Finally, he fixed each picture
With a saturate solution
Of a certain salt of Soda –
[30] Chemists call it Hyposulphite.
(Very difficult the name is
For a metre like the present
But periphrasis has done it.)
All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures.
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His invaluable suggestions.
First, the Governor, the Father:
[40] 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,
[50] As of ducks that die in tempests.
He would gaze into the distance –
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,
[60] Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a nosegay
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was taking,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
“Am I sitting still?” she asked him.
“Is my face enough in profile?
[70] Shall I hold the nosegay higher?
Will it come 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 centred in the breast-pin,
Centred in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin,
[80] (Author of The Stones of Venice,
“Seven Lamps of Architecture,
Modern Painters,” and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood the author’s meaning;
But, whatever was the reason,
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in a total failure.
Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little;
[90] 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;
[100] But, when pointedly appealed to,
Smiled in a 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 dusty was his jacket,
[110] Very fidgetty 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
Might be thought to have succeeded,
To have partially succeeded.
Finally, my Hiawatha
[120] 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.
[130] Giving one such strange expressions!
Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness!
Really any one would take us
(Any one who 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,
[140] 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 that calm deliberation,
That intense deliberation
Which photographers aspire to:
But he left them in a hurry,
[150] Left them in a mighty hurry,
Vowing that he would not 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.
The Lang Coortin’
The ladye she stood at her lattice high,
Wi’ her doggie at her feet;
Thorough the lattice she can spy
The passers in the street.
“There’s one that standeth at the door,
And tirleth at the pin:
Now speak and say, my popinjay,*
If I sall let him in.”
Then up and spake the popinjay
[10] That flew abune her head:
“Gae let him in that tirls the pin,
He cometh thee to wed.”
O when he cam’ the parlour in,
A woeful man was he!
“And dinna ye ken your lover again,
Sae well that loveth thee?”
“And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,
That have been sae lang away?
And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?
[20] Ye never telled me sae.”
Said – “ladye dear,” and the salt salt tear
Cam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek,
“I have sent thee tokens of my love
This many and many a week.
“O didna ye get the rings, ladye,
The rings o’ the gowd sae fine?
I wist that I have sent to thee
Four score, four score and nine.”
“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye.
[30] “Wow, they were flimsie things!”
Said – “that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to houd,
It is made o’ thae self-same rings.”
“And didna ye get the locks, the locks,
The locks o’ my ain black hair,
Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box,
Whilk I sent by the carrier?”
“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye;
“And I prithee send nae mair!”
Said – “that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s head,
[40] It
is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ hair.”
“And didna ye get the letter, ladye,
Tied wi’ a silken string,
Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,
A message of love to bring?”
“It cam’ to me frae the far countrie
Wi’ its silken string and a’;
But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid,
“Sae I gar’d them tak’ it awa’.”
“O ever alack that ye sent it back,
[50] It was written sae clerkly and well!
Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,
I must even say it mysel’.”
Then up and spake the popinjay,
Sae wisely counselled he:
“Now say it in the proper way,
Gae doon upon thy knee!”
The lover he turned baith red and pale,
Gaed doon upon his knee:
“O Ladye, hear the waesome tale
[60] That I have to tell to thee!
“For five lang years, and five lang years,
I coorted thee by looks;
By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,
As I had read in books.
“For ten lang years, O weary hours!
I coorted thee by signs;
By sending game, by sending flowers,
By sending Valentines.
“For five lang years, and five lang years,
[70] I have dwelt in the far countrie,
Till that thy mind should be inclined
Mair tenderly to me.
“Now thirty years are gane and past,
I am come frae a foreign land:
I am come to tell thee my love at last;
O Ladye, gie me thy hand!”
The ladye she turned not pale nor red,
But she smiled a pitiful smile:
“Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” she said
[80] “Takes a lang and a weary while!”
And out and laughed the popinjay,
A laugh of bitter scorn:
“A coortin’ done in sic’ a way,
It ought not to be borne!”
Wi’ that the doggie barked aloud,
And up and doon he ran,
And tugged and strained his chain o’ gowd,
All for to bite the man.
“O hush thee, gentle popinjay!
[90] O hush thee, doggie dear!
There is a word I fain wad say,
It needeth he should hear!”
Aye louder screamed that ladye fair
To still her doggie’s bark;
Ever the lover shouted mair
To make that ladye hark:
Shrill and more shrill the popinjay
Kept up his angry squall:
I trow the doggie’s voice that day
[100] Was louder than them all!
The serving-men and serving-maids
Sat by the kitchen fire:
They heard sic’ a din the parlour within
As made them much admire.
Out spake the boy in buttons,
(I ween he wasna thin,)
“Now wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay this deadlie din?”
And they have taen a kerchief,
[110] Casted their kevils** in,
For wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay that deadlie din.
When on that boy the kevil fell
To stay the fearsome noise,
“Gae in,” they cried, “whate’er betide,
Thou prince of button-boys!”
Syne, he has taen a supple cane
To beat that dog sae fat:
The doggie yowled, the doggie howled
[120] The louder aye for that.
Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane –
The doggie hushed his noise,
And followed doon the kitchen stair
That prince of button-boys!
Then sadly spake that ladye fair,
Wi’ a frown upon her brow:
“O dearer to me is my sma’ doggie
Than a dozen sic’ as thou!
“Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:
[130] Nae use at all to fret:
Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years,
Ye may bide a wee langer yet!”
Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor
And tirlèd at the pin:
Sadly went he through the door
Where sadly he cam’ in.
“O gin I had a popinjay,
To fly abune my head,
To tell me what I ought to say,
[140] I had by this been wed.
“O gin I find anither ladye,”
He said with sighs and tears,
“I wist my coortin’ sall not be
Anither thirty years.
“For gin I find a ladye gay,
Exactly to my taste,
I’ll pop the question, aye or nay,
In twenty years at maist.”
Melancholetta
With saddest music all day long
She soothed her secret sorrow:
At night she sighed. “I fear ’twas wrong
Such cheerful 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,
[10] And did not venture near it
Till time, I hoped, had worn away
Her grief, for naught could cheer it!
My dismal sister! Couldst thou know
The wretched home thou keepest!
Thy brother, drowned in daily woe,
Is thankful when thou sleepest;
For if I laugh, however low,
When thou’rt awake, thou weepest!
I took my sister t’other day
[20] (Excuse the slang expression)
To Sadler’s Wells to see the play,
In hopes the new impression
Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay,
Effect some slight digression.
I asked three friends of mine from town
To join us in our folly,
Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown
My sister’s melancholy:
The lively Jones, the sportive Brown,
[30] And Robinson the jolly.
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 lively Jones essayed,
[40] “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:”
[50] “It’s dull,” she wept, “and so-so!”
Awhile I let her tears flow on,
She said “they soothed her woe so!”
At length the curtain rose upon
“Bombastes Furioso.”
In vain we roared; in vain we tried
To rouse her into laughter:
Her pensive glances wandered wide
From orchestra to rafter –
“Tier upon tier!” she said, and sighed;
[60] And silence followed after.
The Three Voices
The First Voice
With hands tight clenched through mat
ted hair,
He crouched in trance of dumb despair:
There came a breeze from out the air.
It passed athwart the glooming flat –
It fanned his forehead as he sat –
It lightly bore away his hat,
All to the feet of one who stood
Like maid enchanted in a wood,
Frowning as darkly as she could.
[10] With huge umbrella, lank and brown,
Unerringly she pinned it down,
Right through the centre of the crown.
Then, with an aspect cold and grim,
Regardless of its battered rim,
She took it up and gave it him.
Awhile 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,
[20] And it had cost him four-and-nine,
And he was going out to dine.
With grave indifference to his speech,
Fixing her eyes upon the beach,
She said “Each gives to more than each.”
He could not answer yea or nay;
He faltered “Gifts may pass away.”
Yet knew not what he meant to say.
“If that be so,” she straight replied,
“Each heart with each doth coincide:
[30] What boots it? For the world is wide.”
And he, not wishing to appear
Less wise, said “This Material Sphere
Is but Attributive Idea.”
But when she asked him “Wherefore so?”
He felt his very whiskers glow,
And frankly owned “I do not know.”
While, like broad waves of golden grain,
Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,
His colour came and went again.
[40] 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, yes; but not to thee.”
But when she saw him quail and quake,
[50] 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,
[60] For Notion hath its source in Thought.”
When he, with racked and whirling brain,
Feebly implored her to explain,
She simply said it all again.
Wrenched with an agony intense,
Jabberwocky and Other Nonsense Page 13