy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>And still he seemed to grow more white,<br /> + More vapoury, and wavier—<br +/> +Seen in the dim and flickering light,<br /> +As he proceeded to recite<br /> + His “Maxims of +Behaviour.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p9b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The Phantom dines" +title= +"The Phantom dines" +src="images/p9s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>CANTO +II<br /> +Hys Fyve Rules</h3> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">My</span> +First—but don’t suppose,” he said,<br /> + “I’m setting you a +riddle—<br /> +Is—if your Victim be in bed,<br /> +Don’t touch the curtains at his head,<br /> + But take them in the middle,</p> +<p class="poetry">“And wave them slowly in and out,<br /> + While drawing them asunder;<br /> +And in a minute’s time, no doubt,<br /> +He’ll raise his head and look about<br /> + With eyes of wrath and wonder.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And here you must on no pretence<br /> + Make the first observation.<br /> +Wait for the Victim to commence:<br /> +No Ghost of any common sense<br /> + Begins a conversation.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span> +<a href="images/p11b.jpg"> +<img class='floatleft' alt= +"Ghostly border" +title= +"Ghostly border" +src="images/p11s.jpg" /> +</a>“If he should say ‘<i>How came you +here</i>?’<br /> + (The way that <i>you</i> began, +Sir,)<br /> +In such a case your course is clear—<br /> +‘<i>On the bat’s back</i>, <i>my little +dear</i>!’<br /> + Is the appropriate answer.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>“If after this he says no more,<br /> + You’d best perhaps curtail +your<br /> +Exertions—go and shake the door,<br /> +And then, if he begins to snore,<br /> + You’ll know the +thing’s a failure.</p> +<p class="poetry">“By day, if he should be alone—<br +/> + At home or on a walk—<br /> +You merely give a hollow groan,<br /> +To indicate the kind of tone<br /> + In which you mean to talk.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But if you find him with his friends,<br +/> + The thing is rather harder.<br /> +In such a case success depends<br /> +On picking up some candle-ends,<br /> + Or butter, in the larder.</p> +<p class="poetry">“With this you make a kind of slide<br /> + (It answers best with suet),<br /> +On which you must contrive to glide,<br /> +And swing yourself from side to side—<br /> + One soon learns how to do it.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page13"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 13</span> +<a href="images/p13b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"And swing yourself from side to side" +title= +"And swing yourself from side to side" +src="images/p13s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>“The Second tells us what is right<br /> + In ceremonious calls:—<br /> +‘<i>First burn a blue or crimson light</i>’<br /> +(A thing I quite forgot to-night),<br /> + ‘<i>Then scratch the door or +walls</i>.’”</p> +<p class="poetry">I said “You’ll visit <i>here</i> no +more,<br /> + If you attempt the Guy.<br /> +I’ll have no bonfires on <i>my</i> floor—<br /> +And, as for scratching at the door,<br /> + I’d like to see you +try!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“The Third was written to protect<br /> + The interests of the Victim,<br /> +And tells us, as I recollect,<br /> +<i>To treat him with a grave respect</i>,<br /> + <i>And not to contradict +him</i>.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“That’s plain,” said I, +“as Tare and Tret,<br /> + To any comprehension:<br /> +I only wish <i>some</i> Ghosts I’ve met<br /> +Would not so <i>constantly</i> forget<br /> + The maxim that you +mention!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>“Perhaps,” he said, “<i>you</i> first +transgressed<br /> + The laws of hospitality:<br /> +All Ghosts instinctively detest<br /> +The Man that fails to treat his guest<br /> + With proper cordiality.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p15b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"And then you’re sure to catch it . . ." +title= +"And then you’re sure to catch it . . ." +src="images/p15s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>“If you address a Ghost as ‘Thing!’<br +/> + Or strike him with a hatchet,<br +/> +He is permitted by the King<br /> +To drop all <i>formal</i> parleying—<br /> + And then you’re <i>sure</i> +to catch it!</p> +<p class="poetry">“The Fourth prohibits trespassing<br /> + Where other Ghosts are +quartered:<br /> +And those convicted of the thing<br /> +(Unless when pardoned by the King)<br /> + Must instantly be slaughtered.</p> +<p class="poetry">“That simply means ‘be cut up +small’:<br /> + Ghosts soon unite anew.<br /> +The process scarcely hurts at all—<br /> +Not more than when <i>you</i> ’re what you call<br /> + ‘Cut up’ by a +Review.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The Fifth is one you may prefer<br /> + That I should quote +entire:—<br /> +<i>The King must be addressed as</i> ‘<i>Sir</i>.’<br +/> +<i>This</i>, <i>from a simple courtier</i>,<br /> + <i>Is all the Laws +require</i>:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>“<i>But</i>, <i>should you wish to do the +thing</i><br /> + <i>With out-and-out +politeness</i>,<br /> +<i>Accost him as</i> ‘<i>My Goblin King</i>!<br /> +<i>And always use</i>, <i>in answering</i>,<br /> + <i>The phrase</i> ‘<i>Your +Royal Whiteness</i>!’</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’m getting rather hoarse, I +fear,<br /> + After so much reciting:<br /> +So, if you don’t object, my dear,<br /> +We’ll try a glass of bitter beer—<br /> + I think it looks +inviting.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p17b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"We’ll try a glass of bitter beer" +title= +"We’ll try a glass of bitter beer" +src="images/p17s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>CANTO +III<br /> +Scarmoges</h3> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">And</span> did you +really walk,” said I,<br /> + “On such a wretched +night?<br /> +I always fancied Ghosts could fly—<br /> +If not exactly in the sky,<br /> + Yet at a fairish +height.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s very well,” said he, +“for Kings<br /> + To soar above the earth:<br /> +But Phantoms often find that wings—<br /> +Like many other pleasant things—<br /> + Cost more than they are worth.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Spectres of course are rich, and so<br +/> + Can buy them from the Elves:<br /> +But <i>we</i> prefer to keep below—<br /> +They’re stupid company, you know,<br /> + For any but themselves:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>“For, though they claim to be exempt<br /> + From pride, they treat a +Phantom<br /> +As something quite beneath contempt—<br /> +Just as no Turkey ever dreamt<br /> + Of noticing a Bantam.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p19b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The phantom" +title= +"The phantom" +src="images/p19s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>“They seem too proud,” said I, “to +go<br /> + To houses such as mine.<br /> +Pray, how did they contrive to know<br /> +So quickly that ‘the place was low,’<br /> + And that I ‘kept bad +wine’?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Inspector Kobold came to +you—”<br /> + The little Ghost began.<br /> +Here I broke in—“Inspector who?<br /> +Inspecting Ghosts is something new!<br /> + Explain yourself, my +man!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“His name is Kobold,” said my +guest:<br /> + “One of the Spectre +order:<br /> +You’ll very often see him dressed<br /> +In a yellow gown, a crimson vest,<br /> + And a night-cap with a border.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He tried the Brocken business first,<br +/> + But caught a sort of chill;<br /> +So came to England to be nursed,<br /> +And here it took the form of <i>thirst</i>,<br /> + Which he complains of still.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page21"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 21</span> +<a href="images/p21b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"And here it took the form of thirst" +title= +"And here it took the form of thirst" +src="images/p21s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>“Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound,<br /> + Warms his old bones like +nectar:<br /> +And as the inns, where it is found,<br /> +Are his especial hunting-ground,<br /> + We call him the +<i>Inn-Spectre</i>.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I bore it—bore it like a man—<br /> + This agonizing witticism!<br /> +And nothing could be sweeter than<br /> +My temper, till the Ghost began<br /> + Some most provoking criticism.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Cooks need not be indulged in waste;<br +/> + Yet still you’d better teach +them<br /> +Dishes should have <i>some sort</i> of taste.<br /> +Pray, why are all the cruets placed<br /> + Where nobody can reach them?</p> +<p class="poetry">“That man of yours will never earn<br /> + His living as a waiter!<br /> +Is that queer <i>thing</i> supposed to burn?<br /> +(It’s far too dismal a concern<br /> + To call a Moderator).</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>“The duck was tender, but the peas<br /> + Were very much too old:<br /> +And just remember, if you please,<br /> +The <i>next</i> time you have toasted cheese,<br /> + Don’t let them send it +cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">“You’d find the bread improved, I +think,<br /> + By getting better flour:<br /> +And have you anything to drink<br /> +That looks a <i>little</i> less like ink,<br /> + And isn’t <i>quite</i> so +sour?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, peering round with curious eyes,<br /> + He muttered “Goodness +gracious!”<br /> +And so went on to criticise—<br /> +“Your room’s an inconvenient size:<br /> + It’s neither snug nor +spacious.</p> +<p class="poetry">“That narrow window, I expect,<br /> + Serves but to let the dusk +in—”<br /> +“But please,” said I, “to recollect<br /> +’Twas fashioned by an architect<br /> + Who pinned his faith on +Ruskin!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>“I don’t care who he was, Sir, or<br /> + On whom he pinned his faith!<br /> +Constructed by whatever law,<br /> +So poor a job I never saw,<br /> + As I’m a living Wraith!</p> +<p class="poetry">“What a re-markable cigar!<br /> + How much are they a +dozen?”<br /> +I growled “No matter what they are!<br /> +You’re getting as familiar<br /> + As if you were my cousin!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now that’s a thing <i>I will not +stand</i>,<br /> + And so I tell you flat.”<br +/> +“Aha,” said he, “we’re getting +grand!”<br /> +(Taking a bottle in his hand)<br /> + “I’ll soon arrange for +<i>that</i>!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And here he took a careful aim,<br /> + And gaily cried “Here +goes!”<br /> +I tried to dodge it as it came,<br /> +But somehow caught it, all the same,<br /> + Exactly on my nose.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>And I remember nothing more<br /> + That I can clearly fix,<br /> +Till I was sitting on the floor,<br /> +Repeating “Two and five are four,<br /> + But <i>five and two</i> are +six.”</p> +<p class="poetry">What really passed I never learned,<br /> + Nor guessed: I only know<br /> +That, when at last my sense returned,<br /> +The lamp, neglected, dimly burned—<br /> + The fire was getting +low—</p> +<p class="poetry">Through driving mists I seemed to see<br /> + A Thing that smirked and +smiled:<br /> +And found that he was giving me<br /> +A lesson in Biography,<br /> + As if I were a child.</p> +<h3><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>CANTO +IV<br /> +Hys Nouryture</h3> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Oh</span>, when I +was a little Ghost,<br /> + A merry time had we!<br /> +Each seated on his favourite post,<br /> +We chumped and chawed the buttered toast<br /> + They gave us for our +tea.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p26b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"We chumped and chawed the buttered toast" +title= +"We chumped and chawed the buttered toast" +src="images/p26s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>“That story is in print!” I cried.<br /> + “Don’t say it’s +not, because<br /> +It’s known as well as Bradshaw’s Guide!”<br /> +(The Ghost uneasily replied<br /> + He hardly thought it was).</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s not in Nursery Rhymes? +And yet<br /> + I almost think it is—<br /> +‘Three little Ghosteses’ were set<br /> +‘On posteses,’ you know, and ate<br /> + Their ‘buttered +toasteses.’</p> +<p class="poetry">“I have the book; so if you doubt +it—”<br /> + I turned to search the shelf.<br +/> +“Don’t stir!” he cried. +“We’ll do without it:<br /> +I now remember all about it;<br /> + I wrote the thing myself.</p> +<p class="poetry">“It came out in a ‘Monthly,’ +or<br /> + At least my agent said it did:<br +/> +Some literary swell, who saw<br /> +It, thought it seemed adapted for<br /> + The Magazine he edited.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>“My father was a Brownie, Sir;<br /> + My mother was a Fairy.<br /> +The notion had occurred to her,<br /> +The children would be happier,<br /> + If they were taught to vary.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The notion soon became a craze;<br /> + And, when it once began, she<br /> +Brought us all out in different ways—<br /> +One was a Pixy, two were Fays,<br /> + Another was a Banshee;</p> +<p class="poetry">“The Fetch and Kelpie went to school<br +/> + And gave a lot of trouble;<br /> +Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul,<br /> +And then two Trolls (which broke the rule),<br /> + A Goblin, and a Double—</p> +<p class="poetry">“(If that’s a snuff-box on the +shelf,”<br /> + He added with a yawn,<br /> +“I’ll take a pinch)—next came an Elf,<br /> +And then a Phantom (that’s myself),<br /> + And last, a Leprechaun.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span> +<a href="images/p29b.jpg"> +<img class='floatleft' alt= +"I stood and watched them in the hall" +title= +"I stood and watched them in the hall" +src="images/p29s.jpg" /> +</a>“One day, some Spectres chanced to call,<br /> + Dressed in the usual white:<br /> +I stood and watched them in the hall,<br /> +And couldn’t make them out at all,<br /> + They seemed so strange a +sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I wondered what on earth they were,<br +/> + That looked all head and sack;<br +/> +But Mother told me not to stare,<br /> +And then she twitched me by the hair,<br /> + And punched me in the back.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Since then I’ve often wished that +I<br /> + Had been a Spectre born.<br /> +<a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>But +what’s the use?” (He heaved a sigh.)<br /> +“<i>They</i> are the ghost-nobility,<br /> + And look on <i>us</i> with +scorn.</p> +<p class="poetry">“My phantom-life was soon begun:<br /> + When I was barely six,<br /> +I went out with an older one—<br /> +And just at first I thought it fun,<br /> + And learned a lot of tricks.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ve haunted dungeons, castles, +towers—<br /> + Wherever I was sent:<br /> +I’ve often sat and howled for hours,<br /> +Drenched to the skin with driving showers,<br /> + Upon a battlement.</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s quite old-fashioned now to +groan<br /> + When you begin to speak:<br /> +This is the newest thing in tone—”<br /> +And here (it chilled me to the bone)<br /> + He gave an <i>awful</i> +squeak.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Perhaps,” he added, “to +<i>your</i> ear<br /> + That sounds an easy thing?<br /> +<a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>Try it +yourself, my little dear!<br /> +It took <i>me</i> something like a year,<br /> + With constant practising.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And when you’ve learned to squeak, +my man,<br /> + And caught the double sob,<br /> +You’re pretty much where you began:<br /> +Just try and gibber if you can!<br /> + That’s something <i>like</i> +a job!</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>I’ve</i> tried it, and can only +say<br /> + I’m sure you couldn’t +do it, e-<br /> +ven if you practised night and day,<br /> +Unless you have a turn that way,<br /> + And natural ingenuity.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Shakspeare I think it is who treats<br +/> + Of Ghosts, in days of old,<br /> +Who ‘gibbered in the Roman streets,’<br /> +Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets—<br /> + They must have found it cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ve often spent ten pounds on +stuff,<br /> + In dressing as a Double;<br /> +<a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>But, +though it answers as a puff,<br /> +It never has effect enough<br /> + To make it worth the trouble.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p32b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"In dressing as a Double" +title= +"In dressing as a Double" +src="images/p32s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“Long bills soon quenched the little +thirst<br /> + I had for being funny.<br /> +The setting-up is always worst:<br /> +Such heaps of things you want at first,<br /> + One must be made of money!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>“For instance, take a Haunted Tower,<br /> + With skull, cross-bones, and +sheet;<br /> +Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour,<br /> +Condensing lens of extra power,<br /> + And set of chains complete:</p> +<p class="poetry">“What with the things you have to +hire—<br /> + The fitting on the robe—<br +/> +And testing all the coloured fire—<br /> +The outfit of itself would tire<br /> + The patience of a Job!</p> +<p class="poetry">“And then they’re so fastidious,<br +/> + The Haunted-House Committee:<br /> +I’ve often known them make a fuss<br /> +Because a Ghost was French, or Russ,<br /> + Or even from the City!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Some dialects are objected to—<br +/> + For one, the <i>Irish</i> brogue +is:<br /> +And then, for all you have to do,<br /> +One pound a week they offer you,<br /> + And find yourself in +Bogies!”</p> +<h3><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>CANTO +V<br /> +Byckerment</h3> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Don’t</span> +they consult the ‘Victims,’ though?”<br /> + I said. “They should, +by rights,<br /> +Give them a chance—because, you know,<br /> +The tastes of people differ so,<br /> + Especially in Sprites.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The Phantom shook his head and smiled.<br /> + “Consult them? Not a +bit!<br /> +’Twould be a job to drive one wild,<br /> +To satisfy one single child—<br /> + There’d be no end to +it!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Of course you can’t leave +<i>children</i> free,”<br /> + Said I, “to pick and +choose:<br /> +But, in the case of men like me,<br /> +I think ‘Mine Host’ might fairly be<br /> + Allowed to state his +views.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>He said “It really wouldn’t pay—<br /> + Folk are so full of fancies.<br /> +We visit for a single day,<br /> +And whether then we go, or stay,<br /> + Depends on circumstances.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And, though we don’t consult +‘Mine Host’<br /> + Before the thing’s +arranged,<br /> +Still, if he often quits his post,<br /> +Or is not a well-mannered Ghost,<br /> + Then you can have him changed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But if the host’s a man like +you—<br /> + I mean a man of sense;<br /> +And if the house is not too new—”<br /> +“Why, what has <i>that</i>,” said I, “to do<br +/> + With Ghost’s +convenience?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“A new house does not suit, you +know—<br /> + It’s such a job to trim +it:<br /> +But, after twenty years or so,<br /> +The wainscotings begin to go,<br /> + So twenty is the limit.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“To trim” was not a phrase I +could<br /> + Remember having heard:<br /> +<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>“Perhaps,” I said, “you’ll be so +good<br /> +As tell me what is understood<br /> + Exactly by that word?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p36b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The wainscotings begin to go" +title= +"The wainscotings begin to go" +src="images/p36s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“It means the loosening all the +doors,”<br /> + The Ghost replied, and laughed:<br +/> +“It means the drilling holes by scores<br /> +In all the skirting-boards and floors,<br /> + To make a thorough draught.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>“You’ll sometimes find that one or two<br /> + Are all you really need<br /> +To let the wind come whistling through—<br /> +But <i>here</i> there’ll be a lot to do!”<br /> + I faintly gasped +“Indeed!</p> +<p class="poetry">“If I’d been rather later, +I’ll<br /> + Be bound,” I added, +trying<br /> +(Most unsuccessfully) to smile,<br /> +“You’d have been busy all this while,<br /> + Trimming and +beautifying?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Why, no,” said he; “perhaps +I should<br /> + Have stayed another +minute—<br /> +But still no Ghost, that’s any good,<br /> +Without an introduction would<br /> + Have ventured to begin it.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The proper thing, as you were late,<br +/> + Was certainly to go:<br /> +But, with the roads in such a state,<br /> +I got the Knight-Mayor’s leave to wait<br /> + For half an hour or so.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>“Who’s the Knight-Mayor?” I +cried. Instead<br /> + Of answering my question,<br /> +“Well, if you don’t know <i>that</i>,” he +said,<br /> +“Either you never go to bed,<br /> + Or you’ve a grand +digestion!</p> +<p class="poetry">“He goes about and sits on folk<br /> + That eat too much at night:<br /> +His duties are to pinch, and poke,<br /> +And squeeze them till they nearly choke.”<br /> + (I said “It serves them +right!”)</p> +<p class="poetry">“And folk who sup on things like +these—”<br /> + He muttered, “eggs and +bacon—<br /> +Lobster—and duck—and toasted cheese—<br /> +If they don’t get an awful squeeze,<br /> + I’m very much mistaken!</p> +<p class="poetry">“He is immensely fat, and so<br /> + Well suits the occupation:<br /> +In point of fact, if you must know,<br /> +We used to call him years ago,<br /> + <i>The Mayor and +Corporation</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page39"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 39</span> +<a href="images/p39b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"He goes about and sits on folk" +title= +"He goes about and sits on folk" +src="images/p39s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>“The day he was elected Mayor<br /> + I <i>know</i> that every Sprite +meant<br /> +To vote for <i>me</i>, but did not dare—<br /> +He was so frantic with despair<br /> + And furious with excitement.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p40b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"He ran to tell the King" +title= +"He ran to tell the King" +src="images/p40s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“When it was over, for a whim,<br /> + He ran to tell the King;<br /> +And being the reverse of slim,<br /> +<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>A two-mile +trot was not for him<br /> + A very easy thing.</p> +<p class="poetry">“So, to reward him for his run<br /> + (As it was baking hot,<br /> +And he was over twenty stone),<br /> +The King proceeded, half in fun,<br /> + To knight him on the +spot.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“’Twas a great liberty to +take!”<br /> + (I fired up like a rocket).<br /> +“He did it just for punning’s sake:<br /> +‘The man,’ says Johnson, ‘that would make<br /> + A pun, would pick a +pocket!’”</p> +<p class="poetry">“A man,” said he, “is not a +King.”<br /> + I argued for a while,<br /> +And did my best to prove the thing—<br /> +The Phantom merely listening<br /> + With a contemptuous smile.</p> +<p class="poetry">At last, when, breath and patience spent,<br /> + I had recourse to +smoking—<br /> +“Your <i>aim</i>,” he said, “is excellent:<br +/> +<a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>But—when you call it <i>argument</i>—<br /> + Of course you’re only +joking?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p42b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The phantom sitting on chair" +title= +"The phantom sitting on chair" +src="images/p42s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Stung by his cold and snaky eye,<br /> + I roused myself at length<br /> +To say “At least I do defy<br /> +The veriest sceptic to deny<br /> + That union is strength!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>“That’s true enough,” said he, +“yet stay—”<br /> + I listened in all +meekness—<br /> +“<i>Union</i> is strength, I’m bound to say;<br /> +In fact, the thing’s as clear as day;<br /> + But <i>onions</i> are a +weakness.”</p> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>CANTO +VI<br /> +Dyscomfyture</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> one who strives a +hill to climb,<br /> + Who never climbed before:<br /> +Who finds it, in a little time,<br /> +Grow every moment less sublime,<br /> + And votes the thing a bore:</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, having once begun to try,<br /> + Dares not desert his quest,<br /> +But, climbing, ever keeps his eye<br /> +On one small hut against the sky<br /> + Wherein he hopes to rest:</p> +<p class="poetry">Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,<br +/> + With many a puff and pant:<br /> +Who still, as rises the ascent,<br /> +In language grows more violent,<br /> + Although in breath more scant:</p> +<p class="poetry">Who, climbing, gains at length the place<br /> + That crowns the upward track.<br +/> +<a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>And, +entering with unsteady pace,<br /> +Receives a buffet in the face<br /> + That lands him on his back:</p> +<p class="poetry"> +<a href="images/p45b.jpg"> +<img class='floatleft' alt= +"Decorative border of man climbing hall" +title= +"Decorative border of man climbing hall" +src="images/p45s.jpg" /> +</a>And feels himself, like one in sleep,<br /> + Glide swiftly down again,<br /> +A helpless weight, from steep to steep,<br /> +Till, with a headlong giddy sweep,<br /> + He drops upon the plain—</p> +<p class="poetry">So I, that had resolved to bring<br /> + Conviction to a ghost,<br /> +And found it quite a different thing<br /> +From any human arguing,<br /> + Yet dared not quit my post</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>But, keeping still the end in view<br /> + To which I hoped to come,<br /> +I strove to prove the matter true<br /> +By putting everything I knew<br /> + Into an axiom:</p> +<p class="poetry">Commencing every single phrase<br /> + With ‘therefore’ or +‘because,’<br /> +I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,<br /> +About the syllogistic maze,<br /> + Unconscious where I was.</p> +<p class="poetry">Quoth he “That’s regular +clap-trap:<br /> + Don’t bluster any more.<br +/> +Now <i>do</i> be cool and take a nap!<br /> +Such a ridiculous old chap<br /> + Was never seen before!</p> +<p class="poetry">“You’re like a man I used to +meet,<br /> + Who got one day so furious<br /> +In arguing, the simple heat<br /> +Scorched both his slippers off his feet!”<br /> + I said “<i>That’s very +curious</i>!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page47"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 47</span> +<a href="images/p47b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Scorched both his slippers off his feet" +title= +"Scorched both his slippers off his feet" +src="images/p47s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>“Well, it <i>is</i> curious, I agree,<br /> + And sounds perhaps like fibs:<br +/> +But still it’s true as true can be—<br /> +As sure as your name’s Tibbs,” said he.<br /> + I said “My name’s +<i>not</i> Tibbs.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>Not</i> Tibbs!” he +cried—his tone became<br /> + A shade or two less +hearty—<br /> +“Why, no,” said I. “My proper name<br /> +Is Tibbets—” “Tibbets?” +“Aye, the same.”<br /> + “Why, then <span +class="GutSmall">YOU’RE NOT THE PARTY</span>!”</p> +<p class="poetry">With that he struck the board a blow<br /> + That shivered half the glasses.<br +/> +“Why couldn’t you have told me so<br /> +Three quarters of an hour ago,<br /> + You prince of all the asses?</p> +<p class="poetry">“To walk four miles through mud and +rain,<br /> + To spend the night in smoking,<br +/> +And then to find that it’s in vain—<br /> +And I’ve to do it all again—<br /> + It’s really <i>too</i> +provoking!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>“Don’t talk!” he cried, as I began<br +/> + To mutter some excuse.<br /> +“Who can have patience with a man<br /> +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>That’s got no more discretion than<br /> + An idiotic goose?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p49b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"To walk four miles through mud and rain" +title= +"To walk four miles through mud and rain" +src="images/p49s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“To keep me waiting here, instead<br /> + Of telling me at once<br /> +That this was not the house!” he said.<br /> +“There, that’ll do—be off to bed!<br /> + Don’t gape like that, you +dunce!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s very fine to throw the +blame<br /> + On <i>me</i> in such a fashion!<br +/> +Why didn’t you enquire my name<br /> +The very minute that you came?”<br /> + I answered in a passion.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Of course it worries you a bit<br /> + To come so far on foot—<br +/> +But how was <i>I</i> to blame for it?”<br /> +“Well, well!” said he. “I must admit<br +/> + That isn’t badly put.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And certainly you’ve given me<br +/> + The best of wine and +victual—<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>Excuse my +violence,” said he,<br /> +“But accidents like this, you see,<br /> + They put one out a little.</p> +<p class="poetry">“’Twas <i>my</i> fault after all, I +find—<br /> + Shake hands, old +Turnip-top!”<br /> +The name was hardly to my mind,<br /> +But, as no doubt he meant it kind,<br /> + I let the matter drop.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Good-night, old Turnip-top, +good-night!<br /> + When I am gone, perhaps<br /> +They’ll send you some inferior Sprite,<br /> +Who’ll keep you in a constant fright<br /> + And spoil your soundest naps.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Tell him you’ll stand no sort of +trick;<br /> + Then, if he leers and chuckles,<br +/> +You just be handy with a stick<br /> +(Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick)<br /> + And rap him on the knuckles!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Then carelessly remark ‘Old +coon!<br /> + Perhaps you’re not aware<br +/> +<a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>That, if +you don’t behave, you’ll soon<br /> +Be chuckling to another tune—<br /> + And so you’d best take +care!’</p> +<p class="poetry">“That’s the right way to cure a +Sprite<br /> + Of such like goings-on—<br +/> +But gracious me! It’s getting light!<br /> +Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!”<br /> + A nod, and he was gone.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p52b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The ghost" +title= +"The ghost" +src="images/p52s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>CANTO +VII<br /> +Sad Souvenaunce</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p53b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Or can I have been drinking" +title= +"Or can I have been drinking" +src="images/p53s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">What’s</span> +this?” I pondered. “Have I slept?<br /> + Or can I have been +drinking?”<br /> +But soon a gentler feeling crept<br /> +Upon me, and I sat and wept<br /> + An hour or so, like winking.</p> +<p class="poetry">“No need for Bones to hurry so!”<br +/> + I sobbed. “In fact, I +doubt<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>If it was +worth his while to go—<br /> +And who is Tibbs, I’d like to know,<br /> + To make such work about?</p> +<p class="poetry">“If Tibbs is anything like me,<br /> + It’s <i>possible</i>,” +I said,<br /> +“He won’t be over-pleased to be<br /> +Dropped in upon at half-past three,<br /> + After he’s snug in bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And if Bones plagues him +anyhow—<br /> + Squeaking and all the rest of +it,<br /> +As he was doing here just now—<br /> +<i>I</i> prophesy there’ll be a row,<br /> + And Tibbs will have the best of +it!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p55b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"And Tibbs will have the best of it" +title= +"And Tibbs will have the best of it" +src="images/p55s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Then, as my tears could never bring<br /> + The friendly Phantom back,<br /> +It seemed to me the proper thing<br /> +To mix another glass, and sing<br /> + The following Coronach.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>And art thou gone</i>, <i>beloved +Ghost</i>?<br /> + <i>Best of Familiars</i>!<br /> +<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span><i>Nay +then</i>, <i>farewell</i>, <i>my duckling roast</i>,<br /> +<i>Farewell</i>, <i>farewell</i>, <i>my tea and toast</i>,<br /> + <i>My meerschaum and +cigars</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The hues of life are dull and gray</i>,<br +/> + <i>The sweets of life +insipid</i>,<br /> +<i>When</i> thou, <i>my charmer</i>, <i>art away</i>—<br /> +<i>Old Brick</i>, <i>or rather</i>, <i>let me say</i>,<br /> + <i>Old +Parallelepiped</i>!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Instead of singing Verse the Third,<br /> + I ceased—abruptly, +rather:<br /> +But, after such a splendid word<br /> +I felt that it would be absurd<br /> + To try it any farther.</p> +<p class="poetry">So with a yawn I went my way<br /> + To seek the welcome downy,<br /> +And slept, and dreamed till break of day<br /> +Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay<br /> + And Leprechaun and Brownie!</p> +<p class="poetry">For years I’ve not been visited<br /> + By any kind of Sprite;<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>Yet still +they echo in my head,<br /> +Those parting words, so kindly said,<br /> + “Old Turnip-top, +good-night!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p57b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The ghost" +title= +"The ghost" +src="images/p57s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>ECHOES</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Lady</span> Clara Vere de Vere<br /> + Was eight years old, she said:<br +/> +Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.</p> +<p class="poetry"> She took +her little porringer:<br /> + Of me she shall not win renown:<br +/> +For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her +down.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Sisters +and brothers, little Maid?<br /> + There stands the Inspector at thy +door:<br /> +Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are +four.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Kind +words are more than coronets,”<br /> + She said, and wondering looked at +me:<br /> +“It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to +tea.”</p> +<h2><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>A SEA +DIRGE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p59b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The sea, beach and children" +title= +"The sea, beach and children" +src="images/p59s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> are certain +things—as, a spider, a ghost,<br /> + The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for +three—<br /> +That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most<br /> + Is a thing they call the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>Pour some salt water over the floor—<br /> + Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be:<br +/> +Suppose it extended a mile or more,<br /> + <i>That’s</i> very like the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beat a dog till it howls outright—<br /> + Cruel, but all very well for a spree:<br /> +Suppose that he did so day and night,<br /> + <i>That</i> would be like the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had a vision of nursery-maids;<br /> + Tens of thousands passed by me—<br /> +All leading children with wooden spades,<br /> + And this was by the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who invented those spades of wood?<br /> + Who was it cut them out of the tree?<br /> +None, I think, but an idiot could—<br /> + Or one that loved the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to +float<br /> + With ‘thoughts as boundless, and souls as +free’:<br /> +But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat,<br /> + How do you like the Sea?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page61"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 61</span> +<a href="images/p61b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"And this was by the sea" +title= +"And this was by the sea" +src="images/p61s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>There is an insect that people avoid<br /> + (Whence is derived the verb ‘to +flee’).<br /> +Where have you been by it most annoyed?<br /> + In lodgings by the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">If you like your coffee with sand for dregs,<br +/> + A decided hint of salt in your tea,<br /> +And a fishy taste in the very eggs—<br /> + By all means choose the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if, with these dainties to drink and +eat,<br /> + You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,<br /> +And a chronic state of wet in your feet,<br /> + Then—I recommend the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">For <i>I</i> have friends who dwell by the +coast—<br /> + Pleasant friends they are to me!<br /> +It is when I am with them I wonder most<br /> + That anyone likes the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,<br +/> + To climb the heights I madly agree;<br /> +And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,<br /> + They kindly suggest the Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>I try the rocks, and I think it cool<br /> + That they laugh with such an excess of glee,<br /> +As I heavily slip into every pool<br /> + That skirts the cold cold Sea.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"> +<a href="images/p63b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"As I heavily slip into every pool" +title= +"As I heavily slip into every pool" +src="images/p63s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>Ye +Carpette Knyghte</h2> +<p class="poetry">I have a horse—a ryghte good +horse—<br /> + Ne doe Y envye those<br /> +Who scoure ye playne yn headye course<br /> + Tyll soddayne on theyre nose<br /> +They lyghte wyth unexpected force<br /> + Yt ys—a horse of clothes.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have a saddel—“Say’st thou +soe?<br /> + Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?”<br /> +I sayde not that—I answere “Noe”—<br /> + Yt lacketh such, I woote:<br /> +Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!<br /> + Parte of ye fleecye brute.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have a bytte—a ryghte good +bytte—<br /> + As shall bee seene yn tyme.<br /> +Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;<br /> + Yts use ys more sublyme.<br /> +Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?<br /> + Yt ys—thys bytte of rhyme.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page65"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 65</span> +<a href="images/p65b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"I have a horse" +title= +"I have a horse" +src="images/p65s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span>HIAWATHA’S PHOTOGRAPHING</h2> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">From</span> his shoulder +Hiawatha<br /> +Took the camera of rosewood,<br /> +Made of sliding, folding rosewood;<br /> +Neatly put it all together.<br /> +In its case it lay compactly,<br /> +Folded into nearly nothing;<br /> +<a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>But he +opened out the hinges,<br /> +Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,<br /> +Till it looked all squares and oblongs,<br /> +Like a complicated figure<br /> +In the Second Book of Euclid.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p67b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The camera" +title= +"The camera" +src="images/p67s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"> This he perched upon a +tripod—<br /> +Crouched beneath its dusky cover—<br /> +Stretched his hand, enforcing silence—<br /> +Said, “Be motionless, I beg you!”<br /> +Mystic, awful was the process.<br /> + <a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>All the family in order<br /> +Sat before him for their pictures:<br /> +Each in turn, as he was taken,<br /> +Volunteered his own suggestions,<br /> +His ingenious suggestions.<br /> + First the Governor, the Father:<br /> +He suggested velvet curtains<br /> +Looped about a massy pillar;<br /> +And the corner of a table,<br /> +Of a rosewood dining-table.<br /> +He would hold a scroll of something,<br /> +Hold it firmly in his left-hand;<br /> +He would keep his right-hand buried<br /> +(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;<br /> +He would contemplate the distance<br /> +With a look of pensive meaning,<br /> +As of ducks that die ill tempests.<br /> + Grand, heroic was the notion:<br /> +Yet the picture failed entirely:<br /> +Failed, because he moved a little,<br /> +Moved, because he couldn’t help it.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p69b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"First the Governor, the Father" +title= +"First the Governor, the Father" +src="images/p69s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"> Next, his better half took +courage;<br /> +<i>She</i> would have her picture taken.<br /> +She came dressed beyond description,<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>Dressed in +jewels and in satin<br /> +Far too gorgeous for an empress.<br /> +Gracefully she sat down sideways,<br /> +With a simper scarcely human,<br /> +Holding in her hand a bouquet<br /> +Rather larger than a cabbage.<br /> +All the while that she was sitting,<br /> +Still the lady chattered, chattered,<br /> +Like a monkey in the forest.<br /> +“Am I sitting still?” she asked him.<br /> +“Is my face enough in profile?<br /> +Shall I hold the bouquet higher?<br /> +Will it came into the picture?”<br /> +And the picture failed completely.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p71b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab" +title= +"Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab" +src="images/p71s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"> Next the Son, the +Stunning-Cantab:<br /> +He suggested curves of beauty,<br /> +Curves pervading all his figure,<br /> +Which the eye might follow onward,<br /> +Till they centered in the breast-pin,<br /> +Centered in the golden breast-pin.<br /> +He had learnt it all from Ruskin<br /> +(Author of ‘The Stones of Venice,’<br /> +‘Seven Lamps of Architecture,’<br /> +‘Modern Painters,’ and some others);<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>And +perhaps he had not fully<br /> +Understood his author’s meaning;<br /> +But, whatever was the reason,<br /> +All was fruitless, as the picture<br /> +Ended in an utter failure.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p73b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Next to him the eldest daughter" +title= +"Next to him the eldest daughter" +src="images/p73s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"> Next to him the eldest +daughter:<br /> +She suggested very little,<br /> +Only asked if he would take her<br /> +With her look of ‘passive beauty.’<br /> + Her idea of passive beauty<br /> +Was a squinting of the left-eye,<br /> +Was a drooping of the right-eye,<br /> +Was a smile that went up sideways<br /> +To the corner of the nostrils.<br /> + Hiawatha, when she asked him,<br /> +Took no notice of the question,<br /> +Looked as if he hadn’t heard it;<br /> +But, when pointedly appealed to,<br /> +Smiled in his peculiar manner,<br /> +Coughed and said it ‘didn’t matter,’<br /> +Bit his lip and changed the subject.<br /> + Nor in this was he mistaken,<br /> +As the picture failed completely.<br /> + So in turn the other sisters.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p75b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Last, the youngest son was taken" +title= +"Last, the youngest son was taken" +src="images/p75s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"> Last, the youngest son was +taken:<br /> +Very rough and thick his hair was,<br /> +Very round and red his face was,<br /> +Very dusty was his jacket,<br /> +Very fidgety his manner.<br /> +And his overbearing sisters<br /> +Called him names he disapproved of:<br /> +Called him Johnny, ‘Daddy’s Darling,’<br /> +Called him Jacky, ‘Scrubby School-boy.’<br /> +And, so awful was the picture,<br /> +In comparison the others<br /> +Seemed, to one’s bewildered fancy,<br /> +To have partially succeeded.<br /> + Finally my Hiawatha<br /> +Tumbled all the tribe together,<br /> +(‘Grouped’ is not the right expression),<br /> +And, as happy chance would have it<br /> +Did at last obtain a picture<br /> +Where the faces all succeeded:<br /> +Each came out a perfect likeness.<br /> + Then they joined and all abused it,<br /> +Unrestrainedly abused it,<br /> +As the worst and ugliest picture<br /> +They could possibly have dreamed of.<br /> +‘Giving one such strange expressions—<br /> +Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.<br /> +Really any one would take us<br /> +(Any one that did not know us)<br /> +For the most unpleasant people!’<br /> +(Hiawatha seemed to think so,<br /> +Seemed to think it not unlikely).<br /> +All together rang their voices,<br /> +Angry, loud, discordant voices,<br /> +As of dogs that howl in concert,<br /> +As of cats that wail in chorus.<br /> + But my Hiawatha’s patience,<br /> +His politeness and his patience,<br /> +Unaccountably had vanished,<br /> +And he left that happy party.<br /> +Neither did he leave them slowly,<br /> +With the calm deliberation,<br /> +The intense deliberation<br /> +Of a photographic artist:<br /> +But he left them in a hurry,<br /> +Left them in a mighty hurry,<br /> +Stating that he would not stand it,<br /> +Stating in emphatic language<br /> +What he’d be before he’d stand it.<br /> +<a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>Hurriedly +he packed his boxes:<br /> +Hurriedly the porter trundled<br /> +On a barrow all his boxes:<br /> +Hurriedly he took his ticket:<br /> +Hurriedly the train received him:<br /> +Thus departed Hiawatha.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p77b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Thus departed Hiawatha" +title= +"Thus departed Hiawatha" +src="images/p77s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>MELANCHOLETTA</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">With</span> saddest music +all day long<br /> + She soothed her secret sorrow:<br /> +At night she sighed “I fear ’twas wrong<br /> + Such cheerful words to borrow.<br /> +Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song<br /> + I’ll sing to thee to-morrow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I thanked her, but I could not say<br /> + That I was glad to hear it:<br /> +I left the house at break of day,<br /> + And did not venture near it<br /> +Till time, I hoped, had worn away<br /> + Her grief, for nought could cheer it!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p79b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"At night she signed" +title= +"At night she signed" +src="images/p79s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">My dismal sister! Couldst thou know<br /> + The wretched home thou keepest!<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Thy +brother, drowned in daily woe,<br /> + Is thankful when thou sleepest;<br /> +For if I laugh, however low,<br /> + When thou’rt awake, thou weepest!</p> +<p class="poetry">I took my sister t’other day<br /> + (Excuse the slang expression)<br /> +To Sadler’s Wells to see the play<br /> + In hopes the new impression<br /> +Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay<br /> + Effect some slight digression.</p> +<p class="poetry">I asked three gay young dogs from town<br /> + To join us in our folly,<br /> +Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown<br /> + My sister’s melancholy:<br /> +The lively Jones, the sportive Brown,<br /> + And Robinson the jolly.</p> +<p class="poetry">The maid announced the meal in tones<br /> + That I myself had taught her,<br /> +Meant to allay my sister’s moans<br /> + Like oil on troubled water:<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>I rushed +to Jones, the lively Jones,<br /> + And begged him to escort her.</p> +<p class="poetry">Vainly he strove, with ready wit,<br /> + To joke about the weather—<br /> +To ventilate the last ‘<i>on dit</i>’—<br /> + To quote the price of leather—<br /> +She groaned “Here I and Sorrow sit:<br /> + Let us lament together!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I urged “You’re wasting time, you +know:<br /> + Delay will spoil the venison.”<br /> +“My heart is wasted with my woe!<br /> + There is no rest—in Venice, on<br /> +The Bridge of Sighs!” she quoted low<br /> + From Byron and from Tennyson.</p> +<p class="poetry">I need not tell of soup and fish<br /> + In solemn silence swallowed,<br /> +The sobs that ushered in each dish,<br /> + And its departure followed,<br /> +Nor yet my suicidal wish<br /> + To <i>be</i> the cheese I hollowed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>Some desperate attempts were made<br /> + To start a conversation;<br /> +“Madam,” the sportive Brown essayed,<br /> + “Which kind of recreation,<br /> +Hunting or fishing, have you made<br /> + Your special occupation?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Her lips curved downwards instantly,<br /> + As if of india-rubber.<br /> +“Hounds <i>in full cry</i> I like,” said she:<br /> + (Oh how I longed to snub her!)<br /> +“Of fish, a whale’s the one for me,<br /> + <i>It is so full of blubber</i>!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The night’s performance was “King +John.”<br /> + “It’s dull,” she wept, “and +so-so!”<br /> +Awhile I let her tears flow on,<br /> + She said they soothed her woe so!<br /> +At length the curtain rose upon<br /> + ‘Bombastes Furioso.’</p> +<p class="poetry">In vain we roared; in vain we tried<br /> + To rouse her into laughter:<br /> +<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>Her +pensive glances wandered wide<br /> + From orchestra to rafter—<br /> +“<i>Tier upon tier</i>!” she said, and sighed;<br /> + And silence followed after.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p83b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Sighing at the table" +title= +"Sighing at the table" +src="images/p83s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>A +VALENTINE</h2> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p class="poetry">And cannot pleasures, while they last,<br /> +Be actual unless, when past,<br /> +They leave us shuddering and aghast,<br /> + With anguish smarting?<br /> +And cannot friends be firm and fast,<br /> + And yet bear parting?</p> +<p class="poetry">And must I then, at Friendship’s call,<br +/> +Calmly resign the little all<br /> +(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)<br /> + I have of gladness,<br /> +And lend my being to the thrall<br /> + Of gloom and sadness?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>And think you that I should be dumb,<br /> +And full <i>dolorum omnium</i>,<br /> +Excepting when <i>you</i> choose to come<br /> + And share my dinner?<br /> +At other times be sour and glum<br /> + And daily thinner?</p> +<p class="poetry">Must he then only live to weep,<br /> +Who’d prove his friendship true and deep<br /> +By day a lonely shadow creep,<br /> + At night-time languish,<br /> +Oft raising in his broken sleep<br /> + The moan of anguish?</p> +<p class="poetry">The lover, if for certain days<br /> +His fair one be denied his gaze,<br /> +Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,<br /> + But, wiser wooer,<br /> +He spends the time in writing lays,<br /> + And posts them to her.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if the verse flow free and fast,<br /> +Till even the poet is aghast,<br /> +<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>A touching +Valentine at last<br /> + The post shall carry,<br /> +When thirteen days are gone and past<br /> + Of February.</p> +<p class="poetry">Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,<br /> +In desert waste or crowded street,<br /> +Perhaps before this week shall fleet,<br /> + Perhaps to-morrow.<br /> +I trust to find <i>your</i> heart the seat<br /> + Of wasting sorrow.</p> +<h2><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>THE +THREE VOICES</h2> +<h3>The First Voice</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> trilled a carol +fresh and free,<br /> +He laughed aloud for very glee:<br /> +There came a breeze from off the sea:</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p87b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"There came a breeze from off the sea" +title= +"There came a breeze from off the sea" +src="images/p87s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>It passed athwart the glooming flat—<br /> +It fanned his forehead as he sat—<br /> +It lightly bore away his hat,</p> +<p class="poetry">All to the feet of one who stood<br /> +Like maid enchanted in a wood,<br /> +Frowning as darkly as she could.</p> +<p class="poetry">With huge umbrella, lank and brown,<br /> +Unerringly she pinned it down,<br /> +Right through the centre of the crown.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, with an aspect cold and grim,<br /> +Regardless of its battered rim,<br /> +She took it up and gave it him.</p> +<p class="poetry">A while like one in dreams he stood,<br /> +Then faltered forth his gratitude<br /> +In words just short of being rude:</p> +<p class="poetry">For it had lost its shape and shine,<br /> +And it had cost him four-and-nine,<br /> +And he was going out to dine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page89"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 89</span> +<a href="images/p89b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Unerringly she pinned it down" +title= +"Unerringly she pinned it down" +src="images/p89s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>“To dine!” she sneered in acid tone.<br /> +“To bend thy being to a bone<br /> +Clothed in a radiance not its own!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The tear-drop trickled to his chin:<br /> +There was a meaning in her grin<br /> +That made him feel on fire within.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Term it not +‘radiance,’” said he:<br /> +“’Tis solid nutriment to me.<br /> +Dinner is Dinner: Tea is Tea.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And she “Yea so? Yet wherefore +cease?<br /> +Let thy scant knowledge find increase.<br /> +Say ‘Men are Men, and Geese are Geese.’”</p> +<p class="poetry">He moaned: he knew not what to say.<br /> +The thought “That I could get away!”<br /> +Strove with the thought “But I must stay.</p> +<p class="poetry">“To dine!” she shrieked in +dragon-wrath.<br /> +“To swallow wines all foam and froth!<br /> +To simper at a table-cloth!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>“Say, can thy noble spirit stoop<br /> +To join the gormandising troup<br /> +Who find a solace in the soup?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Canst thou desire or pie or puff?<br /> +Thy well-bred manners were enough,<br /> +Without such gross material stuff.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet well-bred men,” he faintly +said,<br /> +“Are not willing to be fed:<br /> +Nor are they well without the bread.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Her visage scorched him ere she spoke:<br /> +“There are,” she said, “a kind of folk<br /> +Who have no horror of a joke.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Such wretches live: they take their +share<br /> +Of common earth and common air:<br /> +We come across them here and there:</p> +<p class="poetry">“We grant them—there is no +escape—<br /> +A sort of semi-human shape<br /> +Suggestive of the man-like Ape.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>“In all such theories,” said he,<br /> +“One fixed exception there must be.<br /> +That is, the Present Company.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark:<br /> +He, aiming blindly in the dark,<br /> +With random shaft had pierced the mark.</p> +<p class="poetry">She felt that her defeat was plain,<br /> +Yet madly strove with might and main<br /> +To get the upper hand again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fixing her eyes upon the beach,<br /> +As though unconscious of his speech,<br /> +She said “Each gives to more than each.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He could not answer yea or nay:<br /> +He faltered “Gifts may pass away.”<br /> +Yet knew not what he meant to say.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If that be so,” she straight +replied,<br /> +“Each heart with each doth coincide.<br /> +What boots it? For the world is wide.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page93"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 93</span> +<a href="images/p93b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"He faltered “Gifts may pass away”" +title= +"He faltered “Gifts may pass away”" +src="images/p93s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>“The world is but a Thought,” said he:<br /> +“The vast unfathomable sea<br /> +Is but a Notion—unto me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And darkly fell her answer dread<br /> +Upon his unresisting head,<br /> +Like half a hundredweight of lead.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The Good and Great must ever shun<br /> +That reckless and abandoned one<br /> +Who stoops to perpetrate a pun.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The man that smokes—that reads the +<i>Times</i>—<br /> +That goes to Christmas Pantomimes—<br /> +Is capable of <i>any</i> crimes!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He felt it was his turn to speak,<br /> +And, with a shamed and crimson cheek,<br /> +Moaned “This is harder than Bezique!”</p> +<p class="poetry">But when she asked him “Wherefore +so?”<br /> +He felt his very whiskers glow,<br /> +And frankly owned “I do not know.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page95"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 95</span> +<a href="images/p95b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"This is harder than Bezique!" +title= +"This is harder than Bezique!" +src="images/p95s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>While, like broad waves of golden grain,<br /> +Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,<br /> +His colour came and went again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Pitying his obvious distress,<br /> +Yet with a tinge of bitterness,<br /> +She said “The More exceeds the Less.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“A truth of such undoubted +weight,”<br /> +He urged, “and so extreme in date,<br /> +It were superfluous to state.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Roused into sudden passion, she<br /> +In tone of cold malignity:<br /> +“To others, yea: but not to thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But when she saw him quail and quake,<br /> +And when he urged “For pity’s sake!”<br /> +Once more in gentle tones she spake.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thought in the mind doth still abide<br +/> +That is by Intellect supplied,<br /> +And within that Idea doth hide:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>“And he, that yearns the truth to know,<br /> +Still further inwardly may go,<br /> +And find Idea from Notion flow:</p> +<p class="poetry">“And thus the chain, that sages +sought,<br /> +Is to a glorious circle wrought,<br /> +For Notion hath its source in Thought.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So passed they on with even pace:<br /> +Yet gradually one might trace<br /> +A shadow growing on his face.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p97b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"A shadow growing on his face" +title= +"A shadow growing on his face" +src="images/p97s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>The +Second Voice</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p98b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"They walked beside the wave-worn beach" +title= +"They walked beside the wave-worn beach" +src="images/p98s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">They walked beside the wave-worn beach;<br /> +Her tongue was very apt to teach,<br /> +And now and then he did beseech</p> +<p class="poetry">She would abate her dulcet tone,<br /> +Because the talk was all her own,<br /> +And he was dull as any drone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>She urged “No cheese is made of chalk”:<br +/> +And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,<br /> +Tuned to the footfall of a walk.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her voice was very full and rich,<br /> +And, when at length she asked him “Which?”<br /> +It mounted to its highest pitch.</p> +<p class="poetry">He a bewildered answer gave,<br /> +Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,<br /> +Lost in the echoes of the cave.</p> +<p class="poetry">He answered her he knew not what:<br /> +Like shaft from bow at random shot,<br /> +He spoke, but she regarded not.</p> +<p class="poetry">She waited not for his reply,<br /> +But with a downward leaden eye<br /> +Went on as if he were not by</p> +<p class="poetry">Sound argument and grave defence,<br /> +Strange questions raised on “Why?” and +“Whence?”<br /> +And wildly tangled evidence.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>When he, with racked and whirling brain,<br /> +Feebly implored her to explain,<br /> +She simply said it all again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wrenched with an agony intense,<br /> +He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,<br /> +And careless of all consequence:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Mind—I believe—is +Essence—Ent—<br /> +Abstract—that is—an Accident—<br /> +Which we—that is to say—I meant—”</p> +<p class="poetry">When, with quick breath and cheeks all +flushed,<br /> +At length his speech was somewhat hushed,<br /> +She looked at him, and he was crushed.</p> +<p class="poetry">It needed not her calm reply:<br /> +She fixed him with a stony eye,<br /> +And he could neither fight nor fly.</p> +<p class="poetry">While she dissected, word by word,<br /> +His speech, half guessed at and half heard,<br /> +As might a cat a little bird.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page101"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 101</span> +<a href="images/p101b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense" +title= +"He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense" +src="images/p101s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>Then, having wholly overthrown<br /> +His views, and stripped them to the bone,<br /> +Proceeded to unfold her own.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Shall Man be Man? And shall he +miss<br /> +Of other thoughts no thought but this,<br /> +Harmonious dews of sober bliss?</p> +<p class="poetry">“What boots it? Shall his fevered +eye<br /> +Through towering nothingness descry<br /> +The grisly phantom hurry by?</p> +<p class="poetry">“And hear dumb shrieks that fill the +air;<br /> +See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare<br /> +And redden in the dusky glare?</p> +<p class="poetry">“The meadows breathing amber light,<br /> +The darkness toppling from the height,<br /> +The feathery train of granite Night?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Shall he, grown gray among his peers,<br +/> +Through the thick curtain of his tears<br /> +Catch glimpses of his earlier years,</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page103"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 103</span> +<a href="images/p103b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Shall Man be Man?" +title= +"Shall Man be Man?" +src="images/p103s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>“And hear the sounds he knew of yore,<br /> +Old shufflings on the sanded floor,<br /> +Old knuckles tapping at the door?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet still before him as he flies<br /> +One pallid form shall ever rise,<br /> +And, bodying forth in glassy eyes</p> +<p class="poetry">“The vision of a vanished good,<br /> +Low peering through the tangled wood,<br /> +Shall freeze the current of his blood.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Still from each fact, with skill uncouth<br /> +And savage rapture, like a tooth<br /> +She wrenched some slow reluctant truth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Till, like a silent water-mill,<br /> +When summer suns have dried the rill,<br /> +She reached a full stop, and was still.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,<br /> +As when the loaded omnibus<br /> +Has reached the railway terminus:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>When, for the tumult of the street,<br /> +Is heard the engine’s stifled beat,<br /> +The velvet tread of porters’ feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">With glance that ever sought the ground,<br /> +She moved her lips without a sound,<br /> +And every now and then she frowned.</p> +<p class="poetry">He gazed upon the sleeping sea,<br /> +And joyed in its tranquillity,<br /> +And in that silence dead, but she</p> +<p class="poetry">To muse a little space did seem,<br /> +Then, like the echo of a dream,<br /> +Harked back upon her threadbare theme.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still an attentive ear he lent<br /> +But could not fathom what she meant:<br /> +She was not deep, nor eloquent.</p> +<p class="poetry">He marked the ripple on the sand:<br /> +The even swaying of her hand<br /> +Was all that he could understand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>He saw in dreams a drawing-room,<br /> +Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom,<br /> +Waiting—he thought he knew for whom:</p> +<p class="poetry">He saw them drooping here and there,<br /> +Each feebly huddled on a chair,<br /> +In attitudes of blank despair:</p> +<p class="poetry">Oysters were not more mute than they,<br /> +For all their brains were pumped away,<br /> +And they had nothing more to say—</p> +<p class="poetry">Save one, who groaned “Three hours are +gone!”<br /> +Who shrieked “We’ll wait no longer, John!<br /> +Tell them to set the dinner on!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The vision passed: the ghosts were fled:<br /> +He saw once more that woman dread:<br /> +He heard once more the words she said.</p> +<p class="poetry">He left her, and he turned aside:<br /> +He sat and watched the coming tide<br /> +Across the shores so newly dried.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page107"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 107</span> +<a href="images/p107b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"He sat and watched the coming tide" +title= +"He sat and watched the coming tide" +src="images/p107s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>He wondered at the waters clear,<br /> +The breeze that whispered in his ear,<br /> +The billows heaving far and near,</p> +<p class="poetry">And why he had so long preferred<br /> +To hang upon her every word:<br /> +“In truth,” he said, “it was absurd.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p108b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"He sits" +title= +"He sits" +src="images/p108s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>The +Third Voice</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p109b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Quick tears were raining down his face" +title= +"Quick tears were raining down his face" +src="images/p109s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Not long this transport held its place:<br /> +Within a little moment’s space<br /> +Quick tears were raining down his face</p> +<p class="poetry">His heart stood still, aghast with fear;<br /> +A wordless voice, nor far nor near,<br /> +He seemed to hear and not to hear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>“Tears kindle not the doubtful spark.<br /> +If so, why not? Of this remark<br /> +The bearings are profoundly dark.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Her speech,” he said, “hath +caused this pain.<br /> +Easier I count it to explain<br /> +The jargon of the howling main,</p> +<p class="poetry">“Or, stretched beside some babbling +brook,<br /> +To con, with inexpressive look,<br /> +An unintelligible book.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Low spake the voice within his head,<br /> +In words imagined more than said,<br /> +Soundless as ghost’s intended tread:</p> +<p class="poetry">“If thou art duller than before,<br /> +Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?<br /> +Why not endure, expecting more?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Rather than that,” he groaned +aghast,<br /> +“I’d writhe in depths of cavern vast,<br /> +Some loathly vampire’s rich repast.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page111"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 111</span> +<a href="images/p111b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"He groaned aghast" +title= +"He groaned aghast" +src="images/p111s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>“’Twere hard,” it answered, +“themes immense<br /> +To coop within the narrow fence<br /> +That rings <i>thy</i> scant intelligence.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Not so,” he urged, “nor once +alone:<br /> +But there was something in her tone<br /> +That chilled me to the very bone.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Her style was anything but clear,<br /> +And most unpleasantly severe;<br /> +Her epithets were very queer.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And yet, so grand were her replies,<br +/> +I could not choose but deem her wise;<br /> +I did not dare to criticise;</p> +<p class="poetry">“Nor did I leave her, till she went<br /> +So deep in tangled argument<br /> +That all my powers of thought were spent.”</p> +<p class="poetry">A little whisper inly slid,<br /> +“Yet truth is truth: you know you did.”<br /> +A little wink beneath the lid.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>And, sickened with excess of dread,<br /> +Prone to the dust he bent his head,<br /> +And lay like one three-quarters dead</p> +<p class="poetry">The whisper left him—like a breeze<br /> +Lost in the depths of leafy trees—<br /> +Left him by no means at his ease.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once more he weltered in despair,<br /> +With hands, through denser-matted hair,<br /> +More tightly clenched than then they were.</p> +<p class="poetry">When, bathed in Dawn of living red,<br /> +Majestic frowned the mountain head,<br /> +“Tell me my fault,” was all he said.</p> +<p class="poetry">When, at high Noon, the blazing sky<br /> +Scorched in his head each haggard eye,<br /> +Then keenest rose his weary cry.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when at Eve the unpitying sun<br /> +Smiled grimly on the solemn fun,<br /> +“Alack,” he sighed, “what <i>have</i> I +done?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page114"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 114</span> +<a href="images/p114b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Tortured, unaided, and alone" +title= +"Tortured, unaided, and alone" +src="images/p114s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>But saddest, darkest was the sight,<br /> +When the cold grasp of leaden Night<br /> +Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tortured, unaided, and alone,<br /> +Thunders were silence to his groan,<br /> +Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:</p> +<p class="poetry">“What? Ever thus, in dismal +round,<br /> +Shall Pain and Mystery profound<br /> +Pursue me like a sleepless hound,</p> +<p class="poetry">“With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,<br +/> +Me, still in ignorance of the cause,<br /> +Unknowing what I broke of laws?”</p> +<p class="poetry">The whisper to his ear did seem<br /> +Like echoed flow of silent stream,<br /> +Or shadow of forgotten dream,</p> +<p class="poetry">The whisper trembling in the wind:<br /> +“Her fate with thine was intertwined,”<br /> +So spake it in his inner mind:</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page116"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 116</span> +<a href="images/p116b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"a scared dullard, gibbering low" +title= +"a scared dullard, gibbering low" +src="images/p116s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>“Each orbed on each a baleful star:<br /> +Each proved the other’s blight and bar:<br /> +Each unto each were best, most far:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yea, each to each was worse than foe:<br +/> +Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,<br /> +<span class="smcap">And she</span>, <span class="smcap">an +avalanche of woe</span>!”</p> +<h2><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>TÈMA CON VARIAZIÒNI</h2> +<p>[Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that +process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her +sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of +some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few +more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the +listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, +at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce +in a more concentrated form. The process is termed +“setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever +experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap +of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy +phrase.</p> +<p>For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a +morsel of supreme Venison—whose every fibre seems to murmur +“Excelsior!”—yet swallows, ere returning to the +toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and +winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits +himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more +of boarding-school beer: so also—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>I <span class="smcap">never</span> loved a dear +Gazelle—<br /> + <i>Nor anything that cost me much</i>:<br /> +<i>High prices profit those who sell</i>,<br /> + <i>But why should I be fond of such</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">To glad me with his soft black eye<br /> + <i>My son comes trotting home from school</i>;<br /> +<i>He’s had a fight but can’t tell why</i>—<br +/> + <i>He always was a little fool</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">But, when he came to know me well,<br /> + <i>He kicked me out</i>, <i>her testy Sire</i>:<br +/> +<i>And when I stained my hair</i>, <i>that Belle</i><br /> + <i>Might note the change</i>, <i>and thus +admire</i></p> +<p class="poetry">And love me, it was sure to dye<br /> + <i>A muddy green or staring blue</i>:<br /> +<i>Whilst one might trace</i>, <i>with half an eye</i>,<br /> + <i>The still triumphant carrot through</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>A +GAME OF FIVES</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p120b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Five little girls" +title= +"Five little girls" +src="images/p120s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Five</span> little girls, +of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:<br /> +Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:<br +/> +Sitting down to lessons—no more time for tricks.</p> +<p class="poetry">Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:<br +/> +Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page121"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 121</span> +<a href="images/p121b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Now tell me which you mean" +title= +"Now tell me which you mean" +src="images/p121s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:<br /> +Each young man that calls, I say “Now tell me which you +<i>mean</i>!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:<br +/> +But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?</p> +<p class="poetry">Five showy girls—but Thirty is an age<br +/> +When girls may be <i>engaging</i>, but they somehow don’t +<i>engage</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:<br /> +So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Five <i>passé</i> girls—Their +age? Well, never mind!<br /> +We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:<br /> +But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think +he knows<br /> +The answer to that ancient problem “how the money +goes”!</p> +<h2><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p123b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Child on old man’s knee" +title= +"Child on old man’s knee" +src="images/p123s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“How shall I be a poet?<br /> + How shall I write in rhyme?<br /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>You told +me once ‘the very wish<br /> + Partook of the sublime.’<br /> +Then tell me how! Don’t put me off<br /> + With your ‘another time’!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The old man smiled to see him,<br /> + To hear his sudden sally;<br /> +He liked the lad to speak his mind<br /> + Enthusiastically;<br /> +And thought “There’s no hum-drum in him,<br /> + Nor any shilly-shally.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And would you be a poet<br /> + Before you’ve been to school?<br /> +Ah, well! I hardly thought you<br /> + So absolute a fool.<br /> +First learn to be spasmodic—<br /> + A very simple rule.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For first you write a sentence,<br /> + And then you chop it small;<br /> +Then mix the bits, and sort them out<br /> + Just as they chance to fall:<br /> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>The +order of the phrases makes<br /> + No difference at all.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Then, if you’d be impressive,<br +/> + Remember what I say,<br /> +That abstract qualities begin<br /> + With capitals alway:<br /> +The True, the Good, the Beautiful—<br /> + Those are the things that pay!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Next, when you are describing<br /> + A shape, or sound, or tint;<br /> +Don’t state the matter plainly,<br /> + But put it in a hint;<br /> +And learn to look at all things<br /> + With a sort of mental squint.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“For instance, if I wished, Sir,<br /> + Of mutton-pies to tell,<br /> +Should I say ‘dreams of fleecy flocks<br /> + Pent in a wheaten cell’?”<br /> +“Why, yes,” the old man said: “that phrase<br +/> + Would answer very well.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>“Then fourthly, there are epithets<br /> + That suit with any word—<br /> +As well as Harvey’s Reading Sauce<br /> + With fish, or flesh, or bird—<br /> +Of these, ‘wild,’ ‘lonely,’ +‘weary,’ ‘strange,’<br /> + Are much to be preferred.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And will it do, O will it do<br /> + To take them in a lump—<br /> +As ‘the wild man went his weary way<br /> + To a strange and lonely pump’?”<br /> +“Nay, nay! You must not hastily<br /> + To such conclusions jump.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p127b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The wild man went his weary way" +title= +"The wild man went his weary way" +src="images/p127s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“Such epithets, like pepper,<br /> + Give zest to what you write;<br /> +And, if you strew them sparely,<br /> + They whet the appetite:<br /> +But if you lay them on too thick,<br /> + You spoil the matter quite!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Last, as to the arrangement:<br /> + Your reader, you should show him,<br /> +<a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>Must +take what information he<br /> + Can get, and look for no im-<br /> +mature disclosure of the drift<br /> + And purpose of your poem.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Therefore, to test his +patience—<br /> + How much he can endure—<br /> +Mention no places, names, or dates,<br /> + And evermore be sure<br /> +Throughout the poem to be found<br /> + Consistently obscure.</p> +<p class="poetry">“First fix upon the limit<br /> + To which it shall extend:<br /> +Then fill it up with ‘Padding’<br /> + (Beg some of any friend):<br /> +Your great <span class="smcap">Sensation-stanza</span><br /> + You place towards the end.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And what is a Sensation,<br /> + Grandfather, tell me, pray?<br /> +I think I never heard the word<br /> + So used before to-day:<br /> +<a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>Be kind +enough to mention one<br /> + ‘<i>Exempli +gratiâ</i>.’”</p> +<p class="poetry">And the old man, looking sadly<br /> + Across the garden-lawn,<br /> +Where here and there a dew-drop<br /> + Yet glittered in the dawn,<br /> +Said “Go to the Adelphi,<br /> + And see the ‘Colleen Bawn.’</p> +<p class="poetry">“The word is due to Boucicault—<br +/> + The theory is his,<br /> +Where Life becomes a Spasm,<br /> + And History a Whiz:<br /> +If that is not Sensation,<br /> + I don’t know what it is.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now try your hand, ere Fancy<br /> + Have lost its present glow—”<br /> +“And then,” his grandson added,<br /> + “We’ll publish it, you know:<br /> +Green cloth—gold-lettered at the back—<br /> + In duodecimo!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>Then proudly smiled that old man<br /> + To see the eager lad<br /> +Rush madly for his pen and ink<br /> + And for his blotting-pad—<br /> +But, when he thought of <i>publishing</i>,<br /> + His face grew stern and sad.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p130b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"His face grew stern and sad" +title= +"His face grew stern and sad" +src="images/p130s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>SIZE +AND TEARS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p131b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"When on the sandy shore I sit" +title= +"When on the sandy shore I sit" +src="images/p131s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> on the sandy +shore I sit,<br /> + Beside the salt sea-wave,<br /> +And fall into a weeping fit<br /> + Because I dare not shave—<br /> +<a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span>A little +whisper at my ear<br /> +Enquires the reason of my fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">I answer “If that ruffian Jones<br /> + Should recognise me here,<br /> +He’d bellow out my name in tones<br /> + Offensive to the ear:<br /> +He chaffs me so on being stout<br /> +(A thing that always puts me out).”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah me! I see him on the cliff!<br /> + Farewell, farewell to hope,<br /> +If he should look this way, and if<br /> + He’s got his telescope!<br /> +To whatsoever place I flee,<br /> +My odious rival follows me!</p> +<p class="poetry">For every night, and everywhere,<br /> + I meet him out at dinner;<br /> +And when I’ve found some charming fair,<br /> + And vowed to die or win her,<br /> +The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout)<br /> +Is sure to come and cut me out!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page133"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 133</span> +<a href="images/p133b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"He’s thin and I am stout" +title= +"He’s thin and I am stout" +src="images/p133s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>The girls (just like them!) all agree<br /> + To praise J. Jones, Esquire:<br /> +I ask them what on earth they see<br /> + About him to admire?<br /> +They cry “He is so sleek and slim,<br /> +It’s quite a treat to look at him!”</p> +<p class="poetry">They vanish in tobacco smoke,<br /> + Those visionary maids—<br /> +I feel a sharp and sudden poke<br /> + Between the shoulder-blades—<br /> +“Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!”<br /> +(I told you he would find me out!)</p> +<p class="poetry">“My growth is not <i>your</i> business, +Sir!”<br /> + “No more it is, my boy!<br /> +But if it’s <i>yours</i>, as I infer,<br /> + Why, Brown, I give you joy!<br /> +A man, whose business prospers so,<br /> +Is just the sort of man to know!</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s hardly safe, though, talking +here—<br /> + I’d best get out of reach:<br /> +<a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>For such +a weight as yours, I fear,<br /> + Must shortly sink the beach!”—<br /> +Insult me thus because I’m stout!<br /> +I vow I’ll go and call him out!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p135b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"For such a weight as yours . . ." +title= +"For such a weight as yours . . ." +src="images/p135s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN</h2> +<p +class="poetry"> Ay, +’twas here, on this spot,<br /> + + +In that summer of yore,<br /> + Atalanta did +not<br /> + + +Vote my presence a bore,<br /> +Nor reply to my tenderest talk “She had<br /> + heard all that nonsense +before.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> She’d +the brooch I had bought<br /> + + +And the necklace and sash on,<br /> + And her heart, +as I thought,<br /> + + +Was alive to my passion;<br /> +And she’d done up her hair in the style that<br /> + the Empress had brought into +fashion.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> I +had been to the play<br /> + + +With my pearl of a Peri—<br /> + But, for all I +could say,<br /> + + +She declared she was weary,<br /> +<a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>That +“the place was so crowded and hot, and<br /> + she couldn’t abide that +Dundreary.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p137b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"On this spot . . ." +title= +"On this spot . . ." +src="images/p137s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +I thought “Lucky boy!<br /> + + +’Tis for <i>you</i> that she whimpers!”<br /> + And I noted with +joy<br /> + + +Those sensational simpers:<br /> +And I said “This is scrumptious!”—a<br /> + phrase I had learned from the +Devonshire shrimpers.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>And I vowed +“’Twill be said<br /> + + +I’m a fortunate fellow,<br /> + When the +breakfast is spread,<br /> + + +When the topers are mellow,<br /> +When the foam of the bride-cake is white,<br /> + and the fierce orange-blossoms are +yellow!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> O +that languishing yawn!<br /> + + +O those eloquent eyes!<br /> + I was drunk with +the dawn<br /> + + +Of a splendid surmise—<br /> +I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,<br /> + by a tempest of sighs.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +I whispered “I see<br /> + + +The sweet secret thou keepest.<br /> + And the yearning +for <i>ME</i><br /> + + +That thou wistfully weepest!<br /> +And the question is ‘License or Banns?’,<br /> + though undoubtedly Banns are the +cheapest.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>“Be +my Hero,” said I,<br /> + + +“And let <i>me</i> be Leander!”<br /> + But I lost her +reply—<br /> + + +Something ending with “gander”—<br /> +For the omnibus rattled so loud that no<br /> + mortal could quite understand +her.</p> +<h2><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>THE +LANG COORTIN’</h2> +<p class="poetry">The ladye she stood at her lattice high,<br /> + Wi’ her doggie at her feet;<br /> +Thorough the lattice she can spy<br /> + The passers in the street,</p> +<p class="poetry">“There’s one that standeth at the +door,<br /> + And tirleth at the pin:<br /> +Now speak and say, my popinjay,<br /> + If I sall let him in.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and spake the popinjay<br /> + That flew abune her head:<br /> +“Gae let him in that tirls the pin:<br /> + He cometh thee to wed.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O when he cam’ the parlour in,<br /> + A woeful man was he!<br /> +<a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>“And dinna ye ken your lover agen,<br /> + Sae well that loveth thee?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p141b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The popinjay" +title= +"The popinjay" +src="images/p141s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,<br +/> + That have been sae lang away?<br /> +And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?<br /> + Ye never telled me sae.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Said—“Ladye dear,” and the +salt, salt tear<br /> + Cam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek,<br /> +“I have sent the tokens of my love<br /> + This many and many a week.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +142</span>“O didna ye get the rings, Ladye,<br /> + The rings o’ the gowd sae fine?<br /> +I wot that I have sent to thee<br /> + Four score, four score and nine.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“They cam’ to me,” said that +fair ladye.<br /> + “Wow, they were flimsie things!”<br /> +Said—“that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to howd,<br +/> + It is made o’ thae self-same rings.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And didna ye get the locks, the +locks,<br /> + The locks o’ my ain black hair,<br /> +<a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>Whilk I +sent by post, whilk I sent by box,<br /> + Whilk I sent by the carrier?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“They cam’ to me,” said that +fair ladye;<br /> + “And I prithee send nae mair!”<br /> +Said—“that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s +head,<br /> + It is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ +hair.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And didna ye get the letter, Ladye,<br +/> + Tied wi’ a silken string,<br /> +Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,<br /> + A message of love to bring?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It cam’ to me frae the far +countrie<br /> + Wi’ its silken string and a’;<br /> +But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid,<br /> + “Sae I gar’d them tak’ it +awa’.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O ever alack that ye sent it back,<br /> + It was written sae clerkly and well!<br /> +Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,<br /> + I must even say it mysel’.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and spake the popinjay,<br /> + Sae wisely counselled he.<br /> +“Now say it in the proper way:<br /> + Gae doon upon thy knee!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The lover he turned baith red and pale,<br /> + Went doon upon his knee:<br /> +“O Ladye, hear the waesome tale<br /> + That must be told to thee!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>“For five lang years, and five lang years,<br /> + I coorted thee by looks;<br /> +By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,<br /> + As I had read in books.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For ten lang years, O weary hours!<br /> + I coorted thee by signs;<br /> +By sending game, by sending flowers,<br /> + By sending Valentines.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For five lang years, and five lang +years,<br /> + I have dwelt in the far countrie,<br /> +Till that thy mind should be inclined<br /> + Mair tenderly to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now thirty years are gane and past,<br +/> + I am come frae a foreign land:<br /> +I am come to tell thee my love at last—<br /> + O Ladye, gie me thy hand!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The ladye she turned not pale nor red,<br /> + But she smiled a pitiful smile:<br /> +“Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” she +said<br /> + “Takes a lang and a weary while!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page145"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 145</span> +<a href="images/p145b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"And out and laughed the popinjay" +title= +"And out and laughed the popinjay" +src="images/p145s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>And out and laughed the popinjay,<br /> + A laugh of bitter scorn:<br /> +“A coortin’ done in sic’ a way,<br /> + It ought not to be borne!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Wi’ that the doggie barked aloud,<br /> + And up and doon he ran,<br /> +And tugged and strained his chain o’ gowd,<br /> + All for to bite the man.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O hush thee, gentle popinjay!<br /> + O hush thee, doggie dear!<br /> +There is a word I fain wad say,<br /> + It needeth he should hear!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Aye louder screamed that ladye fair<br /> + To drown her doggie’s bark:<br /> +Ever the lover shouted mair<br /> + To make that ladye hark:</p> +<p class="poetry">Shrill and more shrill the popinjay<br /> + Upraised his angry squall:<br /> +I trow the doggie’s voice that day<br /> + Was louder than them all!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page147"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 147</span> +<a href="images/p147b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"O hush thee, gentle gentle popinjay!" +title= +"O hush thee, gentle gentle popinjay!" +src="images/p147s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>The serving-men and serving-maids<br /> + Sat by the kitchen fire:<br /> +They heard sic’ a din the parlour within<br /> + As made them much admire.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out spake the boy in buttons<br /> + (I ween he wasna thin),<br /> +“Now wha will tae the parlour gae,<br /> + And stay this deadlie din?”</p> +<p class="poetry">And they have taen a kerchief,<br /> + Casted their kevils in,<br /> +For wha will tae the parlour gae,<br /> + And stay that deadlie din.</p> +<p class="poetry">When on that boy the kevil fell<br /> + To stay the fearsome noise,<br /> +“Gae in,” they cried, “whate’er +betide,<br /> + Thou prince of button-boys!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Syne, he has taen a supple cane<br /> + To swinge that dog sae fat:<br /> +The doggie yowled, the doggie howled<br /> + The louder aye for that.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page149"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 149</span> +<a href="images/p149b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The doggie ceased his noise" +title= +"The doggie ceased his noise" +src="images/p149s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane—<br /> + The doggie ceased his noise,<br /> +And followed doon the kitchen stair<br /> + That prince of button-boys!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then sadly spake that ladye fair,<br /> + Wi’ a frown upon her brow:<br /> +“O dearer to me is my sma’ doggie<br /> + Than a dozen sic’ as thou!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:<br +/> + Nae use at all to fret:<br /> +Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years,<br /> + Ye may bide a wee langer yet!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor<br /> + And tirlëd at the pin:<br /> +Sadly went he through the door<br /> + Where sadly he cam’ in.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O gin I had a popinjay<br /> + To fly abune my head,<br /> +To tell me what I ought to say,<br /> + I had by this been wed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>“O gin I find anither ladye,”<br /> + He said wi’ sighs and tears,<br /> +“I wot my coortin’ sall not be<br /> + Anither thirty years</p> +<p class="poetry">“For gin I find a ladye gay,<br /> + Exactly to my taste,<br /> +I’ll pop the question, aye or nay,<br /> + In twenty years at maist.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p151b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Sadly went he through the door" +title= +"Sadly went he through the door" +src="images/p151s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h2><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>FOUR +RIDDLES</h2> +<p>[<span class="smcap">These</span> consist of two Double +Acrostics and two Charades.</p> +<p>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 <i>a +connected poem</i> 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 +Cyclopædia. The first two stanzas describe the two +main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross +“lights.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”]</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was an ancient +City, stricken down<br /> + With a strange frenzy, and for many a day<br /> +They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,<br /> + And danced the +night away.</p> +<p class="poetry">I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:<br /> + They pointed to a building gray and tall,<br /> +And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad,<br /> + And then +you’ll see it all.”</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">Yet what are all such gaieties to me<br /> + Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>x</i><sup>2</sup> + 7<i>x</i> + 53 = +<sup>11</sup>/<sub>3</sub></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>But something whispered “It will soon be done:<br +/> + Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:<br /> +Endure with patience the distasteful fun<br /> + For just a +little while!”</p> +<p class="poetry">A change came o’er my Vision—it was +night:<br /> + We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:<br /> +The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:<br /> + The chariots +whirled along.</p> +<p class="poetry">Within a marble hall a river ran—<br /> + A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:<br /> +And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,<br /> + Yet swallowed +down her wrath;</p> +<p class="poetry">And here one offered to a thirsty fair<br /> + (His words half-drowned amid those thunders +tuneful)<br /> +<a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>Some +frozen viand (there were many there),<br /> + A tooth-ache in +each spoonful.</p> +<p class="poetry">There comes a happy pause, for human +strength<br /> + Will not endure to dance without cessation;<br /> +And every one must reach the point at length<br /> + Of absolute +prostration.</p> +<p class="poetry">At such a moment ladies learn to give,<br /> + To partners who would urge them over-much,<br /> +A flat and yet decided negative—<br /> + Photographers +love such.</p> +<p class="poetry">There comes a welcome summons—hope +revives,<br /> + And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:<br +/> +Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives<br /> + Dispense the +tongue and chicken.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:<br +/> + And all is tangled talk and mazy motion—<br /> +Much like a waving field of golden grain,<br /> + Or a tempestuous +ocean.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus they give the time, that Nature +meant<br /> + For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,<br /> +To ceaseless din and mindless merriment<br /> + And waste of +shoes and floors.</p> +<p class="poetry">And One (we name him not) that flies the +flowers,<br /> + That dreads the dances, and that shuns the +salads,<br /> +They doom to pass in solitude the hours,<br /> + Writing +acrostic-ballads.</p> +<p class="poetry">How late it grows! The hour is surely +past<br /> + That should have warned us with its double knock?<br +/> +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>The +twilight wanes, and morning comes at last—<br /> + “Oh, +Uncle, what’s o’clock?”</p> +<p class="poetry">The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.<br /> + It <i>may</i> mean much, but how is one to know?<br +/> +He opens his mouth—yet out of it, methinks,<br /> + No words of +wisdom flow.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Empress</span> of Art, for +thee I twine<br /> + This wreath with all too slender skill.<br /> +Forgive my Muse each halting line,<br /> + And for the deed accept the will!</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre +grim,<br /> + Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that +love?<br /> +<a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>Is not +he bound to thee, as thou to him,<br /> + By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?</p> +<p class="poetry">And still it lives, that keen and heavenward +flame,<br /> + Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:<br /> +And these wild words of fury but proclaim<br /> + A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!</p> +<p class="poetry">But all is lost: that mighty mind +o’erthrown,<br /> + Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!<br +/> +“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan,<br +/> + “Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for +thee!”</p> +<p class="poetry">A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire<br /> + Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!<br /> +<a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>And dost +thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?<br /> + And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy +winsome ways<br /> + And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:<br +/> +In holy silence wait the appointed days,<br /> + And weep away the leaden-footed hours.</p> +<h3>III.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> air is bright +with hues of light<br /> + And rich with laughter and with singing:<br /> +Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,<br /> +And banners wave, and bells are ringing:<br /> +But silence falls with fading day,<br /> +And there’s an end to mirth and play.<br /> + Ah, +well-a-day</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!<br /> + The kettle sings, the firelight dances.<br /> +Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught<br /> +That fills the soul with golden fancies!<br /> +For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,<br /> +And ye are withered, worn, and gray.<br /> + Ah, +well-a-day!</p> +<p class="poetry">O fair cold face! O form of grace,<br /> + For human passion madly yearning!<br /> +O weary air of dumb despair,<br /> +From marble won, to marble turning!<br /> +“Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray.<br /> +“We cannot let thee pass away!”<br /> + Ah, +well-a-day!</p> +<h3>IV.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> First is singular +at best:<br /> + More plural is my Second:<br /> +My Third is far the pluralest—<br /> +So plural-plural, I protest<br /> + It scarcely can be reckoned!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>My First is followed by a bird:<br /> + My Second by believers<br /> +In magic art: my simple Third<br /> +Follows, too often, hopes absurd<br /> + And plausible deceivers.</p> +<p class="poetry">My First to get at wisdom tries—<br /> + A failure melancholy!<br /> +My Second men revered as wise:<br /> +My Third from heights of wisdom flies<br /> + To depths of frantic folly.</p> +<p class="poetry">My First is ageing day by day:<br /> + My Second’s age is ended:<br +/> +My Third enjoys an age, they say,<br /> +That never seems to fade away,<br /> + Through centuries extended.</p> +<p class="poetry">My Whole? I need a poet’s pen<br /> + To paint her myriad phases:<br /> +The monarch, and the slave, of men—<br /> +A mountain-summit, and a den<br /> + Of dark and deadly +mazes—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>A flashing light—a fleeting shade—<br /> + Beginning, end, and middle<br /> +Of all that human art hath made<br /> +Or wit devised! Go, seek <i>her</i> aid,<br /> + If you would read my riddle!</p> +<h2><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET</h2> +<p>[Affectionately dedicated to all “original +researchers” who pant for “endowment.”]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Blow</span>, blow your +trumpets till they crack,<br /> + Ye little men of little souls!<br /> +And bid them huddle at your back—<br /> + Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!</p> +<p class="poetry">Fill all the air with hungry wails—<br /> + “Reward us, ere we think or write!<br /> +Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails<br /> + To sate the swinish appetite!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And, where great Plato paced serene,<br /> + Or Newton paused with wistful eye,<br /> +Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean<br /> + And Babel-clamour of the sty</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:<br /> + We will not rob them of their due,<br /> +Nor vex the ghosts of other days<br /> + By naming them along with you.</p> +<p class="poetry">They sought and found undying fame:<br /> + They toiled not for reward nor thanks:<br /> +Their cheeks are hot with honest shame<br /> + For you, the modern mountebanks!</p> +<p class="poetry">Who preach of Justice—plead with tears<br +/> + That Love and Mercy should abound—<br /> +While marking with complacent ears<br /> + The moaning of some tortured hound:</p> +<p class="poetry">Who prate of Wisdom—nay, forbear,<br /> + Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,<br /> +Trampling, with heel that will not spare,<br /> + The vermin that beset her path!</p> +<p class="poetry">Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,<br +/> + Ye idols of a petty clique:<br /> +Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,<br /> + And make your penny-trumpets squeak.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page165"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 165</span> +<a href="images/p165b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms" +title= +"Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms" +src="images/p165s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds<br /> + Of learning from a nobler time,<br /> +And oil each other’s little heads<br /> + With mutual Flattery’s golden slime:</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the topmost height ye gain,<br /> + And stand in Glory’s ether clear,<br /> +And grasp the prize of all your pain—<br /> + So many hundred pounds a year—</p> +<p class="poetry">Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!<br /> + Sing Pæans for a victory won!<br /> +Ye tapers, that would light the world,<br /> + And cast a shadow on the Sun—</p> +<p class="poetry">Who still shall pour His rays sublime,<br /> + One crystal flood, from East to West,<br /> +When <i>ye</i> have burned your little time<br /> + And feebly flickered into rest!</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHANTASMAGORIA***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 651-h.htm or 651-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/5/651 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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