Rhyme? And Reason? Part 10

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One: Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.

Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six: Sitting down to lessons--no more time for tricks.

Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven: Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!

Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen: Each young man that calls, I say "Now tell me which you _mean_!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "NOW TELL ME WHICH YOU _MEAN_!"]

Five das.h.i.+ng girls, the youngest Twenty-one: But, if n.o.body proposes, what is there to be done?

Five showy girls--but Thirty is an age When girls may be _engaging_, but they somehow don't _engage_.

Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more: So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!

Five _pa.s.se_ girls--Their age? Well, never mind!

We jog along together, like the rest of human kind: But the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!

POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR.

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"How shall I be a poet?

How shall I write in rhyme?

You told me once 'the very 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 Enthusiastically; And thought "There's no hum-drum in him, Nor any s.h.i.+lly-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, 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-- 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 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 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 appet.i.te: But if you lay them on too thick, You spoil the matter quite!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE WILD MAN WENT HIS WEARY WAY"]

"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, And evermore be sure Throughout the poem to be found Consistently obscure.

"First fix upon the limit To which it shall extend: Then fill it up with 'Padding'

(Beg some of any friend): Your great SENSATION-STANZA You place towards the end."

"And what is a Sensation, Grandfather, tell me, pray?

I think I never heard the word So used before to-day: Be kind enough to mention one '_Exempli gratia_.'"

And the old man, looking sadly Across the garden-lawn, Where here and there a dew-drop Yet glittered in the dawn, Said "Go to the Adelphi, And see the 'Colleen Bawn.'

"The word is due to Boucicault-- The theory is his, Where Life becomes a Spasm, And History a Whiz: If that is not Sensation, I don't know what it is.

"Now try your hand, ere Fancy Have lost its present glow--"

"And then," his grandson added, "We'll publish it, you know: Green cloth--gold-lettered at the back-- In duodecimo!"

Then proudly smiled that old man To see the eager lad Rush madly for his pen and ink And for his blotting-pad-- But, when he thought of _publis.h.i.+ng_, His face grew stern and sad.

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THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK,

An Agony in Eight Fits.

PREFACE.

If--and the thing is wildly possible--the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p. 144)

"Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes:"

In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed: I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral purpose of this poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, or to its n.o.ble teachings in Natural History--I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened.