Phantasmagoria and other poems by Lewis Carroll

1 00 - Inscription for a child 1:51

2 01 - Phantasmagoria : CANTO I The Trystyng 6:28

Phantasmagoria.

This has been read by Rosslyn Carlyle.

Canto I. The Trysting.

One winter night at half-past nine, cold, tired, and cross and muddy. I had come home too late to dine, and supper with cigars and wine was waiting in the study. There was a strangeness in the room, and something white and wavy was standing near me in the gloom. I took it for the carpet broom left by that careless slavey. But presently the thing began to shiver. And to sneeze. On which I said, Come, come, my man, that's a most inconsiderate plan. Less noise there, if you please. I've caught a cold, the thing replies. Out there upon the landing. I turned to look in some surprise, and there before my very eyes. A little ghost was standing. He trembled when he caught my eye, and got behind a chair.

"'How came you here?' I said. "'And why?' "'I never saw a thing so shy. "'Come out. Don't shiver there.' He said, "'I'd gladly tell you who, and also tell you why. But,' Here he gave a little bow. You're in so bad a temper now. You'd think it all a lie. And as to being in a fright, I'll owe me to remark that ghosts have just as good a right in every way to fear the light as men to fear the dark. No plea, said I, can well excuse. Such cowardice in you, for ghosts can visit when they choose. Whereas we humans can't refuse to grant the interview. He said, "'A flutter of alarm is no unnatural, is it? I really feared you meant some harm, but now I see that you are calm. Let me explain my visit.' "'Husses are classed, I beg to state, according to the number, O ghosts that they accommodate.' The tenant merely counts as weight with coals and other lumber.

This is a one ghost house, and you, when you arrived last summer, may have remarked a specter who was doing all that ghosts can do to welcome the newcomer. In villas this is all as done, whoever cheaply rented, for though of course there's less of fun when there is only room for one, Ghosts have to be contented. That spectre left you on the third. Since then you've no been haunted. For as he never sent us word, to us quite by accident we heard, that anyone was wanted. As spectre has first choice, by right, in filling up a vacancy, then phantom, goblin, elf, and sprite. If all these fail them, they invite the nicest ghoul that they can see. The spectre said, The place was low, and that you kept bad wine.

So, as the phantom had to go, and I was first, of course. You know, I could not well decline. No doubt, said I. They settled who was fittest to be sent. Yet still, to choose a brat like you, to haunt a man of forty-two, was no great compliment. I'm no so young, sir, he replied, as you may think. The fact is, in caverns by the water's side and other places that I've tried, I've had a lot of practice. But I have never taken yet a strict domestic part. And in my flurry I forgot the five good rules of etiquette. We have to know by heart. My sympathies were warming fast towards the little fellow. He was so utterly aghast at having found a man at last, and looked so scared and yellow. At least, I said, I'm glad to find.

A ghost is not a dumb thing. But pray, sit down, you'll feel inclined, if like myself you have not dined, to take a snack of something. Though certainly you don't appear a thing to offer food to. And then I shall be glad to hear, if you will say them loud and clear, the rules that you allude to. Thanks. You shall hear them by and by. This is a piece of luck. What may I offer you? said I. Well, since you are so kind, I'll try a little bit of duck.

One slice, and may I ask you for another drop of gravy? I sat and looked at him in awe, for certainly I never saw a thing so white and wavy. And still he seemed to grow more white, more vapoury and wavier, seen in the dim and flickering light as he proceeded to recite his maxims of behaviour.

End of Phantasmagoria Canto One.

3 02 - Phantasmagoria : CANTO II Hys Fyve Rules 5:03

Phantasmagoria.

Canto II.

His Five Rules. "'My first—but don't suppose,' he said, "'I'm setting you a riddle,' is—' If your victim be in bed, don't touch the curtains at his head, but tack them in the middle, and wave them slowly in and out, while drawing them asunder. And in a minute's time, no doubt, he'll raise his head and look about, with eyes o'er wrath and wonder. And here, you must, on no pretence, make the first observation. Wait for the victim to commence. No ghost of any common sense begins a conversation.

If he should say, How came you here? The way that you began, sir. In such a case your course is clear. On the bad's back, my little dear, is the appropriate answer. If after this he says no more, You'd best, perhaps, curtail your exertions. Go and shake the door, and then if he begins to snore, you'll know the thing's a failure. By day, if he should be alone, at home or on a walk. You merely give a hollow groan, to indicate the kind of tone in which you mean to talk. But if you find him with his friends, the thing is rather harder. In such a case, success depends on picking up some candelains or butter in the larder. With this you make a kind of slide. It answers best with suet, on which you must contrive to glide and swing yourself from side to side.

One soon learns how to do it. The second tells us what is right. In ceremonious calls. First burn a blue or crimson light, a thing I quite forgot tonight. Then scratch the door or walls.

I said, you'll visit here no more. If you attempt the guy, I'll have no bonfires on my floor. And as for scratching at the door, I'd like to see you try.

The third was written to protect, the interest so the victim, and tells us, as I recollect, to treat him with a grave respect and no to contradict him. That's plain, said I, as Taren Trette to any comprehension. I only wish some ghosts I've met would not so constantly forget the maxim that you mention. Perhaps, he said, you first transgress the laws of hospitality. All ghosts instinctively detest the man that fails to treat his guest with proper cordiality. If you address a ghost as Thing, or strike him with a hatchet. He is permitted by the king to drop all formal parleying, and then you're sure to catch it.

The fourth prohibits trespassing, where other ghosts are quartered, and those convicted owe the thing, unless when pardoned by the king, must instantly be slaughtered. That simply means be cut up small. Ghosts soon unite anew. The process scarcely hurts ataw. Not more than when you're, what you ca, cut up by a review. The fifth is one you may prefer, that I should quote entire. The king must be addressed as sir. This, from a simple courtier, is all the laws require. But should you wish to do the thing, Without a doubt, politeness, accost him as my Goblin King, and always used in answering the phrase, your Royal Whiteness.

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

End of Canto Two.

4 03 - Phantasmagoria : CANTO III Scarmoges 6:04

Skirmages.

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

It is very well, said he, for kings to soar above the earth. But phantoms often find that wings, like many other pleasant things, cost mere than they are worth. Spectres, of course, are rich, and so can buy them fae the elves. But we prefer to keep below. They're stupid company, you know, for any but themselves. For though they claim to be exempt from pride, they treat a phantom as something quite beneath contempt, just as no turkey ever dreamt of noticing a phantom.

They seem too proud, said I, to go to houses such as mine. Pray, How did they contrive to know, so quickly that the place was low, and that I kept bad wine? Inspector Cobold came to you, the little ghost began. Here I broke in. Inspector who? Inspecting ghosts is something new. Explain yourself, my man. His name is Cobold. Said my guest. One o' the spectre order. You'll very often see him dressed in yellow gown, a crimson vest, and a nightcap, wi a border. He tried the broken business first, but caught a sort o' chill, so come to England to be nursed, and here it took the form o thirst, which he complains o' still.

Port wine. He says, when rich and sound, warms his old bones like nectar, and as the inns where it is found are his especial hunting ground, we call him the inspector.

I bore it, bore it like a man. This agonizing witticism, and nothing could be sweeter than my temper, Till the ghost began some most provoking criticism. Cooks need no be indulged in waste. Yet still you'd better teach them. Dishes should have some sort of taste. Pray, why are all the crouets placed where nobody can reach them? That man of yours will never earn his livenies a waiter. Is that queer thing? Supposed to burn. It's far too dismal a concern to call a moderator. The duck was tender, but the peas were very much too old. And just remember, if you please, the next time you have toasted cheese, don't let them send it cold. You'd find the bread improved, I think, by getting better flour.

And have you anything to drink that looks a little less like ink and isn't quite so sore?

Then, peering round with curious eyes, he muttered, Goodness gracious! And so went on to criticise. Your room's an inconvenient size. It's neither snug nor spacious. That narrow window, I expect, serves but to let the dusk in. But please, said I, to recollect, twas fashioned by an architect who pinned his faith on Ruskin. I don't care who he was, sir, or on whom he pinned his faith. Constructed by whatever law, so poor a job I never saw as I'm a living race.

What a remarkable cigar! How much are they a dozen? I growled. No matter what they are, you're getting as familiar as if you were my cousin. Now that's a thing I will not stand, and so I tell you flat.

Aha! said he. We are getting grand. Taking a bottle in his hand? I'll soon arrange for that. And here he took a careful aim, and gaily cried. Here goes! I tried to dodge it as it came, but somehow caught it, all the same, exactly on my nose. And I remember nothing more that I can clearly fix, till I was sitting on the floor repeating, Two and five are four, but five and two are six.

What really passed I never learned nor guessed I only knew, that when at last my sense returned, The lamp, neglected, dimly burned. The fire was getting low.

Through driving mists I seemed to see a thing that smirked and smiled, and found that he was giving me a lesson in biography, as if I were a child.

End of Canto Three

5 04 - Phantasmagoria : CANTO IV Hys Nouryture 6:06

Canto for his nourriture. Oh, when I was a little ghost, a merry time had we. Each seated on his favorite post, we chumped and chawed the buttered toast. They gave us for our tea. "'That story is in print,' I cried. "'Don't say it's not, because it's known as well as Bradshaw's Guide.' The ghost uneasily replied he hardly thought it was.

"'It's not in nursery rhymes, and yet I almost think it is. Three little ghosts were set on posts, you know, and ate their buttered toasts.' I have the book, so if you doubt it—I turned to search the shelf. Don't stir, he cried. We'll do it out. I no remember all about it. I wrote the thing myself. It came out in a monthly, or at least my agent said it did. Some literary swell who saw it thought it seemed adapted for the magazine he edited. My feather was a broony, sir. My mother was a fairy. The notion had occurred to her that the children would be happier if they were taught to vary. The notion soon became a craze, and, when it once began, she brought a salute in different ways. One was a pixie, twa were fays, another was a banshee.

The fetch and kelpie went to school and gave a lot of trouble. Next came a poltergeist and ghoul, and then two trolls which broke the rule, a goblin and a double.

"'If that's a snuff-box on the shelf,' he added with a yawn, "'I'll take a pinch.' Next came an elf, and then a phantom, that's meself, and last a leprechaun. One day some spectres chanced to call. Dressed in the usual white, I stood and watched them in the hall, and could not make them out at all. They seemed so strange a sight. I wonder what on earth they were, that lucked all head and sack. But Mither told me no to stare, and then she twitched me by the hair, and punched me in the back. Since then I've often wished that I had been a spectre-born. But what's the use? He heaved a sigh. They are the ghost's nobility, and look on us, we scorn. My phantom life was soon begun when I was barely six.

I went out with an older one, and just at first I thought it fun, and learnt a lot of tricks. I've haunted dungeons, castles, tours, wherever I was sent. I've often sat and hold for oours. drenched to the skin with driving showers upon a battle mount. It's quite old-fashioned now to groan when you begin to speak. This is the newest thing in tone. And here, it chilled me to the bone, he gave an awful squeak. Perhaps, he added, to your ear. That sounds an easy thing. Try it yourself, my little dear. It took me something like a year with constant practising. And when you've learnt the squeak, my man, and caught the double sob, you're pretty much where you began. Just try and gibber if you can. That's something like a job.

I've tried it, and can only say I'm sure you couldna do it, even if you practice night and day. Unless you have a turn that way, a natural ingenuity. Shakespeare, I think it is, for treats, or ghosts, in days so old. Why gibberding the Roman streets? Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets. They must have found it cold. I've often spent ten pounds on stuff, in dressing as a double. But though it answers as a puff, It never has effect enough to make it worth the trouble. Long bills soon quench the little thirst, I hid for being funny. The setting up is always worst. Such heaps of things you want at first. One must be made of money. For instance, take a haunted tour, with skull, cross-bones, and sheet.

Blue lights to burn, say, twa and ower, condensing lines of extra power, and set of chains complete. What with the things you have to hire, the fitting on the robe, and testing all the colored fire, the outfit of itself would tire the patience of a job. And then they're so fastidious, the haunted house committee. I've often known them make a fuss. Because a ghost was French, or Russ, or even fey the city. Some dialects are objected to. For one, the Irish brogue is. And then for all you have to do, one pound a week they offer you and find yourself in bogies.

End of Canto 4

6 05 - Phantasmagoria : CANTO V Byckerment 6:09

Bickermont.

Don't they consult the victims, though, I said. They should, by rights, give them a chance, because, you know, the tastes of people differ so. Especially in sprites. The phantom shook his head and smiled. Consult them. Know a bit. Twad be the job to drive one wild. To satisfy one single child, there'd be no end to it. Of course you can't leave children free, said I. To pick and choose. But in the case of men like me, I think mine host might fairly be allowed to state his views. He said, "'It really would not pay. Folk are so full of fancies. We visit for a single day, and whether then we go or stay depends on circumstances. And though we don't consult mine host before the thing's arranged, Still, if he often quits his post, or is no a well-mannered ghost, then you can have him changed.

But if the host's a man like you—I mean, a man of sense—and if the house is no too new—why, what is that, said I, to do with ghost's convenience? A new host does not suit you can. It's such a job to trim it. But after twenty years or so, the wainscoting begins to go, so twenty is the limit. To trim was not a phrase I could remember having heard. Perhaps, I said, you'll be so good as tell me what is understood exactly by that word. It means the loosening all the doors, the ghost replied, and laughed. It means the drilling holes by scores. In all skirting boards and floors, to make a thorough draught. You'll sometimes find that one or two are all you really need to let the wind come whistling through.

But here there'll be a lot to do. I faintly gasped. Indeed. If I'd been rather later, I'll be bound, I added, trying most unsuccessfully to smile. You'd have been busy all this while, trimming and... Beautifying? Why, no, said he. Perhaps I should have stayed another minute, but still no ghost that's any good without an introduction would have ventured to begin it. The proper thing, as you were late, was certainly to go. But with the roads in such a state, I got the night mayor's leave to wait for half an hour or so. Who's the night mayor? I cried, instead of answering my question. "'Well, if you don't know that,' he said, "'either you never go to bed, or you've a grand digestion.' He goes about and sets on folk that eat too much at night.

His duties are to pinch and poke, and squeeze them till they nearly choke. I said, "'It serves them right.' "'And folk who sup on things like these,' he muttered. Eggs and bacon, lobster and duck, and toasted cheese. If they don't get an office squeeze, I'm very much mistaken. He is immensely fat, and so well suits the occupation. In point of fact, if you must know, we used to call him years ago, the mayor and corporation.

The day he was elected mayor, I know that every sprite meant to vote for me, but didna dare. He was so frantic with despair and furious with excitement. When it was our, for a whim, he ran to tell the king. And being the reverse so slim, a twa mild trot was no for him a very easy thing. So to reward him for his run, as it was baking hot and he was our twenty stone, The king proceeded half in fun to knight him on the spot. "'Twas a great liberty to take,' I fired up like a rocket. "'He did it just for punning's sake.' "'The man,' says Johnson, "'that would make a pun would pick a pocket.' "'A man,' said he, "'is no a king.' I argued for a while, and did my best to prove the thing. The phantom merely listening with a contemptuous smile.

At last, when, breath and patience spent, I had recourse to smoking. Your aim, he said, is excellent. But when you cut it, I argument. Of course, you're only joking. Stung by his cold and snaky eye, I roused myself at length to say, at least I do defy, the veriest skeptic to deny that union is strength. "'That's true enough,' said he. "'Yet stay.' I listened in all meekness. Union has strength, I'm bound to say. In fact, the thing's as clear as day. But onions are a weakness.'" End of Canto 5

7 06 - Phantasmagoria : CANTO VI Dyscomfyture 5:45

Discomfiture. This has been read by Roslyn Carlyle.

As one who strives a hill to climb, who never climbed before, who finds it in a little time, grow every moment less sublime. And votes the thing a bore. Yet, having once begun to try, dares not desert his quest, but, climbing, ever keeps his eye on one small hut against the sky, wherein he hopes to rest. Who climbs till nerve and force are spent, with many a puff and pant. Who still, as rises the ascent, in language grows more violent, Although in breath more scant. Who, climbing, gains at length the place that crowns the upward track, and, entering with unsteady pace, receives a buffet in the face that lands him on his back, and feels himself, like one in sleep, glide swiftly down again, a helpless weight from steep to steep, till with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain.

So I, that had resolved to bring conviction to a ghost, and found it quite a different thing from any human arguing, yet dared not quit my post. But, keeping still the end in view to which I hoped to come, I strove to prove the matter true by putting everything I knew into an axiom. Commencing every single phrase with therefore or because, I blindly reeled a hundred ways about the syllogistic maze, unconscious, where I was.

Quoth he, that's regular club-trap. Don't bluster any more. Now do be cool and take a nap. Such a ridiculous old chap was never seen afore. You're like a man I used to meet, who got one day so furious in arguing the simple heat, scorched both his slippers up his feet. I said, That's very curious. Well, it is curious, I agree, and sounds perhaps like Febbs. But still it's true as true can be, as sure as your name's Tibbs, said he. I said, "'My name's not Tibbs.' "'Not Tibbs!' he cried. His tone became a shade or two less hearty. "'Why, no,' said I. "'My proper name is Tibbets.' "'Tabats!' "'Aye, the same.' "'Why, then, you know the party?' With that he struck the board a blow that shivered half the glasses.

Why couldn't you have told me so three-quarters of an hour ago, you prince, so are the asses? To walk four miles through mud and rain, to spend the night in smoking, and then to find that it's in vain, and I've to-day it, ah again, it's really too provoking. Don't talk. He cried as I began to mutter some excuse. Who can have patience with a man that's got no more discretion than an idiotic goose? To keep me waiting here instead of telling me at once that this was not the hoose, he said. That'll do. Be off to bed. Don't gape like that, you don'ts. It's very fine to throw the blame on me in such a fashion. Why didn't you inquire my name the very minute that you came? I answered in a passion. Of course it worries you a bit to come so far on foot, but how was I to blame for it?

Well, well, said he. I must admit, that isn't a badly put. And certainly you've given me the best of winning, victual. Excuse my violence, said he. But accidents like this, you see, they put one out a little. "'Twas my fault, after all I find. Shake hands, old Turnip Top." The name was hardly to my mind, but as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop. "'Good-night, old Turnip Top, good-night. When I am gone, perhaps they'll send you some inferior sprite. We'll keep you in a constant fright and spoil your soondest naps. Tell him.' You'll stand no sort o' trick. Then, if he leers and chuckles, you'll just be handy wi a stick, mind that it's pretty hard and thick, and rap him on the knuckles.

Then carelessly remark, I'll coon, perhaps you know, aware that if you don't behave you'll soon be chuckling to another tune, and so you best take care. That's the right way to cure a sprite, o such like goings on. But gracious me, it's getting light. Good night, old turn up top. Good night! A nod, and he was gone.

End of Canto VI.

8 07 - Phantasmagoria : CANTO VII Sad Souvenaunce 2:50

9 08 - Echoes 1:04

10 09 - A sea dirge 2:53

11 10 - Ye Carpette Knyghte 1:18

12 11 - Hiawatha's photographing 6:07

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

From his shoulder, Hiawatha took the camera of rosewood, made of sliding folding rosewood, neatly put it all together, In its case, it lay compactly folded into nearly nothing, but he opened out the hinges, pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, till it looked all squares and oblongs like a complicated figure in the second book of Euclid.

This he perched upon a tripod, crouched beneath its dusky cover, stretched his hand in forcing silence, said, Be motionless, I beg you. Mystic Awful was the process. All the family in order sat before him for their pictures. Each, in turn, as he was taken, volunteered his own suggestions—his ingenious suggestions. First the governor, the father—he suggested velvet curtains looped about a massy pillar, and the corner of a table—of a rosewood dining-table—he would hold a scroll of something, hold it firmly in his left hand. He would keep his right hand buried, like Napoleon, in his waistcoat. He would contemplate the distance with a look of pensive meaning, as of ducks that die ill tempests. Grand heroic was the notion.

Yet the pitcher failed entirely. Failed because he moved a little. Moved because he couldn't help it.

Next, his better half took courage. She would have her pitcher taken. She came dressed beyond description, dressed in jewels and in satin, far too gorgeous for an empress. Gracefully she sat down sideways, with a simper scarcely human, holding in her hand a bouquet rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she was sitting, still the lady chattered, chattered, like a monkey in the forest. "'Am I sitting still?' she asked him. "'Is my face enough in profile?' Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it come into the pitcher? And the pitcher failed completely.

Next, the sun, the stunning Cantab. He suggested curves of beauty, curves pervading all his figure, which the eye might follow onward, till they centered in the breast-pin, centered in the golden breast-pin. He had learned it all from Ruskin. Author of The Stones of Venice, Seven Lamps of Architecture, Modern Painters, and some others. And perhaps he had not fully understood his author's meaning, but whatever was the reason, always fruitless as the picture, ended in utter failure. Next to him, the eldest daughter. She suggested very little. Only asked if he would take her with her look of passive beauty. Her idea of passive beauty was a squinting of the left eye, was a drooping of the right eye, was a smile that went up sideways to the corner of the nostrils.

Hiawatha, when she asked him, took no notice of the question, looked as if he hadn't heard it, but when pointedly appealed to, smiled in his peculiar manner, coughed and said, It didn't matter, bit his lip and changed the subject, nor in this was he mistaken, as the picture failed completely. So, in turn, the other sisters.

Last the youngest son was taken. Very rough and thick his hair was, very round and red his face was, very dusty was his jacket, very fidgety his manner, and his overbearing sisters called him names he disapproved of, called him Johnny, Daddy's darling, called him Jackie, Scrubby Schoolboy, And, so awful was the pitcher in comparison, the others seemed to one's bewildered fancy to have partially succeeded. Finally, my Hiawatha tumbled all the tribe together, grouped is not the right expression, and as happy chance would have it, did at last obtain a pitcher. Where the faces all succeeded, each came out a perfect likeness. Then they joined, and all abused it, unrestrainedly abused it, as the worst and ugliest pitcher they could possibly have dreamed of.

Giving one such strange expressions, sullen, stupid, pert expressions. Really, anyone would take us, anyone that did not know us, for the most unpleasant people. Hioatha seemed to think so, seemed to think it not unlikely. All together rang their voices, angry, loud, discordant voices, as of dogs that howl in concert, as of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hioatha's patience, his politeness, and his patience unaccountably had vanished. And he left that happy party, neither did he leave them slowly, with the calm deliberation, the intense deliberation of a photographic artist. But he left them in a hurry, left them in a mighty hurry, stating that he would not stand it, stating in emphatic language what he'd be before he'd stand it.

Hurriedly he packed his boxes, hurriedly the porter trundled on a barrow all his boxes, hurriedly he took his ticket, hurriedly the train received him, thus departed Hiawatha.

13 12 - Melancholetta 4:13

Melancholeta.

With saddest music all day long She soothed her secret sorrow. At night she sighed. I fear t'was wrong Such cheerful words to borrow. Dearest A sweeter, sadder song I'll sing to thee tomorrow. I thanked her, but I could not say that I was glad to hear it. I left the house at break of day and did not venture near it, till time I hoped had worn away her grief, for naught could cheer it. My dismal sister, couldst thou know, the wretched home thou keepest? Thy brother, drowned in daily woe, Is thankful when thou sleepest. For if I laugh, however low, When thou'rt awake, thou weepest. I took my sister, t'other day, excuse the slang expression, to Sadler's Wells to see the play, in hopes the new impression might in her thoughts, from grave to gay, effect some slight digression.

I asked three gay young dogs from town to join us in our folly, whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown my sister's melancholy. The Lively Jones, the Sportive Brown, and Robinson, the Jolly. The maid announced the meal in tones that I myself had taught her, meant to allay my sister's moans like oil on troubled water. I rushed to Jones, the Lively Jones, and begged him to escort her. Vainly he strove, with ready wit, to joke about the weather, to ventilate the last ondet, to quote the price of leather. She groaned, here, aye, and sorrow set, let us lament together. I urged, you're wasting time, you know. Delay will spoil the venison. My heart is wasted with my woe. There is no rest in Venice on the bridge of sighs.

She quoted low from Byron and from Tennyson.

I need not tell of soup and fish in solemn silence swallowed. The sobs that ushered in each dish and its departure followed. Nor yet my suicidal wish to be the cheese I hollowed. Some desperate attempts were made to start a conversation. Madam, the sportive Brown essayed. Which kind of recreation, hunting or fishing, have you made your special occupation? Her lips curled downwards instantly, as if of India rubber. Hounds in full cry! I like, said she. Oh, how I longed to snub her! Of fish! A whale's the one for me! It is so full of blubber! The night's performance was King John. It's dull, she wept, and so-so. A while I let her tears flow on, she said they soothed her woe so. At length the curtains rose upon, bombastis furioso.

In vain we roared, in vain we tried, to rouse her into laughter. Her pensive glances wandered wide, from orchestra to rafter. Tear upon tear, she said, and sighed, and silence followed after.

14 13 - A valentine 2:24

15 14 - The three voices - the first voice 7:23

The Three Voices The First Voice He trilled a carol fresh and free, He laughed aloud for very glee, There came a breeze from off the sea. It passed athwart the glooming flat, It fanned his forehead as he sat, It lightly bore away his hat.

All to the feet of one who stood, like maid enchanted in a wood, frowning as darkly as she could.

With huge umbrella lank and brown, unerringly she pinned it down, right through the centre of the crown. Then, with an aspect cold and grim, Regardless of its battered rim, she took it up and gave it him. A while like one in dreams he stood, then faltered forth his gratitude, in words just short of being rude. For it had lost its shape and shine, and it had cost him four and nine, and he was going out to dine.

To dine! She sneered in acid tone, to bend thy being to a bone clothed in a radiance not its own. The teardrop trickled to his chin. There was a meaning in her grin that made him feel on fire within.

Term it not radiance, said he. "'Tis solid nutriment to me. Dinner is dinner, tea is tea." And she, "'Yea, so, yet therefore cease, let thy scant knowledge find increase, say, "'Men are men, and geese are geese."

He moaned, he knew not what to say. The thought, "'That I could get away,' It drove with the thought, but I must stay. To dine, she shrieked in dragon wrath, to swallow wines all foam and froth, to simper at a tablecloth. Say, can thy noble spirit stoop to join the gourmandizing troop who find a solace in the soup?

Canst thou desire, or pie, or puff, thy well-bred manners were enough without such gross material stuff?

Yet well-bred men, he faintly said, are not willing to be fed, nor are they well without the bread. Her visage scorched him ere he spoke. There are— She said, a kind of folk, who have no horror of a joke. Such wretches live, they take their share of common earth and common air. We come across them here and there. We grant them there is no escape, a sort of semi-human form suggestive of the manlike ape.

In all such theories, said he, One fixed exception there must be, that is, the present company.

Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark. He, aiming blindly in the dark, with random shaft, had pierced the mark.

She felt that her defeat was plain, yet madly strove with might and main to get the upper hand again.

Fixing her eyes upon the beach, as though unconscious of his speech, she said, "'Each gives to more than each.' He could not answer, yea or nay. He faltered, "'Gifts may pass away.' Yet knew not what he meant to say.

"'If that be so,' she straight replied, "'Each heart with each doth coincide.' What boots it? For the world is wide. The world is but a thought, said he. The vast, unfathomable sea is but a notion unto me.

And darkly fell her answer dread upon his unresisting head, like half a hundredweight of lead.

The good and great must ever shun that reckless and abandoned one. Who stoops to perpetrate a pun.

The man that smokes, that reads the times, that goes to Christmas pantomimes, is capable of any crimes.

He felt it was his turn to speak, and, with a shamed and crimson cheek, moaned, This is harder than bezique. But when she asked him, wherefore so, he felt his very whiskers glow, and frankly owned, I do not know.

While, like broad waves of golden grain, or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, his colour came and went again.

Pitying his obvious distress, yet with a tinge of bitterness, she said, The more exceeds the less.

A truth of such undoubted weight, he urged, and so extreme in date, it were superfluous to state. Roused into sudden passion, she intoned of cold malignity, to others, yea, but not to thee.

But when she saw him quail and quake, and when he urged For pity's sake! Once more in gentle tones she spake.

Thought in the mind doth still abide, that is by intellect supplied, and within that idea doth hide. And he that yearns the truth to know still further inwardly may go, and find idea from notion flow. And thus the chain that sages sought is to a glorious circle wrought, for notion hath its source in thought.

So passed they on with even pace, yet gradually one might trace, a shadow growing on his face.

16 15 - The three voices - the second voice 7:37

The Three Voices The Second Voice They walked beside the wave-worn beach. Her tongue was very apt to teach, and now and then he did beseech. She would abate her dulcet tone, because the talk was all her own. And he was dull as any drone.

She urged, No cheese is made of chalk, and ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, tuned to the footfall of a walk. Her voice was very full and rich, and when at length she asked him, Which? It mounted to its highest pitch. He a bewildered answer gave, Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, Lost in the echoes of the cave. He answered her he knew not what, Like shaft from bow at random shot, He spoke, but she regarded not. She waited not for his reply, But with a downward leaden eye went on as if he were not by.

Sound argument and grave defense, strange questions raised on why and whence, and wildly tangled evidence.

When he, with racked and twirling brain, feebly implored her to explain, she simply said it all again.

Wrenched with an agony intense, he spake, neglecting sound and sense, and careless of all consequence.

Mind, I believe, is essence, in abstract, that is, an accident, which we, that is to say, I mean, When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, at length his speech was somewhat hushed, she looked at him, and he was crushed.

It needed not her calm reply. She fixed him with a stony eye, and he could neither fight nor fly. While she dissected word by word his speech half guessed at and half heard, as might a cat, A little bird.

Then, having wholly overthrown his views and stripped them to the bone, proceeded to unfold her own. Shall man be man, and shall he miss, of other thoughts no thought but this, harmonious dues of sober bliss? What boots it? Shall his fevered eye through towering nothingness descry the grisly phantom hurry by?

And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air, see mouths that gape and eyes that stare and redden in the dusky glare?

The meadows breathing amber light, the darkness toppling from the height, the feathery train of granite night.

Shall he, grown grey among his peers, through the thick curtain of his tears, catch glimpses of his earlier years?

And hear the sounds he knew of yore, old shufflings on the sanded floor, old knuckles tapping at the door.

Yet still before him as he flies, one pallid form shall ever rise, and bodying forth in glassy eyes. The vision of a vanished good, low peering through the tangled wood, Shall freeze the current of his blood.

Still from each fact, with skill uncouth and savage rapture like a tooth, she wrenched some slow, reluctant truth.

Till, like a silent water-mill, when summer suns have dried the rill, she reached a full stop and was still.

Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, as when the loaded omnibus has reached the railway terminus.

When, for the tumult of the street is heard the engine's stifled beat, the velvet tread of porter's feet.

With glance that ever sought the ground, she moved her lips without a sound, and every now and then she frowned.

He gazed upon the sleeping sea, and joyed in its tranquillity, and in that silence dead but she. To muse a little space did seem, then, like the echo of a dream, harked back upon her threadbare theme.

Still an attentive ear he lent, but could not fathom what she meant. She was not deep nor eloquent.

He marked the ripple on the sand. The even swaying of her hand was all that he could understand.

He saw in dreams a drawing-room, where thirteen wretches sat in gloom, waiting. He thought he knew for whom.

He saw them drooping here and there, each feebly huddled on a chair, in attitudes of blank despair.

Oysters were not more mute than they, for all their brains were pumped away, and they had nothing more to say.

Save one who groaned. Three hours are gone. Who shrieked, We'll wait no longer, John. Tell them to set the dinner on.

The vision passed. The ghosts were fled. He saw once more that woman dread. He heard once more the words she said.

He left her and he turned aside. He sat and watched the coming tide, across the shores so newly dried.

He wondered at the waters clear, the breeze that whispered in his ear, the billows heaving far and near. And why he had so long preferred to hang upon her every word. In truth, he said, it was absurd.

17 16 - The three voices - the third voice 6:01

The Three Voices The Third Voice Not long this transport held its place Within a little moment's space Quick tears were raining down his face His heart stood still, aghast with fear A wordless voice, nor far nor near. He seemed to hear, and not to hear.

Tears kindle not the doubtful spark. If so, why not? Of this remark the bearings are profoundly dark. Her speech, he said, hath caused this pain. Easier, I count it, to explain the jargon of the howling mane. Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, to con with inexpressive look an unintelligible book.

Lo, spake the voice within his head, in words imagined more than said, soundless as ghosts intended tread.

If thou art duller than before, why quittedst thou the voice of lore? Why not endure, expecting more?

Rather than that, he groaned, aghast, I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast, some loathly vampire's rich repast. "'T'were hard," it answered, "'themes immense, to cope within the narrow fence that wrings thy scant intelligence.' "'Not so,' he urged, nor once alone. But there was something in her tone that chilled me to the very bone. Her style was anything but clear. And most unpleasantly severe. Her epithets were very queer.

And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise, I did not dare to criticize.

Nor did I leave her till she went, so deep in tangled argument, that all my powers of thought were spent.

A little whisper inly slid. Yet truth is truth. You know you did. A little wink beneath the lid.

And, sickened with excessive dread, prone to the dust he bent his head, and lay like one three-quarters dead. The whisper left him like a breeze. Lost in the depths of leafy trees, left him by no means at his ease.

Once more he weltered in despair with hands through denser matted hair, more tightly clenched than then they were.

When, bathed in dawn of living red, majestic frowned the mountain head, Tell me my fault, was all he said.

When, at high noon, the blazing sky scorched in his head each haggard eye, then keenest rose his weary cry.

And when at eve the unpitying sun smiled grimly on the solemn fun, Alack! He sighed, What have I done?

But saddest, darkest was the sight, When the cold grasp of leaden night Dashed him to earth and held him tight.

Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders were silence to his groan. Bagpipe's sweet music to its tone.

What, ever thus, in dismal round, Shall pain and misery profound, Pursue me like a sleepless hound? With crimson dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I broke of laws?

The whisper to his ear did seem like echoed flow of silent stream, or shadow of forgotten dream.

The whisper trembling in the wind, her fate with thine was intertwined, so spake it in his inner mind.

Each orbed on each a baleful star, each proved the other's blight and bar. Each unto each were best most far. Yea, each to each was worse than foe, though a scared dullard gibbering low, and she an avalanche of woe.

18 17 - TÈMA CON VARIAZIÒNI 2:33

19 18 - A game of fives 1:43

20 19 - Poeta fit, non nascitur 4:51

Poeta fit non nascitur. How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? You told me once the very wish, Partook of the sublime. Then tell me how, Don't put me off with your another time. The old man smiled to see him. To hear his sudden sally. He liked the lad to speak his mind enthusiastically, and thought, there's no humdrum in him, nor any shilly shally. And would you be a poet before you've been to school? Ah, well, I hardly thought you so absolute a fool. First, learn to be spasmodic. A very simple rule. For first you write a sentence, and then you chop it small. Then mix the bits, and sort them out, just as they chance to fall. The order of the phrases makes no difference at all. Then, if you'd be impressive, remember what I say.

That abstract qualities begin with capitals all way. The true, the good, the beautiful. Those are the things that pay. Next, when you are describing a shape, or sound, or tint, don't state the matter plainly, but put it in a hint, and learn to look at all things with a sort of mental squint. For instance, if I wished, sir, of mutton-pies to tell, should I say, dreams of fleecy flocks pent in a wheaten cell? Why, yes, the old man said. That phrase would answer very well. Then, fourthly, there are epithets that suit with any word, as well as Harvey's reading sauce with fish or flesh or bird. Of these wild, lonely, weary, strange are much to be preferred. And will it do, oh will it do, to take them in a lump?

As... The wild man went his weary way to a strange and lonely pump. Nay, nay, you must not hastily to such conclusions jump. Such epithets, like pepper, give zest to what you write, and if you strew them sparely, they whet the appetite. But if you lay them on too thick, you spoil the matter quite. Last as to the arrangement. Your reader, you should show him, must take what information he can get, and look for no immature disclosure of the drift and purpose of your poem. Therefore, to test his patience, how much he can endure, mention no places, names, or dates, and evermore be sure throughout the poem to be found consistently obscure. First, Fix upon the limit to which it shall extend. Then fill it up with padding.

Beg some of any friend. Your great sensation stanza you place towards the end. And what is a sensation, grandfather? Tell me, pray. I think I never heard the word so used before today. Be kind enough to mention one, exempli gratia. And the old man, looking sadly across the garden lawn, where here and there a dew-drop, yet glittered in the dawn, said, "'Go to the Adelphi, and see the Colleen Bonn.' The word is due to Boussycult. The theory is his, where life becomes a spasm and history a whiz. If that is not sensation, I don't know what is.' Now try your hand. Your fancy have lost its present glow. And then, his grandson added, we'll publish it, you know. Green cloth, gold-lettered at the back, in duodicimo.

Then proudly smiled that old man, to see the eager lad rush madly for his pen and ink and for his blotting-pad. But when he thought of publishing, his face... Grew stern and sad.

21 20 - Size and tears 2:25

22 21 - Atalanta in Camden town 2:16

23 22 - The lang coortin' 6:39

The Lang Courting, The Lady, she stood at her lattice high, wi her doggie at her feet, Ther'ough the lattice she can spy, the passers in the street. There's one that standeth at the door and tirleth at the pin. No speak and say, my Popinjay, if I shall let him in. Then up and spake the popinjay that flew aboan her haid. "'Gae let him in that tells the pin. He cometh thee to wade.' "'Oh, when he cam the parlour in, a woeful man was he. And dinna ye ken your lover again, say well that loveth thee.' "'And who would I ken ye love me, sir, that have been say lang away? And who would I ken ye love me, sir? Ye never tell me say.' Said, Lady dear, and the salt salt tear came rinning down his cheek. I have sent the tokens, O my love, this many and many a week.

O didna ye get the rings, lady? The rings, O the gold, say fine. I wot that I have sent to thee fourscore, fourscore and nine. They come to me, said that fair lady. They were flimsy things, said. That chain o'gold my doggy to haud. It is made o' they sell same rings. And didna ye get the locks? The locks, the locks o' my ain black hair, whelk I sent by post, whelk I sent by box, whelk I sent by the carrier. They come to me, said that fair lady, and I prithee send a mare, said. That cushion say red for my doggies head. It is stuffed with their locks of hair. And didna ye get the letter, lady? Died with a silken stirring, whilk I sent to thee frae the far country, a message O love to bring. It come to me frae the fair country.

We had silken stirring in a, but had wood's na' prepaid, said that high-born maid. Say I gard them tak it awa? O ever alack that ye sent it back. It was written, say, clerkly and well. No, the message it brought on the boon that it sought, I must even say it mesel. Then up and spake the popinjay, say wisely, counseled he. Now say it in the proper way. Gae doon upon thy knee. The lover, he turned baith, reading pale, went doon upon his knee. O lady! Hear the waysome tale that must be told to thee. For five lang years and five lang years I courted thee by looks, by nods and winks, by smiles and tears, as I had read in books. For ten lang years, O weary oars, I courted thee by signs, by sending game, by sending flowers, by sending valentines.

For five lang years and five lang years I have dwelt in the far country, till that thy mind should be inclined mere tenderly to me. No thirty years are gaining past. I am come from a foreign land. I am come to tell thee my love at last. O lady, give me thy hand. The lady, she turned not pale nor read, but she smiled a pitiful smile. "'Sick a curtain is yours, my man,' she said. "'Takes a lang and a weary while.' And out and laughed the popinjay, a laugh o'bitter's gone. "'A curtain done in sick a way it ought not to be born.' "'We that the doggie barked aloud, and up and down he ran, and Togden strained his chain o'gowd, all for to bite the man. "'O hush, thee, gentle popinjay, O hush, thee, doggie dear.' "'There is a word I fain wad say it needeth he should hear.' I louder screamed that lady fair to droon her doggie's berk.

Ever the lover shouted mere to make that lady hark. Shrill and more shrill the popinjay upraised his angry squall. I trow the doggie's voice that day was louder than the mall. The serving-mane and serving-maids sat by the kitchen fire. They heard sick a din the parlour within, as made them much admire. Out spake the boy in buttons. I ween he was na thin. No, wha will tae the parlour gae, and stay this deadly din? And they have tae nae carechief, casted their cables in, for wha will tae the parlour gae, and stay that deadly din? When on that boy the cable fell, to stay the fearsome noise, gae in. They cried, wha'er betide the Prince O'button boys? Sign he has ta'en a supple cane to swing that dog safe at.

The doggie yelled, the doggie howled, the louder I for that. Sign he has ta'en a mutton bane. The doggie ceased his noise, and followed down the kitchen stair that Prince O'button boys. Then sadly spake that Lady Fair wi a frown upon her brow. O dearer to me is my smart doggie than a dozen sickers though. Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears. Nae use at all to fret. Since you have bided so well for thirty years, you may bide a wee longer yet. Sadly, sadly, he crossed the floor and turled at the pin. Sadly went he through the door where sadly he came in. O gin I had a popinjay to fly abound me heed, to tell me what I ought to say. I had by this been weighed. O gin I find another lady, he said with sigh and tears, I wot my curtain shall not be another thirty years.

For gin I find a lady gay exactly to my taste. I'll pop the question, aye or nay, in twenty years at maist.

24 23 - Four Riddles - 1 5:23

Introduction.

These consist of two double acrostics and two charades. Number one was written at the request of some young friends who had gone to a ball at an Oxford commemoration. and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the double acrostic a connected poem instead of what it has hitherto been. A string of disjointed stanzas on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a cyclopaedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross. Lights.

Number Two was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of Hamlet. In this case, the first stanza describes the two main words.

Number Three 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.

Riddle One. There was an ancient city, stricken down with a strange frenzy, and for many a day they paced from morn to eve the crowded town, and danced the night away. I asked the cause. The aged man grew sad. They pointed to a building gray and tall, and hoarsely answered, Step inside, my lad, and then you'll see it all.

Yet what are all such gaieties to me, whose thoughts are full of indices and thirds? X squared plus seven X plus fifty-three equals eleven-thirds. But something whispered, It will soon be done. Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile. Endure with patience the distasteful fun for just a little while.

A change came o'er my vision. It was night. We clove a pathway through a frantic throng. The steeds, wild plunging, filled us with affright. The chariots whirled along.

Within a marble hall a river ran, a living tide, half-muslin and half-cloth. And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan, yet swallowed down her wrath. And here one offered to a thirsty fire, his words half drowned amid those thunders tuneful, some frozen vian. There were many there, a toothache in each side.

There comes a happy pause, for human strength will not endure to dance without cessation, and every one must reach the point at length of absolute prostration.

At such a moment, ladies learn to give, to partners who would urge them overmuch, a flat and yet decided negative. Photographers love such. There comes a welcome summons, hope revives, and fading eyes grow bright and pulses quicken. Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives dispense the tongue and chicken. Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again, and all is tangled talk and mazy motion, much like a waving field of golden grain, or a tempestuous ocean.

And thus they give the time that nature meant for peaceful sleep and meditative snores to ceaseless din and mindless merriment, a waste of shoes and floors. And one, we name him not, that flies the flowers, that dreads the dances and that shuns the salads, they doom to pass in solitude the hours, writing acrostic ballads.

How late it grows! The hour is surely past, that should have warned us with its double knock. The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last. Oh, uncle, what's o'clock? The uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks. It may mean much, but how is one to know? He opens his mouth, yet out of it, methinks, no words of wisdom flow.

25 24 - Four Riddles - 2 2:01

26 25 - Four Riddles - 3 1:21

27 26 - Four Riddles - 4 1:43

28 27 - Fame's penny-trumpet 3:02

queue_music Chapters 28