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 –”
[70] When, with quick breath and cheeks flushed,
At length his speech was somewhat hushed,
She looked at him, and he was crushed.
It needed not her calm reply;
She fixed him with a stony eye,
And he could neither fight nor fly,
While she dissected, word by word,
His speech, half guessed at and half heard,
As might a cat a little bird.
Then, having wholly overthrown
[80] His views, and stripped them to the bone,
Proceeded to unfold her own.
So passed 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,
[90] And he was dull as any drone.
She urged “No cheese is made of chalk:”
And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,
Tuned to the footfall of a walk.
Her voice was very full and rich,
And, when at length she asked him “Which?”
It mounted to its highest pitch.
He a bewildered answer gave,
Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,
Lost in the echoes of the cave.
[100] He answered her he knew not what;
Like shaft from bow at random shot:
He spoke, but she regarded not.
She waited not for his reply,
But with a downward leaden eye
Went on as if he were not by.
Sound argument and grave defence,
Strange questions raised on “Why?” and “Whence?”
And weighted down with common sense.
“Shall Man be Man? and shall he miss
[110] Of other thoughts no thought but this,
Harmonious dews of sober bliss?
“What boots it? Shall his fevered eye
Through towering nothingness descry
This 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,
[120] The feathery train of granite Night?
“Shall he, grown grey among his peers,
Through the thick curtain of his tears
Catch glimpses of his earlier years,
“And hear the sounds he knew of yore,
Old shuffling 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
[130] “A 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 some silent water-mill
When summer suns have dried the rill,
She reached a full stop, and was still.
Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,
[140] As when the loaded omnibus
Has reached the railway terminus;
When for the tumult of the street
Is heard the engine’s stifled beat,
The wary tread of porters’ feet.
With glance that ever sought the ground,
She moved her lips without a sound,
And every now and then she frowned.
He gazed upon the sleeping sea,
And joyed in its tranquillity,
[150] And in that silence dead, but she
To muse a little space did seem,
Then, like the echo of a dream,
Harped back upon her threadbare theme.
Still an attentive ear he lent,
But could not fathom what she meant:
She was not deep, nor eloquent.
He marked the ripple on the sand:
The even swaying of her hand
Was all that he could understand.
[160] 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:
[170] 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
[180] The jargon of the howling main,
“Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook,
To con, with inexpressive look,
An unintelligible book.”
Low spake the voice within his head,
In words imagined more than said,
Soundless as ghost’s intended tread:
“If thou art duller than before,
Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?
Why not endure, expecting more?”
[190] “Rather than that,” he groaned aghast,
“I’d writhe in depths of cavern vast,
Some loathly vampire’s rich repast.”
“ ’Twere 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 that within her tone
That chilled me to the very bone.
“Her style was anything but clear
[200] 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 in tangled argument
That all my powers of thought were spent.”
A little whisper inly slid;
“Yet truth is truth: you know you did –”
[210] 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.
Forth went the whisper like a breeze;
Left him amid the wondering trees,
Left him by no means at his ease.
Once more he weltered in despair,
With hands, through denser-matted hair,
More tightly clenched than then they were.
[220] When, bathed in dawn of living red,
Majestic frowned the mountain head,
“Tell me my fault,” was all he said.
When, at high noon, the blazing sky
Scorched in his head each haggard eye,
Then keenest rose his weary cry.
And when at eve the unpitying sun
Smiled grimly on the solemn fun,
“Alack,” he sighed, “what have I done?”
But saddest, darkest was the sight,
[230] When the cold grasp of leaden Night
Dashed him to earth and held him tight.
Tortured, unaided, and alone,
Thunders were silence to his groan,
Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:
“What? Ever thus, in dismal round,
Shall Pain and Mystery profound
Pursue me like a sleepless hound,
“With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,
Me, still in ignorance of the cause,
[240] Unknowing what I brake 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:
[250] “Yea, each to each was worse than foe,
Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,
And she, an avalanche of woe.”
A Double Acrostic
The Double Acrostic, a form of puzzle which has lately become fashionable, is constructed thus: – Two words are selected having the same number of letters: these are supposed to be written in two parallel columns, and a series of words is then found (their length is immaterial) such that the first column may consist of their initial letters, and the second of their final letters. For instance, if the column-words selected were “rose” and “ring” we might fill up thus: –
r i v e r
o b i
s e v e n
e g g
The two column-words, and the horizontal words, are then described in a series of lines or verses, and the puzzle is complete.
The innumerable specimens of this form of puzzle already published are in every way (if we except the studied insipidity of the separate verses, and their total want of connexion one with another) to be commended. The following attempt made at the request of some friends who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration, is printed in the hope of suggesting a possible improvement in the treatment of the subject.
There was an ancient city, stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the noisy town,
And danced the night away.
I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad –
They pointed to a building grey and tall,
And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad,
And then you’ll see it all.”
Yet what are all such gaieties to me
[10] Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?
But something whispered “It will soon be done –
Bands cannot always play, or ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while!”
A change came o’er my Vision – it was night:
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng;
The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright;
[20] The chariots whirled along.
Within a marble hall a river ran –
A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;
And here one offered to a thirsty fair
(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A tooth-ache in each spoonful.
There comes a happy pause, for human strength
[30] Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.
At such a moment ladies learn to give
To partners, who would urge them 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 pop the corks, and busy knives
[40] Dispense the tongue and chicken.
Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion –
Much like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.
And thus they give the time that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To thoughtless din, and mindless merriment,
And waste of shoes and floors.
And one (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
[50] That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.
How late it grows! Long since the hour is past
That should have warned us with its double knock;
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last –
“Oh, Uncle! what’s o’clock?”
The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks –
It may mean much; but how is one to know?
He opes his mouth – yet out of it, methinks,
[60] No words of wisdom flow.
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
Enquires the reason of my fear.
I answer “If that ruffian Jones,
Should recognise me here,
He’d bellow out my name in tones
[10] Offensive to the ear:
He chaffs me so on being stout
(A thing that always puts me out).”
Ah me! I see him on the cliff!
Farewell, farewell 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,
[20] I meet him out at dinner;
And when I’ve found some charming fair,
And vowed 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 J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what on earth they see
About him to admire?
They cry “He is so sleek and slim,
[30] 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,
[40] 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’d 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!
Poeta Fit Non Nascitur
“How shall I be a poet?
How shall I write in rhyme?
You told me once ‘the v
ery wish
Partook of the sublime:’
Then tell me how! Don’t put me off
With your ‘another time’!”
The old man smiled to see him,
To hear his sudden sally;
He liked the lad to speak his mind
[10] Enthusiastically:
And thought “There’s no hum-drum 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,
[20] 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 alway:
The True, the Good, the Beautiful –
[30] 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
[40] Pent in a wheaten cell’?”
“Why, yes,” the old man said; “that phrase
Would answer very well.
“Then fourthly, there are epithets
That suit with any word –
As well as Harvey’s Reading Sauce
With fish, or flesh, or bird –
Of these, ‘wild,’ ‘lonely,’ ‘weary,’ ‘strange,’
Are much to be preferred.”
“And will it do, O will it do
[50] To take them in a lump –
As ‘the wild man went his weary way
To a strange and lonely pump’?”
“Nay, nay! You must not hastily
To such conclusions jump.
“Such epithets, like pepper,
Give zest to what you write;
And, if you strew them sparely,
They whet the appetite:
But if you lay them on too thick,
[60] 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 im-
mature disclosure of the drift
And purpose of your poem.
“Therefore, to test his patience –
How much he can endure –
Mention no places, names, or dates,
Jabberwocky and Other Nonsense Page 14