Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (121 page)

CANTO VII - Sad Souvenaunce

“What’s this?”
I pondered.  “Have I slept?

Or can I have been drinking?”

But soon a gentler feeling crept

Upon me, and I sat and wept

An hour or so, like winking.

“No need for Bones to hurry so!”

I sobbed.  “In fact, I doubt

If it was worth his while to go -

And who is Tibbs, I’d like to know,

To make such work about?

“If Tibbs is anything like me,

It’s
possible
,” I said,

“He won’t be over-pleased to be

Dropped in upon at half-past three,

After he’s snug in bed.

“And if Bones plagues him anyhow -

Squeaking and all the rest of it,

As he was doing here just now -

I
prophesy there’ll be a row,

And Tibbs will have the best of it!”

Then, as my tears could never bring

The friendly Phantom back,

It seemed to me the proper thing

To mix another glass, and sing

The following Coronach.

‘
And art thou gone, beloved Ghost
?

Best of Familiars!

Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast,

Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast,

My meerschaum and cigars
!

The hues of life are dull and gray,

The sweets of life insipid,

When
thou,
my charmer, art away
-

Old Brick, or rather, let me say,

Old Parallelepiped
!’

Instead of singing Verse the Third,

I ceased - abruptly, rather:

But, after such a splendid word

I felt that it would be absurd

To try it any farther.

So with a yawn I went my way

To seek the welcome downy,

And slept, and dreamed till break of day

Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay

And Leprechaun and Brownie!

For year 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!”

ECHOES

Lady Clara Vere de Vere

Was eight years old, she said:

Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.

She took her little porringer:

Of me she shall not win renown:

For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid?

There stands the Inspector at thy door:

Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.”

“Kind words are more than coronets,”

She said, and wondering looked at me:

“It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.”

A SEA DIRGE

There are certain things - as, a spider, a ghost,

The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three -

That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most

Is a thing they call the Sea.

Pour some salt water over the floor -

Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be:

Suppose it extended a mile or more,

That’s
very like the Sea.

Beat a dog till it howls outright -

Cruel, but all very well for a spree:

Suppose that he did so day and night,

That
would be like the Sea.

I had a vision of nursery-maids;

Tens of thousands passed by me -

All leading children with wooden spades,

And this was by the Sea.

Who invented those spades of wood?

Who was it cut them out of the tree?

None, I think, but an idiot could -

Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float

With ‘thoughts as boundless, and souls as free’:

But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat,

How do you like the Sea?

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 excess of glee,

As I heavily slip into every pool

That skirts the cold cold Sea.

Ye Carpette Knyghte

I have a horse - a ryghte good horse -

Ne doe Y envye those

Who scoure ye playne yn headye course

Tyll soddayne on theyre nose

They lyghte wyth unexpected force

Yt ys - a horse of clothes.

I have a saddel - “Say’st thou soe?

Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?”

I sayde not that - I answere “Noe” -

Yt lacketh such, I woote:

Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!

Parte of ye fleecye brute.

I have a bytte - a ryghte good bytte -

As shall bee seene yn tyme.

Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;

Yts use ys more sublyme.

Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?

Yt ys - thys bytte of rhyme.

HIAWATHA’S PHOTOGRAPHING

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

From his shoulder Hiawatha

Took the camera of rosewood,

Made of sliding, folding rosewood;

Neatly put it all together.

In its case it lay compactly,

Folded into nearly nothing;

But he opened out the hinges,

Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,

Till it looked all squares and oblongs,

Like a complicated figure

In the Second Book of Euclid.

This he perched upon a tripod -

Crouched beneath its dusky cover -

Stretched his hand, 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 ill 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 came into the picture?”

And the picture failed completely.

Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:

He suggested curves of beauty,

Curves pervading all his figure,

Which the eye might follow onward,

Till they centered in the breast-pin,

Centered in the golden breast-pin.

He had learnt it all from Ruskin

(Author of ‘The Stones of Venice,’

‘Seven Lamps of Architecture,’

‘Modern Painters,’ and some others);

And perhaps he had not fully

Understood his author’s meaning;

But, whatever was the reason,

All was fruitless, as the picture

Ended in an utter failure.

Next to him the eldest daughter:

She suggested very little,

Only asked if he would take her

With her look of ‘passive beauty.’

Her idea of passive beauty

Was a squinting of the left-eye,

Was a drooping of the right-eye,

Was a smile that went up sideways

To the corner of the nostrils.

Hiawatha, when she asked him,

Took no notice of the question,

Looked as if he hadn’t heard it;

But, when pointedly appealed to,

Smiled in his peculiar manner,

Coughed and said it ‘didn’t matter,’

Bit his lip and changed the subject.

Nor in this was he mistaken,

As the picture failed completely.

So in turn the other sisters.

Last, the youngest son was taken:

Very rough and thick his hair was,

Very round and red his face was,

Very dusty was his jacket,

Very fidgety his manner.

And his overbearing sisters

Called him names he disapproved of:

Called him Johnny, ‘Daddy’s Darling,’

Called him Jacky, ‘Scrubby School-boy.’

And, so awful was the picture,

In comparison the others

Seemed, to one’s bewildered fancy,

To have partially succeeded.

Finally my Hiawatha

Tumbled all the tribe together,

(‘Grouped’ is not the right expression),

And, as happy chance would have it

Did at last obtain a picture

Where the faces all succeeded:

Each came out a perfect likeness.

Then they joined and all abused it,

Unrestrainedly abused it,

As the worst and ugliest picture

They could possibly have dreamed of.

‘Giving one such strange expressions -

Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.

Really any one would take us

(Any one that did not know us)

For the most unpleasant people!’

(Hiawatha seemed to think so,

Seemed to think it not unlikely).

All together rang their voices,

Angry, loud, discordant voices,

As of dogs that howl in concert,

As of cats that wail in chorus.

But my Hiawatha’s patience,

His politeness and his patience,

Unaccountably had vanished,

And he left that happy party.

Neither did he leave them slowly,

With the calm deliberation,

The intense deliberation

Of a photographic artist:

But he left them in a hurry,

Left them in a mighty hurry,

Stating that he would not stand it,

Stating in emphatic language

What he’d be before he’d stand it.

Hurriedly he packed his boxes:

Hurriedly the porter trundled

On a barrow all his boxes:

Hurriedly he took his ticket:

Hurriedly the train received him:

Thus departed Hiawatha.