John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

"Sorrel, then?" asked Burlingame, apparently warming to the sport.

"The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel

Who'd ride the Roan, and who the Sorrel."

"E'en wittier!" the poet applauded. " 'Tis better than Tom Trent could pen, with Dick Merriweather to help him! But you've still no Hudibrastic. Quarrel, snarl; quarrel, sorrel."

"I yield," said Burlingame.

"Consider this, then:

The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel

Anent the Style of our Apparel.

Quarrel, apparel: That is Hudibrastic."

Burlingame made a wry face. "They clash and jingle!"

"Precisely. The more the clash, the better the couplet."

"Aha, then!" cried the tutor. "What says my Laureate to this?

The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel

Who'd ride the Roan and who the Dapple."

"Quarrel and dapple?" Ebenezer exclaimed.

"Doth it not jangle like the brassy bells of Hades?"

"Nay, 'twill never do!" Ebenezer shook his head firmly. "I had thought you'd caught the essence of't, but the words must needs have some proximity if they're to jangle. Quarrel and dapple are ships in different oceans: they cannot possibly collide, and a collision is what we seek."

"Then try this," Burlingame suggested:

"The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel

Whose turn it was to woo the Barrel."

"Barrel! Barrel, you say?" Ebenezer's face grew red. "What is this barrel? How would you use it?"

" 'Tis a Hudibrastic," replied Burlingame with a smile. "I'd use it to piss in."

"B'm'faith!" He laughed uncomfortably. " 'Tis the pissingest Hudibrastic ever I've heard!"

"Will you hear more?" asked Burlingame. "I am a diligent student of jangling rhyme."

"Piss on't," the poet declared. "Thy lesson's done!"

"Nay, I am just grasping the spirit of't! Haply I'll take up versifying myself someday, for't seems no backbreaking chore."

"But you know the saying, Henry: A poet is born, not made."

"Out on't!" Burlingame scoffed. "Were you not made Laureate ere you'd penned a proper verse? I'll wager I could rhyme with the cleverest, did I choose to put my nose to't."

"No man knows better than I your various gifts," Ebenezer said in an injured tone. "Yet your true poet may have no other gift than verse."

"Only try me," Burlingame challenged. "Name me some names, and hear me rhyme."

"Very well, but there's more to verse than matching words. You must couple me a line to the line I fling you."

"Fling away thy lines, and see what fish you hook on 'em!"

"Stand fast," warned Ebenezer, "for I'll start you with a hard one: Then did Sir Knight abandon Dwelling."

"That is from Hudibras," Burlingame observed, "but I forgot what Butler rhymed with't. Dwelling, dwelling - ah, 'tis no chore at all:

Then did Sir Knight abandon Dwelling,

Which scarce repay'd the Work of Selling."

"Too close," said Ebenezer. "Give us a Hudibrastic."

"Your Hudibrastics will break my jaw! Howbeit, if 'tis a jangle you wish, I shall shudder the ears off you:

Then did Sir Knight abandon Dwelling,

Riding like a demon'd Hellion.

Are you jarred?"

"It fills the gap," Ebenezer admitted. "But the difference 'twixt poet and coxcomb is precisely that the latter stops gaps like a ship fitter caulking seams, merely to keep the boat afloat, while the former doth his work as doth a man with a maid: he fills the gap, but with vigor, finesse, and care; there's beauty and delight as well as utility in his plugging."

" 'Sheart, my friend," Burlingame said, "you go on like the gods themselves! How would a Laureate poet fill this gap, prithee, that yawns like the pit of Hell?"

Ebenezer replied, " 'Twas filled by Sam Butler in this wise — observe the art, now, the collision:

Then did Sir Knight abandon Dwelling,

And out he rode a Colonelling."

"Ah, stay!" cried Burlingame. "This is too much! A Co-lo-nelling! 'Tis a fabrication — aye, a Chimaera! Co-lo-nelling, is't! Why did not Mister Butler, if he was so enamored of his unnatural word, call it ker nelling, as't should be called, and rhyme from there?"

"Why not indeed? What would you rhyme with kernelling, Henry?"

" 'Tis naught of a chore to me," Burlingame scoffed. "To rhyme with kernelling — Well, kernelling — " he hesitated.

"You see," smiled Ebenezer. "In his inspiration the poet chose a rhyme for dwelling that is at once a rhyme and a Hudibrastic, and so avoided your quandary. Yield, now; there is no rhyme for kernelling ."

"I yield," Burlingame said with apparent humility. "I can get me the first line — Then went Sir Knight a kernelling - but can't rhyme the infernal thing."

The two travelers exchanged glances.

"Out upon't," Ebenezer muttered, "the lesson's done."

But Burlingame was delighted to see his unintentional coup de ma ître; he went on to declaim theatrically from his horse:

"Then went Sir Knight a kernelling,

Pursuing all infernal Things,

Inflam'd by Hopes eternal Springs

Through Winterings and Vernallings

(As testify his Journallings

And similar Diurnallings,

Not mentioning Nocturnallings). ."

"Desist!" Ebenezer commanded. "Spin me no more of this doggerel, Henry, lest I heave my breakfast upon the highway!"

"Forgive me," Burlingame laughed. "I was inspired."

"You were baiting me," the Laureate said indignantly. "Be not puffed up o'er such trifling achievement, the like of which we poets must better fifty times a page! You have a certain knack for rhyming, clear enough; but think not you can rhyme any word in Mother English, for a poet will name you words that have not their like in the language."

"Ha! Oh! Ha!" Burlingame cried with sudden glee. "I have hatched more! I'God, they crowd my fancy like the shoats to Portia's nipples!

Now lend me, Muse, supernal Wings

To sing Sir Knights Hibernalings,

His Doublings and his Ternallings,

His Forwardings and Sternallings;

To sing of his Hesternallings,

And also Hodiernallings,

Internal and external Things,

Both brief and diuturnal Things,

And even sempiternal Things,

His dark and his lucernal Things,

Maternal and Paternallings,

Sororal and Fraternal Things,

His blue and red Pimpernellings,

And sundry paraphernal Things — "

"You do not love me!" Ebenezer said angrily. "I'll hear no more!"

"Nay, I beg you" — Burlingame laughed — "fob me not off so!"

"Sinful pride!" the poet chided, when he had recovered something of his composure.

" 'Twas but in jest, Eben; if it vexed you, I am contrite. 'Tis you who are the teacher now, not I, and you may take what steps you will. In truth you've taught me more than erst I knew."

" 'Tis clear your talent wants snaffle and curb in lieu of the crop," said Ebenezer.

"Will you go on, then?"

Ebenezer considered for a moment and then agreed. "So be't, but no more teasing. I shall administer to you the severest test of the rhymer's art: the slipperiest crag on the rocky face of Parnassus!"

"Administer at will," said Burlingame; "if 'tis a point of rhyme I swear there's none can best me, for I have learnt old Mother English to her very privates. But say, let's make a sport of't, would you mind? Else 'twere much the same to win or lose."