Чистый nonsense (сборник)

I was on my way from London to Guildford, in a railway carriage, containing, besides myself, one passenger, an elderly gentleman: presently, however, two ladies entered, accompanied by two little boys. These, who had just had a copy of the Book of Nonsense given them, were loud in their delight, and by degrees infected the whole party with their mirth.

“How grateful,” said the old gentleman to the two ladies, “all children, and parents too, ought to be to the statesman who has given his time to composing that charming book!”

(The ladies looked puzzled, as indeed was I, the author.

“Do you not know who is the writer of it?” asked the gentleman.

“The name is Edward Lear,” said one of the ladies.

“Ah!” said the first speaker, “so it is printed; but that is only a whim of the real author, the Earl of Derby.

“But,” said the lady, doubtingly, “here is a dedication to the great-grandchildren, grand-nephews, and grand-nieces of Edward, thirteenth Earl of Derby, by the author, Edward Lear.”

“That,” replied the other, “is simply a piece of mystification; I am in a position to know that the whole book was composed and illustrated by Lord Derby himself.

“Yet,” said the other lady, “some friends of mine tell me they know Mr. Lear.”

“Quite a mistake! completely a mistake!” said the old gentleman, becoming rather angry at the contradiction; “I am well aware of what I am saying: I can inform you, no such a person as Edward Lear exists!”

Hitherto I had kept silence; but as my hat was, as well as my handkerchief and stick, largely marked inside with my name, and as I happened to have in my pocket several letters addressed to me, the temptation was too great to resist; so, flashing all these articles at once on my would-be extinguisher's attention, I speedily reduced him to silence.