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Updated: May 8, 2025
Is there any more explanation to the riddle of life than to Alice in Wonderland? Are we not all a lot of "slithy toves, that gyre and gimble in the wabe" or worse? Must we who love living only regard it as one long tragedy?
It takes a scene, for instance, from history, and represents that scene as exactly and naturally as possible. And here the ordinary thinker might be apt to say, Art Mystic has done enough." Here Mr. Blyth stopped again: this passage had cost him some trouble, and he was proud of having got smoothly to the end of it. "Glorious!" cried enthusiastic Mr. Gimble. "Turgid," muttered critical Mr.
Gimble, fluently laudatory, with the whole alphabet of Art-Jargon at his fingers' ends, and without the slightest comprehension of the subject to embarrass him in his flow of language. Also, certain respectable families who tried vainly to understand the pictures, opposed by other respectable families who never tried at all, but confined themselves exclusively to the Dowager Countess.
"'T was brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe." "It seems rather pretty," commented the wise Alice, "but it's rather hard to understand! Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas only I don't exactly know what they are!"
Blyth, nodding in the direction of the window, as she signed those words. Madonna ran to look: then turned round, and with a comic air of disappointment, hooked her thumbs in the arm-holes of an imaginary waistcoat. Only Mr. Gimble, the picture-dealer, who always criticized works of art with his hands in that position. Just then, a soft knock sounded at Mrs.
'I can explain all the poems that were ever invented and a good many that haven't been invented just yet. This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated the first verse: 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. 'That's enough to begin with, Humpty Dumpty interrupted: 'there are plenty of hard words there.
Not that his opinion was good for much in tasty matters of this kind, for which reason he begged to apologize for expressing it at all." However, there was one point on which Mr. Gimble, Lady Brambledown, Mr. Bullivant, Mrs. Blyth's father, and hosts of friends besides, were all agreed, without one discordant exception.
"Liberal, comprehensive, progressive, profound. Gardener, don't fidget!" "The true philosophy of art the true philosophy of art, my lady," added Mr. Gimble, the picture-dealer. "Crude?" said Mr. Hemlock, the critic, appealing confidentially to Mr. Bullivant, the sculptor. "What?" inquired that gentleman. "Blyth's principles of criticism," answered Mr. Hemlock. "Oh, yes! extremely so," said Mr.
Durrett would gimble me with a blue eye that lurked beneath grizzled brows, quite as painful a proceeding as if he used an iron tool. I almost pity myself when I think of what a forlorn stranger I was in their company. They two, indeed, were of one kind, and I of another sort who could never understand them, nor they me.
Gimble tried it, and Bullivant wanted to; but Blyth wouldn't let him; and I mean to give her oh, by the bye, I have another important caution for you." Here he indulged himself in a fresh burst of laughter, excited by the remembrance of his interview with Mrs. Peckover, in Mr. Blyth's hall.
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