"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What I tell you three times is true."

-- Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark

Doubly true?

------------------
Ralph

Dear Ralph,

By George, that may be it!
Thanks!

This took some trial and error on Google search, since a lot of disciplines have things they call "the rule of three". But this must be it:

"The mastery of the `Rule of Three' whereby one multiplied the first and second terms and divided the product by the third was considered a milestone in calculating. The `Double Rule of Three' included the terms -- "inverse, transpose, direct proportion" -- all Greek to less than an advanced student."


This comes from the description of contents of an 1830s school textbook.

I'm wondering whether others here have heard of what I was taught in a workshop years ago, the "rule of two," which says, in effect, that whenever you do something unusual in a poem you should do it at least twice so the reader won't jump to the conclusion that the first time was just a mistake.

I suppose this "rule of two" relates a bit to the Lewis Carrol quote on the rule of threes. The idea being that people are more likely to believe and accept something after two or three exposures although they might have been skeptical after just one.

Many trial lawyers are also taught, though usually without reference to Lewis Carroll, that a jury needs to be exposed to a contention three times before they'll believe it. Irving Younger, a famous teacher of trial techniques, used to say something like, "Tell a jury something once, and they think it may be true. Tell it to them again, and they think it is probably true. But tell it to them three times, and there's no force on earth that can convince them it isn't true." In other words: What I tell you three times is true.

Many, many thanks!
But I seem to have opened a can of Carroll here.

Does the 1830s text's explanation make any sense
to anyone out there? Terms in what sense? Algebraic
terms in a series? And of course Carroll was
a mathematician and logician.

He always seems to me to be hinting at something
quite profound. Oh Sphereans, tell me, tell me,
what is it?

Thanks, Alicia, for the additional information on Burton. I feel strongly that the lines I objected to can't be rehabilitated or condoned. I don't find any of the alternate readings plausible. But naturally it's helpful to know, as you've indicated, that he was a complex person who, in other parts of his work, opposed slavery and was deeply concerned with human suffering.

Roger, I enjoyed your imitation of Carroll!

What a strangely discursive thread, full of odd tangents. I think Burton would approve.

Just to add to the mix, yet another headless bear. This predates Burton's and may be where he got it?

It is from Puck, in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 3 Scene 1:

I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round,
Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier:
Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.


There is something rather sinister about the Mad Gardner's Song... it does seem to make a scary sense. For one thing, all the stanzas (with the possible exception of the Double Rule of Three, which s still as clear as mud to us), end on an ominous note.

I believe Charles Dodgson had an uncle involved in running an insane asylum.

Since Roger's imitation of the Sylvie and Bruno poem went over well, I feel better about posting my own additions to the Carroll paradigm (written about a year ago for a contest on the Gaz, and never posted at Erato before).

Due to the death of a dear relative, I can't otherwise concentrate on the discussion at the moment; but my departed aunt liked this poem very much, so this is for her.

He thought he saw a brigantine
kowtowing to a swell:
he looked again and found it was
a runny Neuchatel.
"But this is what I need," he said,
"I've still some Zinfandel."

He thought he saw a coat-of-arms
perform a pas de deux:
he looked again and found it was
a rutting caribou.
"I didn't join the dance," he said,
"as I don't know kung fu."

He thought he saw Queen Guinevere
sauteeing escargots:
he looked again and found it was
a game of tic-tac-toe.
"Embarrassed as I was," he said,
I blew the row of O."

He thought he saw a Zapotec
conducting a quartet:
he looked again and found it was
a videocassette.
"I have no VCR," he said,
"There's no electric yet."

He thought he saw a frankfurter
delivering a wall:
he looked again and found it was
his phenobarbital.
"There's no AA just yet," he said,
but screw the alcohol."

Terese

Sir Thomas Browne, another old friend of mine, lists among the bugbears of his childhood such terrifying figures as Kit-with-the-Candlestick, the Puckle, the Spoorn, and Boneless. Obviously, it was a more exciting world before the invention of the electric light.

Speaking of "melancholy" and its various names, I can't resist appending here a poem of my own which has had a favorable audience response, especially from readers over 40:

BREAKING DOWN IN THE SOUTH

It knocked me over to learn there's no such thing
as a nervous breakdown. My aunts and uncles had them
all the time. It was spoken of in whispers,
like drink, divorce, and cancer. Aunt Leona
had a Nervous Breakdown back in '67
and never took communion again -- she thought
the devil had her. Enviable Aunt Leona,
sure of her standing with the Lord and Satan.
Uncle Eugene got violent when he drank
and ended up in a Home. They never said
whose home it was. Some people who broke down
looked fine to me, but still the fame and glamour
of a Nervous Breakdown hung around their necks
like a name-brand diamond. Now in middle age
I'm told my dismal state is just depression,
reactive mild -- here, try a little Prozac.
Damn it, I don't want drugs. I only want
to be eccentric, batty somewhat daft,
covered by Aunt Leona's mental mist.
Again, my generation gets the shaft:
I'm due for a breakdown, and they don't exist.

Gail

Before electric light, the light was probably prettier; none of us can imagine what the light from a many-candled ceiling candelabra does, for example.

I like your poem, and best of all:

"I only want
to be eccentric, batty somewhat daft,
covered by Aunt Leona's mental mist."

What are these bugbears with the fantastic names? Can you describe them? It's always a joy to know about OKN (Other Kids' Nightmares)!

Terese