Part 2

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 the place That crowns the upward track. And, entering with unsteady pace, Receives a buffet in the face That lands him on his back:

[Picture: Decorative border of man climbing hall] And feels himself, like one in sleep, Glide swiftly down again, A helpless weight, from steep to steep, Till, with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain—

So I, that had resolved to bring Conviction to a ghost, And found it quite a different thing 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.

Quoth he “That’s regular clap-trap: Don’t bluster any more. Now _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 his slippers off his feet!” I said “_That’s very curious_!”

[Picture: Scorched both his slippers off his feet]

“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 Tibbs,” said he. I said “My name’s _not_ Tibbs.”

“_Not_ Tibbs!” he cried—his tone became A shade or two less hearty— “Why, no,” said I. “My proper name Is Tibbets—” “Tibbets?” “Aye, 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?

[Picture: To walk four miles through mud and rain]

“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 enquire 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 victual— Excuse my violence,” said he, “But accidents like this, you see, They put one out a little.

“’Twas _my_ fault after all, I find— Shake hands, old Turnip-top!” The name was hardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop.

“Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! When I am gone, perhaps They’ll send you some inferior Sprite, Who’ll 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 just be handy with a stick (Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles!

“Then carelessly remark ‘Old coon! Perhaps you’re not aware That, if you don’t behave, you’ll soon Be chuckling to another tune— And so you’d 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.

[Picture: The ghost]

## CANTO VII

Sad Souvenaunce

[Picture: Or can I have been drinking]

“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!”

[Picture: 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 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!”

[Picture: The ghost]

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

[Picture: The sea, beach and children]

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?

[Picture: And this was by 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.

[Picture: As I heavily slip into every pool]

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.

[Picture: I have a horse]

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.

[Picture: The camera]

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.

[Picture: First the Governor, the Father]

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.

[Picture: Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab]

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.

[Picture: Next to him the eldest daughter]

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.

[Picture: Last, the youngest son was taken]

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.

[Picture: Thus departed Hiawatha]

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, And did not venture near it Till time, I hoped, had worn away Her grief, for nought could cheer it!

[Picture: At night she signed]

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 (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 gay young dogs 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, 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 Sighs!” 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 essayed, “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!” 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; And silence followed after.

[Picture: Sighing at the table]

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 us 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 grant, it 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’d prove 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 lays, 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.

Farewell, 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.

THE THREE VOICES

The First Voice

HE trilled a carol fresh and free, He laughed aloud for very glee: There came a breeze from off the sea:

[Picture: There came a breeze from off the sea]

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.

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.

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.

[Picture: Unerringly she pinned it down]

“To dine!” she sneered in acid tone. “To bend thy being to a bone Clothed in a radiance not its own!”

The tear-drop trickled to his chin: There was a meaning in her grin That made him feel on fire within.

“Term it not ‘radiance,’” said he: “’Tis 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-wrath. “To swallow wines all foam and froth! To simper at a table-cloth!

“Say, can thy noble spirit stoop To join the gormandising troup Who find a solace in the soup?

“Canst thou 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 willing to be fed: Nor are they well without the bread.”

Her visage scorched him ere 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 man-like Ape.”

“In 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 main 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 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. What boots it? For the world is wide.”

[Picture: He faltered “Gifts may pass away”]

“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 hundredweight of lead.

“The Good and Great must ever shun That reckless and abandoned one Who stoops to perpetrate a 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 a shamed and crimson cheek, Moaned “This is harder than Bezique!”

But when she asked him “Wherefore so?” He felt his very whiskers glow, And frankly owned “I do not know.”

[Picture: This is harder than Bezique!]

While, like broad waves of golden grain, Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, 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 passed they on with even pace: Yet gradually one might trace A shadow growing on his face.

[Picture: A shadow growing on his face]