 Inscribed to a dear child, from Rime and Reason, by Lewis Carroll. Rime or Reason Inscribed to a dear child, in memory of golden summer hours and whispers of a summer sea. Gert with a boyish garb for boyish task, eager she wields her spade, yet loves as well rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask the tale one loves to tell. Roots, gopher of the seething out of strife, are meep to read her pure and simple sprite, deem if they wilt, such hours a waste of life, empty of all delight. Chat on, sweet maid, and rescue from annoy hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled, are happy he who owns that tenderest joy, the heart-love of a child. Away form thoughts and vex my soul no more, work claims my wakeful nights my busy days, albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore yet haunt my dreaming gaze, end of inscribed to a dear child. Phantasmogoria, from Rime and Reason, by Lewis Carroll. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Michael Max. Phantasmogoria. Canto one, The Tristing. One winter night, at half-past nine, cold, tired, and cross some 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 a carpet broom left by that careless slavy. But presently the thing began to shiver and to sneeze, on which I said, Come, come, my man, that's a most inconsiderate plant, less noise there, if you please. I've caught a cold. The thing replies, out there upon the landing. I turned to look in some surprise, and there, before my very eyes, a little ghost was standing. He trembled when he caught my eye, and got behind a chair. How came you here, I said, and why? I never saw a thing so shy. Come out, don't shiver there. He said, I'd gladly tell you how, I'd also tell you why, but here he gave a little bow. You're in so bad a temper now, you'd think it all a lie. And as to being in a fright, allow me to remark that ghosts have just a good a right in every way to fear the light, as men to fear the dark. No pleas, 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 not a natural, is it? I really feared you meant some harm. But now I see that you are calm, let me explain my visit. Houses are classed, I beg to state according to the number of ghosts that they accommodate. The tenant merely counts as weight with coals another lumber. This is a one-ghost house, and you, when you arrive last summer, may have remarked a specter who was doing all the ghosts can do to welcome the newcomer. In villas, this is always done, however cheaply rented, for though, of course, there's lesser fun when there is only room for one, ghosts have to be contented. That specter left you on the third, since then you've not been haunted. For, as he never sent us word, it is quite by accident we heard that anyone was wanted. A specter 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 specter said the place was low and that you kept bad wine, so as a phantom had to go, and I was first, of course, you know, I couldn't well decline. No doubt, said I, they settled who was fittest to be sent, yet still to choose a brat like you to haunt a man of forty-two was no great compliment. I'm not so young, sir, he replied, as you might think. The fact is, in caverns by the water-side, and other places that I've tried, I've had a lot of practice, but I have never taken yet a strict domestic part, and in my flurry I forget the five good rules of etiquette we have to know by heart. My sympathies were warming fast towards the little fellow. He was so utterly aghast at having found a man at last, and looked so scared and yellow. At least, I said, I'm glad to find a ghost is not a dumb thing, but pray, sit down, you're feeling climbed, 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 elude 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. Canto two, 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 take them in the middle, and wave them slowly in and out while drawing them asunder, and in a minute's time no doubt he'll raise his head and look about with eyes of rothamonder. And here you must on no pretense make the first observation. Wait for the victim to commence, no ghost of any common sense begins a conversation. If he should say, how cabe you here, the way that you began, sir? In such a case your course is clear. On the bat's back, my little dear, is the appropriate answer. If after this he says no more, you best perhaps curtail your exertions and go shake the door, and then if he begins to snore you'll know the things of 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 by which you mean to talk. But if you find him with his friends the thing is rather harder. In such a case success depends on picking up some candle ends or butter in the larder. With this you make a kind of slide. It answers best with suede, 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 all 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 up the door I'd like to see you try. The third was written to protect the interests of the victim and tells us as I recollect, to treat him with a grave respect and not to contradict him. That's plain, said I, as tear and tread 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 of the thing, unless, when pardoned by the king, must instantly be slaughtered. That simply means be cut up small. Ghosts soon unite anew. The process ghastly hurts at all, not more than when you're what you call cut up by a review. The fifth is one you may prefer that I should quote entire. The king must be addressed as sir. This from a simple courtier is all the laws require. But should you wish to do the thing without a knight per lightness, accost him as my goblin king, and always use in answering the phrase your royal whiteness. I'm getting rather horsey 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. Canto III Scum-Oaches 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, he said, for kings to soar above the earth, but phantoms often find that wings like many other pleasant things cost more than they are worth. Spectres, of course, are rich, and so can buy them from the elves, but we prefer to keep below. They're stupid company, you know, for any but themselves. For though they claim to be exempt from pride, they treat a phantom as something quite beneath contempt, just as no turkey ever dreamt of noticing a bantam. They seemed 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 Cobbled 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 Cobbled, said my guest, one of the Spectre order. You'll very often see him dressed in yellow gown, a crimson vest, and a night-cap with a border. He tried the brocken business first, but caught a sort of chill. So came to England to be nursed, and here it took the form of thirst which he complains of still. Port wine, he says, when rich and sound warms his old bones like nectar, and as the inns where it is found are his special hunting-ground we call him the Inspector. I bore it, bore it like a man this agonising witticism, and nothing could be sweeter than my temper till the ghost began some most provoking criticism. Cooks need not be indulged in waste, yet still you better teach them dishes should have some sort of taste. Pray, why are all the crewits placed when nobody can reach them? That man of yours will never earn his living as a waiter. Is that queer thing supposed to burn? It's far too dismal a concern to call a moderator. The duck was tender, but the peas were very much too old, and just remember, if you please, the next time you have toasted cheese don't let them send it cold. You'll find the bread improved, I think, by getting better flour, and have you anything to drink that looks a little less like ink and isn't quite so sour? Then, peering round with curious eyes, he muttered, goodness gracious, and so went on to criticise. Your room's an inconvenient size, it's neither snug nor spacious. That narrow window, I expect, serves but to let the duskin. But please, said I, to recollect, was fashioned by an architect who pinned his face on Ruskin. I don't care who he was, sir, or on whom he pinned his face, constructed by whatever law so poor a job I never saw as I'm a living wraith. 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're getting grand. Taking a bottle in his hand, I'll soon arrange for that. And here he took a careful aim and gaily cried, here goes. I tried to dodge it as it came, but somehow caught it all the same exactly on my nose. And I remember nothing more than I can clearly fix, till I was sitting on the floor, repeating two and five are four but five and two are six. What really passed I never learned, nor guessed. I only know that when at last my sense returned the lamp neglected, dimly burned, the fire was getting low. Through driving mists I seem 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. Kanto for his nourriture. Oh! when I was a little ghost a merry time had we each seated on his favourite post we jumped and chored 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 ghostesses were set on postesses, you know, and let their buttered toastesses. I have the book, so if you doubt it. I turned to search the shelf. Don't stir, he cried, we'll do without it. I now remember all about it. I wrote the thing myself. It came out in a monthly awe, at least my agent said it did. Some literary swell who saw it thought it seemed adapted for the magazine he edited. My father was a brownie, sir. My mother was a fairy. The notion had occurred to her the children would be happier if they were taught to vary. The notions soon became a craze, and when it once began she brought us out in different ways. One was a pixie, two were phase, 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 the snuff-box on the shelf, he added with a yawn, I'll take a pinch. Next came an elf, and then a phantom, that's myself, and last a leprechaun. One day some spectres chanced to call dressed in the usual white. I stood and watched them in the hall, and couldn't make them out at all. They seemed so strange a sight. I wondered what on earth they were that looked all head and sack. But mother told me not to stare, and then she twitched me by the hair and punched me in the back. Since then I've often wished that I had been a spectre-born. But what's the use? he heaved aside. They are the ghost nobility and look on us with scorn. My phantom life was soon begun. When I was barely six I went out with an older one, and just at first I thought it fun and learned a lot of tricks. I've haunted dungeons, castles, towers, wherever I was sent. I've often sat and held for hours, drenched to the skin with driving showers upon a battlement. It's quite old-fashioned now to groan when you begin to speak. This is the newest thing in tone. And here it chilled me to the bone. He gave an awful squeak. Perhaps, he added, to your ear that sounds an easy thing. Try it yourself, my little dear. It took me something like a year with constant practising. And when you've learnt to squeak, my man, and caught the double sob, you're pretty much where you began. Just try and jibber, if you can. That's something like a job. I've tried it, and can only say I'm sure you couldn't do it, even if you practised night and day, unless you have a turn that way, a natural ingenuity. Shakespeare, I think it is who treats of ghosts in days of old who jibbered in the Roman streets, dressed, if you recollect, in sheets. They must have found it cold. I've often spent ten pounds on stuff in dressing as a double, but though it answers as a puff, it never has effect enough to make it worth the trouble. Long bills soon quench the little thirst I have 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 tower with skull, crossbones, and sheet. Blue lights to burn, say, to an hour, condensing lens of extra power and set of chains complete. What with the things you have to hire, the fitting on the robe, and testing all the coloured fire, the outfit of itself would tire the patience of a job. And then they're so fast-stidious, the haunted house committee. I've often known the Maker Fuss because a ghost was French or Russ or even from the city. Some dialects are objected to. For one, the Irish Brogues. And then for all you have to do one pound a week they offer you and find yourself in bogies. Canto 5, Bigamant. Don't they consult the victims, though, I said. They should by rights give them the chance because you know the tastes of people differ so especially in sprites. The phantom shook his head and smiled. Consult them, not a bit, to a beer job to drive one wild to satisfy one single child there 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 my host might fairly be allowed to state his views. He said, it wouldn't really pay. Folk are so full of fancies we visit for a single day and whether we then go or stay depends on circumstances. And though we don't consult my host before the things arranged, still if he often quits his post or is not a well-mannered ghost then you can have him changed. But if the hosts are men like you, I mean a man of sense, and if the house is not too new, why, what has that I said to do with ghosts' convenience? A new house does not suit you, no, it's such a job to trim it. But after twenty years or so the wainscottings begin to go so twenty is the limit. To trim was not a phrase I could remember having heard. Perhaps, I said, you'll be so good as tell me what is understood exactly by that word. It means the loosening all the doors, the ghost replied, and laughed. It means the drilling holes by scores in all the skirting-boards and floors to make a thorough draft. 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 ghosts as 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 nightmares leave to wait for half an hour or so. Who's the nightmare? I cried. Instead of answering my question, well, if you don't know that, he said, either you never go to bed or you've a grand digestion. He goes about and sits on folk that eat too much at night. His duties are to pinch and poke and squeeze them till they nearly choke. I said it serves them right. And folk that supple things like these, he muttered, eggs and bacon, lobster and duck and toasted cheese. If they don't get an awful squeeze, I'm very much mistaken. He is immensely fat and so well suits the occupation. In point of fact, if you must know, we used to call him, years ago, the Mayor and Corporation. The day he was elected Mayor, I know that every sprite meant to vote for me, but did not dare, he was so frantic with despair and furious with excitement. When it was over for a whim, he ran to tell the King, and being the reverse of slim, a two-mile trot was not for him a very easy thing. So, to reward him for his run, as it was baking hot and he was over twenty stone, the King proceeded half-in-fun to knight him on the spot. "'Twas a great liberty to take,' I fired up like a rocket. He did it just for punning's sake. The man,' says Johnson, that would make a pun, would pick a pocket. A man said he is not a king. I argued for a while and did my best to prove the thing, the phantom merely listening with a contemptuous smile. At last when breath and patience spent I had recourse to smoking, your aim, he said, is excellent, but when you call it argument, of course you're only joking.' Stung by his cold and snaky eye I roused myself at length to say, at least I do defy the various skeptic to deny that Union is strength. That's true enough, said he, yet stay. I listened all in meekness. Union is strength I'm bound to say. In fact, the things as clear as day, but onions are a weakness. Canto 6. Discomfiture. As one who strives a hill to climb who never climbed before, who finds it in a little time grows 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 a pace that crans 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 guides swiftly down again, a helpless weight from steep to steep, till with a headlong giddy sweep he drops upon the plane. So I, that had resolved to bring conviction to a ghost, and found it quite a differencing 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. Quote he, that's regular clap-trap, don't bluster any more, no, do be cool and take a nap, such a ridiculous old chap was never seen before. You're like a man I used to meet, who got one day so furious in arguing the simple heat scorched both the slippers off his feet. I said, that's very curious. Well, it is curious, I agree, and sounds perhaps like fibs, but still it's true as true can be as sure as your name's tibs, said he. I said, my name's not tibs. Not tibs, he cried, his tone became a shade or two less hearty. I know, said I, my proper name is Tibbets. Tibbets, I the same. Why then, you're not the party. With that he struck the board a blow that shivered half the glasses. Why couldn't you have told me so three quarters of an hour ago, you prince of all the asses? To walk four miles through mud and rain to spend the night in smoking, and then to find that it's in vain and I've to do it all again, it's really too provoking. Don't talk, he cried as I began to mutter some excuse. Who can have patience with a man that's got no more discretion than an idiotic goose? To keep me waiting here instead of telling me at once that this was not the house, he said. There, that'll do, be off to bed. Don't gape like that, you dunce. It's very fine to throw the blame on me in such a fashion. Why didn't you 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 badly put. And certainly you've given me the best of wine and vittle. Excuse my violence, said he, but accidents like this you see they put one out a little. It was my fault after all I find. Shake hands or turnip top? The name was hardly to my mind, but as no doubt he meant it kind I let the matter drop. Good night, odd turnip top, good night. When I am gone perhaps they'll send you some inferior sprite who will keep you in a constant fright and spoil your soundest naps. Tell him you'll stand no sort of trick, then if he leers and chuckles you'll just be handy with a stick, mind that is pretty hard and sick, and wrap him on the knuckles. Then carelessly remark old Coon perhaps you'll not 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 of such like goings on, but gracious me it's getting light. Good night, old turnip top, good night. A nod and he was gone. Canto 7 said Souvenance What's this I pondered? Have I slept or can I have been drinking? But soon a gentler feeling crept upon me and I sat and wept an hour or so like winking. No need for bones to hurry so, I sobbed. In fact I doubt if it was worth his well to go, and who is Tips I'd like to know to make such work about? If Tips is anything like me it's possible, I said. He won't be over pleased to be dropped in upon at huff-pass three after he's snug in bed. And if Bones plagues him any house, squeaking and all the rest of it, as he was doing here just now, I prophesy there'll be a row and Tips will have the best of it. Then as my tears could never bring the friendly phantom back, it seemed to me the proper thing to mix another glass and sing the following Koranak. And art thou gone, beloved ghost, best of familiars, nay then farewell, my duckling roast, farewell, farewell, my tea and toast, my mere shawlman cigars. The hues of life are dull and grey, the sweets of life insipid, when thou my charmer art away, old brick, or rather let me say, old parallela pipid. Instead of singing verse the third I ceased, abruptly rather, but after such a splendid word I felt that it would be absurd to try it any farther. So with a yawn I went my way to seek the welcome downy, and slept and dreamed till break of day of poltergeist and fetch and fey and leprechaun and brownie. For years I've not been visited by any kind of sprite, yet still they echo in my head those parting words so kindly said, old turnip-top, good night, end of Phantasmagoria. Echos from Rhyman Reason by Lewis Carroll. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Michael Maggs. Echos. The Lady Clara Veer de Veer was eight years old, she said. A free ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread. She took a little porridge of me, she shall not win renown, for the baseness of its nature shall have the strength to drag her down. Sisters and brothers, little maid, there stands the inspector at thy door, like a dog he hunts for boys who know not two and two or four. Kind words are more than coronets, she said, and wondering looked at me. It is the dead and happy night, and I must hurry home to tea. End of Echos. A Sea-Durge from Rhyman Reason by Lewis Carroll. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Michael Maggs. A Sea-Durge. There are certain things as a spider, a ghost, the income tax, gout, an umbrella, for three that I hate, but the thing that I hate them most is a thing they call the sea. Pour some salt water over the floor. Ugly, I'm sure you'll allow it to be. Suppose it extended a mile or more. That's very like the sea. Beat a dog till it howls, I tried. Cruel, but all very well for a spree. Suppose that he did so day and night. That would be like the sea. I had a vision of nursery-maids, tens of thousands passed by me, all leading children with wooden spades, and this was by the sea. Who invented those spades of wood? Who was it who cut them out of the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could, or one that loved the sea. It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float with thoughts as boundless and souls as free. But suppose you are very unwell in the boat. How do you like the sea? There is an insect that people avoid, whence is derived the verb to flee. Where have you been by it most annoyed, in lodgings by the sea? If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, a decided hint of salt in your tea, and a fishy taste in the very eggs, by all means, choose the sea. And if, with these dainties to drink and eat, you prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, and a chronic state of wet in your feet, then, I recommend the sea. For I have friends who dwell by the coast, pleasant friends they are to me. It is when I am with them I wonder most that anyone likes the sea. They take me a walk, though tired and stiff to climb the heights I madly agree, and after a tumble or so from the cliff they kindly suggest the sea. I try the rocks, and I think it cool that they laugh with such an excessive glee as I heavily slip into every pool that skirts the cold, cold sea. End of A Sea-Durge The Carpet Night From Rhymon Reason by Lewis Carroll This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs The Carpet Night I have a horse, a right good horse. Nay, do I envy those who scour the plain in headlong course till sudden on their nose they light with unexpected force. It is a horse of clothes. I have a saddle, sayst I so, with stirrup's night to boot? I said not that, I answer, no, it lacketh such, I would. It is a mutton saddle, though, but of the fleecy brute. I have a bit, a right good bit, as shall be seen in time. The jaws of horse it will not fit. Its use is more sublime. Fessa, how dim as thou of it, it is this bit of rhyme. End of The Carpet Night High Author's Photographing From Rhymon Reason by Lewis Carroll This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs 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 earforism could compose for hours together in the easy running meter 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 impened 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, enforcing silence, said, Be motionless, I beg you! Mystic awful was the process. All the family in order sat before him for their pictures. Each in turn, as he was taken, volunteered his own suggestions, his ingenious suggestions. First the governor, the father, he suggested velvet curtains looped about a massy pillar, and the corner of a table, of a Rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, hold it firmly in his left hand. He would keep his right hand buried, like Napoleon, in his waistcoat. He would contemplate the distance with a look of pensive meaning, as of ducks that die in tempests. Grand heroic was the notion. Yet the picture failed entirely, failed because he moved a little, moved because he couldn't help it. Next his better half took courage. She would have her picture taken. She came dressed beyond description, dressed in jewels and in satin, far too gorgeous for an empress. Gracefully she sat down sideways, with a simper, scarcely human, holding in her hand a bouquet rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she was sitting still the lady chattered, chattered like a monkey in the forest. Am I sitting still, she asked him, is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it come into the picture? And the picture failed completely. Next the sun, the stunning cantabre. He suggested curves of beauty, curves pervading all his figure, which the eye might follow onward till they centred in the breastpin, centred in the golden breastpin. He had learnt it all from Ruskin, author of The Stones of Venice, Seven Lamps of Architecture, Modern Painters, and some others, and perhaps he had not fully understood his author's meaning. But whatever was the reason, all was fruitless, as the picture ended in an utter failure. Next to him the eldest daughter. She suggested very little, only asked if he would take her with a 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 chained 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 sick his hair was, very round and red his face was, very dusty was his jacket, very fidgety his manner. And his overbearing sisters caught him names he disapproved of, caught him Johnny, Daddy's darling, caught him Jackie, scrubby schoolboy. And so awful was the picture, in comparison the others seemed to once bewildered fancy to have partially succeeded. Finally my Hiawatha tumbled all the tribe together. Grouped is not the right expression, and as happy chance would have it did, at last obtain a picture where the faces all succeeded. Each came out a perfect likeness. Then they joined and all abused it, unrestrainedly abused it as the worst and ugliest picture they could possibly have dreamed of. Giving one such strange expressions. Sullen, stupid, pert expressions. Really, any one would take us, any one that did not know us, for the most unpleasant people. Hiawatha seemed to think so, seemed to think it not unlikely. All together rang their voices, angry, loud, discordant voices as of dogs that howling concert, as of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hiawatha's patience, his politeness and his patience unaccountably had vanished, and he left that happy party. Neither did he leave them slowly, with the calm deliberation, the intense deliberation of a photographic artist. But he left them in a hurry, left them in a mighty hurry stating that he would not stand it. Stating in emphatic language what he'd be before he'd stand it. Hurriedly he packed his boxes, hurriedly the porter trundled on a barrow all his boxes, hurriedly he took his ticket, hurriedly the train received him, thus departed Hiawatha. End of Hiawatha's photographing. Mellon Colletta from Rhymen's Reason by Lewis Carroll. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Max. Mellon Colletta. With saddest music all day long, she soothed her secret sorrow. At night she sighed, I fear it was wrong such chiff words to borrow. Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song I'll sing to thee to-morrow. I thanked her, but I could not say that I was glad to hear it. I left the house at break of day and did not venture near it till time, I hoped, had worn away her grief, for 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 art awake, thou weepest. I took my sister to the day, excuse the slang expression, to saddler'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 Mellon Collie, the lively Jones, the sportive Brown, and Robinson the Jolly. The maid announced the meal in tones that I myself had taught her, meant to allay my sister's moans like oil on troubled water. I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones, and begged him to escort her. Vainly he strove with ready wit to joke about the weather, to ventilate the last on-dit, to quote the price of leather. She groaned, here I and sorrow sit, let us lament together. I urged, you're wasting time, you know, delay will spoil the venison. My heart is wasted with my woe, there is no rest in Venice on the bridge of size, 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 assayed, which kind of recreation, hunting or fishing, have you made your special occupation? Her lips curved downwards instantly as if of India rubber. Hounds in full cry, I like, said she. Oh, how I longed to snub her. Of fish, a whale's the one for me, it is so full of blubber. The night's performance was King John. It's dull, she wept, and so so. And while I let her tears flow on, she said they soothed her woe so. At length the curtain rose upon Bombaste's 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. End of Melancholetta. A Valentine. From Rhymen's Reason by Lewis Carroll. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs. A Valentine. Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away. And cannot pleasures, while they last, be actual, unless, when past, they leave a shuddering and aghast with anguish smarting. And cannot friends be firm and fast, and yet bear parting? And must I then, at friendship's call, calmly resign the little all, trifling I granted is, and small I have of gladness, and lend my being to the thrall of gloom and sadness? And think you that I should be dumb and full Dolorum Omnium, excepting when you choose to come and share my dinner? At other times be sour and glum and daily thinner. Must he then only live to weep who proved his friendship true and deep? By day a lonely shadow creep at night-time languish, oft raising in his broken sleep the moan of anguish. The lover, if for certain days his fair one be denied his gaze, sinks not in grief and wild amaze, but, wiser wooer, he spends the time in writing laze and posts them to her. And if the verse flow free and fast till even the poet is aghast, a touching valentine at last the post shall carry, when thirteen days are gone and past of February. Fair well, dear friend, and when we meet in desert waste or crowded street, perhaps before this week shall fleet, perhaps to-morrow. I trust to find your heart the seat of wasting sorrow, end of a valentine. The Three Voices from Rhymandry's and by Lewis Carroll. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs. The Three Voices. The first voice. He'd trilled a carol, fresh and free, he'd laughed aloud for very glee. There came a breeze from off the sea. It passed a thwart, 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, unairingly 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. Termit not radiance, said he, to solid nutriment to me. Dinner is dinner, tea is tea. And she, yea so, yet wherefore 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 strove with the thought. But I must stay. To dine, she shrieked in dragon-roth, to swallow wines all foam and froth, to simp her at a table cloth. Say, can thy noble spirit stoop to join the gormandising troupe who find a solace in the soup? Can't thy 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 unwilling to be fed, nor are they well without the bread. Her visage scorched him, air she 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 shape suggestive of the manlike ape. Of 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 maim 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 ye or nay. He felt that 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. But 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 hundred weight of lead, the good and great must ever shun that reckless, and abandon one who stoops to perpetrate our 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 ashamed and crimson cheek moaned, this is harder than bzique. But when she asked him, wherefore so, he felt his very whiskers glow, and frankly, and I do not know. While like broad waves of golden grain or sunlit hues on cloistered pain, 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 in tone 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 pass they on with even pace, yet gradually one might trace a shadow growing on his face, 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 last 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 led an eye went on, as if he were not by. Signed argument and grave defence, strange questions raised on why, and whence, and wildly tangled evidence. When he, with wracked and whirling brain, feebly implored her to explain, she simply said it all again. Wretched with an agony, intense he spake, neglecting sound and sense and careless of all consequence. Mind, I believe, is essence, ent, abstract, that is, an accident which we, that is to say, I meant. 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 guestat, 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 deus of sober bliss? What boots it? Shall his fevered eye through tearing nothingness decry 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 gray among his peers through the thick curtain of his tears, catch glimpses of his earlier years, and hear the sands he knew of your 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 watermill when summer suns have dried the rail, she reached a full stop, and was still. Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, as when a loaded omnibus has reached the railway terminus, when, for the tumult of the street is heard the engine 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 friend. He gazed upon the sleeping sea and joyed in its tranquility and in that silence dead, but she'd amuse a little space did seem, then, like the echo of a dream harped back upon her threadbare seam. 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 bloom 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, 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. Lowe spake the voice within his head. In words imagined more than said, sandless as ghosts intended tread. If thou art duller than before, why quittets thou the voice of law? Why not endure, expecting more? Rather than that, he groaned aghast, I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast some loathly vampires rich repast. To a hard, it answered, themes immense to coop within the narrow fence that rings 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 criticise. Nor did I leave her till she went so deep entangled 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 excess of 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 they were. When, bathed in dawn of living red majestic frown to 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 unpitting sun smelt 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 silenced to his groan, bagpipe sweet music to his tone. What, ever thus in dismal round shall pain and mystery profound pursue me like a sleepless hand, with crimson dust 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, thou, a scared dullard, jibbering low and she, an avalanche of woe. End of The Three Voices Tamar Converazioni from Rhymen's Reason by Lewis Carroll This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs Tamar Converazioni Why is it that poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of dilution, which has proved so advantageous to her sister art, music, that diluta gives us first a few notes of some well-known air, and then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the air, and so on, alternately. Thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognizing the melody at all, at least from the two exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed setting by composers, and anyone that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar will recognize the truthfulness of this happy phrase. For truly, just as the genuine epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme venison, whose every fibre seems to murmur excelsior, yet swallows air returning to the toothsome dainty great mouthfuls of oatmeal porridge and winkles, and just as the perfect connoisseur in Claret permits himself one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer. So, also, I never loved a dear gazelle, nor anything that cost me much. High prices profit those who sell, but why should I be fond of such? To glad me with his soft black eye. My son comes trotting home from school. He's had a fight, but can't tell why he always was a little fool. But when he came to know me well, he kicked me out, her testy sire, and when I stained my hair that bell might note the change, and thus admire. And love me it was sure to die. A muddy green or staring blue, whilst one might trace with half an eye the still triumphant carrot through. End of Temma Convirazioni A Game of Fives Five little girls of five, four, three, two, one rolling on the hearth-rog full of tricks and fun. Five rosy girls in years from ten to six, sitting down to lessons, no more time for tricks. Five growing girls from fifteen to eleven, music, drawing, languages, and food enough for seven. Five winsome girls from twenty to sixteen, each young man that calls I say, Now tell me which you mean. Five dashing girls, the youngest twenty-one, but if nobody proposes, what is there to be done? Five showy girls, but thirty is an age when girls may be engaging, but they don't somehow engage. Five dressy girls of thirty-one or more, so gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before. Five passe girls their age, well, never mind, we jog along together like the rest of humankind, but the quantum careless bachelor begins to think he knows the answer to that ancient problem, how the money goes. End of A Game of Fives Poeta fit no nascitur from Rime and Reason by Lewis Carroll. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Michael Maggs. Poeta fit no nascitur. How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in Rime? You told me once the very wish-part took 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 redding 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 haste to lead to such conclusions, jump. Such epithets, like pepper, give zest to what you write, and if you strew them sparely they wet 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 place's 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 that word so used before to-day. Be kind enough to mention one, exempli grozier. And the old man, looking sadly across the garden lawn, were here and there a dew-drop, yet glittered in the dawn, said, go to the Adelphi and see the Colleen-born. The word is due to Boceco the theory is his, where life becomes a spasm and history a whiz. If that is not sensation, I don't know what it is. Now try your hand, ere 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 duodecimo. 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. End of poet a fit, no nascitur.