“Pretty little Pimpernel,
May I learn to love you well?”
You continue on the style of “Twinkle, twinkle.”
“Hiding in the mossy shade,
Like a lamp of ¯ ˘ made,
Or a gem by fairies dropt
In their ...”
and there you stick, just as you had got into the style of the “L’Allegro.” I have no space or leisure to give the student the full treatment of so great a subject, how he would drag in the closing and opening of the flower, and how (skilfully avoiding the word “dell”) he would end his ten or fifteen lines by a repetition of the first (an essential feature of the Prattling style). I will confine myself to showing him what may be made of these ridiculous six lines.
The first has an obvious fault. It runs too quickly, and one falls all over it. We will keep “Little” and put it first, so one might write “Little Purple Pimpernel.” But even that won’t do, though the alliteration is well enough. What change can we make?
It is at this point that I must introduce you to a most perfect principle. It is called the Mutation of Adjectives—it is almost the whole art of Occ. verse. This principle consists in pulling out one’s first obvious adjective, and replacing it by another of similar length, chosen because it is peculiar. You must not put in an adjective that could not possibly apply; for instance, you must not speak of the “Ponderous Rabbit” or the “Murky Beasts;” your adjective must be applicable, but it must be startling, as “The Tolerant Cow,” “The Stammering Minister,” or “The Greasy Hill”—all quite true and most unexpected.