Inscribed to a dear Child:

                       in memory of golden summer hours
                        and whispers of a summer sea.

        Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,

                Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well
        Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
                        The tale he loves to tell.

        Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
                Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
        Deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life,
                        Empty of all delight!

        Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
                Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.
        Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
                        The heart-love of a child!

        Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!
                Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days--
        Albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore
                        Yet haunt my dreaming gaze!
 
 

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

     “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 noble
teachings in Natural History--I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it
happened.

The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit
unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished, and it more than once happened, when the
time came for replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged
to. They knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the Bellman about it--he would only
refer to his Naval Code, and read out in pathetic tones Admiralty Instructions which none of them
had ever been able to understand--so it generally ended in its being fastened on, anyhow, across
the rudder. The helmsman used to stand by with tears in his eyes: he knew it was all wrong, but
alas! Rule 42 of the Code, “No one shall speak to the Man at the Helm”, had been completed by
the Bellman himself with the words “and the Man at the Helm shall speak to no one”. So
remonstrance was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. During
these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backwards.

As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the Jabberwock, let me take this
opportunity of answering a question that has often been asked me, how to pronounce “slithy
toves”. The “i” in “slithy” is long, as in “writhe”; and “toves” is pronounced so as to rhyme with
“groves”. Again, the first “o” in “borogoves” is pronounced like the “o” in “borrow”. I have heard
people try to give it the sound of the “o” in “worry”. Such is Human Perversity.

This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard words in that poem. Humpty-Dumpty’s
theory, of two meanings packed into one word like a portmanteau, seems to me the right
explanation for all.

For instance, take the two words “fuming” and “furious”. Make up your mind that you will say
both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If
your thoughts incline ever so little towards “fuming”, you will say “fuming-furious”; if they turn, by
even a hair’s breadth, towards “furious”, you will say “furious-fuming”; but if you have that rarest
of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say “frumious”.

Supposing that, when Pistol uttered the well-known words--

     “Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die!”

Justice Shallow had felt certain that it was either William or Richard, but had not been able to
settle which, so that he could not possibly say either name before the other, can it be doubted
that, rather than die, he would have gasped out “Rilchiam!”.

     Next: The Landing
 

Helmsman: This office was usually undertaken by the Boots, who found in it a refuge from the
Baker’s constant complaints about the insufficient blacking of his three pairs of boots.
 

     Fit the First: The Landing
     Fit the Second: The Bellman’s Speech
     Fit the Third: The Baker’s Tale
     Fit the Fourth: The Hunting
     Fit the Fifth: The Beaver’s Lesson
     Fit the Sixth: The Barrister’s Dream
     Fit the Seventh: The Banker’s Fate
     Fit the Eighth: The Vanishing
 

  silbovi@alumni.uv.es