To tell you all the painful history.
(They whisper alternately behind a small fan.)
Miss V.
And then, my dear, Miss Asterisk and he
Pretended they were lovers!!
Miss C.
Gracious me!!
(More whispering behind fan.)
Speaker.
What! Acting love!! And has that ne’er been seen
[30] Save with a row of footlights placed between?
My gentle censors, let me roundly ask,
Do none but actors ever wear a mask?
Or have we reached at last that golden age
That finds deception only on the Stage?
Come, let’s confess all round before we budge,
When all are guilty, none should play the Judge.
We’re actors all, a motley company,
Some on the Stage, and others – on the sly –
And guiltiest he who paints so well his phiz
[40] His brother actors scarce know what he is.
A truce to moralising; we invite
The goodly company we see to-night
To have the little banquet we have got,
Well dressed, we hope, and served up hot & hot.
“Loan of a Lover” is the leading dish,
Concluding with a dainty course of fish;
“Whitebait at Greenwich” in the best condition
(By Mr Gladstone’s very kind permission).
Before the courses will be handed round
[50] An Entrée made of Children, nicely browned. Bell rings.
But hark! The bell to summon me away;
They’re anxious to begin their little Play.
One word before I go – We’ll do our best,
And crave your kind indulgence for the rest;
Own that at least we’ve striven to succeed,
And take the good intention for the deed.
[Prologue to “Checkmate”]
Enter Beatrice, leading Wilfred. She leaves him at centre (front), and after going round on tip-toe, to make sure they are not overheard, returns and takes his arm.
B.
“Wiffie! I’m sure that something is the matter,
All day there’s been – oh, such a fuss and clatter!
Mamma’s been trying on a funny dress –
I never saw the house in such a mess! (puts her arm round his neck)
Is there a secret, Wiffie?”
W.
(shaking her off)
“Yes, of course!”
B.
“And you won’t tell it? (whimpers)
Then you’re very cross! (turns away from him and clasps her hands, looking up ecstatically)
I’m sure of this! It’s something quite uncommon!”
W.
(stretching up his arms, with a mock-heroic air)
[10] “Oh, Curiosity! Thy name is Woman! (puts his arm round her coaxingly)
Well, Birdie, then I’ll tell! (mysteriously)
What should you say
If they were going to act – a little play?”
B.
(jumping and clapping her hands)
“I’d say ‘HOW NICE!’ ”
W.
(pointing to audience)
“But will it please the rest?”
B.
“Oh yes! Because, you know, they’ll do their best! (turns to audience)
You’ll praise them, won’t you, when you’ve seen the play?
Just say ‘HOW NICE!’ before you go away!”
(They run away hand in hand.)
[Some poems to Colleagues and Friends]
[A Request]
O come to me at two today,
Harcourt, come to me!
And show me how my dark room may
Illuminated be.
Though gondolas may lightly glide,
For me, unless you come,
No friend remains but cyanide
Of pale potassium!
Though maidens sing sweet barcaroles
[10] (Whatever they may be)
To captivate Lee’s-Readers’ souls,
Yet, Harcourt, come to me!
Yes, come to me at two today,
Or else at two tomorrow,
Nor leave thy friend to pine away
In photographic sorrow!
[Winter Birthday]
“The year when boilers froze and ket-
tles crystallised the fender
The natal day of Bosanquet
Dawned on us in its splendour.
For those who wear wool hosen cat-
ching colds a thing unheard of
But this great maxim Bosanquet
Would not believe a word of.
When Frenchmen say ‘sare, no zank’ et-
[10] iquette suggests the answer
‘A zoughtless, zankless Bosanquet
Would be more zief zan man Sir.’
Dear Bosanquet I’ve here expressed
The grateful feeling that is
But due to one who treats his guest
To genuine oyster patties.”
C.L.D.
Dreamland
When midnight mists are creeping,
And all the land is sleeping,
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.
Lo, warriors, saints, and sages,
From out the vanished ages,
With solemn pace and reverend face
Appear and pass away.
The blaze of noonday splendour,
[10] The twilight soft and tender,
May charm the eye: yet they shall die,
Shall die and pass away.
But here, in Dreamland’s centre,
No spoiler’s hand may enter,
These visions fair, this radiance rare,
Shall never pass away.
I see the shadows falling,
The forms of old recalling;
Around me tread the mighty dead,
[20] And slowly pass away.
To “Hallie”
Oh Caledonian Maiden!
Oh Hallie shy and still!
When’ere I hear sweet music,
Of you my thoughts will fill.
I shall think of those “half hours”
In Ripon spent with you;
I shall dream of great Beethoven
And of Mendelssohn so true.
If “sleepless nights” assail me,
[10] And I toss about in vain,
The memory of Heller
Will make me rest again.
A chord of “Caller Herrin”,
A note of “Home sweet Home;”
A bar of Scotland’s “Blue Bells;”
Will make my spirit roam
To a Drawing-room in the Crescent
Where those sweet sounds I heard,
And where I fain would follow
[20] If I were but a bird.
Then Hallie! Dear Childe Hallie!
Be to your “talent” true;
And sometimes when you’re playing
Think I am watching you. –
Think how I loved your Music,
Not for itself alone,
But for the hands that played it
The mind that felt its tone.
And now farewell “Childe Hallie”!
[30] Though I am growing old,
Fond mem’ry still will charm me,
To you I’ll ne’er grow cold.
[“My dear Christie”]
My dear Christie,
I greatly fear
I’m wanted here,
Which makes it clear
I can’t appear
At your “pour rire” –
Would I were freer!
So, with a tear
(At which don’t sneer)
[10] I am, my dear,
Your most sincere
C.L.Dodgson
[Letter to Maggie Cunnynghame]
Dear Maggie, I found that the “friend”,
That the little girl asked me to write to,
Lived at Ripon, and not at Land’s End –
A nice sort of place to invite to!
It looked rather suspicious to me –
And soon after, by dint of incessant
Enquiries, I found out that she
Was called “Maggie”, and lived in a Crescent!
Of course I declared, “after that”
[10] (The language I used doesn’t matter),
“I will not address her, that’s flat!
So do not expect me to flatter.”
Well, I hope you will soon see
Your beloved Pa come back –
For consider, should you be
Quite content with only Jack?
Just suppose they made a blunder!
(Such things happen now and then)
Really, now, I shouldn’t wonder
[20] If your “John” came home again,
And your father stayed at school!
A most awkward thing, no doubt.
How would you receive him? You’ll
Say, perhaps, “you’d turn him out.”
That would answer well, so far
As concerns the boy, you know –
But consider your Papa,
Learning lessons in a row
Of great inky schoolboys! This
[30] (Though unlikely) might occur:
“Haly” would be grieved to miss
Him (don’t mention it to her).
No carte has yet been done of me
that does real justice to my smile;
And so I hardly like, you see,
To send you one – however, I’ll
Consider if I will or not –
Meanwhile, I send a little thing
To give you an idea of what
[40] I look like when I’m lecturing.
The merest sketch, you will allow –
Yet still I think there’s something grand
In the expression of the brow
And in the action of the hand.
Have you read my fairy tale
In Aunt Judy’s Magazine?
If you have you will not fail
To discover what I mean
When I say “Bruno yesterday came
[50] To remind me that he was my godson
On the ground that I gave him a name”!
Your affectionate friend,
C.L. Dodgson.
P.S.
I would send, if I were not too shy,
The same message to “Hally” that she
(Though I do not deserve it, not I!)
Has sent through her sister to me.
My best love to yourself – to your Mother
My kindest regards – to your small,
[60] Fat, impertinent, ignorant brother
My hatred – I think that is all.
To Three Puzzled Little Girls, From the Author
[To the three Misses Drury 1]
Three little maidens weary of the rail,
Three pairs of little ears listening to a tale,
Three little hands held out in readiness,
For three little puzzles very hard to guess.
Three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide,
At three little scissors lying side by side.
Three little mouths that thanked an unknown Friend,
For one little book, he undertook to send.
Though whether they’ll remember a friend, or book, or day –
[10] In three little weeks is very hard to say.
August 1869.
[To the three Misses Drury 2]
Three little maids, one winter day,
While others went to feed,
To sing, to laugh, to dance, to play,
More wisely went to – Reed.
Others, when lesson-time’s begun,
Go, half inclined to cry,
Some in a walk, some in a run;
But these went in a – Fly.
I give to other little maids
[10] A smile, a kiss, a look,
Presents whose memory quickly fades;
I give to these – a Book.
Happy Arcadia may blind,
While all abroad, their eyes;
At home, this book (I trust) they’ll find
A very catching prize.
[To the three Misses Drury 3]
Two thieves went out to steal one day
Thinking that no one knew it:
Three little maids, I grieve to say,
Encouraged them to do it.
’Tis sad that little children should
Encourage men in stealing!
But these, I’ve always understood,
Have got no proper feeling.
An aged friend, who chanced to pass
[10] Exactly at the minute,
Said “Children! Take this Looking-glass,
And see your badness in it.”
Jan. 11. 1872.
[“ ‘No mind!’ the little maiden cried”]
“No mind!” the little maiden cried
In half-indignant tone,
“To think that I should be denied
A mind to call my own!”
And echo heard, and softly sighed (or seemed to sigh) “My own!”
“No mind!” the little maiden said,
“You’d think it, I suppose!
And yet you know I’ve got a head
With chin, cheek, mouth, eye, nose –”
[10] And echo heard, and sweetly said (or seemed to say) “I knows!”
“You have no mind to be unkind,”
Said echo in her ear:
“No mind to bring a living thing
To suffering or fear.
For all that’s bad, or mean, or sad, you have no mind, my dear.”
Then if the friend whom you deride,
To all your merits blind,
Should say that, though he’s tried and tried,
Your mind he cannot find …
[20] ’Tis but a jest for Christmas-tide, so, Janet, never mind!
To Miss Mary Watson
Three children (their names were so fearful
You’ll excuse me for leaving them out)
Sat silent, with faces all tearful –
What was it about?
They were sewing, but needles are prickly,
And fingers were cold as could be –
So they didn’t get on very quickly,
And they wept, silly Three!
“O Mother!” said they, “Guildford’s not a
[10] Nice place for the winter, that’s flat.
If you know any country that’s hotter,
Please take us to that!”
“Cease crying,” said she, “little daughter!
And when summer comes back with the flowers,
You shall roam by the edge of the water,
In sunshiny hours.”
“And in summer,” said sorrowful Mary,
“We shall hear the shrill scream of the train
That will bring that dear writer of fairy-
[20] tales hither again.”
(Now the person she meant to allude to
Was – well! it is best to forget.
It was some one she always was rude to,
Whenever they met.)
“It’s my duty,” their Mother continued,
“To fill with things useful and right
Your small minds: if I put nothing in, you’d
Be ignorant quite.
“But enough now of lessons and thinking:
[30] Your meal is quite ready, I see –
So attend to your eating and drinking,
You thirsty young Three!”
Apr. 10, 1871.
[Two Poems to Rachel Daniel]
I
[“Oh pudgy podgy pup”]
“Oh pudgy podgy pup!
Why did they wa
ke you up?
Those crude nocturnal yells
Are not like silver bells:
Nor ever would recall
Sweet Music’s “dying fall”.
They rather bring to mind
The bitter winter wind
Through keyholes shrieking shrilly
[10] When nights are dark and chilly:
Or like some dire duett,
Or quarrelsome quartette,
Of cats who chant their joys
With execrable noise,
And murder Time and Tune
To vex the patient Moon!”
Nov. 1880.
II
[“What hand may wreathe thy natal crown”]
What hand may wreathe thy natal crown,
O tiny tender Spirit-blossom,
That out of Heaven hast fluttered down
Into this Earth’s cold bosom?
And how shall mortal bard aspire
All sin-begrimed and sorrow-laden
To welcome, with the Seraph-choir,
A pure and perfect Maiden?
Are not God’s minstrels ever near,
[10] Flooding with joy the woodland mazes?
Which shall we summon,
Baby dear, to carol forth thy praises?
With sweet sad song the Nightingale
May soothe the broken hearts that languish
Where graves are green – the orphans’ wail,
The widow’s lonely anguish:
The Turtle-dove with amorous coo
May chide the blushing maid that lingers
To twine her bridal wreath anew
[20] With weak and trembling fingers:
But human loves and human woes
Would dim the radiance of thy glory
Only the Lark such music knows
As fits thy stainless story.
The world may listen as it will
She recks not, to the skies up-springing:
Beyond our ken she singeth still
For very joy of singing.
The Lyceum
It is the lawyer’s daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
She costs me, in one evening,
The income of a year!
“You can’t have children’s love,” she cried,
“Unless you choose to fee ’em!”
“And what’s your fee, child?” I replied.
She simply said ——
We saw “The Cup.” I hoped she’d say,
[10] “I’m grateful to you, very.”
She murmured, as she turned away,
Jabberwocky and Other Nonsense Page 22