 The Hunting of the Snark from Rhymen Dresden by Lewis Carroll. Just the place for a snark, the bellman cried as he landed his crew with care, supporting each man on the top of the tide by a finger entwined in his hair. Just the place for a snark I have said it twice, that alone should encourage the crew. Just the place for a snark I have said it thrice, what I tell you three times is true. The crew was complete. It included a boots, a maker of bonnets and hoods, a barrister brought to arrange their disputes and a broker to value their goods. A billiard-marker whose skill was immense might perhaps have won more than his share, but a banker engaged at enormous expense had the whole of their cash in his care. There was also a beaver that paced on the deck or would sit, making lace in the bow, and had often, the bellman said, saved them from wreck, though none of the sailors knew how. There was one who was famed for the number of things he forgot when he entered the ship, his umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings and the clothes he had brought for the trip. He had forty-two boxes all carefully packed, with his name painted clearly on each. But since he omitted to mention the fact they were left all behind on the beach. The loss of his clothes hardly mattered because he had seven coats on when he came, with three pairs of boots, but the worst of it was he had wholly forgotten his name. He would answer to, hi, or any loud cry such as, fry me, or fritter my wig, to what you may call him, or what was his name, but especially thingamajig. While for those who preferred a more forcible word he had different names from these, his intimate friends called him Gandlens, and his enemies Toasted Cheese. His form is ungainly, his intellect small, so the bellman would often remark, but his courage is perfect, and that, after all, is the thing that one needs with a snark. He would joke with hyenas, returning their stare with an impudent wag of the head, and he once went to walk, poor in poor, with a bear, just to keep up its spirits, he said. He came as a baker, but owned when too late, and it drove the poor bellman half mad. He could only bake bread-cake, for which I may state no materials were to be had. The last of the crew needs a special remark, though he looked an incredible dunce. He had just one idea, but that one being snark, the good bellman engaged him at once. He came as a butcher, but gravely declared when the ship had been sailing a week he could only kill beavers. The bellman looked scared and was almost too frightened to speak, but at length he explained in a tremulous tone there was only one beaver on board, and that was a tame one he had of his own, whose deaths would be deeply deplored. The beaver, who happened to hear the remark, protested, with tears in its eyes, that not even the rapture of hunting the snark could atone for that dismal surprise. It strongly advised that the butcher should be conveyed in a separate ship, but the bellman declared that would never agree with the plans he had made for the trip. Navigation was always a difficult art, though with only one ship and one bell, and he feared he must really decline for his part undertaking another as well. The beaver's best course was no doubt to procure a second-hand dagger-proof coat, so the baker advised it, and next to ensure its life in some office of note. Thus the banker suggested, and offered for hire on moderate terms, or for sale, two excellent policies, one against fire and one against damage from hail. Yet still ever after that sorrowful day whenever the butcher was by, the beaver kept looking the opposite way, and appeared unaccountably shy. Right the second, the bellman's speech. The bellman himself they all praised to the skies, such a carriage, such ease and such grace, such solemnity too, one could see he was wise the moment one looked in his face. He had brought a large map representing the sea without the least vestige of land, and the crew were much pleased when they found it to be a map they could all understand. What's the good of Mercator's north poles and equators, tropics, zones and meridian lines? So the bellman would cry, and the crew would reply they are merely conventional signs. Other maps are such shapes with their islands and capes, but we've got our brave captain to sank, so the crew were protest, that he's brought us the best, a perfect and absolute blank. This was charming, no doubt, but they shortly found out that the captain they trusted so well had only one notion for crossing the ocean, and that was to tingle his bell. He was thoughtful and grave, but the orders he gave were enough to bewilder a crew. When he cried, Steer to starboard, but keeper had laboured. What on earth was the helmsman to do? Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes, a sing as the bellman remarked that frequently happens in tropical climes when a vessel is, so to speak, snarkt. But the principal failing occurred in the sailing, and the bellman, perplexed and distressed, said he had hoped at least when the wind blew due east that the ship would not travel due west. The danger was past, they had landed at last with their boxes, portmantos and bags, yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view which consisted of chasms and crags. The bellman perceived that their spirits were low, and repeated in musical tone some jokes he had kept for a season of woe, but the crew would do nothing but groan. He served out some grog with a liberal hand and bade them sit down on the beach, and they could not but own that their captain looked grand as he stood and delivered his speech. Friends, Romans and countrymen, lend me your ears. They were all of them fond of quotations, so they drank to his health, and they gave him three chairs while he served out additional rations. We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks. Four weeks to the month, you may mark. But never as yet, it is your captain who speaks, have we caught the least glimpse of a snark. We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days. Seven days to the week I allow, but a snark on the which we might lovingly gaze we have never beheld till now. Come, listen my men, will I tell you again the five unmistakable marks by which you may know where so ever you go the warranted genuine snarks. Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, which is meager and hollow but crisp, like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist with a flavour or will of the wisp. Its habit of getting up late you will agree that it carries too far when I say that it frequently breakfasts at five o'clock tea and dines on the following day. The third is its slowness in taking a jest. Should you happen to venture on one it will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed and it always looks grave at a pun. The fourth is its fondness for bathing machines which it constantly carries about and believes that they add to the beauty of scenes. A sentiment open to doubt. The fifth is ambition. It next will be right to describe each particular batch distinguishing those that have feathers and bite from those that have whiskers and scratch. For although common snarks do no manner of harm yet I feel it my duty to say some are boo-jums. The bellman broke off in alarm for the baker and fainted away. Fit the third, the baker's tale. They roused him with muffins, they roused him with ice, they roused him with mustard and cress, they roused him with jam and judicious advice, they set him conundrums to guess. In lengths he sat up and was able to speak his sad story he offered to tell, and the bellman cried, silence, not even a shriek, and excitedly tingled his bell. There was silent supreme, not a shriek, not a scream, scarcely even a whole or a groan, as the man they called Ho told his story of woe in an anti-deluvian tone. My father and mother were honest, though poor. Skip all that, cried the bellman in haste. If it once becomes dark there's no chance of a snark we have hardly a minute to waste. I skip forty years, said the baker in tears, and proceed without further remark to the day when you took me aboard of your ship to help you in hunting the snark. A dear uncle of mine, after whom I was named, remarked when I bade him farewell, oh, skip your dear uncle, the bellman exclaimed as he angrily tingled his bell. He remarked to me then, said that mildest of men, if your snark be a snark, that is right. Fetch it home by all means. You may serve it with greens, and it's handy for striking a light. You may seek it with thimbles, and seek it with care. You may hunt it with forks and hope. You may threaten its life with a railway share. You may charm it with smiles and soap. That's exactly the method, the bellman bold in haste parentheses cried. That's exactly the way I have always been told that the capture of snark should be tried. But, oh beemish nephew, beware of the day if your snark be a boujum, for then you will softly and suddenly vanish away, and never be met with again. It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul when I think of my uncle's last words, and my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl brimming over with quivering curds. It is this, it is this we have had that before, the bellman indignantly said, and the baker replied, let me say it once more. It is this, it is this that I dread. I engage with the snark every night after dark. In a dreamy delirious fight I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, and I use it for striking a light. But if ever I meet with a boujum, that day, in a moment, of this I am sure, I shall softly and suddenly vanish away, and the notion I cannot endure fit the forth, the hunting. The bellman looked uffish and wrinkled his brow, if only you'd spoken before, it's excessively awkward to mention it now with the snark, so to speak, at the door. We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe if you never were met with again, but surely my man, when the voyage began, you might have suggested it then. It's excessively awkward to mention it now as I think I've already remarked, and the man they called high, replied with a sigh, I informed you the day we embarked. You may charge me with murder or want of sense. We are all of us weak at times, but the slightest approach to a false pretense was never among my crimes. I said it in Hebrew, I said it in Dutch, I said it in German and Greek. But I wholly forgot, and it vexes me much, that English is what you speak. Tis our pitiful tale, said the bellman, whose face had grown longer at every word. But now that you've stated the whole of your case, more debate would be simply absurd. The rest of my speech, he explained to his men, you shall hear when I've leisure to speak it, but the snark is at hand, let me tell you again, tis your glorious duty to seek it. To seek it with symbols, to seek it with care, to pursue it with forks and hope, to threaten its life with a railway-share, to charm it with smiles and soap. For the snarks a peculiar creature, that won't be caught in a common place way, do all that you know and try all that you don't, not a chance must be wasted today. For England expects, I forbear to proceed, tis a maxim tremendous but trite, and you best be unpacking the things that you need to rig yourselves out for the fight. Then the banker endorsed a blank check, which he crossed, and changed his loose silver for notes. The baker, with care, combed his whiskers and hair, and shook the dust out of his coats. The boots and the broker were sharpening a spade, each working the grindstone in turn. But the beaver went on making lace, and displayed no interest in the concern. Though the barrister tried to appeal to its pride, and vainly proceeded to cite a number of cases, in which making laces have been proved an infringement of right. The maker of bonnets ferociously planned a novel arrangement of bows, while the billiard marker, with quivering hand, was chalking the tip of his nose. But the butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine with yellow kid gloves and a ruff. Said he felt it exactly like going to dine, which the bellman declared was all stuff. Introduce me now, there's a good fellow, he said, if we happen to meet it together, and the bellman, sergetiously nodding his head, said, that must depend on the weather. The beaver went simply gullumping about at seeing the butcher so shy, and even the baker, though stupid and stout, made an effort to wink with one eye. Be a man, cried the bellman in wrath as he heard the butcher beginning to sob. Should we meet with a job job, that desperate bird, we shall need all our strength for the job. Fit the fist, the beaver's lesson. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care, they pursued it with forks and hope, they threatened its life with a railway share, they charmed it with smiles and soap. Then the butcher contrived an ingenious plan for making a separate sally, and had fixed on a spot, unfrequented by man, a dismal and desolate valley. But the very same plan to the beaver occurred, it had chosen the very same place, yet neither betrayed by a sign or a word the disgust that appeared in his face. Each thought he was thinking of nothing but snark, and the glorious work of the day, and each tried to pretend that he did not remark that the other was going that way. But the valley grew narrow and narrow as still, and the evening got darker and colder till, merely from nervousness, not from goodwill, they marched along shoulder to shoulder. Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, and they knew that some danger was near. The beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, and even the butcher felt queer. He thought of his childhood, left far, far behind, that blissful and innocent state. The sound so exactly recalled to his mind a pencil that squeaks on a slate. "'Tis the voice of the job-job,' he suddenly cried, this man that they used to call dunce, as the bellman would tell you, he added with pride, I have uttered that sentiment once. "'Tis the note of the job-job, keep count,' I entreat, you will find I have told it you twice, tis the song of the job-job. The proof is complete, if only I've stated it thrice.' The beaver had counted with scrupulous care, attending to every word. But it fairly lost heart and outgrabe in despair when the third repetition occurred. It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, it had somehow contrived to lose count. And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains by reckoning up the amount. Two added to one. If that could but be done, it said, with one's fingers and sums, recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, it had taken no pains with its sums. "'The thing can be done,' said the butcher. I think, the thing must be done, I am sure. The thing shall be done. Bring me paper and ink, the best there is time to procure.' The beaver brought paper, portfolio, pens, and ink in unfailing supplies, while strange, creepy creatures came out of their dens and watched them, with wondering eyes. So engrossed was the butcher, he heeded them not as he wrote with a pen in each hand, and explained all the while in a popular style which the beaver could well understand. Taking three as the subject to reason about a convenient number to state, we add seven and ten and then multiply out by one thousand, diminished by eight. The result, we proceed to divide, as you see, by nine hundred and ninety and two, then subtract seventeen, and the answer must be exactly and perfectly true. The method employed I would gladly explain, while I have it so clear in my head. If I have but the time and you had but the brain, but much yet remains to be said. In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been enveloped in absolute mystery, and without extra charge I will give you at large a lesson in natural history. In his genial way he proceeded to say, forgetting all laws of propriety, and that giving instruction without introduction would have caused quite a thrill in society. As to temper the job-jobs are desperate birds since it lives in perpetual passion. Its taste in costume is entirely absurd, it is ages ahead of the fashion. But it knows any friend it has met once before, it never will look at a bribe, and in charity meetings it stands at the door and collects, though it does not subscribe. Its flavour, when cooked, is more exquisite far than mutton or oysters or eggs. Something it keeps best in an ivory jar, and some in mahogany kegs. You boil it in sawdust, you salt it in glue, you condense it with locusts and tape, still keeping one principal object in view to preserve its symmetrical shape. The butcher would gladly have talked till next day, but he felt that the lesson must end, and he wept in delight in attempting to say he considered the beaver his friend. While the beaver confessed, with affectionate looks more eloquent even than tears, it had learnt in ten minutes far more than all books would have taught it in seventy years. They returned hand in hand, and the bellman, a manned, for a moment, with noble emotion, said, this amply repays all the wearersome days we have spent on the billowy ocean. Such friends, as the beaver and butcher became, have seldom if ever been known. In winter or summer, it was always the same you could never meet either alone. And when quarrels arose, as one frequently finds quarrels will, spite of every endeavour, the song of the job job, recurred to their minds, and cemented their friendship forever. Fit the sixth, the barrister's dream. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care, they pursued it with forks and hope, they threatened its life with a railway share, they charmed it with smiles and soap. But the barrister, weary of proving in vain that the beaver's lace making was wrong, fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain that his fancy had dwelt on so long. He dreamt that he stood in a shadowy court, where the snark, with a glass in its eye dressed in gown, bands and wig, was defending a pig on the charge of deserting its stye. The witnesses proved, without error or flaw, that the stye was deserted when found, and the judge kept explaining the state of the law in a soft undercurrent of sound. The indictment had never been clearly expressed, and it seemed that the snark had begun and had spoken three hours before anyone guessed what the pig was supposed to have done. The jury had each formed a different few, long before the indictment was read, and they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew one word that the others had said. You must know, said the judge, but the snark exclaimed, fudge, that statute is obsolete quite, let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends on an ancient menorial right. In the manner of treason the pig would appear to have aided but scarcely abetted, while the charge of insolvency fails, it is clear, if you grant the plea never indebted. The fact of desertion I will not dispute, but its guilt, as I trust, is removed, so far as relates to the cost of this suit by the alibi which has been proved. My poor client's fate now depends on your votes. Here the speaker sat down in his place, and directed the judge to refer to his notes and briefly to sum up the case. But the judge said he never had summed up before, so the snark undertook it instead, and summed it so well that it came to far more than the witnesses ever had said. When the verdict was called for, the jury declined, as the word was so puzzling to spell, but they ventured to hope that the snark wouldn't mind undertaking that duty as well. So the snark found the verdict, although, as it owned, it was spent with the toils of the day, when it said the word guilty. The jury all groaned, and some of them fainted away. Then the snark pronounced sentence, the judge being quite too nervous to utter a word. When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night, and the fall of a pin might be heard. Transportation for life, was the sentence it gave, and then to be fined forty pound. The jury all cheered, though the judge said he feared that the phrase was not legally sound. But their wild exultation was suddenly checked when the jailer informed them with tears, such a sentence would have not the slightest effect, as the pig had been dead for some years. The judge left the court, looking deeply disgusted, but the snark, though a little aghast, as the lawyer to whom the defence was entrusted, went bellowing on to the last. Thus the barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed to grow every moment more clear till he woke to the knell of a furious bell which the bell-man rang close at his ear. Fit the seventh, the banker's fate. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care, they pursued it with forks and hope. They threatened its life with a railway share, they charmed it with smiles and soap. And the banker, inspired with a courage, so knew it was matter for general remark, rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view in his zeal to discover the snark. But while he was seeking with thimbles and care, a bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh and grabbed at the banker, who shrieked in despair for he knew it was useless to fly. He offered large discount, he offered a check, drawn to bearer, for seven pence ten. But the bandersnatch merely extended its neck and grabbed at the banker again. Without rest or pause, while those fumious jaws went savagely snapping around, he skipped and he hopped and he flandered and flopped till fainting he fell to the ground. The bandersnatch fled as the others appeared, led on by that fear-stricken yell, and the bellman remarked, It is just as I feared, and solemnly told on his bell. He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace the least likeness to what he had been. While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white, a wonderful thing to be seen. To the horror of all who were present that day he up rose in full evening dress, and with census grimaces endeavored to say what his tongue could no longer express. Down he sank in a chair, ran his hands through his hair, and chanted in mimsiest tones words whose utter inanity proved his insanity while he rattled a couple of bones. Leave him here to his fate, it is getting so late, the bellman exclaimed in a fright. We have lost half the day, any further delay and we shan't catch a snuck before night. Fit the eighth. The vanishing. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care, they pursued it with forks and hope. They threatened its life with a rail-washer, they charmed it with smiles and soap. They shuddered to think that the chase might fail, and the beaver, excited at last, went banding along on the tip of its tail for the daylight was nearly past. There is thingam-bob shouting, the bellman said. He is shouting like mad, only hark! He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head, he has certainly found a snuck. They gazed in delight, while the butcher exclaimed he was always a desperate wag. They beheld him, their baker, their hero unnamed, on the top of a neighbouring crag. Erect and sublime for one moment of time. In the next that wild figure they saw, as if stung by a spasm plunge into a chasm while they waited and listened in awe. It's a snuck! was the sound that first came to their ears and seemed almost too good to be true. Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers. Then the ominous words, it's a boo. Then silence. Some fancy to they heard in the air, a weary and wandering sigh that sounded like jump. But the others declare it was only a breeze that went by. They hunted till darkness came on, but they found not a button or feather or mark by which they could tell that they stood on the ground where the baker had met with the snuck. In the midst of the word he was trying to say, in the midst of his laughter and glee, he had softly and suddenly vanished away. For the snuck was a boo-jum, you see. End of The Hunting of the Snuck Preface to The Hunting of the Snuck from Rime and Reason by Lewis Carroll This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs The Hunting of the Snuck and Agony in Eight Fits Preface If, and the thing is wildly possible, the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel, convinced on the line in page 144, then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes. In view of this painful possibility, I will not, as I might, appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed. I will not, as I might, point to the strong moral purpose of this poem itself, to the arismetical principle so cautiously incarcated in it, or to its noble teachings in natural history. I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened. The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be re-varnished, and it more than once happened when the time came for replacing it that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged to. They knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the Bellman about it. He would only refer to his naval code, and read out in pathetic tones admiralty instructions, which none of them had ever been able to understand. So it generally ended in its being fastened on, anyhow, across the rudder. The Helmsman, footnote one. This office was usually undertaken by the Boots, who found in it a refuge from the Baker's constant complaints about the insufficient blacking of his three pens of Boots, used to stand by with tears in his eyes. He knew it was all wrong, but alas, rule forty-two of the code, no one shall speak to the man at the helm, had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words, and the man at the helm shall speak to no one. So remonstrance was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backwards. As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the Jabberwock, let me take this opportunity of answering a question that has often been asked me, how to pronounce Slyzy Toves. The I in Slyzy is long as in Rise, and Toves is pronounced so as to rhyme with Groves. Again the first O in Borough Goves is pronounced like the O in Borough. I have heard people try to give it the sound of the O in Worry, such is human perversity. This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard words in that poem. Humpty Dumpty's theory of two meanings packed into one word like a portmanteau seems to be the right explanation for all. For instance, take the two words fuming and furious. Make up your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If your thoughts inclined ever so little towards fuming you will say fuming furious. If they turn even by a hair's breadth towards furious you will say furious fuming. But if you have that rarest of gifts a perfectly balanced mind you will say frumius. Supposing that when Pistol uttered the well-known words under which King Bisonian speak or die, Justice Shallow had felt certain it was either William or Richard, but had not been able to settle which so that he could not possibly say either name before the other. Can it be doubted that rather than die he would have gasped out realchium? End of preface to The Hunting of the Snark. Size and Tears From Rime and Reason by Lewis Carroll This liprivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Max. Size and Tears When on the sandy shore I sit beside the salt sea-wave and fall into a weeping fit because I dare not shave, a little whisper at my ear inquires the reason of my fear. I answer, if that ruffian Jones should recognise me here he'd bellow out my name in tones offensive to the ear. He chuffs me so on being stout, a thing that always puts me out. Ah me, I see him on the cliff, fair well, fair well to hope, if he should look this way and if he's got his telescope. To whatsoever place I flee my odious rival follows me. For every night and everywhere I meet him out at dinner and when I fan some charming fare and vow to die or win her the wretch he's thin and I am stout is sure to come and cut me out. The girls, just like them, all agree to praise Jay Jones, a squire. I ask them what on earth they see about him to admire. They cry he is so sleek and slim it's quite a treat to look at him. They vanish in tobacco smoke those visionary maids. I feel a sharp and sudden poke between the shoulder blades. Why, Brown, my boy, you're growing stout. I told you he would find me out. My growth is not your business, sir. No more it is, my boy, but if it's yours as I infer, why, Brown, I give you joy. A man whose business prospers so is just the sort of man to know. It's hardly safe, though, talking here I best get out of reach. For such a weight as yours, I fear, must shortly sink the beach. Insult me thus because I'm stout. I vow I'll go and call him out. End of Sighs and Tears. Atalanta, in Camden Town, from Rhyman Reason by Lewis Carroll. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs. Atalanta, in Camden Town. I, twas here on this spot in that summer of yore, Atalanta did not vote my presence a bore, nor reply to my tenderest talk she had heard all that nonsense before. She'd the brooch I had bought, and the necklace and sash on, and her heart as I thought was alive to my passion. And she'd done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion. I had been to the play with my pearl of a peary, but for all I could say she declared she was weary, that the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn't abide that done really. Then I thought, tis for me that she whines and she whimpers, and it soothed me to see those sensational simpers. And I said, this is grumptious, a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire Shrimpers. And I vowed, twill be said I'm a fortunate fellow when the breakfast is spread, when the topers are mellow, when the foam of the bright cake is white, and the fierce orange blossoms are yellow. Oh, that languishing yawn, oh, those eloquent eyes! I was drunk with the dawn of a splendid some eyes. I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of size. And I whispered, tis time! Is not love at its deepest? Shall we squander life's prime while thy weightest and weepest? Let us settle it, license or bands, though undoubtedly bands are the cheapest. Ah, my hero said I, let me be thy liander! But I lost her reply, something ending with gander. For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand her. End of Atalanta in Camdentown. Feet, thorough the lattice she can spy the passers in the street. There's one that stand us at the door and till us at the pin. Now speak and say, my Popinjay, if I shall let him in. Then up and spake the Popinjay that flew her boon her head, gay led him in that till's the pin, he commas thee to wed. Oh, when he came the parlour in, a woeful man was he. And dinner ye can ye lover again, say well that lover thee? And how what I can ye loved me, sir, that have been, say, long away? And how what I can ye loved me, sir, ye never tell'd me say? Said, Lady dear, and the salt-salt tear came rinnin' dune his cheek. I have sent the tokens of my love this many a many a week. Oh, dinner ye get the rings, lady, the rings are gawd, say fine. I want that I have sent to thee four score, four score and nine. They come to me, said that fair lady. Wow, they were flimsy things, said, that chain o' gawd my doggy to hoard is made o' they self-same rings. And dinner ye get the locks, the locks, the locks o' my aim black hair, Wilk I sent by post, which I sent by box, Wilk I sent by carrier. They come to me, said that fair lady, and I prithee, send name there, said, that cushion say red for my doggy's head it is stuffed with they locks a hair. And dinner ye get the letter, lady, tide we a silken string, Wilk I sent to thee, fray the far country, a message of love to bring. It came to me, fray the far country, we it's silken string an' a, but it wasn't a prepaid, said that high-born maid, so I got them take it away. Oh, ever a lack that ye sent it back, it was written C. Clarkely and well. Now the message it brought an' the boon that it sought, I must even say at me sell. Then up and spake the pop in J. Say wisely cancelled he. Now say it in the proper way, gay dune up on thy knee. The lover he turned both red and pale went dune up on his knee. Oh, lady, here they weigh some 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, oh weary hours 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 shall be inclined mere tenderly to me. Now, thirty years again and past I am come for a foreign land, I am come to tell thee my love at last. Oh, lady, gimme thy hand. The lady she turned not pale nor red, but she smiled a pitiful smile. Sick of courting as yours, my man, she said, takes a lang and a weary while. And out and laugh the pop in J, a laugh of bitter scorn, her core in dun in sick away it ought not to be borne. We that the doggy barked aloud, and up and doony ran, and tugged and strained his chain agor'd all footer bite the man. Oh, hush thee gentle pop in J, oh hush thee doggy dear, there is a word I Fenwood say it needeth, he should hear. A louder scream that lady fair to drown her doggy's bark, ever the lover shouted mere to make that lady hark. Shrill and more shrill the pop in J upraised his angry squall. I trove a doggy's voice that day was louder than them all. The serving men and serving maids sat by the kitchen fire. They heard sicker din the parlour within as made them much admire. Outspake the boy in buttons, I weenie was nothing. Now, whar will tell the parlour gay and stay this deadly din? And they have tain a kerchief casted their kevels in, for whar should tell the parlour gay and stay that deadly din? When on that boy the kevel fell to stay the fearsome noise, gay in they cried, what air be tied thou prince of button boys? Sign he has tain a supple cane to swing that dogsy fat, that doggy yowl, that doggy howl'd, the louder I for that. Sign he has tain a mutton-bane, the doggy ceased his noise and followed dune the kitchen stair that prince of button boys. Then sadly spake that lady fair we are frown upon our brow. O dearer to me is my small doggy than a dozen sickers thou. Nay use, nay use for size and tears, nay use at all to fret. Sign ye've bided see well for thirty years, ye may bide a wee langer yet. Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor and tear-led at the pin. Sadly went he through the door where sadly he came in. O ginn I had a pop-in-jay to fly abound my head, to tell me what I ought to say I had by this been wed. O ginn I find a nither lady, he said, we size and tears. I what my courton shall not be a nither thirty years. For ginn I find a lady gay exactly to my taste, I'll pop the question, I or nay, in twenty years at maced. Four riddles. These consist of two double acrostics and two shirards. 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 hitherto been a string of disjointed standards on every conceivable subject and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a cyclopedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words and each subsequent stanza one of the crosslights. 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 Galataea. The three stanzas respectively describe my first, my second, and my whole. One. There was an ancient city stricken down with a strange frenzy and for many a day they paced from mourn to eave 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 gayities to me whose thoughts are full of indices and surds? x squared plus seven x plus fifty-three equals eleven over three. But something whispered. It will soon be done. Bands cannot always play nor lady's smile. Endure with patience the distasteful fun for just a little while. A change came all my vision. It was night. We clove a pathway through a frantic throng the steeds, wild plunging, filled us with a fright, 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 wroth. And here one offered to a thirsty fair, his words half-drowned amid those thunders-tuneful, some frozen viand. There were many there, a toothache in each spoonful. There comes the happy pause, for human strength will not endure to dance without cessation, and every one must reach the point at lengths of absolute prostration. At such a moment ladies learned to give to partners who would urge them over much a flat and yet decided negative. Photographers love such. There comes a welcome summons, hope revives, and fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken, incessant pops the corks and busy knives dispense the tongue and chicken. Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again and all is tangled talk a 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 a meditative snores to ceaseless din and mindless merriment and waste of shoes and flaws. 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 hour's writing acrostic ballads. How late it grows! The hour is surely past that should have warned us with its double knock. The twilight wanes. A morning comes at last. Oh, uncle, what's the clock? The uncle gravely nods and wisely winks. It may mean much, but I was one to know. He opes his mouse. Yet out of it besinks no words of wisdom flow. Two. Empress of art, for thee I twine this wreath with all too slender skull. Forgive my muse each halting line, and for the deed accept the will. Oh, day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim, parting like death's cold river, souls that love? Is not he bound to thee as thou to him, by vows, and whispered here, yet heard above? And still it lives that keen and heavenward flame lives in his eye and trembles in his tone, and these wild words of fury but proclaim a heart that beats for thee, for thee alone. But all is lost, that mighty mind all thrown, like sweet bells jangled piteous sight to see. Doubt that the stars afire, so runs his moan, doubt truth herself, but not my love for thee. A sadder vision yet, thine aged sire shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile, and does thou now doubt truth to be a liar, and wilt thou die that has to forgot to smile? Nay, get thee hence, leave all thy winsome ways and the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers, in holy silence wait the appointed days and weep away the leaden-footed hours. Three. The air is bright with hues of light, and rich with laughter and with singing. Young hearts beat high in ecstasy, and banners wave and bells are ringing. But silence falls with fading day, and there's an end to mirth and play. Ah, willer-day! Rest your old bones, she wrinkled crones. The kettle sings, the firelight dances. Deep beer quaffed the magic draught that fills the soul with golden fancies. For youth and pleasant will not stay, and ye are withered, worn, and grey. Ah, willer-day! O fair cold face! O form of grace for human passion madly yearning! O weary air of dumb despair, from marble one to marble turning! Leave us not thus, we fondly pray. We cannot let thee pass away. Ah, willer-day! Four. My first is singular at best. More plural is my second. My third is farther pluralist. So plural plural I protest it scarcely can be reckoned. My first is followed by a bird. My second by believers in magic art. My simple third follows too often. Hopes of third implausible deceivers. My first to get at wisdom tries. A failure melancholy. My second men revered as wise. My third from heights of wisdom flies to depths of frantic folly. My first is aging day by day. My second's age is ended. My third enjoys an age. They say that never seems to fade away those centuries extended. My whole. I need a poet's pen to paint her myriad phases. The monarch and the slave of men, a mountain summit, and a den of dark and deadly mazes. A flashing light. A fleeting shade. Beginning, end, and middle of all that human heart has made or whitt devised. Go seek her aid if you would read my riddle. End of Four Riddles. FAMES PENNY TRUMPET From Rime and Reason by Lewis Carroll. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs. FAMES PENNY TRUMPET Affectionately dedicated to all original researchers who pant for endowment. Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack, ye little men of little souls, and bid them huddle at your back. Golds sucking leeches, shoals on shoals. Fill all the air with hungry whales. Reward us air, we think, all right. Without your gold mere knowledge fails to sate the swinish appetite. And wear great play-to-paste serene, or newtom paused with wistful eye. Rush to the chase with hoofs unclean, and babel clamour of the sty. Be yours the pay, be theirs the praise. We will not rob them of their due, nor vex the ghosts of other days by naming them along with you. They sought and found undying fame. They toiled not for reward, nor thanks. Their cheeks are hot with honest shame for you, the modern mountain banks, who preach of justice, plead with tears that love and mercy should abound while marking with complacent ears the moaning of some tortured hand. Who, prait of wisdom, nay, forbear lest wisdom turn on you in wrath, trampling with heel that will not spare the vermin that beset her path. Go throng each other's drawing-rooms, ye idols of a petty clique, strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes, and make your penny trumpets squeak. Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds of learning from a nobler time, and oil each other's little heads with mutual flattery's golden slime. And when the topmost high-cheek-ain and stand in glory's ether clear, and grasp the prize of all your pain, so many hundred pounds a year, then let fame's banner be unfurled, sing peons for a victory one, ye tapers that would light the world and cast a shadow on the sun, who still shall pour his ray sublime one crystal flood from east to west, when ye have burned your little time and feebly flickered into rest. End of fame's penny trumpet. End of Rime and Reason by Lois Carroll.