him to be
    Himself, if Philip only would return. 
    But Philip said that he would rather not. 
    Then Annie plucked such handfuls of his hair
    Out of his head that he was nearly bald. 
    But Enoch laughed, and said, ‘Well done, my girl.’ 
    And so the two shook hands and made it up.”

In 1869 Lewis Carroll published a little book of rhymes called Phantasmagoria.  It related chiefly to Oxford.  Partly because it was anonymous, partly because it was mainly topical, the book had no success.  But it contained two or three parodies which deserve to rank with the best in the language.  One is an imitation of a ballad in black-letter called

    “YE CARPETTE KNYGHTE.

    “I have a horse—­a ryghte goode horse—­
      Ne doe I 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.”

Then, again, there is excellent metaphysical fooling in The Three Voices.  But far the best parody in the book—­and the most richly deserved by the absurdity of its original—­is Hiawatha’s Photographing.  It has the double merit of absolute similarity in cadence and lifelike realism.  Unluckily the limits of space forbid complete citation:—­

    “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. 
    This he perched upon a tripod,
    And the family in order
    Sate before him for their portraits.

* * * * *

Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions. 
First the Governor, the Father: 
He suggested velvet curtains,
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 in tempests. 
Grand, heroic was the notion,
Yet the picture failed entirely,
Failed, because he moved a little;
Moved, because he couldn’t help it.”

Who does not know that Father in the flesh? and who has not seen him—­velvet curtains, dining-table, scroll, and all—­on the most conspicuous wall of the Royal Academy?  The Father being disposed of,

    “Next his better half took courage,
    She would have her picture taken.”

But her restlessness and questionings proved fatal to the result.