scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in extra large type (=large=). through the outlooking glass with theodore roosevelt sixth edition price ten cents through the outlooking glass _being the curious adventures of theodore the_ red knight _in his quest of the_ third cup, _of his faithful companion_ alice, _of the_ old lady _who lived in a shoe behind a high tariff wall, and divers quaint and lively persons, all comprising a veritable_ theodyssey _of incidents, set down in simple third terms_ by simeon strunsky reprinted from the evening post new york chapter i alice was half-way through her cereal when the red knight came in and picked out a place at the same table facing her. he flung his coat over two hooks on the wall upside down. he then took a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew a ring on the floor and threw his hat into it. "good morning, sir," said alice, who never forgot her manners under any circumstances. "good evening," said the red knight, as he opened his newspaper and began reading the last paragraph in the last column on the last page. "but it isn't evening," said alice. "why, i am just having my breakfast before going to school." "if you were a friend of mine, you'd know what i mean," said the red knight, and turned to the mad waiter, who was holding out the bill of fare for him to read. the mad waiter was a progressive waiter. he was so progressive that he would always be serving people with their supper before they had finished ordering lunch. "i'll begin with a third cup of coffee," said the red knight. "then you can bring me a second cup if it's not too cold. i am sure i don't want the first cup at all today." "thank you, sir," said the mad waiter. "the ham and eggs is very fine today." "that just suits me," said the red knight. "too bad," said the mad waiter. "perhaps you'll have a chop, with pickles and a boiled potato." "bully!" said the red knight. "why, then, there's the cold salmon as many people likes to have a taste of in the morning," said the waiter. "under no circumstances will i eat cold salmon," said the red knight, bringing his fist down on the table with such force that alice let her spoon fall to the floor. the mad waiter disappeared, and almost immediately returned with a plate of cold salmon, of which the red knight partook heartily, washing it down with two steaming cups of coffee. as alice was gathering up her books before setting out for school, the red knight turned to the waiter and said, "now bring me the first cup." "but you said you were sure you didn't want a first cup," cried alice, with some show of spirit. "that doesn't mean i can't have a first cup without sugar in it, does it?" said the red knight, as he picked up the sugar-bowl and threw it at the mad waiter. chapter ii soon they came to the top of the hill and alice saw a large, heavy man with a genial smile standing on the lawn of the white house. "that," said the red knight with a frown, "is a deceptive candidate for the presidency." "why do you call him deceptive?" said alice. "because he always says what he means," replied the red knight. "but that isn't deceiving at all," said alice. "yes, it is," said the red knight angrily. "a man like that deceives people's hopes for novelty and excitement. now _i_ am a receptive candidate." "i don't know what that means, either," said alice. "it means," said the red knight, "a candidate who receives his views and his principles as he moves along. i am also a perceptive candidate because i am as quick as lightning at perceiving which way the wind blows. furthermore, i am an inceptive candidate and a susceptive candidate, and an acceptive candidate. that big man you see over there is my friend. but he has queer notions about some things. for instance, he says he'd rather be white than be president." "aren't you going to say 'good morning' to him, if he is your friend?" said alice. "oh, no," said the red knight. "i never do things like other people. i treat my friends and my enemies alike. i give them all a square deal." "it seems to me, then," said alice, "that what you want to do is to walk over and shake hands and say 'i hope you are feeling quite well, and here is a square deal for you.'" "that would never do," said the red knight. "when i give a friend a square deal i give it to him between his shoulder blades, especially if he has broad shoulders like this man in front of us." "i don't see that the size of the man's shoulders has anything to do with it," said alice. "that is because you have forgotten your geometry," said the red knight. "if you hadn't you'd know that a square deal on the hypothenuse is equal to the sum of the square deals on the other two sides." chapter iii the red knight had been rowing for a long time and alice noticed that they were still in the same place. that was on account of the peculiar way in which the red knight handled the oars. he pulled at the right oar as hard as he could and pushed with the left oar as hard as he could and the boat went round and round in a circle. "we aren't getting any nearer the shore, are we?" he asked anxiously. "not a bit," said alice. "that's fine," said the red knight. "now you can see that i am neither a wild-eyed radical nor a moss-grown reactionary." but alice's conscience began to trouble her. "you know," she said. "i promised mamma that i would go out in a boat under no circumstances." "that's all right, then," said the red knight. "it's just what you are doing." "but i am _not_," said alice. "you are very stupid," said the red knight. "suppose you said. 'i will go out in the rain under no umbrella.' wouldn't that mean that you intended to go out without an umbrella?" "it _might_ mean that," said alice. "and suppose you said, 'i will go to bed under no blanket,' it would mean that you preferred to sleep without a blanket, wouldn't it?" "i suppose so," said alice. "now, were there any circumstances why you should have gone out with me in this boat?" asked the red knight. "no," said alice. "well, then, isn't it as plain as anything that you are going out in this boat under no circumstances?" but alice only began to whimper. "i promised mamma," she said, "that i should be home at five o'clock." "selfish!" said the red knight. "i am not selfish," cried alice. "i promised mamma i'd come and i want to keep my promise." "that's what i call selfish," said the red knight; "giving somebody your promise and wanting to keep it, too. i'd never be guilty of such conduct. it's like giving somebody your piece of plum pudding and wanting to keep it at the same time." "but a promise isn't plum pudding," said alice. "of course it isn't," said the red knight. "plum pudding is much harder to swallow." "oh, you know well enough what i mean," said alice, quite out of patience. "it isn't the _promise_ i want to keep; it's _what_ i promised about." "oh, in that case, we quite agree," said the red knight. "if you give people a promise and keep something else, it's all right." and he began to row harder than ever. chapter iv "sometimes," said the red knight, "a situation arises where mere words will not do at all. look at this paper, for instance." "it's a telegram, isn't it?" said alice. "a special night-letter," said the red knight. "it's from the prime minister of kansas. it says: 'when you take a third cup at breakfast, do you drink coffee like the plain people, or cocoa like the enemies of progress?' now, words alone could not express my views on the subject. the only way i can answer this highly important question is like this." and then, to alice's astonishment, the red knight descended from his horse and stood straight in the air on his hands, as alice had frequently seen her little brother do in the back yard at home. "on the one hand," said the red knight, lifting his right arm from the ground and tipping dangerously to the left. "i believe that the right of the common people to drink coffee in the morning is inalienable, and if the constitution is in the way it should be recalled. on the other hand," suiting his action to the word and tipping dangerously to the right, "if some people are put upon a cocoa diet by doctor's orders, they should be at liberty to drink cocoa even if they are rich. i think," concluded the red knight as he got to his feet quite breathless and very red in the face, "that the prime minister of kansas will henceforth know how i stand upon the subject." "i didn't know you were so clever at gymnastics," said alice with sincere admiration. "oh, i am," said the red knight, with an air of justified pride. "i am the only one in the country who can sit between two stools without touching either or falling to the ground." "i don't see how anybody can do that," said alice. "i do it by sitting on my record," said the red knight. chapter v alice was beginning to feel rather tired, when they turned another corner and saw the old woman who lived in a shoe. the landlord didn't like to have babies in the house, and the cost of living was dreadfully high, and so she didn't know what else to do. the red knight kissed every one of the children--there were just fifty-seven of them--and told them that under certain circumstances they might all be president some day. alice had been long away from home, and the sight of the little ones almost brought tears to her eyes. "the darlings!" she said. "i should just have to bathe them all and put them to bed. i wonder how you can keep count of them, ma'am." "it's very simple," said the woman. "i make them punch a clock, in the morning just before breakfast, and again before they go to bed. but it's the breakfast that worries me," she went on, turning to the red knight. "with fifty-seven mouths to feed, and each one demanding a bowl of cereal and an egg, and prices what they are." "but on the other hand," said the red knight, "see what you have done for your country and your race." "i know," said the old woman. "i heard people say that if the tariff were reduced, then groceries might come cheaper somehow; i am not clever at such things, but you know what i mean." the red knight smiled jovially. "i quite understand, madam," he said. "what you mean is that the presidential primary ought to be established in every state." "perhaps i did mean that," said the old woman, a little dazed. "they were also saying that if american sewing-machines were sold in this country at only twenty-five per cent. more than they are sold abroad, it would be a good thing for us housewives. perhaps i'm not quite clear." "i grasp your meaning perfectly," said the red knight. "you meant to imply that the greatest need of the moment is the recall of judicial decisions." "well, i suppose it's so," said the old woman. "but i did think that if we had reciprocity with canada, every one of the children might have an egg for breakfast. i wonder if it is really possible." "it is, madam," said the red knight; "as soon as we establish the initiative and referendum." "does that mean two separate things, or one?" asked alice, who had been reading the "rubaiyat" to the thirteen youngest children. "two, of course," said the red knight. "i supply the initiative, and perkins furnishes the referendum." he took off his helmet and from it drew forth two large paper boxes, at the sight of the contents of which all the fifty-seven children broke into a cheer. they were still cheering for the red knight as alice and her companion disappeared around the corner. "was it breakfast food you had in the boxes?" asked alice. "my dear alice," said the red knight, "when you grow up and go into society, you will learn that popular enthusiasm does not thrive on breakfast food. you know what children like. in one of the boxes there was fudge, and in the other box there was taffy." chapter vi "whichever way you look at it," said the red knight, "there is only one possible conclusion. i am the logical candidate at chicago." "what _is_ a logical candidate?" said alice. "a logical candidate," said the red knight, "is one who, when the necessity arises, can prove that 'i won't' means 'i will.'" "that should be a very difficult thing to do," said alice. "_i_ find it the easiest thing in the world," said the red knight. "let us look at it in this way: no one will deny that the president of the united states should be a man about fifty-four years old, about five feet ten inches tall, powerfully built, wear glasses, and live on the north shore of long island. that, i believe, is axiomatic." "that's another word i don't know the meaning of," said alice. "an axiom, my dear girl, is something which is so obviously true that the man who denies it must be a crook or an infamous liar. very well, then. in the second place, a candidate for the presidency should be a man of wide experience. he must have lived in the white house at least seven years, and before that he must have been a member of the legislature, a police commissioner, a cavalry colonel, and the author of a short but masterly treatise on the irish sagas." "is that axiomatic, also?" said alice. "naturally," said the red knight. "then it means you once more?" "exactly," said the red knight. "and in the last place he should be a descendant of the old dutch patroons, a native of new york, and his name should begin with an r and end with a t, and have at least two o's and a v between. now what does all that prove?" "axiomatically, you mean?" said alice. "of course," said the red knight. "it means you again," said alice. "you are a very bright child to see the point so quickly," said the red knight. "thus i am the logical candidate of the moment. but please observe that i am much more than that. i am also the physiological candidate, because i can speak faster and louder than any man in the country, and can slug a man harder through the ropes. then, i am the zoological candidate, because of my record in africa. and i am the entomological candidate, because i am the broadest-minded man in the world, and my views are absolutely insectarian." "i don't think that is a very good pun, do you?" said alice. "i think it's one of the best puns i ever heard," said the red knight, hastily, and went on. "the successful candidate must be one who knows how to make hay when the sun shines and how to get in out of the rain; therefore, i am the meteorological candidate. he should be the man brought forward by a vast national upheaval; that makes me the geological candidate. and, above all, he must not be too thin-skinned when accused of bad faith and personal motives; which makes me the dermatological candidate. so what does all this show?" "it shows," said alice, "that you _are_ the logical candidate." "it does," said the red knight, and, having divested himself of his armor, he thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled cheerfully. chapter vii "having rallied my troops," said the red knight, "i will now march to settle the trust problem at the head of my convincible army." "you mean _in_vincible, don't you?" said alice. "i mean _con_vincible," replied the red knight. "because we always march to battle convinced that we shall be robbed of the fruits of victory." "then why fight at all?" said alice. the red knight looked at her in astonishment. "if we don't fight, how can we cry fraud afterwards?" "but you don't absolutely have to cry fraud, do you?" said alice, timidly. for the first time since their acquaintance the red knight grew sarcastic. "if you can tell me any other way we can keep our spirits up, i'd be much obliged," he said. "your army doesn't seem to be a very large one," said alice. "yes, it is," said the red knight. "i have countless millions on my side. but they are of a rather retiring disposition. you'd never suspect they were there if i didn't tell you. these men you see are only my field marshals. i don't suppose you have ever met them before, have you?" "i never have," said alice. "i am only eight, you know, and mamma says i must be seventeen before i go out in mixed company." "then i must introduce you," said the red knight. "the small man in armor is george the harvester. we call him that because he thinks he can sow money and reap delegates. he just loves the people. and he is so modest that the people don't even suspect it. a good man, the harvester, and as true as united states steel." "i don't think i like him," said alice. "i didn't until he came out for me," said the red knight. "that showed how mistaken i was. the tall, thin man, next to him is gifford the forester, so-called because he is frequently up a tree. he is a nice fellow, but not practical enough. i sometimes wonder whether he belongs with the rest of my field-marshals. the one in sheepskin is ormsby the barrister. he got his title from his willingness to round up southern delegates for any candidate, bar none. he is the most unprejudiced man i know. the last man on the left, in a uniform of colored frontispieces is frank the publisher. he is always in high spirits because his circulation is so good. have you ever seen a more impressive lot of men?" alice couldn't honestly say that she had. so the red knight gave the signal and the convincible army started out. soon they came to two finger-posts pointing in the same direction. one finger-post said, "to the house of the good trust," and the other finger-post said, "to the house of the bad trust." alice thought that was very odd, but she was resolved she'd wait until they came to a fork in the road. but when they did the road on the left had no guide-posts at all, and the two fingers continued to point down the other road. "do good trust and bad trust both live in the same house?" asked alice. "i shouldn't be surprised," said the red knight, and they marched on till they came to new jersey; and there, sure enough--but what alice saw there will be told by the red knight in the preceding chapter. chapter viii yes, sure enough, just as alice and the red knight turned the corner they spied the good trust and the bad trust standing quite still, with their hands in each other's pockets. alice thought it very odd, because the day was quite warm. "they do that to keep in practice," said the red knight. to alice they looked like twins. they were dressed in suits of pittsburgh steel, with woollen caps in the form of schedule k. and boots made by the shoe-machine trust. "i am sure i could never tell them apart," said alice. "how do you manage to do it?" "there are several ways," said the red knight. "one way is to turn around and let one of them steal your purse. if he spends the money on yachts and old masters, it's the bad trust. but, if he spends the money on presidential campaign contributions, it's the good trust." "but what happens to my pocketbook?" asked alice. "i think you are very sordid," said the red knight. "however, you might try to shake hands with them. if he takes your hand and says, 'how do you do?' it's the good trust; but, if he takes your hand and then bites it, you'll know it's the bad trust." "i don't think i like that way either," said alice. "all i can see is that they look just alike, and behave in exactly the same way." "that simply shows you lack incrimination and discrimination," said the red knight. "incrimination to recognize the bad trust, and discrimination to recognize the good trust." "well, i wish you'd tell me how _you_ manage to tell one from the other," said alice. "usually i do it by instinct," said the red knight: "but when it's too dark to see well, i treat them with kindness." "but what good does that do?" asked alice. "i thought you knew that everybody responds to kindness," said the red knight. "only they respond in different ways. i get my _best_ results by tickling them." he walked up to the two trusts, and poked his finger into the ribs of the one on the left, saying at the same time: "what do you think of the sherman law?" "tee hee, tee hee," the trust giggled. "that," said the red knight, "is the bad trust. did you ever see such criminal indifference? now, watch me." and he proceeded to push his finger into the side of the other trust, repeating: "what do you think of the sherman law?" "t. r.! t. r.!" shouted the trust. "that is the good trust," said the red knight. "of course, it isn't a method that everybody would care to pursue. and that is why i am the only man in the country who can really tell the difference between the two." chapter ix it was the comic editor who suggested that they go uptown by the subway. it was the rush hour, so there was plenty of room for everybody. the red knight lay back in his seat and looked thoughtfully at alice. "now that i have got oklahoma and there is no doubt as to how the rest of the country is going, i feel the need of a little recreation--" he said. "wreckreation, you know," said the comic editor and nudged alice in the side as he spelled out the joke for her. "do you like puzzle pictures?" said the red knight. "i just love them," said alice. the red knight took out a large document printed on heavy parchment. at the top was an eagle with outstretched wings, and alice could read the first line. "we, the people of the united states, in order--" borrowing alice's scissors, he snipped the paper up in little bands and squares. these he first threw up in the air. then he ran them through his fingers. then he crumpled them up, threw them on the floor and jumped upon them. "change and exercise are good for the constitution, you know," said the comic editor. alice looked calmly at the comic editor and set to work arranging the fragments. but the task was quite beyond her. "i'm afraid you'll have to do it yourself," she said. "it's very simple," said the red knight. he took the pieces and deftly put them together, putting article xii first and article vii next, and so on. "now, here's a sample of the way it should look," he said, and alice noticed that the typography had changed very oddly. she read as follows: we, the people of the un=i=ted states, =i=n order to form a more perfect un=i=on, establ=i=sh just=i=ce, =i=nsure domest=i=c tranqu=i=l=i=ty, prov=i=de for the common defense, promote the general welfare and secure the bless=i=ngs of l=i=berty to ourselves and our poster=i=ty, do orda=i=n and establ=i=sh th=i=s const=i=tut=i=on for the un=i=ted states of amer=i=ca. "it seems to be nothing but capital i's," said alice. "the rest you can hardly read." "that is the letter of the constitution," said the red knight. "i have always been faithful to it, and always will be." "but you can't make a constitution out of a single letter," insisted alice. "yes, you can," said the red knight, "provided the letter is big enough." but alice was firm. "i don't see how language can be made up of one letter. you need twenty-six at least." "i don't think so," said the red knight, "and, besides, where am i to get the other letters from?" "you might advertise," said the comic editor. "help wanted, mail, you know." all at once the red knight sat straight up, and his face grew bright. "why, of course, we need more letters. there is e for 'me' and o for 'our' and u for 'us' and a for 'am' and y for 'my.' my dear alice, that really was a bright idea of yours." "whatever is bright is constitutional, you know," said the comic editor. the red knight picked up the pieces of parchment. "with a little practice," he said, "you will be very good at taking a constitution apart and putting it together again. it helps to pass the time, and when you are tired of the game you can throw the mess out of the window." "interrupt it and constrew it, you know," said the comic editor. "oh, don't be a fool," said alice, quite losing her temper. she looked so angry that the comic editor burst out crying. he was still sobbing when they came to the door of the outlooking glass office. chapter x "if you promise to keep quite still," said the poet laureate. "i will read you my latest poem." "i should be delighted," said alice, whose manners never failed her. the poet laureate cleared his throat and read: the sun was shining in the sky, the time was 2 a. m. (no stand-pat luminary, he progressived with a slam), and folks in bed were luncheoning exclusively on jam. "this doesn't seem to be quite clear," said alice. "of course it isn't," said the poet laureate. "this is just to create the proper atmosphere." and he went on: the colonel and the harvester had found a shady spot. they sorted issues by the piece, the dozen, and the lot. and most of them were highly spiced, and all were piping hot. "for seven years," the colonel said, "i walked the quarter deck, i smote the trusts, and in their gore i waded to the neck." "i know it," sobbed the harvester, and signed another check. "i haven't overdone the pathos, have i?" said the poet laureate. "not at all," said alice. "oh pledges, come and walk with us," the valiant colonel cried. "your numbers clearly show my stand upon race suicide. your countless faces fill my breast with pardonable pride." the elder pledges shook their heads and whimpered as he spoke; the elder pledges couldn't move because their backs was broke, but all the younger fry obeyed and waited for the joke. "i will now skip several stanzas because they are quite intelligible," said the poet laureate. "it seems to me that you can read them all the better then," said alice. "but if they are already intelligible, what use is there in reading them?" said the poet laureate, impatiently, and he went on: "the time has come," the colonel said, "to speak of many things, of presidents of sealing wax, and hats inside of rings, and why i feel so boiling hot, and whether truth has wings." "a brand new deal, oh pledges dear, is what we chiefly need. a double-acting memory is very good indeed; and if you're ready, harvester, we can begin to feed." "but not on us," the pledges cried-"please," said alice, "please won't you skip what happened next? i have never been able to think about it without crying. it's too cruel." "very well," said the poet laureate, "i am rather tender-hearted myself. i'll pass on to the last verse: "'oh pledges dear,' the colonel said, 'is not this bully fun? i thank you for the harvester----' but answer there came none, and this was scarcely odd, because he'd swallowed every one." chapter xi "when i went to school," said the red knight, "i was particularly good at riddles, reverence and rithmetic." "i've studied arithmetic in school and played riddles _after_ school," said alice, "but i don't know what you mean by reverence." "i'm surprised," said the red knight. "reverence means doing honor to great men. for instance, when i look at myself and am reminded of abraham lincoln, george washington, napoleon, mark twain, admiral peary, and joan of arc, that means reverence. but perhaps you'd rather have me ask you riddles?" "i think i should," said alice. "very well. what's the difference between a southern postmaster in 1908 and a southern postmaster in 1912?" "i'm sure i don't know," said alice. "what is it?" "i give it up," said the red knight. "what a queer way of asking riddles!" said alice. "not at all," said the red knight. "what's the difference between taking a canal from colombia and taking candy from a child?" "i never did understand politics," said alice. "what is it?" "i give it up," said the red knight. "oh, pshaw," said alice. "please do be sensible." "i _am_ sensible," said the red knight. "why is george w. perkins like the voice of the people?" "well, why?" "i give it up," said the red knight. "but that's too absurd for anything," said alice. "if you like to tease people, please find some one else to tease." she walked away to one side, quite angry, and began to play with the daisies in her new spring hat. the red knight sat down on the river's edge and broke out crying. he wept so bitterly that alice felt sorry for him. she came back to where he sat and said: "i'm awfully sorry. i didn't mean to hurt your feelings." but the red knight only went on weeping. "please, do stop crying," said alice. "take out your handkerchief and wipe your eyes; come now." "i can't," said the red knight. "i had my handkerchief in my hat, and my hat is in the ring," and he sobbed as if his heart would break. so alice took out her own handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes, but still he would not stop. then, to quiet him, she said: "but you said you were good at arithmetic." "oh, i am," said the red knight, and his face grew quite radiant. "have you ever figured out how many governors have come out for me?" "no," said alice. "well," said the red knight, "there's the governor of new hampshire, and the governor of west virginia, that makes two; and the governor of new hampshire, that makes--" "but you counted the governor of new hampshire," said alice. "only once," said the red knight. "people say that the governor of new hampshire is of two minds about me--that means twice, doesn't it?" "does it?" said alice. "of course it does," said the red knight. "then there is kansas, which makes five, and nebraska, which makes eleven, and california, which makes twenty-four, and new mexico, which makes thirty-seven out of a total of forty-eight governors." "i don't see how you figure that out at all," said alice. "i do it by long addition," said the red knight. chapter xii alice had been sprinkling water on his face and fanning him with her straw hat for several minutes, and still the red knight lay there quite motionless. he looked so wan and pale it made alice's heart ache. but just when she had decided that a doctor must be sent for, the red knight opened his eyes and sighed. "where are we?" he said. "we are still in north dakota," said alice. "and our opponents?" "they have gone somewhere else." "i knew it," said the red knight. "they have left the field to me. i knew it would be like that. i always win. did you see me charge?" "i did," said alice. "it made me so sad to see you go over your horse's head so many times." "i did that to disconcert them," said the red knight. "as long as i stayed in the saddle they would keep on fighting. but as soon as i fell off they would naturally be at a loss as to what to do next." "but you frightened me horribly," said alice. "every time you went over you landed on your head." "oh, that was all right," said the red knight. "my head has always been the strongest part of me. besides, i always think very well on my head. it stimulates me. some of the very best ideas i have had--like the recall of the judges, for instance--came to me in that position. the thing to do now is to follow up our victory." "you must not bother about that now," said alice. "you must really rest up. talking isn't very good for you." "it never hurts me to talk," said the red knight. "it is no strain whatever. i can do it without thinking." a tired look came into alice's face. "you are not discouraged, are you?" asked the red knight, a little wistfully. "you mustn't be, you know. if i gave up the fight who else would there be to carry it on?" "i'm sure i don't know," said alice. "there _is_ no one else," said the red knight. "i'll prove it to you." he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a collapsible foot-measure of the kind carpenters use in their business. he handed it to alice and asked her to open it out. "this is a very funny rule," said alice. "i thought all these pocket-measures ran up to six feet, but this one stops short at five feet ten inches." "exactly," said the red knight. "now would you mind taking my measure, just as i lie here." alice wondered, but complied. "why," she said, "it is just your height." "of course it is," said the red knight. "this, you see, is the rule of the people. i always carry it about with me. it is a very good rule, because it works only one way." chapter xiii at the sight of the dear old lady in a pannier gown, alice could not help uttering a little cry of delight. "do let me introduce you," she said to the red knight, and she ran forward, pulling his steed along by the rein. "the red knight, mrs. malaprop," she said, and beamed upon both of them. "not _the_ mrs. malaprop," said the red knight, holding out one hand and clinging to the saddle with the other. "the same," said the old lady; "may i facilitate you upon the results in illinois and pennsylvania?" "i thank you," said the red knight. "i have often heard you spoken of as one of our leading simplified spellers. if i am not mistaken, your grandfather was col. lapsus linguã¦ of faux pas." "he was," said the old lady. "and on my mother's side i am related to the bulls of ireland and the hiatuses of prattling common. if an old woman's good wishes count for anything--" "madam," said the red knight, "after california, i freely recognize the extraordinary mental and moral qualities of our women voters." "i have long wished to tell you," said the old woman, "how i admire the victorious career of one whom i regard as the most perkinacious of all our candidates." "pert, not perk," hinted alice, gently. "perk or pert, what difference does it make?" said the old lady. "we live not by the letter of the law, but by its spirituous consultation. i have known many candidates who have fought hard for their own ends, but none whose motives are so absolutely flinnathropic." "philanthropic," suggested alice, in a whisper. "please don't interrogate so much," said the old lady, but still without losing her temper. "when i meet a public man who is so ready to capitalize his own interests to those of his country--" "sacri--" alice started to say, but caught herself in time. "why, then," went on the old lady, "he ought to have as many terms as he likes. if two are not enough he should have a third term, if only by hannalogy. now i hope i got _that_ right," she said, turning defiantly to alice. but alice's feelings were hurt, and she said nothing. "and so," concluded the old lady, "i hope that you will succeed in keeping up your spontaneous consumption of public interest and that you won't let them take away your southern renegades--" "delega--" said alice before she could stop herself. but the old lady only glared at her and went on addressing the red knight: "and may all your enemies be like that english duke who was drowned in a barrel of munsey." "malmsey," shouted alice, no longer able to control herself. but the red knight turned to her and chided her gently: "the question, my dear alice, is who shall make the rules of language, the plain people or the bosses who write the dictionaries." chapter xiv "i will never go to chicago," said the red knight. alice looked up from her book. "what train won't you take?" she asked. "the 3:30," said the red knight. "and which would you rather not have, a lower berth or an upper one?" said alice. "by all means a lower berth," said the red knight. "it makes no difference to me, you know." and so the next morning they sat at breakfast in the dining-car. alice divided her attention between the grapefruit and the landscape, but the red knight was completely absorbed with his own thoughts. "it makes one dizzy to see the country flash by," said alice, half to herself. the gentleman in a bathing suit who sat at the next table eating olives with a spoon turned around with a reassuring smile. "i shouldn't worry if i were you," he said. "it keeps up all the way to chicago, you know." "what keeps up?" said alice. "the country, of course," said the gentleman. but at the word chicago, the red knight looked up suddenly. "my dear alice, do you happen to remember the name of the president who was nominated at chicago in 1860?" he said. "let me see," said alice, and she began to repeat to herself, first washington his country's pride, then sturdy adams true and tried, then jefferson---"we shall be in chicago before you get to daniel webster," said the gentleman in the bathing suit. "it was lincoln, of course." "lincoln is right," said the red knight. "and now _i_ am going to chicago." "that's a very good sign," said the gentleman in the bathing suit. "what is?" said the red knight, blushing with delight. "that," said the other, pointing out of the window. "can you read it? 'use walnut oil and save your hair.' it sounds very convincing." but the red knight was once more lost in thought, and the gentleman in the bathing suit turned to alice. "i am an upholsterer by trade, you know," he said, "but in the summer i give lessons on the violin." "what an odd combination!" said alice. "do you play well?" "oh i make more or less of a respectable living out of it," he said. "it's more respectable than upholstering, but it's less of a living." here the red knight looked up again. "what are those famous words in lincoln's second inaugural, alice? you know what i mean. 'with-with----' how does it go?" "_i_ know what you mean," said the gentleman in the bathing suit as he rolled his menu-card into a tube and began shooting olive-pits through it. "you mean, 'with alice towards none, with hilarity for all--'" "i think you are very stupid," said alice, "and i wish you wouldn't take liberties with other people's names." the man in the bathing suit immediately broke into tears. "i was only fooling," he sobbed. "but you can't fool all of the people all of the time. can you now?" he said, turning to the red knight. "you don't have to," said the red knight, to himself. "a good many progressives expect to be elected to the united states senate." chapter xv the train pulled into the station, and the red knight looked at his watch. "forty minutes late," he said; "another infamous trick." he seized a telegraph blank, and wrote: "congressman mckinley, taft headquarters--brigand! assassin! polygamist! collect." he turned to alice. "i feel much better now," he said. "let us go." opposite them in the car sat a young lady who was reading "thus spake zarathustra," and chewing gum. so they knew they were in chicago. they came to a hotel that was taller than any building alice had ever seen. it was so tall that millionaires living on the top floor were in the habit of swearing off their taxes, on the plea of non-residence in the state of illinois. they entered the elevator, and by and by they reached the floor on which their rooms were situated. as they opened the door, the first thing they saw was george the harvester and ormsby the barrister weeping in each other's arms, and wiping each other's eyes with bundles of rejected credentials. at the sight of the barrister the red knight showed no anger. he merely took off his helmet and threw it at the bellboy. then he pressed his forehead against the window-pane, and the glass cracked. then he turned to the barrister. "you must have had a very pleasant trip down south," he said, quietly gnashing his teeth. "i did," said the barrister, brightening up wonderfully. "how did it all happen?" said the red knight. "shall i tell the story by congressional districts or by states?" said the barrister. "by states," said the red knight. the barrister cleared his throat and began: i took a barrel into ga. ("'ga' being georgia, of course," he explained.) they jumped right up and yelled "hurrah." i took a trunkful into fla. they came to cheer from near and far. i spent two trunkfuls in ala. they danced and sang: "you bet we are!" i took a crateful into ark. they said, "your reasons hit the mark." "but this is all so very, very obscure," said alice. "it was intended to be," said the barrister, and went on: i sent to them and said "endorse," they stood right up and said "of course." i wrote to them and said "contest," they said, "cash up, we'll do the rest." i said to them "remember now," they said, "keep cool, we'll show you how." they voted once, they voted twice, they voted hard, to earn the price. "but who are 'they?'" asked alice. "are there really such people?" "of course there are," said the barrister. "i invented them myself," and he went on: they started for chicago, ill., to ratify the people's will, but---"that's all there is," said the barrister, stopping abruptly. "yes, that is all there is," said the red knight, "and a nice mess you made of it." "mercy, sire," cried the barrister, falling on his knees. "failure deserves no pity," said the red knight sternly. "if it were not for the chance that you may do better in 1916, i would make short work of you at once. as it is, you will, as a penalty, between today and the first of next year, read and briefly summarize every one of my past presidential messages." "including the paragraph about the tariff which joe cannon made you take out?" sobbed the barrister. "everything!" said the red knight. "come, alice. the trumpet calls to battle. it's now or never--unless the circumstances change." chapter xvi the two armies were now face to face, and the red knight gathered his staff about him for a few final words of exhortation. "remember, men," he said. "victory is assured. on our side are all the honest men. against us are all the thieves. we need only win forty of them over to our side and the battle is ours." alice thought that was rather strange tactics, but she said nothing. she gazed with admiration at the red knight. he was resplendent in a new suit of armour fashioned out of lithographed photographs of abraham lincoln. from his helmet fluttered a copy of the declaration of the rights of man. in his right hand he held a copy of magna charta, and with the left he waved aloft one of the harvester's fattest checkbooks. a mighty cheer broke from the multitude, but the red knight commanded silence. "as you go into battle," he went on, "ask yourself this: can the practitioners of theft and burglary triumph over the forces of righteousness?" "never!" shouted the publisher, like the hero in one of his own magazines. "don't be an ass, frank," said the red knight. "of course they always do, except when i am here to lead the forces of righteousness. that makes all the difference in the world." alice thought she had never seen him in such a logical frame of mind. the men about him felt exactly the same way. the red knight went on: "the principal thing when you take up arms is to know what you are fighting for. do all of you know what you are after?" "we do!" they cried in chorus. conviction was stamped on every face. "that is very good," said the red knight. "so do i. now we come to our plan of attack. it is very simple. i shall lead flanking parties against the enemy's right and left wing and head a furious charge against the centre. a small detachment of picked men under my personal command will go out in advance and feel out the enemy. as for the rear guard and train that shall be my own concern. between operations i shall write full account of the battle for several newspaper syndicates with which i have signed contracts. is there anything i have overlooked?" it was the forester who spoke up. "there's the band music for the triumphal return from chicago." the red knight smiled indulgently. "that is already composed and orchestrated. i may revise it a bit while i am dictating terms to the enemy. so that is all. you may go, gentlemen." "but how about me?" said alice, of whose presence the red knight had been quite oblivious. her feelings were hurt, and she was on the point of crying. "why, sure enough, there you are, alice," said the red knight. "i think you had better go to the rear till it's all over. the fight may last till ten o'clock, and that's no hour for one of your age to be out of bed." "i will never leave you!" cried alice. "under no circumstances. there's no one else like you in the whole world." the red knight smiled and stroked her hair. "very well, then. i'll tell you what we'll do. you don't ride a horse, do you?" "i never learned," she said. "it doesn't matter," said the red knight. "no horse could keep up with me, anyhow. we'll get you a taxicab and you can keep right by my side." but alice now had her qualms. "is it very dangerous?" she asked. "dangerous where i am?" laughed the red knight. "you'll be just as safe as in your own little bed. nobody ever stands up against me, alice. at the first sight of me they turn and run. that's what makes the present obstinate behavior of the enemy so peculiarly infamous." chapter xvii they were once more on the chicago flyer, this time on the way east, and alice looking out of the window, saw that within a few minutes they would be in new york. the red knight lay back in his chair, almost as worn and pale as after that terrible battle in north dakota, when he fell off so often on his head. "a drink of water, please, alice," said the red knight. they had mislaid their individual drinking-cups, so alice brought him some water in his helmet, and after he had drunk, she bathed his forehead with the rest. "well, it was a hard fight," said the red knight. "but we won." "do you think so?" said alice, greatly surprised. "we _must_ have won," said the red knight. "we couldn't help it. look at it yourself. my motives were of the very highest, my followers were the best men in the country, my strategy was absolutely faultless. there wasn't a mistake or an oversight. so, of course, i must have won." "but i am really afraid," said alice, "that the others think _they_ came out best." "that was part of my game," said the red knight. "let them sink in the quicksands of their own delusions. let them go on thinking they have nominated some one else. let them go ahead and elect him. let the fact be set down in the school histories. what does it all prove? nothing." the train came to a stop and alice and the red knight took a taxicab for the latter's place of business. the time had come to say good-by. they stood at the door of the outlooking glass office, just as the edition was being made up. from the pressrooms to the editorial rooms all was animation. the chief editor was shooting copy up the tubes as fast as the office boys could write it. the latest advertisements were coming in over the wire. the desk men were waiting for the editorial writers to finish their comments on the week's news before setting down the facts. alice turned to shake hands with the red knight. it had been an exciting time, and she was tired and very anxious to be at home with mamma. but she had grown fond of her comrade in the outlooking glass. when she was back again at her stupid lessons, studying that 2 and 2 makes 4, and that "yes" is affirmative and "no" is negative, and that black is black and white is white, oh, how she would miss the red knight. but she was very brave, and, stretching out her hand, she said, "good-by." the red knight pressed her hand affectionately. "i wish you would write something in my little pocket album," said alice, trying to keep back her tears. "gladly," said the red knight, and taking the book he wrote: never put off till to-morrow a thing you can get today. "thank you," said alice. "i don't suppose we shall ever meet again." "well, there's 1916," said the red knight. "shall we say four years from now on lincoln's birthday?" "but there would be no use trying," said alice. "you could help me a great deal, you know," said the red knight. "by that time women will be voting everywhere. on the one hand there will be woman's new privileges to discuss, and on the other hand there will be her new responsibilities. my hat is still good for something." "no, no, no," said alice. "i don't want you to go campaigning any more. the fact is, you are not as strong as you used to be." "suppose it _is_ a fact, what difference does it make?" said the red knight. but alice would not listen. "why must you always be fighting? why not leave that for younger people, and let everybody remember you at your best?" "a man must do _something_ exciting," said the red knight. "of course he must," said alice. "i hope, and i'm sure we all hope, you will go on contributing for years and years and years. good-by." her eyes were wet with tears as she sprang backwards through the outlooking glass. the red knight vanished. she was home again, home in the dear old room with the big reading lamp on the table, and mamma busy with the baby's things, and father asleep over a copy of the aldrich monetary report. "oh mamma," she cried. "what is it, alice?" said her mother. "i have _such_ a headache, mamma. i have been in politics." _by the same author_ * * * * * the patient observer light studies in everyday life * * * * * _reprinted from the evening post_ * * * * * the charming series of essays which have attracted many readers to the new york _evening post_, are here to be found in a bound volume. these witty and thoughtful lucubrations may henceforth be counted as a "permanent possession," and be stored on a book-shelf instead of wandering round as fugitive leaves. there is hardly an essayist of the present day in this country whose work seems better deserving of preservation.--the literary digest with the coming of "the patient observer" a new--and true--humorist enters the field of american literature.--new york times dodd, mead & co. _$1.20 net_ generously made available by the internet archive.) [illustration: _miss isa bowman as alice in "alice in wonderland"_] the story of lewis carroll told for young people by the real alice in wonderland miss isa bowman with a diary and numerous facsimile letters written to miss isa bowman and others. also many sketches and photos by lewis carroll and other illustrations. new york e. p. dutton & company 31 west twenty-third street 1900 copyright, 1899 by e. p. dutton & co. the knickerbocker press, new york illustrations page miss isa bowman (in photogravure) _frontispiece_ lewis carroll's room in oxford 9 c. l. dodgson 13 a chinaman 17 beggar children 35 st. george and the dragon 59 lewis carroll's house at eastbourne 65 miss isa bowman and miss bessie hatton as the little princes in the tower 73 isa bowman as duke of york 77 miss isa bowman as "alice in wonderland" (in photogravure) 80 the little princes 83 "dolly varden" 95 "a turk" 103 facsimile of a charade 108-109-110 lewis carroll it seems to me a very difficult task to sit down at a desk and write "reminiscences" of a friend who has gone from us all. it is not easy to make an effort and to remember all the little personalia of some one one has loved very much, and by whom one has been loved. and yet it is in a measure one's duty to tell the world something of the inner life of a famous man; and lewis carroll was so wonderful a personality, and so good a man, that if my pen dragged ever so slowly, i feel that i can at least tell something of his life which is worthy the telling. writing with the sense of his loss still heavy upon me, i must of necessity colour my account with sadness. i am not in the ordinary sense a biographer. i cannot set down a critical estimate, a cold, dispassionate summing-up of a man i loved; but i can write of a few things that happened when i was a little girl, and when he used to say to me that i was "_his_ little girl." the gracious presence of lewis carroll is with us no longer. never again will his hand hold mine, and i shall never hear his voice more in this world. forever while i live that kindly influence will be gone from my life, and the "friend of little children" has left us. and yet in the full sorrow of it all i find some note of comfort. he was so good and sweet, so tender and kind, so certain that there was another and more beautiful life waiting for us, that i know, even as if i heard him telling it to me, that some time i shall meet him once more. in all the noise and excitement of london, amid all the distractions of a stage life, i know this, and his presence is often very near to me, and the kindly voice is often at my ear as it was in the old days. to have even known such a man as he was is an inestimable boon. to have been with him for so long as a child, to have known so intimately the man who above all others has understood childhood, is indeed a memory on which to look back with thanksgiving and with tears. now that i am no longer "his little girl," now that he is dead and my life is so different from the quiet life he led, i can yet feel the old charm, i can still be glad that he has kissed me and that we were friends. little girl and grave professor! it is a strange combination. grave professor and little girl! how curious it sounds! yet strange and curious as it may seem, it was so, and the little girl, now a little girl no longer, offers this last loving tribute to the friend and teacher she loved so well. forever that voice is still; be it mine to revive some ancient memories of it. first, however, as i have essayed to be some sort of a biographer, i feel that before i let my pen run easily over the tale of my intimate knowledge of lewis carroll i must put down very shortly some facts about his life. the rev. charles lutwidge dodgson died when he was sixty-six years old, and when his famous book, "alice in wonderland," had been published for thirty-three years. he was born at daresbury, in cheshire, and his father was the rev. charles dodgson. the first years of his life were spent at daresbury, but afterwards the family went to live at a place called croft, in yorkshire. he went first to a private school in yorkshire and then to rugby, where he spent years that he always remembered as very happy ones. in 1850 he went to christ church, oxford, and from that time till the year of his death he was inseparably connected with "the house," as christ church college is generally called, from its latin name "ædes christi," which means, literally translated, the house of christ. there he won great distinction as a scholar of mathematics, and wrote many abstruse and learned books, very different from "alice in wonderland." there is a tale that when the queen had read "alice in wonderland" she was so pleased that she asked for more books by the same author. lewis carroll was written to, and back, with the name of charles dodgson on the title-page, came a number of the very dryest books about algebra and euclid that you can imagine. still, even in mathematics his whimsical fancy was sometimes suffered to peep out, and little girls who learnt the rudiments of calculation at his knee found the path they had imagined so thorny set about with roses by reason of the delightful fun with which he would turn a task into a joy. but when the fun was over the little girl would find that she had learnt the lesson (all unknowingly) just the same. happy little girls who had such a master. the old rhyme- "multiplication is vexation, division is as bad, the rule of three doth puzzle me, and practice drives me mad," would never need to have been written had all arithmetic lessons been like the arithmetic lessons given by charles dodgson to his little friends. as a lecturer to his grown-up pupils he was also surprisingly lucid, and under his deft treatment the knottiest of problems were quickly smoothed out and made easy for his hearers to comprehend. "i always hated mathematics at school," an ex-pupil of his told me a little while ago, "but when i went up to oxford i learnt from mr. dodgson to look upon my mathematics as the most delightful of all my studies. his lectures were never dry." for twenty-six years he lectured at oxford, finally giving up his post in 1881. from that time to the time of his death he remained in his college, taking no actual part in the tuition, but still enjoying the fellowship that he had won in 1861. this is an official account, a brief sketch of an intensely interesting life. it tells little save that lewis carroll was a clever mathematician and a sympathetic teacher; it shall be my work to present him as he was from a more human point of view. lewis carroll was a man of medium height. when i knew him his hair was a silver-grey, rather longer than it was the fashion to wear, and his eyes were a deep blue. he was clean shaven, and, as he walked, always seemed a little unsteady in his gait. at oxford he was a well-known figure. he was a little eccentric in his clothes. in the coldest weather he would never wear an overcoat, and he had a curious habit of always wearing, in all seasons of the year, a pair of grey and black cotton gloves. but for the whiteness of his hair it was difficult to tell his age from his face, for there were no wrinkles on it. he had a curiously womanish face, and, in direct contradiction to his real character, there seemed to be little strength in it. one reads a great deal about the lines that a man's life paints in his face, and there are many people who believe that character is indicated by the curves of flesh and bone. i do not, and never shall, believe it is true, and lewis carroll is only one of many instances to support my theory. he was as firm and self-contained as a man may be, but there was little to show it in his face. yet you could easily discern it in the way in which he met and talked with his friends. when he shook hands with you--he had firm white hands, rather large--his grip was strong and steadfast. every one knows the kind of man of whom it is said "his hands were all soft and flabby when he said, 'how-do-you-do.'" well, lewis carroll was not a bit like that. every one says when he shook your hand the pressure of his was full of strength, and you felt here indeed was a man to admire and to love. the expression in his eyes was also very kind and charming. [illustration: lewis carroll's room in oxford in which "alice in wonderland" was written] he used to look at me, when we met, in the very tenderest, gentlest way. of course on an ordinary occasion i knew that his interested glance did not mean anything of any extra importance. nothing could have happened since i had seen him last, yet, at the same time, his look was always so deeply sympathetic and benevolent that one could hardly help feeling it meant a great deal more than the expression of the ordinary man. he was afflicted with what i believe is known as "housemaid's knee," and this made his movements singularly jerky and abrupt. then again he found it impossible to avoid stammering in his speech. he would, when engaged in an animated conversation with a friend, talk quickly and well for a few minutes, and then suddenly and without any very apparent cause would begin to stutter so much, that it was often difficult to understand him. he was very conscious of this impediment, and he tried hard to cure himself. for several years he read a scene from some play of shakespeare's every day aloud, but despite this he was never quite able to cure himself of the habit. many people would have found this a great hindrance to the affairs of ordinary life, and would have felt it deeply. lewis carroll was different. his mind and life were so simple and open that there was no room in them for self-consciousness, and i have often heard him jest at his own misfortune, with a comic wonder at it. the personal characteristic that you would notice most on meeting lewis carroll was his extreme shyness. with children, of course, he was not nearly so reserved, but in the society of people of maturer age he was almost old-maidishly prim in his manner. when he knew a child well this reserve would vanish completely, but it needed only a slightly disconcerting incident to bring the cloak of shyness about him once more, and close the lips that just before had been talking so delightfully. i shall never forget one afternoon when we had been walking in christ church meadows. on one side of the great open space the little river cherwell runs through groves of trees towards the isis, where the college boat-races are rowed. we were going quietly along by the side of the "cher," when he began to explain to me that the tiny stream was a tributary, "a baby river" he put it, of the big thames. he talked for some minutes, explaining how rivers came down from hills and flowed eventually to the sea, when he suddenly met a brother don at a turning in the avenue. he was holding my hand and giving me my lesson in geography with great earnestness when the other man came round the corner. [illustration: c. l. dodgson] he greeted him in answer to his salutation, but the incident disturbed his train of thought, and for the rest of the walk he became very difficult to understand, and talked in a nervous and preoccupied manner. one strange way in which his nervousness affected him was peculiarly characteristic. when, owing to the stupendous success of "alice in wonderland" and "alice through the looking-glass," he became a celebrity many people were anxious to see him, and in some way or other to find out what manner of man he was. this seemed to him horrible, and he invented a mild deception for use when some autograph-hunter or curious person sent him a request for his signature on a photograph, or asked him some silly question as to the writing of one of his books, how long it took to write, and how many copies had been sold. through some third person he always represented that lewis carroll the author and mr. dodgson the professor were two distinct persons, and that the author could not be heard of at oxford at all. on one occasion an american actually wrote to say that he had heard that lewis carroll had laid out a garden to represent some of the scenes in "alice in wonderland," and that he (the american) was coming right away to take photographs of it. poor lewis carroll, he was in terror of americans for a week! of being photographed he had a horror, and despite the fact that he was continually and importunately requested to sit before the camera, only very few photographs of him are in existence. yet he had been himself a great amateur photographer, and had taken many pictures that were remarkable in their exact portraiture of the subject. it was this exactness that he used to pride himself on in his camera work. he always said that modern professional photographers spoilt all their pictures by touching them up absurdly to flatter the sitter. when it was necessary for me to have some pictures taken he sent me to mr. h. h. cameron, whom he declared to be the only artist who dared to produce a photograph that was exactly like its subject. this is one of the photographs of me that mr. cameron took, and lewis carroll always declared that it was a perfect specimen of portrait work. many of the photographs of children in this book are lewis carroll's work. miss beatrice hatch, to whose kindness i am indebted for these photographs and for much interesting information, writes in the _strand magazine_ (april 1898): "my earliest recollections of mr. dodgson are connected with photography. he was very fond of this art at one time, though he had entirely given it up for many years latterly. he kept various costumes and 'properties' with which to dress us up, and, of course, that added to the fun. what child would not thoroughly enjoy personating a japanese or a beggar child, or a gipsy or an indian? sometimes there were excursions to the roof of the college, which was easily accessible from the windows of the studio. or you might stand by your friend's side in the tiny dark room and watch him while he poured the contents of several little strong-smelling bottles on to the glass picture of yourself that looked so funny with its black face." [illustration: a chinaman] yet, despite his love for the photographer's art, he hated the idea of having his own picture taken for the benefit of a curious world. the shyness that made him nervous in the presence of strangers made the idea that any one who cared to stare into a shop window could examine and criticise his portrait extremely repulsive to him. i remember that this shyness of his was the only occasion of anything approaching a quarrel between us. i had an idle trick of drawing caricatures when i was a child, and one day when he was writing some letters i began to make a picture of him on the back of an envelope. i quite forget what the drawing was like--probably it was an abominable libel--but suddenly he turned round and saw what i was doing. he got up from his seat and turned very red, frightening me very much. then he took my poor little drawing, and tearing it into small pieces threw it into the fire without a word. afterwards he came suddenly to me, and saying nothing, caught me up in his arms and kissed me passionately. i was only some ten or eleven years of age at the time, but now the incident comes back to me very clearly, and i can see it as if it happened but yesterday--the sudden snatching of my picture, the hurried striding across the room, and then the tender light in his face as he caught me up to him and kissed me. i used to see a good deal of him at oxford, and i was constantly in christ church. he would invite me to stay with him and find me rooms just outside the college gates, where i was put into charge of an elderly dame, whose name, if i do not forget, was mrs. buxall. i would spend long happy days with my uncle, and at nine o'clock i was taken over to the little house in st. aldates and delivered into the hands of the landlady, who put me to bed. in the morning i was awakened by the deep reverberations of "great tom" calling oxford to wake and begin the new day. those times were very pleasant, and the remembrance of them lingers with me still. lewis carroll at the time of which i am speaking had two tiny turret rooms, one on each side of his staircase in christ church. he always used to tell me that when i grew up and became married he would give me the two little rooms, so that if i ever disagreed with my husband we could each of us retire to a turret till we had made up our quarrel! and those rooms of his! i do not think there was ever such a fairy-land for children. i am sure they must have contained one of the finest collections of musical-boxes to be found anywhere in the world. there were big black ebony boxes with glass tops through which you could see all the works. there was a big box with a handle, which it was quite hard exercise for a little girl to turn, and there must have been twenty or thirty little ones which could only play one tune. sometimes one of the musical-boxes would not play properly, and then i always got tremendously excited. uncle used to go to a drawer in the table and produce a box of little screw-drivers and punches, and while i sat on his knee he would unscrew the lid and take out the wheels to see what was the matter. he must have been a clever mechanist, for the result was always the same-after a longer or shorter period the music began again. sometimes when the musical-boxes had played all their tunes he used to put them in the box backwards, and was as pleased as i at the comic effect of the music "standing on its head," as he phrased it. there was another and very wonderful toy which he sometimes produced for me, and this was known as "the bat." the ceilings of the rooms in which he lived at the time were very high indeed, and admirably suited for the purposes of "the bat." it was an ingeniously constructed toy of gauze and wire, which actually flew about the room like a bat. it was worked by a piece of twisted elastic, and it could fly for about half a minute. i was always a little afraid of this toy because it was too lifelike, but there was a fearful joy in it. when the music-boxes began to pall he would get up from his chair and look at me with a knowing smile. i always knew what was coming even before he began to speak, and i used to dance up and down in tremendous anticipation. "isa, my darling," he would say, "once upon a time there was some one called bob the bat! and he lived in the top left-hand drawer of the writing-table. what could he do when uncle wound him up?" and then i would squeak out breathlessly, "he could really fly!" bob the bat had many adventures. there was no way of controlling the direction of its flight, and one morning, a hot summer's morning when the window was wide open, bob flew out into the garden and alighted in a bowl of salad which a scout was taking to some one's rooms. the poor fellow was so startled by the sudden flapping apparition that he dropped the bowl, and it was broken into a thousand pieces. there! i have written "a thousand pieces," and a thoughtless exaggeration of that sort was a thing that lewis carroll hated. "a thousand pieces?" he would have said; "you know, isa, that if the bowl had been broken into a thousand pieces they would each have been so tiny that you could have hardly seen them." and if the broken pieces had been get-at-able, he would have made me count them as a means of impressing on my mind the folly of needless exaggeration. i remember how annoyed he was once when, after a morning's sea bathing at eastbourne, i exclaimed, "oh, this salt water, it always makes my hair as stiff as a poker." he impressed it on me quite irritably that no little girl's hair could ever possibly get as stiff as a poker. "if you had said, 'as stiff as wires,' it would have been more like it, but even that would have been an exaggeration." and then, seeing that i was a little frightened, he drew for me a picture of "the little girl called isa whose hair turned into pokers because she was always exaggerating things." that, and all the other pictures that he drew for me are, i'm sorry to say, the sole property of the little fishes in the irish channel, where a clumsy porter dropped them as we hurried into the boat at holyhead. "i nearly died of laughing," was another expression that he particularly disliked; in fact any form of exaggeration generally called from him a reproof, though he was sometimes content to make fun. for instance, my sisters and i had sent him "millions of kisses" in a letter. below you will find the letter that he wrote in return, written in violet ink that he always used (dreadfully ugly, i used to think it). [illustration] "ch. ch. oxford, "_ap. 14, 1890_. "my own darling, it's all very well for you and nellie and emsie to write in millions of hugs and kisses, but please consider the _time_ it would occupy your poor old very busy uncle! try hugging and kissing emsie for a minute by the watch, and i don't think you'll manage it more than 20 times a minute. 'millions' must mean 2 millions at least. 20)2,000,000 hugs and kisses 60)100,000 minutes 12)1,666 hours 6)138 days (at twelve hours a day) 23 weeks. "i couldn't go on hugging and kissing more than 12 hours a day: and i wouldn't like to spend _sundays_ that way. so you see it would take _23 weeks_ of hard work. really, my dear child, i _cannot spare the time_. "why haven't i written since my last letter? why, how _could_ i, you silly silly child? how could i have written _since the last time_ i _did_ write? now, you just try it with kissing. go and kiss nellie, from me, several times, and take care to manage it so as to have kissed her _since the last time_ you _did_ kiss her. now go back to your place, and i'll question you. "'have you kissed her several times?' "'yes, darling uncle.' "'what o'clock was it when you gave her the _last_ kiss?' "'5 minutes past 10, uncle.' "'very well, now, have you kissed her _since_?' "'well--i--ahem! ahem! ahem! (excuse me, uncle, i've got a bad cough). i--think--that--i--that is, you, know, i----' "'yes, i see! "isa" begins with "i," and it seems to me as if she was going to _end_ with "i," _this_ time!' "anyhow, my not writing hasn't been because i was _ill_, but because i was a horrid lazy old thing, who kept putting it off from day to day, till at last i said to myself, 'who roar! there's no time to write now, because they _sail_ on the 1st of april.'[1] in fact, i shouldn't have been a bit surprised if this letter had been from _fulham_, instead of louisville. well, i suppose you _will_ be there by about the middle of may. but mind you don't write to me from there! please, _please_, no more horrid letters from you! i _do_ hate them so! and as for _kissing_ them when i get them, why, i'd just as soon kiss--kiss--kiss _you_, you tiresome thing! so there now! "thank you very much for those 2 photographs--i liked them--hum--_pretty_ well. i can't honestly say i thought them the very best i had ever seen. "please give my kindest regards to your mother, and 1/2 of a kiss to nellie, and 1/200 a kiss to emsie, and 1/2,000,000 a kiss to yourself. so, with fondest love, i am, my darling, your loving uncle, "c. l. dodgson." and now, in the postscript, comes one of the rare instances in which lewis carroll showed his deep religious feeling. it runs- "_p.s._--i've thought about that little prayer you asked me to write for nellie and emsie. but i would like, first, to have the words of the one i wrote for _you_, and the words of what they _now_ say, if they say any. and then i will pray to our heavenly father to help me to write a prayer that will be really fit for them to use." again, i had ended one of my letters with "all join me in lufs and kisses." it was a letter written when i was away from home and alone, and i had put the usual ending thoughtlessly and in haste, for there was no one that i knew in all that town who could have joined me in my messages to him. he answered me as follows:- "7 lushington road, eastbourne, "_aug. 30, 90_. "oh, you naughty, naughty, bad wicked little girl! you forgot to put a stamp on your letter, and your poor old uncle had to pay twopence! his _last_ twopence! think of that. i shall punish you severely for this when once i get you here. so _tremble_! do you hear? be good enough to tremble! "i've only time for one question to-day. who in the world are the 'all' that join you in 'lufs and kisses.' weren't you fancying you were at home, and sending messages (as people constantly do) from nellie and emsie without their having given any? it isn't a good plan that sending messages people haven't given. i don't mean it's in the least _untruthful_, because everybody knows how commonly they are sent without having been given; but it lessens the pleasure of receiving the messages. my sisters write to me 'with best love from all.' i know it isn't true; so i don't value it much. the other day, the husband of one of my 'child-friends' (who always writes 'your loving') wrote to me and ended with 'ethel joins me in kindest regards.' in my answer i said (of course in fun)--'i am not going to send ethel kindest regards, so i won't send her any message _at all_.' then she wrote to say she didn't even know he was writing! 'of course i would have sent best love,' and she added that she had given her husband a piece of her mind! poor husband! "your always loving uncle, "c. l. d." these letters are written in lewis carroll's ordinary handwriting, not a particularly legible one. when, however, he was writing for the press no characters could have been more clearly and distinctly formed than his. throughout his life he always made it his care to give as little trouble as possible to other people. "why should the printers have to work overtime because my letters are ill-formed and my words run into each other?" he once said, when a friend remonstrated with him because he took such pains with the writing of his "copy." as a specimen of his careful penmanship the diary that he wrote for me, which is reproduced in this book in facsimile, is an admirable example. they were happy days, those days in oxford, spent with the most fascinating companion that a child could have. in our walks about the old town, in our visits to cathedral or chapel or hall, in our visits to his friends he was an ideal companion, but i think i was almost happiest when we came back to his rooms and had tea alone; when the fire-glow (it was always winter when i stayed in oxford) threw fantastic shadows about the quaint room, and the thoughts of the prosiest of people must have wandered a little into fancy-land. the shifting firelight seemed to almost ætherealise that kindly face, and as the wonderful stories fell from his lips, and his eyes lighted on me with the sweetest smile that ever a man wore, i was conscious of a love and reverence for charles dodgson that became nearly an adoration. it was almost pain when the lights were turned up and we came back to everyday life and tea. he was very particular about his tea, which he always made himself, and in order that it should draw properly he would walk about the room swinging the tea-pot from side to side for exactly ten minutes. the idea of the grave professor promenading his book-lined study and carefully waving a tea-pot to and fro may seem ridiculous, but all the minutiæ of life received an extreme attention at his hands, and after the first surprise one came quickly to realise the convenience that his carefulness ensured. [illustration: beggar children] before starting on a railway journey, for instance (and how delightful were railway journeys in the company of lewis carroll), he used to map out exactly every minute of the time that we were to take on the way. the details of the journey completed, he would exactly calculate the amount of money that must be spent, and, in different partitions of the two purses that he carried, arrange the various sums that would be necessary for cabs, porters, newspapers, refreshments, and the other expenses of a journey. it was wonderful how much trouble he saved himself _en route_ by thus making ready beforehand. lewis carroll was never driven half frantic on a station platform because he had to change a sovereign to buy a penny paper while the train was on the verge of starting. with him journeys were always comfortable. of the joys that waited on a little girl who stayed with lewis carroll at his oxford home i can give no better idea than that furnished by the diary that follows, which he wrote for me, bit by bit, during the evenings of one of my stays at oxford. [illustrations: facsimile: =isa's visit to oxford.= 1888. =chap. i.= on wednesday, the eleventh of july, isa happened to meet a friend at paddington station at half-past-ten. she can't remember his name, but she says he was an old old old gentleman, and he had invited her, she thinks, to go with him somewhere or other, she can't remember where. =chap. ii.= the first thing they did, after calling at a shop, was to go to the panorama of the "falls of niagara". isa thought it very wonderful. you seemed to be on the top of a tower, with miles and miles of country all round you. the things in front were real, and somehow they joined into the picture behind, so that you couldn't tell where the real things ended and the picture began. near the foot of the falls, there was a steam-packet crossing the river, which showed what a tremendous height the falls must be, it looked so tiny. in the road in front were two men and a dog, standing looking the other way. they may have been wooden figures, or part of the picture, there was no knowing which. the man, who stood next to isa, said to another man "that dog looked round just now. now see, i'll whistle to him, and make him look round again!" and he began whistling: and isa almost expected, it looked so exactly like a real dog, that it would turn its head to see who was calling it! after that isa and her friend (the aged aged man) went to the house of a mr dymes. mrs dymes gave them some dinner, and two of her children, called helen and maud, went with them to terry's theatre, to see the play of "little lord fauntleroy". little véra beringer was the little lord fauntleroy. isa would have liked to play the part, but the manager at the theatre did not allow her, as she did not know the words, which would have made it go off badly. isa liked the whole play very much: the passionate old earl, and the gentle mother of the little boy, and the droll "mr. hobbs", and all of them. then they all went off by the metropolitan railway, and the two miss dymeses got out at their station, and isa and the a.a.m. went on to oxford. a kind old lady, called mrs symonds, had invited isa to come and sleep at her house: and she was soon fast asleep, and dreaming that she and little lord fauntleroy were going in a steamer down the falls of niagara, and whistling to a dog, who was in such a hurry to go up the falls that he wouldn't attend to them. =chap. iii.= the next morning isa set off, almost before she was awake, with the a.a.m., to pay a visit to a little college, called "christ church". you go in under a magnificent tower, called "tom tower", nearly four feet high (so that isa had hardly to stoop at all, to go under it) into the great quadrangle (which very vulgar people call "tom quad".) you should always be polite, even when speaking to a quadrangle: it might seem not to take any notice, but it doesn't like being called names. on their way to christ church they saw a tall monument, like the spire of a church, called the "martyrs' memorial", put up in memory of three bishops, cranmer, ridley and latimer, who were burned in the reign of queen mary, because they would not be roman catholics. christ church was built in 1546. they had breakfast at ch. ch., in the rooms of the a.a.m., and then isa learned how to print with the "typewriter", and printed several beautiful volumes of poetry, all of her own invention. by this time it was 1 o'clock, so isa paid a visit to the kitchen, to make sure that the chicken, for her dinner, was being properly roasted the kitchen is about the oldest part of the college, so was built about 1546. it has a fire-grate large enough to roast forty legs of mutton at once. then they saw the dining hall, in which the a.a.m. has dined several times, (about 8,000 times, perhaps). after dinner, they went, through the quadrangle of the bodleian library, into broad street, and, as a band was just going by, of course they followed it. (isa likes bands better than anything in the world, except lands, and walking on sands, and wringing her hands). the band led them into the gardens of wadham college (built in 1613), where there was a school-treat going on. the treat was, first marching twice round the garden--then having a photograph done of them, all in a row--then a =promise= of "punch and judy", which wouldn't be ready for 20 minutes, so isa, and co., wouldn't wait, but went back to ch. ch., and saw the "broad walk." in the evening they played at "reversi", till isa had lost the small remainder of her temper. then she went to bed, and dreamed she was judy, and was beating punch with a stick of barley-sugar. =chap. iv.= on friday morning (after taking her medicine very amiably), went with the a.a.m. (who =would= go with her, though she told him over and over she would rather be alone) to the gardens of worcester college (built in 1714) where they didn't see the swans (who ought to have been on the lake), nor the hippopotamus, who ought not to have been walking about among the flowers, gathering honey like a busy bee. after breakfast, isa helped the a.a.m. to pack his luggage, because he thought he would go away, he didn't know where, some day, he didn't know when--so she put a lot of things, she didn't know what, into boxes, she didn't know which. after dinner they went to st. john's college (built in 1555), and admired the large lawn, where more than 150 ladies, dressed in robes of gold and silver, were not walking about. then they saw the chapel of keble college (built in 1870) and then the new museum, where isa quite lost her heart to a charming stuffed gorilla, that smiled on her from a glass case. the museum was finished in 1860. the most curious thing they saw there was a "walking leaf," a kind of insect that looks exactly like a withered leaf. then they went to new college (built in 1386), & saw, close to the entrance, a "skew" arch (going slantwise through the wall) one of the first ever built in england. after seeing the gardens, they returned to ch. ch. (parts of the old city walls run round the gardens of new college: and you may still see some of the old narrow slits, through which the defenders could shoot arrows at the attacking army, who could hardly succeed in shooting through them from the outside). they had tea with mrs paget, wife of dr. paget one of the canons of ch. ch. then, after a sorrowful evening, isa went to bed, and dreamed she was buzzing about among the flowers, with the dear gorilla: but there wasn't any honey in them--only slices of bread-and-butter, and multiplication-tables. =chap. v.= on saturday isa had a music lesson, and learned to play on an american orguinette. it is not a =very= difficult instrument to play, as you only have to turn a handle round and round: so she did it nicely. you put a long piece of paper in, and it goes through the machine, and the holes in the paper make different notes play. they put one in wrong end first, and had a tune backwards, and soon found themselves in the day before yesterday: so they dared not go on, for fear of making isa so young she would not be able to talk. the a.a.m. does not like visitors who only howl, and get red in the face, from morning to night. in the afternoon they went round ch. ch. meadow, and saw the barges belonging to the colleges, and some pretty views of magdalen tower through the trees. then they went through the botanical gardens, built in the year----no, by the bye, they never were built at all. and then to magdalen college. at the top of the wall, in one corner, they saw a very large jolly face, carved in stone, with a broad grin, and a little man at the side, helping him to laugh by pulling up the corner of his mouth for him. isa thought that, the next time she wants to laugh, she will get nellie and maggie to help her. with two people to pull up the corners of your mouth for you, it is as easy to laugh as can be! they went into magdalen meadow, which has a pretty walk all round it, arched over with trees: and there they met a lady "from amurrica," as she told them, who wanted to know the way to "addison's walk," and particularly wanted to know if there would be "any danger" in going there. they told her the way, and that =most= of the lions and tigers and buffaloes, round the meadow, were quite gentle and hardly ever killed people: so she set off, pale and trembling, and they saw her no more: only they heard her screams in the distance: so they guessed what had happened to her then they rode in a tram-car to another part of oxford, and called on a lady called mrs jeane, and her little grand-daughter, called "noël", because she was born on christmas-day. ("noël" is the french name for "christmas".) and there they had so much tea that at last isa nearly turned into a "teaser". then they went home, down a little narrow street, where there was a little dog standing fixed in the middle of the street, as if its feet were glued to the ground: they asked it how long it meant to stand there, and it said (as well as it could) "till the week after next". then isa went to bed, and dreamed she was going round magdalen meadow, with the "amurrican" lady, and there was a buffalo sitting at the top of every tree, handing her cups of tea as she went underneath: but they all held the cups upside-down, so that the tea poured all over her head and ran down her face. =chap. vi.= on sunday morning they went to st. mary's church, in high street. in coming home, down the street next to the one where they had found a fixed dog, they found a fixed cat--a poor little kitten, that had put out its head through the bars of the cellar-window, and get back again. they rang the bell at the next door, but the maid said the cellar wasn't in that house, and, before they could get to the right door the cat had unfixed its head----either from its neck or from the bars, and had gone inside. isa thought the animals in this city have a curious way of fixing themselves up and down the place, as if they were hat-pegs. then they went back to ch. ch., and looked at a lot of dresses, which the a.a.m kept in a cupboard, to dress up children in, when they come to be photographed. some of the dresses had been used in pantomimes at drury lane: some were rags, to dress up beggar-children in: some had been very magnificent once, but were getting quite old and shabby. talking of old dresses, there is one college in oxford, so old that it is not known for certain when it was built the people, who live there, say it was built more than 1000 years ago: and, when they say this, the people who live in the other colleges never contradict them, but listen most respectfully----only they wink a little with one eye, as if they didn't =quite= believe it. the same day, isa saw a curious book of pictures of ghosts. if you look hard at one for a minute, and then look at the ceiling, you see another ghost there: only, when you have a black one in the book, it is a =white= one on the ceiling: when it is green in the book, it is =pink= on the ceiling. in the middle of the day, as usual, isa had her dinner: but this time it was grander than usual. there was a dish of "meringues" (this is pronounced "marangs"), which isa thought so good that she would have liked to live on them all the rest of her life. they took a little walk in the afternoon, and in the middle of broad street they saw a cross buried in the ground, very near the place where the martyrs were burned. then they went into the gardens of trinity college (built in 1554) to see the "lime walk", a pretty little avenue of lime-trees. the great iron "gates" at the end of the garden are not real gates, but all done in one piece: and they couldn't open them, even if you knocked all day. isa thought them a miserable sham. then they went into the "parks" (this word doesn't mean "parks of grass, with trees and deer," but "parks" of guns: that is, great rows of cannons, which stood there when king charles the first was in oxford, and oliver cromwell fighting against him. they saw "mansfield college", a new college just begun to be built, with such tremendously narrow windows that isa was afraid the young gentlemen who come there will not be able to see to learn their lessons, and will go away from oxford just as wise as they came. then they went to the evening service at new college, and heard some beautiful singing and organ-playing. then back to ch. ch., in pouring rain. isa tried to count the drops: but, when she had counted four millions, three hundred and seventy-eight thousand, two hundred and forty-seven, she got tired of counting, and left off. after dinner, isa got somebody or other (she is not sure who it was) to finish this story for her. then she went to bed, and dreamed she was fixed in the middle of oxford, with her feet fast to the ground, and her head between the bars of a cellar-window, in a sort of final tableau. then she dreamed the curtain came down, and the people all called out "encore!" but she cried out "oh, not again! it would be =too= dreadful to have my visit all over again!" but, on second thoughts, she smiled in her sleep, and said "well, do you know, after all, i think i wouldn't mind so very much if i =did= have it all over again!". lewis carroll. the end] this diary, and what i have written before, show how i, as a little girl, knew lewis carroll at oxford. for his little girl friends, of course, he reserved the most intimate side of his nature, but on occasion he would throw off his reserve and talk earnestly and well to some young man in whose life he took an interest. mr. arthur girdlestone is able to bear witness to this, and he has given me an account of an evening that he once spent with lewis carroll, which i reproduce here from notes made during our conversation. mr. girdlestone, then an undergraduate at new college, had on one occasion to call on lewis carroll at his rooms in tom quad. at the time of which i am speaking lewis carroll had retired very much from the society which he had affected a few years before. indeed for the last years of his life he was almost a recluse, and beyond dining in hall saw hardly any one. miss beatrice hatch, one of his "girl friends," writes apropos of his hermit-like seclusion:-"if you were very anxious to get him to come to your house on any particular day, the only chance was _not_ to _invite_ him, but only to inform him that you would be at home. otherwise he would say, 'as you have _invited_ me i cannot come, for i have made a rule to decline all _invitations_; but i will come the next day.' in former years he would sometimes consent to go to a 'party' if he was quite sure he was not to be 'shown off' or introduced to any one as the author of 'alice.' i must again quote from a note of his in answer to an invitation to tea: 'what an awful proposition! to drink tea from four to six would tax the constitution even of a hardened tea drinker! for me, who hardly ever touch it, it would probably be fatal.'" all through the university, except in an extremely limited circle, lewis carroll was regarded as a person who lived very much by himself. "when," mr. girdlestone said to me, "i went to see him on quite a slight acquaintance, i confess it was with some slight feeling of trepidation. however i had to on some business, and accordingly i knocked at his door about 8.30 one winter's evening, and was invited to come in. "he was sitting working at a writing-table, and all round him were piles of mss. arranged with mathematical neatness, and many of them tied up with tape. the lamp threw his face into sharp relief as he greeted me. my business was soon over, and i was about to go away, when he asked me if i would have a glass of wine and sit with him for a little. "the night outside was very cold, and the fire was bright and inviting, and i sat down. he began to talk to me of ordinary subjects, of the things a man might do at oxford, of the place itself, and the affection in which he held it. he talked quietly, and in a rather tired voice. during our conversation my eye fell upon a photograph of a little girl--evidently from the freshness of its appearance but newly taken--which was resting upon the ledge of a reading-stand at my elbow. it was the picture of a tiny child, very pretty, and i picked it up to look at it. "'that is the baby of a girl friend of mine,' he said, and then, with an absolute change of voice, 'there is something very strange about very young children, something i cannot understand.' i asked him in what way, and he explained at some length. he was far less at his ease than when talking trivialities, and he occasionally stammered and sometimes hesitated for a word. i cannot remember all he said, but some of his remarks still remain with me. he said that in the company of very little children his brain enjoyed a rest which was startlingly recuperative. if he had been working too hard or had tired his brain in any way, to play with children was like an actual material tonic to his whole system. i understood him to say that the effect was almost physical! "he said that he found it much easier to understand children, to get his mind into correspondence with their minds when he was fatigued with other work. personally, i did not understand little children, and they seemed quite outside my experience, and rather incautiously i asked him if children never bored him. he had been standing up for most of the time, and when i asked him that, he sat down suddenly. 'they are three-fourths of my life,' he said. 'i cannot understand how any one could be bored by little children. i think when you are older you will come to see this--i hope you'll come to see it.' "after that he changed the subject once more, and became again the mathematician--a little formal, and rather weary." mr. girdlestone probably had a unique experience, for it was but rarely that mr. dodgson so far unburdened himself to a comparative stranger, and what was even worse, to a "grown-up stranger." now i have given you two different phases of lewis carroll at oxford--lewis carroll as the little girl's companion, and lewis carroll sitting by the fireside telling something of his inner self to a young man. i am going on to talk about my life with him at eastbourne, where i used, year by year, to stay with him at his house in lushington road. he was very fond of eastbourne, and it was from that place that i received the most charming letters that he wrote me. here is one, and i could hardly say how many times i have taken this delightful letter from its drawer to read through and through again. "7 lushington road, eastbourne, "_september 17, 1893_. "oh, you naughty, naughty little culprit! if only i could fly to fulham with a handy little stick (ten feet long and four inches thick is my favourite size) how i would rap your wicked little knuckles. however, there isn't much harm done, so i will sentence you to a very mild punishment--only one year's imprisonment. if you'll just tell the fulham policeman about it, he'll manage all the rest for you, and he'll fit you with a nice pair of handcuffs, and lock you up in a nice cosy dark cell, and feed you on nice dry bread, and delicious cold water. [illustration: st. george the dragon] "but how badly you _do_ spell your words! i _was_ so puzzled about the 'sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses!' but at last i made out why, of course, you meant 'a sack full of _gloves_, and a basket full of _kittens_!' then i understood what you were sending me. and just then mrs. dyer came to tell me a large sack and a basket had come. there was such a miawing in the house, as if all the cats in eastbourne had come to see me! 'oh, just open them please, mrs. dyer, and count the things in them!' "so in a few minutes mrs. dyer came and said, '500 pairs of gloves in the sack and 250 kittens in the basket.' "'dear me! that makes 1000 gloves! four times as many gloves as kittens! it's very kind of maggie, but why did she send so many gloves? for i haven't got 1000 _hands_, you know, mrs. dyer.' "and mrs. dyer said, 'no, indeed, you're 998 hands short of that!' "however the next day i made out what to do, and i took the basket with me and walked off to the parish school--the _girl's_ school, you know--and i said to the mistress, 'how many little girls are there at school to-day?' "'exactly 250, sir.' "'and have they all been _very_ good all day?' "'as good as gold, sir.' "so i waited outside the door with my basket, and as each little girl came out, i just popped a soft little kitten into her hands! oh, what joy there was! the little girls went all dancing home, nursing their kittens, and the whole air was full of purring! then, the next morning, i went to the school, before it opened, to ask the little girls how the kittens had behaved in the night. and they all arrived sobbing and crying, and their faces and hands were all covered with scratches, and they had the kittens wrapped up in their pinafores to keep them from scratching any more. and they sobbed out, 'the kittens have been scratching us all night, all the night.' "so then i said to myself, 'what a nice little girl maggie is. _now_ i see why she sent all those gloves, and why there are four times as many gloves as kittens!' and i said loud to the little girls, 'never mind, my dear children, do your lessons _very_ nicely, and don't cry any more, and when school is over, you'll find me at the door, and you shall see what you shall see!' "so, in the evening, when the little girls came running out, with the kittens still wrapped up in their pinafores, there was i, at the door, with a big sack! and, as each little girl came out, i just popped into her hand two pairs of gloves! and each little girl unrolled her pinafore and took out an angry little kitten, spitting and snarling, with its claws sticking out like a hedgehog. but it hadn't time to scratch, for, in one moment, it found all its four claws popped into nice soft warm gloves! and then the kittens got quite sweet-tempered and gentle, and began purring again! "so the little girls went dancing home again, and the next morning they came dancing back to school. the scratches were all healed, and they told me 'the kittens _have_ been good!' and, when any kitten wants to catch a mouse, it just takes off _one_ of its gloves; and if it wants to catch _two_ mice, it takes off two gloves; and if it wants to catch _three_ mice, it takes off _three_ gloves; and if it wants to catch _four_ mice, it takes off all its gloves. but the moment they've caught the mice, they pop their gloves on again, because they know we can't love them without their gloves. for, you see 'gloves' have got 'love' _inside_ them--there's none _outside_! "so all the little girls said, 'please thank maggie, and we send her 250 _loves_, and 1000 _kisses_ in return for her 250 kittens and her 1000 _loves_!!' and i told them in the wrong order! and they said they hadn't. "your loving old uncle, "c. l. d. "love and kisses to nellie and emsie." this letter takes up eight pages of close writing, and i should very much doubt if any child ever had a more charming one from anybody. the whimsical fancy in it, the absolute comprehension of a child's intellect, the quickness with which the writer employs the slightest incident or thing that would be likely to please a little girl, is simply wonderful. i shall never forget how the letter charmed and delighted my sister maggie and myself. we called it "the glove and kitten letter," and as i look at the tremulous handwriting which is lying by my side, it all comes back to me very vividly--like the sound of forgotten fingers on the latch to some lonely fireside watcher, when the wind is wailing round the house with a wilder inner note than it has in the daytime. at eastbourne i was happier even with lewis carroll than i was at oxford. we seemed more free, and there was the air of holiday over it all. every day of my stay at the house in lushington road was a perfect dream of delight. there was one regular and fixed routine which hardly ever varied, and which i came to know by heart; and i will write an account of it here, and ask any little girl who reads it, if she ever had such a splendid time in her life. to begin with, we used to get up very early indeed. our bedroom doors faced each other at the top of the staircase. when i came out of mine i always knew if i might go into his room or not by his signal. if, when i came into the passage, i found that a newspaper had been put under the door, then i knew i might go in at once; but if there was no newspaper, then i had to wait till it appeared. i used to sit down on the top stair as quiet as a mouse, watching for the paper to come under the door, when i would rush in almost before uncle had time to get out of the way. this was always the first pleasure and excitement of the day. then we used to downstairs to breakfast, after which we always read a chapter out of the bible. so that i should remember it, i always had to tell it to him afterwards as a story of my own. [illustration: "lewis carroll's" house at eastbourne] "now then, isa dearest," he would say, "tell me a story, and mind you begin with 'once upon a time.' a story which does not begin with 'once upon a time' can't possibly be a good story. it's _most_ important." when i had told my story it was time to go out. i was learning swimming at the devonshire park baths, and we always had a bargain together. he would never allow me to go to the swimming-bath--which i revelled in--until i had promised him faithfully that i would go afterwards to the dentist's. he had great ideas upon the importance of a regular and almost daily visit to the dentist. he himself went to a dentist as he would have gone to a hairdresser's, and he insisted that all the little girls he knew should go too. the precaution sounds strange, and one might be inclined to think that lewis carroll carried it to an unnecessary length; but i can only bear personal witness to the fact that i have firm strong teeth, and have never had a toothache in my life. i believe i owe this entirely to those daily visits to the eastbourne dentist. soon after this it was time for lunch, and we both went back hand-in-hand to the rooms in lushington road. lewis carroll never had a proper lunch, a fact which always used to puzzle me tremendously. i could not understand how a big grown-up man could live on a glass of sherry and a biscuit at dinner time. it seemed such a pity when there was lots of mutton and rice-pudding that he should not have any. i always used to ask him, "aren't you hungry, uncle, even _to-day_?" after lunch i used to have a lesson in backgammon, a game of which he was passionately fond, and of which he could never have enough. then came what to me was the great trial of the day. i am afraid i was a very lazy little girl in those days, and i know i hated walking far. the trial was, that we should walk to the top of beachy head every afternoon. i used to like it very much when i got there, but the walk was irksome. lewis carroll believed very much in a great amount of exercise, and said one should always go to bed physically wearied with the exercise of the day. accordingly there was no way out of it, and every afternoon i had to walk to the top of beachy head. he was very good and kind. he would invent all sorts of new games to beguile the tedium of the way. one very curious and strange trait in his character was shown on these walks. i used to be very fond of flowers and of animals also. a pretty dog or a hedge of honeysuckle were always pleasant events upon a walk to me. and yet he himself cared for neither flowers nor animals. tender and kind as he was, simple and unassuming in all his tastes, yet he did not like flowers! i confess that even now i find it hard to understand. he knew children so thoroughly and well--perhaps better than any one else--that it is all the stranger that he did not care for things that generally attract them so much. however, be that as it may, the fact remained. when i was in raptures over a poppy or a dogrose, he would try hard to be as interested as i was, but even to my childish eyes it was an obvious effort, and he would always rather invent some new game for us to play at. once, and once only, i remember him to have taken an interest in a flower, and that was because of the folk-lore that was attached to it, and not because of the beauty of the flower itself. we used to walk into the country that stretched, in beautiful natural avenues of trees, inland from eastbourne. one day while we sat under a great tree, and the hum of the myriad insect life rivalled the murmur of the far-away waves, he took a foxglove from the heap that lay in my lap and told me the story of how they came by their name; how, in the old days, when, all over england, there were great forests, like the forest of arden that shakespeare loved, the pixies, the "little folks," used to wander at night in the glades, like titania, and oberon, and puck, and because they took great pride in their dainty hands they made themselves gloves out of the flowers. so the particular flower that the "little folks" used came to be called "folks' gloves." then, because the country people were rough and clumsy in their talk, the name was shortened into "fox-gloves," the name that every one uses now. when i got very tired we used to sit down upon the grass, and he used to show me the most wonderful things made out of his handkerchief. every one when a child has, i suppose, seen the trick in which a handkerchief is rolled up to look like a mouse, and then made to jump about by a movement of the hand. he did this better than any one i ever saw, and the trick was a never-failing joy. by a sort of consent between us the handkerchief trick was kept especially for the walk to beachy head, when, about half-way, i was a little tired and wanted to rest. when we actually got to the head there was tea waiting in the coastguard's cottage. he always said i ate far too much, and he would never allow me more than one rock cake and a cup of tea. this was an invariable rule, and much as i wished for it, i was never allowed to have more than one rock cake. it was in the coastguard's house or on the grass outside that i heard most of his stories. sometimes he would make excursions into the realms of pure romance, where there were scaly dragons and strange beasts that sat up and talked. in all these stories there was always an adventure in a forest, and the great scene of each tale always took place in a wood. the consummation of a story was always heralded by the phrase, "the children now came to a deep dark wood." when i heard that sentence, which was always spoken very slowly and with a solemn dropping of the voice, i always knew that the really exciting part was coming. i used to nestle a little nearer to him, and he used to hold me a little closer as he told of the final adventure. he did not always tell me fairy tales, though i think i liked the fairy tale much the best. sometimes he gave me accounts of adventures which had happened to him. there was one particularly thrilling story of how he was lost on beachy head in a sea fog, and had to find his way home by means of boulders. this was the more interesting because we were on the actual scene of the disaster, and to be there stimulated the imagination. the summer afternoons on the great headland were very sweet and peaceful. i have never met a man so sensible to the influences of nature as lewis carroll. when the sunset was very beautiful he was often affected by the sight. the widespread wrinkled sea below, in the mellow melancholy light of the afternoon, seemed to fit in with his temperament. i have still a mental picture that i can recall of him on the cliff. just as the sun was setting, and a cool breeze whispered round us, he would take off his hat and let the wind play with his hair, and he would look out to sea. once i saw tears in his eyes, and when we turned to go he gripped my hand much tighter than usual. [illustration: miss isa bowman and miss bessie hatton as the little princes in the tower] we generally got back to dinner about seven or earlier. he would never let me change my frock for the meal, even if we were going to a concert or theatre afterwards. he had a curious theory that a child should not change her clothes twice in one day. he himself made no alteration in his dress at dinner time, nor would he permit me to do so. yet he was not by any means an untidy or slovenly man. he had many little fads in dress, but his great horror and abomination was high-heeled shoes with pointed toes. no words were strong enough, he thought, to describe such monstrous things. lewis carroll was a deeply religious man, and on sundays at eastbourne we always went twice to church. yet he held that no child should be forced into church-going against its will. such a state of mind in a child, he said, needed most careful treatment, and the very worst thing to do was to make attendance at the services compulsory. another habit of his, which must, i feel sure, sound rather dreadful to many, was that, should the sermon prove beyond my comprehension, he would give me a little book to read; it was better far, he maintained, to read, than to stare idly about the church. when the rest of the congregation rose at the entrance of the choir he kept his seat. he argued that rising to one's feet at such a time tended to make the choir-boys conceited. i think he was quite right. he kept no special books for sunday reading, for he was most emphatically of opinion that anything tending to make sunday a day dreaded by a child should be studiously avoided. he did not like me to sew on sunday unless it was absolutely necessary. one would have hardly expected that a man of so reserved a nature as lewis carroll would have taken much interest in the stage. yet he was devoted to the theatre, and one of the commonest of the treats that he gave his little girl friends was to organise a party for the play. as a critic of acting he was naïve and outspoken, and never hesitated to find fault if he thought it justifiable. the following letter that he wrote to me criticising my acting in "richard iii." when i was playing with richard mansfield, is one of the most interesting that i ever received from him. although it was written for a child to understand and profit by, and moreover written in the simplest possible way, it yet even now strikes me as a trenchant and valuable piece of criticism. [illustration: isa bowman as duke of york] "ch. ch. oxford, "_ap. 4, '89_. "my lord duke,--the photographs, which your grace did me the honour of sending arrived safely; and i can assure your royal highness that i am very glad to have them, and like them _very_ much, particularly the large head of your late royal uncle's little little son. i do not wonder that your excellent uncle richard should say 'off with his head!' as a hint to the photographer to print it off. would your highness like me to go on calling you the duke of york, or shall i say 'my own own darling isa?' which do you like best? "now i'm going to find fault with my pet about her acting. what's the good of an old uncle like me except to find fault? "you do the meeting with the prince of wales _very_ nicely and lovingly; and, in teasing your uncle for his dagger and his sword, you are very sweet and playful and--'but _that's_ not finding fault!' isa says to herself. isn't it? well, i'll try again. didn't i hear you say 'in weightier things you'll say a _beggar_ nay,' leaning on the word 'beggar'? if so, it was a mistake. _my_ rule for knowing which word to lean on is the word that tells you something _new_, something that is _different_ from what you expected. "take the sentence 'first i bought a bag of apples, then i bought a bag of pears,' you wouldn't say 'then i bought a _bag_ of pears.' the 'bag' is nothing new, because it was a bag in the first part of the sentence. but the _pears_ are new, and different from the _apples_. so you would say, 'then i bought a bag of _pears_.' "do you understand that, my pet?" "now what you say to richard amounts to this, 'with light gifts you'll say to a beggar "yes": with heavy gifts you'll say to a beggar "nay."' the words 'you'll say to a beggar' are the same both times; so you mustn't lean on any of _those_ words. but 'light' is different from 'heavy,' and 'yes' is different from 'nay.' so the way to say the sentence would be 'with _light_ gifts you'll say to a beggar "_yes_": with _heavy_ gifts you'll say to a beggar "_nay_".' and the way to say the lines in the play is- 'o, then i see you will _part_ but with _light_ gifts; in _weightier_ things you'll say a beggar _nay_.' "one more sentence. "when richard says, 'what, would you have my _weapon_, little lord?' and you reply 'i _would_, that i might thank you as you call me,' didn't i hear you pronounce 'thank' as if it were spelt with an 'e'? i know it's very common (i often do it myself) to say 'thenk you!' as an exclamation by itself. i suppose it's an odd way of pronouncing the word. but i'm sure it's wrong to pronounce it so when it comes into a _sentence_. it will sound _much_ nicer if you'll pronounce it so as to rhyme with 'bank.' "one more thing. ('what an impertinent old uncle! always finding fault!') you're not as _natural_, when acting the duke, as you were when you acted alice. you seemed to me not to forgot _yourself_ enough. it was not so much a real _prince_ talking to his elder brother and his uncle; it was _isa bowman_ talking to people she didn't _much_ care about, for an audience to listen to--i don't mean it was that all _through_, but _sometimes_ you were _artificial_. now don't be jealous of miss hatton, when i say she was _sweetly_ natural. she looked and spoke like a _real_ prince of wales. and she didn't seem to know that there was any audience. if you are ever to be a _good_ actress (as i hope you will), you must learn to _forget_ 'isa' altogether, and _be_ the character you are playing. try to think 'this is _really_ the prince of wales. i'm his little brother, and i'm _very_ glad to meet him, and i love him _very_ much,' and 'this is _really_ my uncle: he's very kind, and lets me say saucy things to him,' and _do_ forget that there's anybody else listening! "my sweet pet, i _hope_ you won't be offended with me for saying what i fancy might make your acting better! "your loving old uncle, "charles. x for nellie. x for maggie. x for emsie. x for isa." he was a fairly constant patron of all the london theatres, save the gaiety and the adelphi, which he did not like, and numbered a good many theatrical folk among his acquaintances. miss ellen terry was one of his greatest friends. once i remember we made an expedition from eastbourne to margate to visit miss sarah thorne's theatre, and especially for the purpose of seeing miss violet vanbrugh's ophelia. he was a great admirer of both miss violet and miss irene vanbrugh as actresses. of miss thorne's school of acting, too, he had the highest opinion, and it was his often expressed wish that all intending players could have so excellent a course of tuition. among the male members of the theatrical profession he had no especial favourites, excepting mr. toole and mr. richard mansfield. he never went to a music-hall, but considered that, properly managed, they might be beneficial to the public. it was only when the refrain of some particularly vulgar music-hall song broke upon his ears in the streets that he permitted himself to speak harshly about variety theatres. comic opera, when it was wholesome, he liked, and was a frequent visitor to the savoy theatre. the good old style of pantomime, too, was a great delight to him, and he would often speak affectionately of the pantomimes at brighton during the régime of mr. and mrs. nye chart. but of the up-to-date pantomime he had a horror, and nothing would induce him to visit one. "when pantomimes are written for children once more," he said, "i will go. not till then." once when a friend told him that she was about to take her little girls to the pantomime, he did not rest till he had dissuaded her. to conclude what i have said about lewis carroll's affection for the dramatic art, i will give a kind of examination paper, written for a child who had been learning a recitation called "the demon of the pit." though his stuttering prevented him from being himself anything of a reciter, he loved correct elocution, and would take any pains to make a child perfect in a piece. [illustration: the little princes] first of all there is an explanatory paragraph. "as you don't ask any questions about 'the demon of the pit,' i suppose you understand it all. so please answer these questions just as you would do if a younger child (say mollie) asked them." _mollie._ please, ethel, will you explain this poem to me. there are some very hard words in it. _ethel._ what are they, dear? _mollie._ well, in the first line, "if you chance to make a sally." what does "sally" mean? _ethel._ dear mollie, i believe sally means to take a chance work.[2] _mollie._ then, near the end of the first verse--"whereupon she'll call her cronies"--what does "whereupon" mean? and what are cronies? _ethel._ i think whereupon means at the same time, and cronies means her favourite playfellows. _mollie._ "and invest in proud polonies." what's to "invest?" _ethel._ to invest means to spend money in anything you fancy. _mollie._ and what's "a woman of the day?" _ethel._ a woman of the day means a wonder of the time with the general public. _mollie._ "pyrotechnic blaze of wit." what's pyrotechnic? _ethel._ mollie, i think you will find that pyrotechnic means quick, with flashes of lightning. _mollie._ then the 8 lines that begin "the astounding infant wonder"--please explain "rôle" and "mise" and "tout ensemble" and "grit." _ethel._ well, mollie, "rôle" means so many different things, but in "the demon of the pit" i should think it meant the leading part of the piece, and "mise" means something extra good introduced, and "tout" means to seek for applause, but "ensemble" means the whole of the parts taken together, and grit means something good. _mollie._ "and the goblins prostrate tumble." what's "prostrate"? _ethel._ i believe prostrate means to be cast down and unhappy. _mollie._ "and his accents shake a bit." what are "accents"? _ethel._ to accent is to lay stress upon a word. _mollie._ "waits resignedly behind." what's "resignedly"? _ethel._ resignedly means giving up, yielding. _mollie._ "they have tripe as light to dream on." what does "as" mean here? and what does "to dream on" mean? _ethel._ mollie, dear, your last question is very funny. in the first place, i have always been told that hot suppers are not good for any one, and i should think that tripe would _not be light_ to dream on but very heavy. _mollie._ thank you, ethel. i have now nearly finished my little memoir of lewis carroll; that is to say, i have written down all that i can remember of my personal knowledge of him. but i think it is from the letters and the diaries published in this book that my readers must chiefly gain an insight into the character of the greatest friend to children who ever lived. not only did he study children's ways for his own pleasure, but he studied them in order that he might please them. for instance, here is a letter that he wrote to my little sister nelly eight years ago, which begins on the last page and is written entirely backwards--a kind of variant on his famous "looking-glass" writing. you have to begin at the last word and read backwards before you can understand it. the only ordinary thing about it is the date. it begins--i mean _begins_ if one was to read it in the ordinary way--with the characteristic monogram, c. l. d. "_nov. 1, 1891._ "c. l. d., uncle loving your! instead grandson his to it give to had you that so, years 80 or 70 for it forgot you that was it pity a what and: him of fond so were you wonder don't i and, gentleman old nice very a was he. for it made you that _him_ been have _must_ it see you so: _grandfather_ my was, _then_ alive was that, 'dodgson uncle' only the. born was _i_ before long was that, see you, then but. 'dodgson uncle for pretty thing some make i'll now,' it began you when, yourself to said you that, me telling her without, knew i course of and: ago years many great a it made had you said she. me told isa what from was it? for meant was it who out made i how know you do! lasted has it well how and. grandfather my for made had you antimacassar pretty that me give to you of nice so was it, nelly dear my." [illustration] miss hatch has also sent me an original letter that lewis carroll wrote to her in 1873, about a large wax doll that he had given her. it is interesting to notice that this letter, written long before any of the others that he wrote to me, is identically the same in form and expression. it is a striking proof how fresh and unimpaired the writer's sympathies must have been. year after year he retained the same sweet, kindly temperament, and, if anything, his love for children seemed to increase as he grew older. "my dear birdie,--i met her just outside tom gate, walking very stiffly, and i think she was trying to find her way to my rooms. so i said, 'why have you come here without birdie?' so she said, 'birdie's gone! and emily's gone! and mabel isn't kind to me!' and two little waxy tears came running down her cheeks. "why, how stupid of me! i've never told you who it was all the time! it was your new doll. i was very glad to see her, and i took her to my room, and gave her some vesta matches to eat, and a cup of nice melted wax to drink, for the poor little thing was _very_ hungry and thirsty after her long walk. so i said, 'come and sit down by the fire, and let's have a comfortable chat?' 'oh no! _no_!' she said, 'i'd _much_ rather not. you know i do melt so _very_ easily!' and she made me take her quite to the other side of the room, where it was _very_ cold: and then she sat on my knee, and fanned herself with a pen-wiper, because she said she was afraid the end of her nose was beginning to melt. "'you've no _idea_ how careful we have to be,' we dolls, she said. 'why, there was a sister of mine--would you believe it?--she went up to the fire to warm her hands, and one of her hands dropped _right_ off! there now!' 'of course it dropped _right_ off,' i said, 'because it was the _right_ hand.' 'and how do you know it was the _right_ hand, mister carroll?' the doll said. so i said, 'i think it must have been the _right_ hand because the other hand was _left_.' "the doll said, 'i shan't laugh. it's a very bad joke. why, even a common wooden doll could make a better joke than that. and besides, they've made my mouth so stiff and hard, that i _can't_ laugh if i try ever so much?' 'don't be cross about it,' i said, 'but tell me this: i'm going to give birdie and the other children one photograph each, which ever they choose; which do you think birdie will choose?' 'i don't know,' said the doll; 'you'd better ask her!' so i took her home in a hansom cab. which would you like, do you think? arthur as cupid? or arthur and wilfred together? or you and ethel as beggar children? or ethel standing on a box? or, one of yourself?--your affectionate friend, "lewis carroll." among the bundle of letters and ms. before me, i find written on a half sheet of note-paper the following ollendorfian dialogue. it is interesting because, slight and trivial as it is, it in some strange way bears the imprint of lewis carroll's style. the thing is written in the familiar violet ink, and neatly dated in the corner 29/9/90:-"let's go and look at the house i want to buy. now do be quick! you move so slow! what a time you take with your boots!" "don't make such a row about it: it's not two o'clock yet. how do you like _this_ house?" "i don't like it. it's too far down the hill. let's go higher. i heard a nice account of one at the top, built on an improved plan." "what does the rent amount to?" "oh, the rent's all right: it's only nine pounds a year." * * * * * over all matters connected with letter writing, lewis carroll was accustomed to take great pains. all letters that he received that were of any interest or importance whatever he kept, putting them away in old biscuit tins, numbers of which he kept for the purpose. [illustration: "dolly varden"] in 1888 he published a little book which he called "eight or nine wise words about letter writing," and as this little book of mine is so full of letters, i think i can do no better than make a few extracts:- "_write legibly._--the average temper of the human race would be perceptibly sweeter if every one obeyed this rule! a great deal of the bad writing in the world comes simply from writing too quickly. of course you reply, 'i do it to save time.' a very good object, no doubt; but what right have you to do it at your friend's expense? isn't _his_ time as valuable as yours? years ago i used to receive letters from a friend--and very interesting letters too--written in one of the most atrocious hands ever invented. it generally took me about a _week_ to read one of his letters! i used to carry it about in my pocket, and take it out at leisure times, to puzzle over the riddles which composed it--holding it in different positions, and at different distances, till at last the meaning of some hopeless scrawl would flash upon me, when i at once wrote down the english under it; and, when several had thus been guessed, the context would help one with the others, till at last the whole series of hieroglyphics was deciphered. if _all_ one's friends wrote like that, life would be entirely spent in reading their letters." in writing the last wise word, the author no doubt had some of his girl correspondents in his mind's eye, for he says- "_my ninth rule._--when you get to the end of a note sheet, and find you have more to say, take another piece of paper--a whole sheet or a scrap, as the case may demand; but, whatever you do, _don't cross_! remember the old proverb, 'cross writing makes cross reading.' 'the _old_ proverb,' you say inquiringly; 'how old?' well, not so _very_ ancient, i must confess. in fact i'm afraid i invented it while writing this paragraph. still you know 'old' is a comparative term. i think you would be _quite_ justified in addressing a chicken just out of the shell as 'old boy!' _when compared_ with another chicken that was only half out!" i have another diary to give to my readers, a diary that lewis carroll wrote for my sister maggie when, a tiny child, she came to oxford to play the child part, mignon, in "booties' baby." he was delighted with the pretty play, for the interest that the soldiers took in the little lost girl, and how a mere interest ripened into love, till the little mignon was queen of the barracks, went straight to his heart. i give the diary in full:-"maggie's visit to oxford june 9 to 13, 1899 when maggie once to oxford came on tour as 'booties' baby,' she said 'i'll see this place of fame, however dull the day be!' so with her friend she visited the sights that it was rich in: and first of all she poked her head inside the christ church kitchen. the cooks around that little child stood waiting in a ring: and, every time that maggie smiled, those cooks began to sing- shouting the battle-cry of freedom! 'roast, boil, and bake, for maggie's sake! bring cutlets fine, for _her_ to dine: meringues so sweet, for _her_ to eat- for maggie may be bootles' baby!' then hand-in-hand, in pleasant talk, they wandered, and admired the hall, cathedral, and broad walk, till maggie's feet were tired: one friend they called upon--her name was mrs. hassall--then into a college room they came, some savage monster's den! 'and, when that monster dined, i guess he tore her limb from limb?' well, no: in fact, i must confess that _maggie dined with him_! to worcester garden next they strolled- admired its quiet lake: then to st. john's, a college old, their devious way they take. in idle mood they sauntered round its lawns so green and flat: and in that garden maggie found a lovely pussey-cat! a quarter of an hour they spent in wandering to and fro: and everywhere that maggie went, that cat was sure to go- shouting the battle-cry of freedom! 'miaow! miaow! come, make your bow! take off your hats, ye pussy cats! and purr, and purr, to welcome _her_- for maggie may be bootles' baby!' so back to christ church--not too late for them to go and see a christ church undergraduate, who gave them cakes and tea. next day she entered, with her guide, the garden called 'botanic': and there a fierce wild-boar she spied, enough to cause a panic! but maggie didn't mind, not she! she would have faced _alone_, that fierce wild-boar, because, you see, the thing was made of stone! on magdalen walls they saw a face that filled her with delight, a giant-face, that made grimace and grinned with all its might! a little friend, industrious, pulled upwards, all the while, the corner of its mouth, and thus he helped that face to smile! 'how nice,' thought maggie, 'it would be if _i_ could have a friend to do that very thing for _me_, and make my mouth turn up with glee, by pulling at one end!' in magdalen park the deer are wild with joy that maggie brings some bread a friend had given the child, to feed the pretty things. they flock round maggie without fear: they breakfast and they lunch, they dine, they sup, those happy deer- still, as they munch and munch, shouting the battle-cry of freedom! 'yes, deer are we, and dear is she! we love this child so sweet and mild: we all rejoice at maggie's voice: we all are fed with maggie's bread- for maggie may be bootles' baby!' to pembroke college next they go, where little maggie meets the master's wife and daughter: so once more into the streets. they met a bishop on their way- a bishop large as life- with loving smile that seemed to say 'will maggie be my wife?' maggie thought _not_, because, you see, she was so _very_ young, and he was old as old could be- so maggie held her tongue. 'my lord, she's _bootles' baby_: we are going up and down,' her friend explained, 'that she may see the sights of oxford-town.' 'now say what kind of place it is!' the bishop gaily cried. 'the best place in the provinces!' that little maid replied. next to new college, where they saw two players hurl about a hoop, but by what rule or law they could not quite make out. 'ringo' the game is called, although 'les graces' was once its name, when _it_ was--as its name will show- a much more _graceful_ game. the misses symonds next they sought, who begged the child to take a book they long ago had bought- a gift for friendship's sake! away, next morning, maggie went from oxford-town: but yet the happy hours she there had spent she could not soon forget. the train is gone: it rumbles on: the engine-whistle screams: but maggie's deep in rosy sleep- and softly, in her dreams, whispers the battle-cry of freedom! 'oxford, good-bye!' she seems to sigh, 'you dear old city, with gardens pretty, and lawns, and flowers, and college-towers, and tom's great bell- farewell, farewell! for maggie may be booties' baby!' --lewis carroll." [illustration: "a turk"] the tale has been often told of how "alice in wonderland" came to be written, but it is a tale so well worth the telling again, that, very shortly, i will give it to you here. years ago in the great quadrangle of christ church, opposite to mr. dodgson, lived the little daughters of dean liddell, the great greek scholar and dean of christ church. the little girls were great friends of mr. dodgson's, and they used often to come to him and to plead with him for a fairy tale. there was never such a teller of tales, they thought! one can imagine the whole delightful scene with little trouble. that big cool room on some summer's afternoon, when the air was heavy with flower scents, and the sounds that came floating in through the open window were all mellowed by the distance. one can see him, that good and kindly gentleman, his mobile face all aglow with interest and love, telling the immortal story. round him on his knee sat the little sisters, their eyes wide open and their lips parted in breathless anticipation. when alice (how the little alice liddell who was listening must have loved the tale!) rubbed the mushroom and became so big that she quite filled the little fairy house, one can almost hear the rapturous exclamations of the little ones as they heard of it. the story, often continued on many summer afternoons, sometimes in the cool christ church rooms, sometimes in a slow gliding boat in a still river between banks of rushes and strange bronze and yellow waterflowers, or sometimes in a great hay-field, with the insects whispering in the grass all round, grew in its conception and idea. other folk, older folk, came to hear of it from the little ones, and mr. dodgson was begged to write it down. accordingly the first ms. was prepared with great care and illustrated by the author. then, in 1865, memorable year for english children, "alice" appeared in its present form, with sir john tenniel's drawings. in 1872 "alice through the looking-glass," appeared, and was received as warmly as its predecessor. that fact, i think, proves most conclusively that lewis carroll's success was a success of absolute merit, and due to no mere mood or fashion of the public taste. i can conceive nothing more difficult for a man who has had a great success with one book than to write a sequel which should worthily succeed it. in the present case that is exactly what lewis carroll did. "through the looking-glass" is every whit as popular and charming as the older book. indeed one depends very much upon the other, and in every child's book-shelves one sees the two masterpieces side by side. [illustrations: facsimile: b.h. from c. l. d. a charade. [nb five pounds will be given to any one who succeeds in writing an original poetical charade, introducing the line "my first is followed by a bird," but making no use of the answer to this charade. ap 8 1878 (signed) lewis carroll] my first is a singular at best more plural is my second. my third is far the pluralest- so plural-plural, i protest, it scarcely can be reckoned! my first is followed by a bird my second by believers in magic art: my simple third follows, too often, hopes absurd, and plausible deceivers. my first to get at wisdom tries- a failure melancholy! my second men revere as wise: my third from heights of wisdom fall to depths of frantic folly! my first is ageing day by day, my second's age is ended. my third enjoys an age, they say, that never seems to fade away, through centuries extended! my whole? i need a poet's pen to paint her myriad phases the monarch, and the slave, of men- a mountain-summit, and a den of dark and deadly mazes! a flashing light--a fleeting shade- beginning, end, and middle of all that human art hath made, or wit devised "go, seek her aid, if you would guess my riddle."] while on the subject of the two "alices," i will put in a letter that he wrote mentioning his books. he was so modest about them, that it was extremely difficult to get him to say, or write, anything at all about them. i believe it was a far greater pleasure for him to know that he had pleased some child with "alice" or "the hunting of the snark," than it was to be hailed by the press and public as the first living writer for children. "eastbourne. "my own darling isa,--the full value of a copy of the french 'alice' is £45: but, as you want the 'cheapest' kind, and as you are a great friend of mine, and as i am of a very noble, generous disposition, i have made up my mind to a _great_ sacrifice, and have taken £3, 10s. 0d. off the price. so that you do not owe me more than £41, 10s. 0d., and this you can pay me, in gold or bank-notes _as soon as you ever like_. oh dear! i wonder why i write such nonsense! can you explain to me, my pet, how it happens that when i take up my pen to write a letter to _you_ it won't write sense? do you think the rule is that when the pen finds it has to write to a nonsensical good-for-nothing child, it sets to work to write a nonsensical good-for-nothing letter? well, now i'll tell you the real truth. as miss kitty wilson is a dear friend of yours, of course she's a _sort_ of a friend of mine. so i thought (in my vanity) 'perhaps she would like to have a copy' from the author, 'with her name written in it.' so i've sent her one--but i hope she'll understand that i do it because she's _your_ friend, for, you see, i had never _heard_ of her before: so i wouldn't have any other reason. "i'm still exactly 'on the balance' (like those scales of mine, when nellie says 'it won't weigh!') as to whether it would be wise to have my pet isa down here! how _am_ i to make it weigh, i wonder? can you advise any way to do it? i'm getting on grandly with 'sylvie and bruno concluded.' i'm afraid you'll expect me to give you a copy of it? well, i'll see if i have one to spare. it won't be out before easter-tide, i'm afraid. "i wonder what sort of condition the book is in that i lent you to take to america? ('laneton parsonage,' i mean). very shabby, i expect. i find lent books _never_ come back in good condition. however, i've got a second copy of this book, so you may keep it as your own. love and kisses to any one you know who is lovely and kissable.- "always your loving uncle, "c. l. d." in 1876 appeared the long poem called the "hunting of the snark; or, an agony in eight fits," and besides those verses we have from lewis carroll's pen two books called "phantasmagoria" and "rhyme and reason." the last work of his that attained any great celebrity was "sylvie and bruno," a curious romance, half fairy tale, half mathematical treatise. mr. dodgson was employed of late years on his "symbolic logic," only one part of which has been published, and he seems to have been influenced by his studies. one can easily trace the trail of the logician in sylvie and bruno, and perhaps this resulted in a certain lack of "form." however, some of the nonsense verses in this book were up to the highest level of the author's achievement. even as i write the verse comes to me- "he thought he saw a kangaroo turning a coffee-mill; he looked again, and found it was a vegetable pill! 'were i to swallow you,' he said, 'i should be very ill'!" the fascinating jingle stays in the memory when graver verse eludes all effort at recollection. i personally could repeat "the walrus and the carpenter" from beginning to end without hesitation, but i should find a difficulty in writing ten lines of "hamlet" correctly. at the beginning of "sylvie and bruno" is a little poem in three verses which forms an acrostic on my name. i quote it- "is all our life, then, but a dream, seen faintly in the golden gleam athwart time's dark resistless stream? bowed to the earth with bitter woe, or laughing at some raree-show, we flutter idly to and fro. man's little day in haste we spend, and, from its merry noontide, send no glance to meet the silent end." you see that if you take the first letter of each line, or if you take the first three letters of the first line of each verse, you get the name isa bowman. [illustration: facsimile: prologue [enter beatrice, leading wilfred she leaves him to centre (front) & after going round on tip-toe to make sure they are not overheard returns & takes his arm.] b. "wiffie! i'm sure that something is the matter! all day there's been--oh such a fuss and clatter! mamma's been trying on a funny dress- i never =saw= the house in such a mess! (puts her arm round his neck) is there a secret, wiffie?" w. (shaking her off) "yes, of course!" b. "and you won't tell it? (whispers) then you're very cross! (turns away from, & clasps her hands, looking up ecstatically) i'm sure of =this=! it's something =quite= uncommon!" w. (stretching up his arms with a mock-heroic air) "oh, curiosity! thy name is woman! (puts his arm round her coaxingly) well, birdie, then i'll tell. (mysteriously) what should you say if they were going to act--a little play?" b. (jumping and clapping her hands) "i'd say '=how nice=!'" w. (pointing to audience) "but will it please the rest?" b. "oh =yes=! because, you know, they'll do their best! [turns to audience] "you'll praise them, won't you, when you've seen the play? just say '=how nice=!' before you go away!" [they run away hand in hand]. feb 14. 1873.] although he never wrote anything in the dramatic line, he once wrote a prologue for some private theatricals, which was to be spoken by miss hatch and her brother. this prologue is reproduced in facsimile on the preceding page. miss hatch has also sent me a charade (reproduced on pp. 108-10) which he wrote for her, and illustrated with some of his funny drawings. i have one more letter, the last, which, as it mentions the book "sylvie and bruno," i will give now. "christ church, "_may 16, '90_. "dearest isa,--i had this ('this' was 'sylvie and bruno') bound for you when the book first came out, and it's been waiting here ever since dec. 17, for i really didn't dare to send it across the atlantic--the whales are so inconsiderate. they'd have been sure to want to borrow it to show to the little whales, quite forgetting that the salt water would be sure to spoil it. "also, i've only been waiting for you to get back to send emsie the 'nursery alice.' i give it to the youngest in a family generally; but i've given one to maggie as well, because she travels about so much, and i thought she would like to have one to take with her. i hope nellie's eyes won't get _quite_ green with jealousy, at two (indeed _three_!) of her sisters getting presents, and nothing for her! i've nothing but my love to send her to-day: but she shall have _something some_ day.--ever your loving "uncle charles." socially, lewis carroll was of strong conservative tendencies. he viewed with wonder and a little pain the absolute levelling tendencies of the last few years of his life. i have before me an extremely interesting letter which deals with social observances, and from which i am able to make one or two extracts. the bulk of the letter is of a private nature. "ladies have 'to be _much_' more particular than gentlemen in observing the distinctions of what is called 'social position': and the _lower_ their own position is (in the scale of 'lady' ship), the more jealous they seem to be in guarding it.... i've met with just the same thing myself from people several degrees above me. not long ago i was staying in a house along with a young lady (about twenty years old, i should think) with a title of her own, as she was an earl's daughter. i happened to sit next her at dinner, and every time i spoke to her, she looked at me more as if she was looking down on me from about a mile up in the air, and as if she were saying to herself 'how _dare_ you speak to _me_! why, you're not good enough to black my shoes!' it was so unpleasant, that, next day at luncheon, i got as far off her as i could! "of course we are all _quite_ equal in god's sight, but we _do_ make a lot of distinctions (some of them quite unmeaning) among ourselves!" the picture that this letter gives of the famous writer and learned mathematician obviously rather in terror of some pert young lady fresh from the schoolroom is not without its comic side. one cannot help imagining that the girl must have been very young indeed, for if he were alive to-day there are few ladies of any state who would not feel honoured by the presence of charles dodgson. however, he was not always so unfortunate in his experience of great people, and the following letter, written when he was staying with lord salisbury at hatfield house, tells delightfully of his little royal friends, the duchess of albany's children: "hatfield house, hatfield, "herts, _june 8, '89_." "my darling isa,--i hope this will find you, but i haven't yet had any letter from _fulham_, so i can't be sure if you have yet got into your new house. "this is lord salisbury's house (he is the father, you know, of that lady maud wolmer that we had luncheon with): i came yesterday, and i'm going to stay until monday. it is such a nice house to stay in! they let one do just as one likes--it isn't 'now you must do some geography! now it's time for your sums!' the sort of life _some_ little girls have to lead when they are so foolish as to visit friends--but one can just please one's own dear self. "there are some sweet little children staying in the house. dear little 'wang' is here with her mother. by the way, _i_ made a mistake in telling you what to call her. she is 'the honourable mabel _palmer_'--'palmer' is the family name: 'wolmer' is the _title_, just as the _family_ name of lord salisbury is 'cecil,' so that his daughter was lady maud cecil, till she married. "then there is the duchess of albany here, with two such sweet little children. she is the widow of prince leopold (the queen's youngest son), so her children are a prince and princess: the girl is 'alice,' but i don't know the boy's christian name: they call him 'albany,' because he is the duke of albany. now that i have made friends with a real live little princess, i don't intend ever to _speak_ to any more children that haven't any titles. in fact, i'm so proud, and i hold my chin so high, that i shouldn't even _see_ you if we met! no, darlings, you mustn't believe _that_. if i made friends with a _dozen_ princesses, i would love you better than all of them together, even if i had them all rolled up into a sort of child-roly-poly. "love to nellie and emsie.--your ever loving uncle, "c. l. d." x x x x x x x and now i think that i have done all that has been in my power to present lewis carroll to you in his most delightful aspect--as a friend to children. i have not pretended in any way to write an exhaustive life-story of the man who was so dear to me, but by the aid of the letters and the diaries that i have been enabled to publish, and by the few reminiscences that i have given you of lewis carroll as i knew him, i hope i have done something to bring still nearer to your hearts the memory of the greatest friend that children ever had. footnotes: [1] this refers to my visit to america when, as a child, i played the little duke of york in "richard iii." [2] at this point the real child's answers begin, the three or four lines alone were written by mr. dodgson himself.--ed. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. underlined passages are indicated by =underline=. uncle wiggily in wonderland [illustration] uncle wiggily series by howard r. garis [illustration] _uncle wiggily bedtime stories_ uncle wiggily in wonderland by howard r. garis author of "sammie and susie littletail," "dickie and nellie fliptail," "uncle wiggily's airship," the daddy series, etc. illustrated by edward bloomfield a. l. burt company publishers new york the famous bed time stories books intended for reading aloud to the little folks at night. each volume contains colored illustrations, and a story for every night in the month. the animal tales send the children to bed with happy dreams. bedtime animal stories by howard r. garis sammie and susie littletail johnnie and billie bushytail lulu, alice and jimmie wibblewobble jackies and peetie bow-wow buddy and brighteyes pigg joie, tommie and kittie kat charlie and arabella chick neddie and beckie stubtail bully and bawly no-tail nannie and billie wagtail jollie and jillie longtail jacko and jumpo kinkytail curly and floppy twistytail toodle and noodle flat-tail dottie and willie flufftail dickie and nellie fliptail uncle wiggily bedtime stories by howard r. garis uncle wiggily's adventures uncle wiggily's travels uncle wiggily's fortune uncle wiggily's automobile uncle wiggily at the seashore uncle wiggily's airship uncle wiggily in the country uncle wiggily in the woods uncle wiggily on the farm uncle wiggily's journey uncle wiggily's rheumatism uncle wiggily and baby bunty uncle wiggily in wonderland uncle wiggily in fairyland for sale at all bookstores or sent prepaid on receipt of price, 75 cents per volume, by the publishers a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23rd street new york city _copyright, 1921, by r. f. fenno & company_ uncle wiggily in wonderland contents chapter page i uncle wiggily and wonderland alice 9 ii uncle wiggily and the march hare 16 iii uncle wiggily and the cheshire cat 23 iv uncle wiggily and the dormouse 30 v uncle wiggily and the gryphon 37 vi uncle wiggily and the caterpillar 44 vii uncle wiggily and the hatter 50 viii uncle wiggily and the duchess 56 ix uncle wiggily and the cook 63 x uncle wiggily and the baby 69 xi uncle wiggily and the mock turtle 76 xii uncle wiggily and the lobster 83 xiii uncle wiggily and father william 89 xiv uncle wiggily and the magic bottles 96 xv uncle wiggily and the croquet ball 102 xvi uncle wiggily and the do-do 108 xvii uncle wiggily and the lory 115 xviii uncle wiggily and the puppy 122 xix uncle wiggily and the unicorn 129 xx uncle wiggily and humpty dumpty 136 xxi uncle wiggily and the looking glass 143 xxii uncle wiggily and the white queen 150 xxiii uncle wiggily and the red queen 157 xxiv uncle wiggily and tweedledum 164 xxv uncle wiggily and tweedledee 171 xxvi uncle wiggily and the tear pool 178 chapter i uncle wiggily and wonderland alice once upon a time, after uncle wiggily longears, the nice bunny rabbit gentleman, had some funny adventures with baby bunty, and when he found that his rheumatism did not hurt him so much as he hopped on his red, white and blue striped barber pole crutch, the bunny uncle wished he might have some strange and wonderful adventures. "i think i'll just hop along and look for a few," said uncle wiggily to himself one morning. he twinkled his pink nose, and then he was all ready to start. "good-bye, nurse jane! good-bye!" he called to his muskrat lady housekeeper, with whom he lived in a hollow stump bungalow. "i'm going to look for some wonderful adventures!" he hopped down the front steps, with his red, white and blue striped crutch under one paw, and his tall, silk hat on his head. "good-bye, miss fuzzy wuzzy!" "good-bye!" answered nurse jane. "i hope you have some nice adventures!" "thanks, i wish you the same," answered uncle wiggily, and away he went over the fields and through the woods. he had not hopped very far, looking this way and that, before, all of a sudden, he came to a queer little place, near an old rail fence. down in one corner was a hole, partly underground. "ha! that's queer," said uncle wiggily to himself. "that looks just like the kind of an underground house, or burrow, where i used to live. i wonder if this can be where i made my home before i moved to the hollow stump bungalow? i must take a look. nurse jane would like to hear all about it." so uncle wiggily, folding back his ears in order that they would not get bent over and broken, began crawling down the rabbit hole, for that is what it really was. it was dark inside, but the bunny uncle did not mind that, being able to see in the dark. besides, he could make his pink nose twinkle when he wanted to, and this gave almost as much light as a firefly. "no, this isn't the burrow where i used to live," said uncle wiggily to himself, when he had hopped quite a distance into the hole. "but it's very nice. perhaps i may have an adventure here. who knows?" and just as he said that to himself, uncle wiggily saw, lying under a little table, in what seemed to be a room of the underground house, a small glass box. "ha! my adventure begins!" cried uncle wiggily. "i'll open that glass box and see what is in it." so the bunny uncle raised the cover, and in the glass box was a little cake, made of carrots and cabbage, and on top, spelled out in pink raisins, were the words: "eat me!" "ha! that's just what i'll do!" cried jolly uncle wiggily, and, never stopping to think anything might be wrong, the bunny gentleman ate the cake. and then, all of a sudden, he began to feel very funny. "oh, my!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "i hope that cake didn't belong to my nephew, sammie littletail, or johnnie or billie bushytail, the squirrel brothers. one of them may have lost it out of his lunch basket on his way to school. i hope it wasn't any of their cake. but there is surely something funny about it, for i feel so very queer!" and no wonder! for uncle wiggily had suddenly begun to grow very large. his ears grew taller, so that they lifted his tall silk hat right off his head. his legs seemed as long as bean poles, and as for his whiskers and pink, twinkling nose, they seemed so far away from his eyes that he wondered if he would ever get them near enough to see to comb the one, or scratch the other when it felt ticklish. "this is certainly remarkable!" cried uncle wiggily. "i wonder what made me grow so large all of a sudden? could it have been the cake which gave me the indyspepsia?" "it was the cake!" cried a sudden and buzzing voice, and, looking around the hole uncle wiggily saw a big mosquito. "it was the cake that made you grow big," went on the bad biting bug, "and i put it here for you to eat." "what for?" asked the bunny uncle, puzzled like. "so you would grow so big that you couldn't get out of this hole," was the answer. "and now you can't! this is how i have caught you! ha! ha!" and the mosquito buzzed a most unpleasant laugh. "oh, dear!" thought uncle wiggily. "i wonder if i am caught? can't i get out as i got in?" quickly he hopped to the front of the hole. but alas! likewise sorrowfulness! he had grown so big from eating the magical cake that he could not possibly squeeze out of the hole through which he had crawled into the underground burrow. "now i have caught you!" cried the mosquito. "since we could not catch you at your soldier tent or in the trenches near your hollow stump bungalow, i thought of this way. now we have you and we'll bite you!" and the big mosquito, who with his bad friends had dug the hole on purpose to get uncle wiggily in a trap, began to play a bugle tune on his wings to call the other biting bugs. "oh, dear!" thought uncle wiggily. "i guess i am caught! and i haven't my talcum powder pop gun that shoots bean-bag bullets! oh, if i could only get out of here!" "you can get out, uncle wiggily," said a soft little voice down toward the end of his pink, twinkling nose. "you can get out!" "oh, no, i can't!" the bunny said. "i am much too large to squeeze out of the hole by which i came in here. much too large. oh, dear!" "here, drink some of this and you'll grow small just as i did when i drank from it before i fell into the pool of tears," the soft and gentle voice went on, and to uncle wiggily's surprise, there stood a nice little girl with long, flaxen hair. she was holding out to him a bottle with a tag that read: "drink me." "am i really to drink this?" asked the bunny. "you are," said the little girl. uncle wiggily took a long drink from the bottle. it tasted like lollypop ice cream soda, and no sooner had he taken a good sip than all of a sudden he found himself shutting up small, like a telescope. smaller and smaller he shrank, until he was his own regular size, and then the little girl took him by the paw and cried: "come on! now you can get out!" and, surely enough, uncle wiggily could. "but who are you?" he asked the little girl. "oh! i'm alice from wonderland," she said, "and i know you very well, though you never met me before. i'm in a book, but this is my holiday, so i came out. come on, now, before the mosquitoes catch us! we'll have a lot of funny adventures with some friends of mine. come on!" and away ran uncle wiggily with wonderland alice, who had saved him from being bitten. so everything came out all right, you see. and if the teacup doesn't lose its handle and try to do a foxtrot waltz with the soup tureen, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the march hare. chapter ii uncle wiggily and the march hare "well, uncle wiggily, you certainly did have quite a time, didn't you," said nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper for the rabbit gentleman as they both sat on the porch of the hollow stump bungalow one morning. it was the day after the bunny rabbit had been caught in the mosquito hole, where he swelled up too big to get out, after eating cake from the glass box, as i told you in the first story. then alice from wonderland happened along and gave uncle wiggily a drink from a magical little bottle so that he grew small enough to crawl out of the hole again. "yes, i had a wonderful time with alice," said the rabbit gentleman. "it was quite an adventure." "what do you s'pose was in the cake to make you swell up so large?" asked nurse jane. "cream puffs," answered uncle wiggily. "they're very swell-like, you know." "of course," agreed nurse jane. "and what was in the bottle to make you grow smaller?" "alum water," uncle wiggily made reply. "that's very shrinking, you know, and puckery." "of course," spoke nurse jane again, "i might have guessed it. now i suppose you're off again?" "off to have another adventure," went on uncle wiggily, with a jolly laugh. "i hope i meet alice again. i wonder where she lives?" "why, she's out of a book," said nurse jane. "i used to read about her to sammie littletail, when he was quite a little rabbit chap." "oh, yes, to be sure," said uncle wiggily. "alice from wonderland is like mother goose, sinbad the sailor and my other arabian night friends. well, i hope i meet some of them and have another adventure now," and away he hopped down the front steps of his bungalow as spry as though he never had had the rheumatism. the bad mosquitoes that used to live over in the swamp had gone away on their summer vacation, and so they did not bother the bunny rabbit just at present. he no longer had to practice being a soldier and stand on guard against them. pretty soon, as uncle wiggily hopped along, he came to a little place in the woods, all set around with green trees, and in the center was a large doll's tea table, all ready for a meal. "ha! this looks like an adventure already!" said the bunny uncle to himself. "and there's a party," he went on, as he saw the little girl named alice, a march hare (which is a sort of spring rabbit), a hatter man, with a very large hat, much larger than uncle wiggily's, on his head, and a dormouse. a dormouse (or doormouse) is one that crawls out under a door, you know, to get away from the cat. "oh, here's uncle wiggily!" cried alice. "come right along and sit down. we didn't expect you!" "then if i'm unexpected, perhaps there isn't room for me," spoke uncle wiggily, looking at the march hare. "oh, yes, there's plenty of room--more room than there is to eat," said the spring rabbit. "besides, we really knew you were coming." as this was just different from what alice had said, uncle wiggily did not know what to believe. "you see, it's the unexpected that always happens," went on the march hare, "and, of course, being unexpected, you happened along, so we're glad to see you." "only there isn't anything to eat," said alice. "you see, the hatter's watch only keeps one kind of time--" "that's what i do when i dance," interrupted uncle wiggily. "we haven't come to that yet," alice spoke gently. "but as the hatter's watch only keeps tea-time we're always at the tea table, and the cake and tea were eaten long ago." "and we always have to sit here, hoping the hatter's watch will start off again, and bring us to breakfast or dinner on time," said the march hare, who, uncle wiggily noticed, began to look rather mad and angry. "he's greased it with the best butter, but still his watch has stopped," the hare added. "it's on account of the hard crumbs that got in the wheels," said the hatter, dipping his watch in the cream pitcher. "i dare say they'll get soaked in time. but pass uncle wiggily the buns," he added, and alice passed an empty plate which once had dog biscuits on, only jackie and peetie bow wow had eaten them all up--i should say down, for they swallowed them that way. uncle wiggily was beginning to think this was a very queer tea party indeed, when, all of sudden, out from the bushes jumped a great, big, pink-striped wabberjocky cat, who began singing: "london bridge is falling up, on yankee doodle dandy! as we go 'round the mulberry bush to buy a stick of candy." "well, what do you want?" asked the mad march hare of the wabberjocky. "if you've come to wash the dishes you can't, for it's still tea time and it never will be anything else as long as he keeps dipping his watch in the molasses jug! that's what makes it so sticky-slow," and he tossed a tea biscuit at the hatter, who caught it in his hat, just like a magician in the theater, and turned it into a lemon meringue pie. "i've come for uncle wiggily!" cried the wabberjocky. "i've come to take him off to my den, and then--" uncle wiggily was just going to hide under the table, which he noticed was growing smaller and smaller, and he was wondering if it would be large enough to cover him, when-all of a sudden the mad march hare caught up the bunny uncle's red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, and cried: "you've come for uncle wiggily, have you? well, we've no time for that!" and with this the march hare smashed the crutch down on the hatter's watch, "bang!" breaking it all to pieces! "there, i guess it'll go now!" cried the march hare, and indeed the wheels of the watch went spinning while the spring suddenly uncurled, and one end, catching around uncle wiggily's left hind leg, flew out and tossed him safely away over the trees, until he fell down on his soft soldier tent, right in front of his own hollow stump bungalow. so he was saved from the wabberjocky. "well! that was an adventure!" cried the bunny uncle. "i wonder what happened to the rest of them? i must find out." and if the laundry man doesn't let the plumber take the bath tub away for the gold fish to play tag in, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the cheshire cat. chapter iii uncle wiggily and the cheshire cat uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, was hopping along through the woods one day, wondering what sort of an adventure he would have, and he was thinking about alice in wonderland and what a queer tea party he had been to the day before, when the mad march hare smashed the hatter's watch because the hands always stayed at 5 o'clock tea time. "if anything like that is going to happen to me today," said the bunny uncle to himself, "i ought to have brought nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy along, so she could enjoy the fun. i'll just hop along and if anything queer starts i'll go back after her." so he went on a little farther, and, all of a sudden, he saw, lying on the woodland path, a piece of cheese. "ha!" cried uncle wiggily. "i wonder if jollie or jillie longtail, the mouse children, dropped that out of their trap? i'll take it to them, i guess." he picked up the bit of cheese, thinking how glad the mousie boy and girl would be to have it back, when, all at once, he heard behind him a voice asking: "oh, did you find it? i'm so glad, thank you!" and from under a bush out stepped a cat wearing a large smile on the front of its face. the cat stretched out its claw and took the bit of cheese from uncle wiggily. "oh! is that yours?" asked the bunny gentleman, in surprise. "it's cheshire cheese; isn't it?" asked the cat. "i--i believe so," answered the bunny. "yes," he added as he looked and made sure, "it is cheshire cheese." "then, as i'm the cheshire cat it's mine. cheshire cat meet your cheese! cheese, meet your cat! how do you do? so glad to see you!" and the cat shook paws with the cheese just as if uncle wiggily had introduced them. "i dare say it's all right," went on the bunny uncle. "of course it is!" laughed the cat, smiling more than ever. "i'm so glad you found my cheese. i was afraid the march hare had taken it for that silly 5 o'clock tea party. but i'm glad he didn't. at first i took you for the march hare. you look like him, being a rabbit." "my birthday is not in march, it is in april," said uncle wiggily, bowing. "that's better," spoke the cheshire cat. "you have done me a great favor by finding my cheese, and i hope to be able to do you one some day." "pray do not mention it," spoke the bunny uncle, modest like and shy, as he always was. he was just going to ask about alice in wonderland when the cat ran away with the cheese. "never mind," thought uncle wiggily. "that was the beginning of an adventure, anyhow. i wonder what the next part will be?" he did not have long to wait. all of a sudden, as he was walking along through the woods, sort of leaning on his red, white and blue striped barber pole rheumatism crutch, there was a rustling in the bushes and out popped a whole lot of hungry rats. "ah, there it is!" cried one rat, seizing hold of uncle wiggily by his ears. "yes, and just in time, too!" cried another, grabbing the bunny by his paws. "into our den with it before the mouse trap comes along and takes it away from us!" with that the rats, of which there were about five hundred and sixteen, began hustling uncle wiggily down a hole in the ground, and the first he knew they had him inside a wooden room in an underground house and they locked the door, taking the key out. "what does this mean?" cried the bunny uncle. "why do you treat me this way?" "why, it can speak!" cried several of the rats, in surprise. "of course i can!" cried uncle wiggily, his pink nose twinkling. "but why do you call me it?" "because you are a piece of cheese," said one rat, "and we always call cheese it." "cheese? i, cheese?" asked astonished uncle wiggily. "of course," cried the biggest rat of all. "you're cheshire cheese. why, you perfume the whole room! we're so hungry for you. we thought the grocer had forgotten to send you. but it's all right now. oh, what a delightful meal we shall have. we love cheshire cheese," and the rats in the room with mr. longears looked very hungrily at the bunny uncle--very hungrily indeed. "oh, what shall i do?" thought uncle wiggily. "i see what has happened. when i picked up the cheshire cat's piece of cheshire cheese some of the perfume from it must have stuck to my paws. the rats smelled that and think i'm it. it!" murmured the bunny gentleman. "as if i were a game of tag! it!" the rats in the locked room were very busy, getting out their cheese knives and plates, and poor uncle wiggily hardly knew what to do with this most unpleasant adventure happening to him, when, all of a sudden, right in the middle of the room, there appeared a big, smiling mouth, with a cheerful grin spread all over it. just a smile it was, and nothing more. "oh!" cried uncle wiggily in surprise. "oh!" with that all the rats looked up and, seeing the smile, one exclaimed: "i smell a cat! oh, woe is me! i smell a cat!" then, all of a sudden the smile grew larger and larger. then a nose seemed to grow out of nothing, then some whiskers, then a pair of blazing eyes, and then ears--a head, legs, claws and a body, and finally there stood the cheshire cat in the midst of the rats. "scat, rats," meaouwed the cheshire cat. "scat!" "how did you get in here?" asked one rat. "yes, tell us!" ordered another. "how did you get in past the locked door?" "through the keyhole," said the cheshire cat. "i sent my smile in first, and then it was easy for my body to follow. now you scat and leave uncle wiggily alone!" and with that the cat grinned larger than ever, showing such sharp teeth that the rats quickly unlocked the door and ran away, leaving the bunny uncle quite safe. "alice in wonderland, most magically knew of the trouble you were in," said the cheshire cat, "so she sent me to help you, which i was glad to do, as you had helped me. my cheshire cheese, that you found for me when i had lost it, was very good!" then uncle wiggily hopped back to his bungalow, and the cat went to see alice; and if the paper cutter doesn't slice the bread board all up into pieces of cake for the puppy dog's party, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the dormouse. chapter iv uncle wiggily and the dormouse "tap! tap! tap!" came a knock on the door of the hollow stump bungalow one morning. uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman who lived in the woods, called out: "please come in!" in hopped dickie chip-chip, the sparrow boy postchap, with a letter for the bunny gentleman. "ha! that's nice!" explained uncle wiggily as he took the envelope. "i hope it's a valentine!" "a valentine this time of year!" laughed dickie. "this is june, uncle wiggily!" "oh, so it is. however, i'll read it." and when dickie flew on to deliver the rest of his letters uncle wiggily read his own. it was very short, and said: "if you want a new hat, come to the green meadow as soon as you read this." "ha! if i want a new hat!" thought the bunny uncle. "well, i do need one. but who knew that i did? this is very strange and mysterious. ha! i have it! this must be from alice in wonderland. she is giving me a little surprise." so, telling nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, his muskrat lady housekeeper, that he was going out to get a new hat, away hopped uncle wiggily, over the fields and through the woods until he came to the green meadow. in the middle of the meadow was a little grove of trees, and half way there uncle wiggily heard a sad little voice saying: "oh, dear! what trouble i'm in!" "trouble!" cried the bunny gentleman twinkling his pink nose. "ha! that sounds like old times! let me help some one. but who is it?" "it is i. the little dormouse," was the answer, and, looking down, uncle wiggily saw the tiny creature who had been at the queer tea party when the mad march hare smashed the hatter's 5 o'clock watch. the tail of the poor little dormouse was caught fast in between two stones and she could not move, but uncle wiggily quickly loosened it for her and she was very thankful to get out. "i was afraid i'd be late," said the dormouse. "i have to hurry on to help the queen of hearts put sugared cheese on the blackberry tarts for the king's birthday. i'll see you again, uncle wiggily." "i hope so," spoke the bunny uncle, as he hurried away to get his new hat, all the while wondering whether or not he would see alice from wonderland. uncle wiggily reached the green meadow trees, but no one else was there. he looked up and down, and all around, but there was not even an old hat in sight, to say nothing of a new one. "i wonder if this letter is an april fool joke?" thought the bunny uncle, taking from his pocket the envelope dickie had given him. "no, if it's the month of june it can't be april fool's day, any more than it can be time for valentines," said the bunny. "but i wonder where my hat is?" hardly had uncle wiggily said this, out loud, than, all of a sudden, a voice cried: "here's your hat!" with that something seemed to drop down from the clouds, or maybe it was from one of the trees. but whatever it was it completely covered uncle wiggily out of sight. it was just as if you took a large bowl and turned it upside down over a grasshopper, only, of course, uncle wiggily was not a grasshopper, though he did jump around a lot. and, at first, in the sudden darkness, the rabbit gentleman thought it was a bowl that, perhaps, the circus elephant's little boy had turned over on him just for fun. then, making his pink nose twinkle very fast, so that it shone in the dark like a firefly lantern, uncle wiggily was able to see that he was inside a large, tall, silk hat. when it had dropped over him it had shut out all the sunlight, making it quite dark inside where the bunny was. "yes, this is a hat!" said uncle wiggily to himself. "but what a funny way to give it to me! and it's so large! instead of my new hat going outside my head, my head is inside the hat. this will never do! i must get out and see what the trouble is. this must be the elephant's hat, it's so large." but when uncle wiggily tried to lift up one edge of the hat, to crawl out, he found he could not. some one seemed to be sitting on top of the hat, which was shaped like the silk stovepipe one uncle wiggily always wore. and a voice cried: "hold it tight and he can't get out!" "oh, i'm holding it tight!" was the answer. then uncle wiggily knew what had happened. some one had played a sad trick on him. and it was two bad old skillery-scalery alligators. they had borrowed the wonderland hatter's hat--which was very large. nor had they told the hatter what they wanted of it, for if they had he never would have let them borrow it to make trouble for uncle wiggily. the alligators had climbed up the tree with the big hat, and, after sending uncle wiggily the note, they had waited until he came to the field. then from the branches above they dropped the hat down over him and sat on it. "and i can't get out!" cried uncle wiggily. "that's the worst of it! i can't get out, and those bad alligators will reach under and grab me and--" "no they won't!" cried a little squeaky voice down low on the ground, just outside the hat. "why not?" asked uncle wiggily, hopeful like. "because i am the dormouse whom you helped," was the answer. "now, listen! with my sharp teeth i am going to cut a door in the side of the hat where the alligators, sitting up on top, can't see it. then you can get out." so the dormouse, being made for just such work, as you can tell by its name, gnawed a door in the side of the hatter's hat, and out crawled the bunny rabbit gentleman before the alligators could grab him. and the bunny and the dormouse got safely away, mr. longears being very thankful, indeed, for having been helped by the little creature. so the alligators had nothing for dinner but stewed pears, and if our dog doesn't leave his tail on the wrong side of the fence, so the cat can use it for a dusting brush, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the gryphon. chapter v uncle wiggily and the gryphon uncle wiggily longears, the nice rabbit gentleman, had just finished shaving his whiskers in his hollow stump bungalow one morning when nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, his muskrat lady housekeeper, came to his door, knocked gently by flapping her tail against it, and said: "if you please, mr. longears, there's a young lady to see you." "of course i'm pleased," answered uncle wiggily. "i always like to see young ladies, especially if they have light, fluffy hair. has this one that kind?" "very much so," answered nurse jane. "here she is now," and with that in came a nice young lady, or, rather, a tall girl, with flaxen hair. "i'm afraid you don't remember me," she said, as uncle wiggily wiped the soap lather off the end of his pink, twinkling nose, where it had splashed by mistake, making it look like part of a frosted chocolate cake. "oh, yes, i do remember you!" cried the bunny gentleman, in his most jolly voice. "you're alice from wonderland, and you were very kind to help me grow smaller that time the big mosquito got me into his cave and i swelled up from eating cake." "oh, i'm so glad you remember me!" laughed alice, for it was indeed she. "i've come to ask you to do me a bit of a favor. i have to go see the gryphon, and i thought maybe you'd come with me, for i'm afraid he'll be real cross to me." "you have to go see the gryphon?" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "who in the world is he?" "oh, he's a funny animal who lives in the same story book with me," explained alice. "he's something between a dragon, a lion, an elephant, a flying fish and an alligator." "whew!" whistled uncle wiggily. "he must be a curious creature!" "he is," alice said. "and sometimes he's very cross, especially if the wind blows his veil up." "if the wind blows his veil up?" asked uncle wiggily. "in the first place, why does he wear a veil, and in the second place, why should he be angry if the wind blows it?" "there isn't any first or second place about it," spoke alice, "for you never can tell in which place the gryphon will be found. but he wears a veil because he is so ugly that every one runs away when one sees him, and he doesn't like that. and, of course, he doesn't like the wind to blow up his veil so folks can see how he really looks." "ah, ha! i understand," remarked the bunny. "but if he is so cross why do you want to go to see him?" "i don't want to," replied alice, "but i have to, because it's that way in the book. you see, to make everything come out right, the gryphon takes me to the mock turtle, who tells me a funny story, and so now i've come to see if you'll take me to the gryphon?" "i will," promised uncle wiggily, washing the soap lather out of his ears. "but where shall we find him?" "oh, that's the question!" laughed alice, just as though uncle wiggily had asked a riddle. "you have three guesses," she went on. the bunny gentleman twinkled his pink nose, so that he might think better, and then he said: "i'll tell you what we'll do. we'll go for a walk, and make believe i'm looking for an adventure. then i may find the gryphon for you." "fine!" cried alice, and, uncle wiggily having finished shaving, he and alice set out together over the fields and through the wood, her hand holding the bunny's paw. "now we must keep a sharp watch for the gryphon," said alice, who had had so many adventures in wonderland that it took a whole book to tell of them. "you never know whether he'll appear like an elephant, a dragon, a lion or a big bird, for he has wings," she said. "has he, indeed?" asked uncle wiggily. "then i think i hear him coming now," he went on. "listen, do you hear the buzzing?" and, surely enough, the air seemed filled with the buzzing and fluttering of wings. and then the sun appeared to be hidden by a cloud. "that must be the gryphon," said uncle wiggily. alice looked, and then she cried: "oh, no! it's a big cloud of bad, biting mosquitoes. it is the buzzing of their wings we hear! oh, uncle wiggily, you haven't your talcum powder bean-shooter gun with you, and here come a billion-million mosquitoes!" "that's right!" cried the bunny uncle, as he, too, saw them. "we must hide or they will bite even our shoes off!" so he and alice looked for a place to hide, but there was none, and the buzzing mosquitoes cried: "ah, ha! now we have that uncle wiggily longears rabbit. he can't get away now, for he isn't a soldier today! and we'll get alice from wonderland, too!" well, the mosquitoes were just going to grab the bunny gentleman, and the nice little young lady girl, with the fluffy flaxen hair, when a voice out of the air cried: "oh, ho! no you're not going to get them, either!" "who says we are not?" asked the captain mosquito. "i do!" "and who are you?" "i am the gryphon!" was the answer. "and i have on my mosquito net veil. i'll catch all you bad biting bugs in my net, just as a professor catches butterflies. whoop! swoop! here i come!" and with that the gryphon, raising his veil, which hung down from his big ears as from around a lady's big hat, made a net of it and, flying around, soon caught all the mosquitoes that would have bitten uncle wiggily and alice. and the mosquitoes that were not caught were so frightened at the fierce look on the gryphon's face that they fainted, and couldn't bite even as much as a spoonful of mustard. so the gryphon drove the mosquitoes away and then he took alice to see the mock turtle, while uncle wiggily hopped on home to his bungalow. and if the rubber doll doesn't bounce off the clothes horse when she rides to the candy store for some cornstarch pudding, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the blue caterpillar. chapter vi uncle wiggily and the caterpillar "uncle wiggily! oh, uncle wiggily!" called alice from wonderland as she stood one day just outside the hollow stump bungalow where the rabbit gentleman had just finished his breakfast of carrot oatmeal with parsnip sauce sprinkled over the top. "do you want to come for another walk with me?" asked alice as she ran up the bungalow front steps. "are you going to have the gryphon take you to the mock turtle again?" the bunny gentleman wanted to know. "if you are, i'll bring my talcum powder gun along this time, to keep away the mosquitoes." "no. i don't have to see the gryphon today," replied wonderland alice with a laugh. "but the duchess has sent me to find the blue caterpillar." "the duchess has sent you to find the blue caterpillar?" questioned uncle wiggily, wondering if he had heard rightly. "but who is the duchess?" "oh, she's some relation to the queen of hearts," alice answered. "she's in the book with me, the duchess is. in the book-picture she always has a lot of trimming on her big hat, and she doesn't care whether or not she holds the baby upside down." "oh, yes, now i remember," uncle wiggily said, laughing as he thought of the baby. "and now about the blue caterpillar?" "oh, he's a sort of long, fuzzy bug, who sits on a toadstool smoking a pipe," explained alice. "the duchess wants him to come and smoke some hams for her." "smoke hams!" cried the bunny rabbit. "why the very idonical idea! i've heard of men smoking tobacco--but hams--" "oh, you don't smoke hams in a pipe," said alice with a laugh. "they take a ham before it is cooked, and hang it up in a cloud of smoke, or blow smoke on it, or do something to it with smoke, so it will dry and keep longer." "what do they want to keep it for?" asked uncle wiggily. "i thought ham was to eat, with eggs." "oh, dear!" laughed alice. "i wish you wouldn't ask me so many questions. you're like the dormouse, or the cheshire cheese cat or the hatter. they were always asking the curiousestest questions like 'who threw stones at the cherry tree?' or 'how did the soft egg get inside the hard shell without cracking it?' all things like that. i can't answer them!" "very well," said uncle wiggily, smiling at alice. "i'll not ask you any more questions. come on! we'll go find the blue caterpillar." so off they started, the bunny rabbit gentleman and wonderland alice who had a day's vacation from the book with her name on it. now and then she could slip out of the book covers and go off to have a real adventure with uncle wiggily. the bunny uncle and the little girl with the pretty, flaxen hair had not gone very far over the fields and through the woods before, all of a sudden, as they were walking under some trees, something long and twisty and rubbery, like a big fire hose, reached out and grabbed them. "oh, my!" cried alice, trying to get loose, which she could not do. "a big snake has us!" "no," said uncle wiggily, looking around as best he could, for he, too, was held fast as was alice. "this isn't a snake." "what is it?" asked alice. "it's a bad circus elephant," said the bunny, "and he has caught us in his trunk. oh, dear! please let us go!" he begged the big animal. "no," sadly answered the circus elephant, for it was indeed he. "i can't let you go, for if i do they will all sit on my back and bite me." "who will?" asked uncle wiggily, curious like. "the mosquitoes," was the answer. "you see they have tried in so many ways to catch you, and haven't done it, uncle wiggily, that they finally came to me. about a million billion of them swarmed around me, and they said they'd bite me until i had the shiv-ivers if i did not help them catch you. so i had to promise that i would, though i did not want to, for i like you, uncle wiggily. "if i hadn't promised, though, the mosquitoes would have bitten me, and though i seem to have a very thick skin i am very tender, not to say ticklish, when it comes to mosquito bites. so i hid here to catch you, and i'll have to hold you until the mosquitoes come to get you. i'm very sorry!" and the elephant wound his rubbery nose of a trunk still more tightly around uncle wiggily and alice. "oh, dear!" said alice. "what shall we do?" "i don't know, i'm sure," answered the bunny. "this is quite too bad. if only the blue caterpillar--" "hush!" exclaimed a fuzzy voice down in the grass near the elephant's left front foot. "don't say a word. i'll help you," and along came crawling a big blue caterpillar, with a folded toadstool umbrella and a long-stemmed pipe on his back. "that elephant is very ticklish," said the blue caterpillar. "watch me make him squirm. and when he squirms he'll have to uncurl his trunk to scratch himself, and when he does that--" "we'll get away!" whispered uncle wiggily. "exactly!" said the blue caterpillar. so he crawled up the elephant's leg, and tickled the big animal on its ear. "oh, dear!" cried the elephant. "how itchy i am!" and he uncurled his trunk to scratch himself, and then uncle wiggily and alice could run away safely, and the mosquitoes didn't get them after all. then alice told the blue caterpillar about the duchess wanting the hams smoked and the crawling creature said he'd attend to it, and puff smoke on them from his pipe. so everything came out all right, i'm glad to say, and if the starch doesn't all come out of the collar so it has to lie down instead of standing up straight at the moving picture show, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the hatter. chapter vii uncle wiggily and the hatter "oh, uncle wiggily!" called nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as mr. longears, the rabbit gentleman, started to hop out of his hollow stump bungalow one morning. "oh, uncle wiggily!" "well, what is it?" asked the bunny with a polite bow. "do you want anything from the store?" "some carrot coffee, if you please," answered the muskrat lady. "when you finish your walk, and have had a nice adventure, bring home some coffee." "i'll do it," promised uncle wiggily, and then, as he hopped along, over the fields and through the woods, he thought perhaps he had better buy the carrot coffee first. "for," said he to himself, "i might have such a funny adventure that i'd forget all about what nurse jane told me." now you just wait and see what happens, if you please. it did not take the bunny long to get the coffee; the monkey doodle gentleman who kept the store wrapping it up for him in a paper that had been twisted around a lollypop candy. "it's a bit sticky and sweet," said the monkey doodle store keeper, speaking of the lollypop paper, "but that will stop the coffee from falling out." "fine!" laughed uncle wiggily, and then he hopped on to look for an adventure. he had not gone very far before when, all of a sudden, he heard a voice saying: "well, i don't know what to do about it, that's all! i never saw such trouble! the idea of wanting me to get ready for it this time of day!" "ha! trouble!" thought uncle wiggily. "this is where i come in. what is it you can't get ready for this time of day, and who are you?" asked the bunny, for he saw no one. "oh, it's you, is it?" called a voice, and out from under a mulberry bush stepped a little man, with such a large hat that it covered him from head to foot. "oh, excuse me," said uncle wiggily. "you are--" "the hatter! exactly! you have guessed it," said the little man, opening a window which was cut in the side of his hat. the window was just opposite his face, which was inside, so he could look out at the bunny gentleman. "i'm the hatter, from 'alice in wonderland,'" went on the little man. the bunny hadn't quite really guessed it, though he might if he had had time. "and what is the trouble?" asked uncle wiggily. "oh, i've just been ordered by the queen of hearts to get up a tea party right away for alice, who is expected any minute," went on the hatter. "and here it is 10 o'clock in the morning, and the tea's at 5, and i haven't even started." "you have lots of time," said uncle wiggily. "hours and hours." "yes, but i haven't the tea!" cried the hatter. "don't mind me, but i'm as mad--as mad as--as lollypops, and there's nothing madder than them!" he said, sort of grinding his teeth. this grinding made uncle wiggily think of the coffee in his pocket. so, holding out the package, he said: "i don't s'pose this would do, would it?" "what?" asked the hatter. "it's coffee," went on the bunny, "but--" "the very thing!" cried the hatter, who was now smiling. "it will be just the thing for the 5 o'clock tea. we'll have it right here--i'll set the table," and opening two little doors lower down in his big hat, he stuck his arms through them and began brushing off a broad, flat stump near uncle wiggily. "the stump will do for a table," said the hatter. "this is great, uncle wiggily! we'll have tea for alice after all, and make things happen as they do in the book. don't mind me saying i was as mad as lollypops. i have to be mad--make believe, you know--or things won't come out right." "i see," said uncle wiggily, remembering that it was quite stylish to be "as mad as a hatter," though he never before knew what it meant. "but you see, my dear sir," the rabbit went on, "i have only coffee to give you, and not tea." "it doesn't matter," said the hatter. "i'll boil it in a cocoanut shell, and it will do her very well," and with that he took out, from somewhere inside his hat, half a cocoanut shell. this he set on top of the stump on a little three-legged stool, and built a fire under it. "but you need water to make coffee--i mean tea," said uncle wiggily. "i have it!" cried the hatter, and, picking up an umbrella plant growing near by, he squeezed some water from it into the cocoanut shell kettle. uncle wiggily poured some of the ground coffee into the cocoanut shell of umbrella water, which was now boiling, and then the bunny exclaimed: "but we have no sugar!" "we'll sweeten it with the paper that came off the lollypop," said the hatter, tearing off a bit of it and tossing it into the tea-coffee. "what about milk?" asked uncle wiggily. "alice may want cream in her coffee--i mean tea." "here we are!" cried the hatter. with that he picked a leaf from a milkweed plant growing near the flat stump and from that he squeezed out some drops of milk into a cup he made from a jack-in-the-pulpit flower. "now we're all ready for 5 o'clock tea!" cried the hatter, and just then along came alice from wonderland, with the march hare, and they sat down to the stump table with uncle wiggily, who happened to have a piece of cherry pie in his pocket, so they had a nice little lunch after all. and the carrot coffee with milkweed cream in it, tasted like catnip tea, so everything came out all right. and if the white shoes don't go down in the coal bin to play with the fire shovel and freeze their toes so they can't parade on the board walk, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the duchess. chapter viii uncle wiggily and the duchess uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, was hopping along through the woods one day, looking for an adventure, when, all of a sudden, he came to a door standing up between two trees. it was a regular door, with a knob, hinges and all, but the funny part of it was there didn't seem to be a room on either side of it. "this is remarkable!" exclaimed wiggily, "remarkable" meaning the same thing as queer. "it is very odd! here is a door and the jamb--" "where's the jamb?" asked a little katydid, who was sitting on a leaf in the sun. "i'm very fond of jam." "i didn't say j-a-m--the kind you eat on bread," spoke uncle wiggily. "i was talking about the j-a-m-b--with a b--" "bees make honey," said the katydid, "and honey's almost as good as jam. i'm not so fussy as all that. jam or honey--honey or jam, it's all the same to me." "no, there isn't any honey, either," said the bunny. "the jamb of the door is the wooden frame that goes around it, to hold it in place." "then i don't want any door jamb--i want bread and jam," said the katydid, hopping off to find her sister, katydidn't, leaving uncle wiggily to stare at the lone door. "well," said the rabbit gentleman to himself, "i may as well see what's on the other side. though a door standing all by itself in the woods is the strangest thing i've ever seen." however, he turned the knob, opened the door and stepped through, and, to his surprise, he found himself in a big kitchen which seemed magically to have appeared the moment he entered the very surprising place. at one end was a big stove, with a hot fire in it, and on the stove was a boiling kettle of soup, which was being stirred by a big fat cook lady, who was shaped like a ham, without the string in the end, of course. for the cook could stand up and didn't need to be hung on a nail as a ham is hung before it's cooked. in front of the fire was another large lady with a bonnet on almost as big as the hatter's hat. over the bonnet was a fluffy, flowing veil. "now please be quiet--do!" exclaimed the sitting down lady to something in her lap, and uncle wiggily saw that it was a baby. "come, cook!" she cried. "is that hot soup ready yet for the baby?" "not yet, mum. but it soon will be," answered the cook, and uncle wiggily was just going to say something about not giving a little baby hot soup, when the door opened again, and in came alice from wonderland. "oh, i'm so glad you're here, uncle wiggily!" cried alice. "now it will be all right." "what will?" asked the bunny. "what will be right?" "my left shoe," said alice. "you see i just came from the pool of tears, and everything got all mixed up. when i came out i had two left shoes instead of one being a right, but now you are here it's all right--i mean one is right and the other is left, as it should be," and with that alice put on one shoe she had been carrying in her hand, and smiled. "but who is this?" asked uncle wiggily, pointing with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch at the big lady holding the baby, which was now squirming like an angle worm. "it's the duchess--a friend of the queen of hearts," answered alice. "i'll introduce you to her in a minute. are you fond of sneezing?" "only when i have a cold," answered uncle wiggily. "why do you ask?" and he began to think he was having a very funny adventure indeed. "why should i be fond of sneezing?" "because you'll have to whether you like it or not," answered alice. "the duchess is going to talcum powder the baby now--it's just had a bath." with that the duchess, who is the wife of a duke, you know, called: "here, cook! never mind the soup. give me the pepper!" "goodness me sakes alive and some horseradish lollypops!" cried uncle wiggily. "she isn't going to talcum powder the baby with pepper, is she?" "of course," answered alice. "it's that way in the book from which i came to have an adventure with you, so, of course, pepper it has to be. look out--here come the sneezes!" and alice got out her handkerchief. uncle wiggily saw the duchess, with a funny smile on her big face, take the pepper-box the cook gave her and start to sprinkle the black stuff over the baby in her lap. the baby was cooing and gurgling--as all babies do after their bath--and didn't seem at all to mind her being peppered. "they season chickens and turkeys with salt and pepper, so why not babies?" asked alice of uncle wiggily. the bunny gentleman was just going to say he did not know the answer to that riddle, when the door suddenly opened again and in came a great big dodo bird, which is something like a skillery-scalery alligator, only worse, with a beak like that of a mosquito. [illustration] "ah, ha!" chirped the dodo. "at last i have found him!" and he made a dart with his big beak for uncle wiggily. the dodo was just going to grab the bunny gentleman in his claws, and mr. longears was so shivery he didn't know what to do, when the duchess, suddenly tossing the baby to the cook, cried: "ha! no you don't! i guess it's you i want to pepper instead!" and with that she shook the box of pepper at the dodo, who began sneezing as hard as he could sneeze. "aker-choo! aker-choo! aker-choo!" sneezed the dodo. "keer-zoo! keer-zoo! keer-zoo!" sneezed the duchess. "goo-snitzio! goo-snitzio! goo-snitzio!" sneezed alice. "fizz-buzzy-wuzz! fizz-buzzy-wuzz! fizz-buzzy-wuzz!" sneezed uncle wiggily, and then the dodo himself gave another very large special five and ten cent store sale sneeze and blew himself backward out of the door. so he didn't get uncle wiggily after all. "and now we are all right," said alice, when they had all finished sneezing, including the baby. "have some soup, uncle wiggily." so the bunny did, finding it very good, and made from cabbage and pretzels and then he went home to his stump bungalow. and if the lollypop stick doesn't have to go out and help the wash lady hold up the clothesline when it goes fishing for apple pie i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the cook. chapter ix uncle wiggily and the cook "well, mr. longears, i shall have to leave you all alone today," said nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she gave uncle wiggily, the bunny rabbit gentleman, his breakfast in the hollow stump bungalow one morning. "leave me all alone--how does that happen?" asked uncle wiggily, sort of sad and sorrowful like. "do you mean you are going to leave me for good?" "oh, no; i'm just going to be busy all day sewing mosquito shirts for the animal boy soldiers who are going off to war. since you taught them how to shoot their talcum powder guns at the bad biting bugs, sammie littletail, your rabbit nephew, and johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels; jackie and peetie bow wow, the puppy dogs, and all the other woodland chaps have been bothered with the mosquitoes." "they made war enough on me," said uncle wiggily. "and, since they could not catch you, they are starting war against your friends," went on nurse jane, "so i am making mosquito shirts for the animal boys. i'll be away sewing all day, and you'll have to get your own lunch, i'm afraid." "i'm not afraid!" laughed brave uncle wiggily. "if i could get away from the bad, biting mosquitoes, i guess i can get my own lunch. besides, maybe alice from wonderland will come along and help me." "maybe," spoke nurse jane. then the muskrat lady, tying her tail up in a pink-blue hair ribbon, scurried off, while uncle wiggily hopped over the fields and through the woods, looking for an adventure. but adventures, or things that happen to you, seemed to be scarce that day, and it was noontime before the bunny gentleman hardly knew it. "well!" he exclaimed. "i'm getting hungry, and, as i didn't bring any cherry pie with me i'll have to skip along to my hollow stump bungalow for something to eat." nurse jane had left some things on the table for the bunny gentleman to eat for his lunch. there were cold carrot sandwiches, cold cabbage tarts, cold turnip unsidedowns--which are like turnovers only different--and cold lettuce pancakes. "but it seems to me," said uncle wiggily, "it seems to me that i would like something hot. i think i'll make a soup of all these things as i saw the cook doing when i went through the funny little door and met alice from wonderland in the kitchen of the duchess." so, getting a large soup kettle, uncle wiggily put into it the cold carrot sandwiches, the cold lettuce pancakes, the cold cabbage tarts and so on. then he built a fire in the stove. "for," said he, "if those things are good cold they are better hot. i shall have a fine hot lunch." then uncle wiggily sat down to wait for the things to cook, and every once in a while he would look at the kettle on the stove and say: "yes, i shall have a fine, hot lunch!" and then, all of a sudden, after the bunny rabbit gentleman had said this about five-and-ten-cent-store times a voice cried: "indeed you will have a hot lunch!" and all of a sudden into the kitchen of the hollow stump bungalow came the red hot flamingo bird, eager to burn the rabbit gentleman. "oh!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "i--i don't seem to know you very well." "you'll know me better after a bit," said the red flamingo bird, clashing its beak like a pair of tailor's shears. "i'm the bird that alice from wonderland used for a croquet mallet when she played with the queen of hearts." "oh, now i know!" said the bunny. "won't you have lunch with me?" he asked, trying to be polite. "i'm having a hot lunch, though nurse jane left me a cold one, and--" "you are going to have a much hotter lunch than you imagine!" said the red flamingo bird. "look out! i'm getting sizzling hot!" and indeed he was, which made him such a red color, i suppose. "i'm going to burn you!" cried the bird to uncle wiggily, sticking out his red tongue. "burn me? why?" asked the poor bunny gentleman. "oh, because i have to burn somebody, and it might as well be you!" said the flamingo. "look out, now!" "ha! indeed! and it's you who had better look out!" cried a new voice. and with that the cook--the same big lady, shaped like a ham, whom uncle wiggily had last seen in the kitchen of the duchess--this cook hopped nimbly in through a window of the hollow stump bungalow. "i'll fix him!" she cried, catching up the flatirons from the shelf over the stove and throwing them at the flamingo. "get out! scat! sush! run away!" and she threw the fire shovel, the dustpan, the sink shovel, the stove lifter, the broom and the coal scuttle at the flamingo. my, but that cook was a thrower! she didn't hit the red flamingo bird with any of the things she threw, but she tossed them so very hard, and seemingly with such anger, that the bird was frightened. "this is no place for me!" cried the flaming red bird, drawing in his red tongue. "i'll go make it hot for mr. whitewash, the polar bear. he might like some heat for a change from his cake of ice." then the red flamingo bird, not burning uncle wiggily at all, flew away, and the cook, after she had picked up all the kitchen things she had thrown, came in and had a hot lunch with uncle wiggily, who thanked her very much. "i'm glad you came," said the bunny, "but i didn't know you cooks threw things." "oh, i'm from the wonderland alice book, which makes me different," the cook answered. and she was queer. but everything came out all right, you see, and if the trolley car conductor doesn't punch the transfer so hard that it falls off the seat, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the baby. chapter x uncle wiggily and the baby "well," said uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, to himself, as he stood in the middle of the woods and looked around. "i don't seem to be going to have any adventures today at all. i wonder what's the matter?" something was wrong, that is certain. the bunny uncle had been hopping along all the morning, and part of the afternoon, and not a single adventure had he found. almost always something happened to him, but this time was different. he had not met alice from wonderland, nor any of her queer relations, and uncle wiggily had not seen any of his animal boy or girl friends, so the rabbit gentleman was beginning to feel a bit lonesome. then, all of a sudden, before you could count a million (providing you had time and wanted to), uncle wiggily saw, fluttering from a tree, what he thought was a flag. "that's queer," he said to himself, only out loud. "i wonder if any of my mosquito enemies have made a camp there under the trees, and are flying the flag before they come to bite me? i'll go closer and see." uncle wiggily was very brave, you know, even if he only had his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch instead of the talcum powder popgun that shot bean-bag bullets. so up he went to where he thought he saw the mosquito enemy's flag fluttering, and my goodness me sakes alive and some chocolate cake ginger snaps! it wasn't the mosquito flag at all, which shows that we ought never to be afraid until we are sure what a thing is--and sometimes not then. "why, it's a lady's veil!" cried uncle wiggily, as he looked at the fluttering thing. and, as he said that, someone, who was sitting on an old log, turned around, and--there was the wonderland duchess herself--the queer, stout lady who looked like a barrel of flour--very rich you know! [illustration] "oh, hello, uncle wiggily!" called the duchess, who is a sort of princess grown up. "i'm glad to see you. i have a friend of yours here with me!" "do you mean alice?" asked the bunny. "no, this time it's the baby," answered the duchess, and then uncle wiggily saw that she had a live baby in her arms upside down. i mean the baby was upside down, not the arms of the duchess, though perhaps it would have been better that way. "bless me!" cried uncle wiggily. "that's no way to hold the child." "oh, indeed!" said the duchess, sort of sniffing proud like. "then if you know so much about holding babies, take this one. i have to go make a rice pudding," and before uncle wiggily could stop her she tossed the baby to him as if it were a ball and ran away, crying: "rice! rice! who has the rice pudding?" "oh, my!" uncle wiggily started to say, but that was all he had time for, as he had to catch baby, which he managed to do right side up. this was a good thing, i think. "you poor little dear!" cried the bunny uncle as he smoothed out the baby's clothes and looked around for a nursing bottle or a rattle box. and, as he was doing this, and while the baby was trying to close its lips, which it had opened to cry with when it found itself skedaddling through the air--while this was going on, some one gave a loud laugh, and uncle wiggily, looking around in surprise, saw alice from wonderland. "well!" said the bunny. "i'm glad to see you, but what is there to laugh at?" "the--the baby!" said alice, sort of choking like, for she was trying to talk and laugh at the same time. "why should you laugh at a poor baby, whom no one seems to know how to care for?" asked uncle wiggily. "why, i ask you?" "oh! but look what it's turning into!" said alice, pointing. the bunny uncle looked at what he held in his paws. it was wiggling, twisting and squirming in such a funny way, squee-geeing its dress all up around its face that for a moment uncle wiggily could not get a good look, but, when he did, he cried: "my goodness me sakes alive and some bacon gravy! it's a little pig!" and so it was! as he held it the baby had turned into a tiny pig, with a funny nose and half-shut eyes. "bless my rheumatism crutch!" cried uncle wiggily. "what made it do that?" "because it's that way in the book where i came from," said alice. "you read and you'll see that the baby which the duchess gives me to hold turns into a little pig." "but she gave it to me to hold!" cried uncle wiggily. "it's much the same thing," spoke alice. "as long as it's a pig it doesn't matter." "but dear me hum suz dud!" cried the bunny. "i don't want to be carrying around a little pig. of course i like pigs, and i'm very fond of my friends curley and floppy twisty-tail, the little grunters. but this baby pig--" and, just as uncle wiggily said that, who should come along but a bad old skillery-scalery hump-tailed alligator, walking on his hind legs, with his two front claws stretched out in front of him. "ah, ha!" cried the bad alligator, who had promised to be good, but who had not kept his word. "ah, ha! at last i have caught you, uncle wiggily, and wonderland alice, too!" he was just going to grab them when the little baby pig, who had been squirming very hard all the while, finally squirmed out of uncle wiggily's paws, fell to the ground, and then, running right between the legs of the alligator, as pigs always do run, the squealing chap upset the bad, unpleasant creature, knocking him over in a frontward somersault and also backward peppersault down the steps. "oh, my goodness!" cried the skillery-scalery alligator. "i'm killed!" which he wasn't at all, but he thought so, and this frightened him so much that he ran away and didn't catch uncle wiggily or alice after all, for which i'm glad. and if the puppy dog doesn't take all the bark off the sassafras tree and leave none for the pussy cat to polish her claws on, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the mock-turtle. chapter xi uncle wiggily and the mock-turtle "oh, uncle wiggily! will you please take me with you this morning?" asked a little voice, somewhere down near the lower, or floor-end, of the old rabbit gentleman's rheumatism crutch, as mr. longears sat at the breakfast table in his hollow stump bungalow. "please take me with you!" "well, who are you, and where do you want to be taken?" asked the bunny. "oh, i'm squeaky-eeky, the little cousin mouse," was the answer, "and i want you to take me with you on one of your walks, so i can have an adventure as you do with alice in wonderland." "but perhaps i may not see alice in wonderland," spoke uncle wiggily. "i do not always have that pleasure." "well, then, perhaps we'll see the baby or the duchess, or the gryphon or some of the funny folk who make such jolly fun with you," went on squeaky-eeky. "i have a holiday from school today, because they are painting the blackboards white, and i'd like to come with you." "come along then!" cried uncle wiggily, giving the little cousin mouse a bit of cheese cake with some lettuce sugar sprinkled over the top. "we'll see what sort of adventure happens today." so, calling good-bye to nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, uncle wiggily and squeaky-eeky started off over the fields and through the woods. they had not gone very far before, all at once, as they walked along a little path under the trees they saw a funny thing lying near a clump of ferns. it looked like a mud turtle at first, but after peering at it through his glasses uncle wiggily saw that the larger part was made of a half-round stone. in front of that was part of a broken rubber ball, and sticking out at the four corner places were four pieces of wood, like little claws, while at the back was a piece of an old leather boot. "my! i wonder what in the world this can be?" said uncle wiggily, surprised like. "maybe it's something from alice in wonderland," spoke squeaky-eeky, the cousin mouse. "you are right--i am!" exclaimed a voice. "i am the mock-turtle and i have just gotten out of the soup." "oh, i'm so glad to meet you!" cried squeaky. "i've always wanted to see what a real mock turtle looked like, ever since i read the book about alice." "hum!" grunted the queer creature. "there's no such thing as a real mock turtle any more than there is a make-believe toothache." "i hope you never have that," said squeaky-eeky, politely. "thank you, i don't care for any," answered the mock-turtle, just as if the little cousin mouse had passed the cakes. and then the turtle began to sing: "speak gently to your toothache drops, and do not let them fall. and when you have the measle-mumps, they'll scarcely hurt at all." "mine did," said squeaky-eeky, wondering if this was what alice would have answered. but the mock-turtle kept right on with: "once a tramp was seated on a chair made out of cheese. he ate the legs and then he fell down with a terrible sneeze." "that isn't right," said squeaky-eeky. "it's a trap that was baited with a piece of cheese, and--" "hush!" suddenly exclaimed the mock-turtle. "here he comes!" "who?" asked the little cousin mouse. "do you mean the tramp?" before the mock-turtle could answer along came shuffling a big, shaggy bear. at first uncle wiggily and the little cousin mouse thought perhaps it was neddie or beckie stubtail, one of the good bear children, but instead it was a bad old tramp sort of a bear--the kind that goes about taking honey out of beehives. "ah, ha!" growled the bear. "a rabbit and a mouse! that's fine for me! i shall have a good dinner, i'm sure!" and he smacked his red tongue against his teeth. "where will you get your dinner?" asked uncle wiggily, curious like. "there is no restaurant or kitchen around here," went on squeaky-eeky. "never you mind about that!" cried the bear. "i'll attend to you at dessert. just now i want uncle wiggily to come here and count how many teeth i have," and he opened his mouth real wide, the bear did. "oh, but i don't want to count your teeth," said the poor bunny gentleman, for well he knew what the bear's trick would be. the bear wanted to bite uncle wiggily. "you must count my teeth!" growled the shaggy creature, coming close to uncle wiggily. "no, let me do it!" suddenly cried the mock-turtle. "i am good at counting." "well, it doesn't make any difference who does it," said the bear. then, going close over to where the mock-turtle sat on the path, the bear opened wide his mouth. and then, just as he would have done to the rabbit gentleman, the bear made a savage bite for the mock-turtle. but you know what happened. instead of biting on something good, like a lollypop, the bear bit on the hard stone, of which the top part of mock, or make-believe, turtle was made, and the stone was so gritty and tough that the bear's teeth all broke off, and then he couldn't bite even a jelly fish. "oh, wow! oh, woe is me!" cried the bear, as he ran to see if he could find a dentist to make him some false teeth. "and he didn't hurt me a bit," laughed the mock-turtle, made of stone, wood and leather, who was built that way on purpose to fool bad bears and such like. "i don't mind in the least being bitten," said the pretend turtle. "but you saved my life, and squeaky-eeky's, too," said uncle wiggily. "i thank you!" then the mock-turtle crawled away and the bunny and mousie girl had a fine time together. and if the milk wagon doesn't go swimming down on the board walk with the watering cart and make the ice cream jump over the lollypop, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the lobster. chapter xii uncle wiggily and the lobster "you'll be home to supper, won't you?" asked nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she saw her friend, uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, hopping down off the front porch of the hollow stump bungalow one morning. "oh, yes, i'll be home," he answered, "i'm just going to look for a little adventure." then, not having been on the board walk in quite a while, uncle wiggily went down to the ocean seashore beach. "for," said the old rabbit gentleman to himself, "i have not had a seashore adventure in some time. and, perhaps, my friend, alice, from wonderland, may be down there. i know in her story book there are many curious things that happen near the sea." so down to the shore went uncle wiggily and as he was walking along, looking at the funny marks his feet made in the wet sand, all of a sudden he came to a pile of damp, green seaweed, and from underneath it he heard a voice calling: "oh, help me out! please help me out!" "ha! that sounds like some one in trouble!" uncle wiggily said. "i must help them." then with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch that nurse jane had gnawed for him out of a lollypop stick, the bunny poked away the seaweed, and underneath it, all tangled up so he could hardly move, was a lobster gentleman. "oh, it was so good of you to get me out," said the lobster as he gave a flip-flap with his tail. "an old crab, who doesn't like me, piled the seaweed over my back as i was taking a nap in the sun. my long thin legs were all tangled in it, and even with my big pinching claws i could not get loose, and i was so afraid i'd be late." "late for what?" asked uncle wiggily, wondering where the lobster was going. "to the dance--the quadrille, of course," was the answer. "oh, now i remember," said the bunny. "it's in the wonderland alice book. you have to go to a dance, don't you?" "exactly," said the lobster. "i'd be pleased to have you come with me." "i will," promised uncle wiggily, thinking maybe he would have an adventure there. so down the beach started the lobster gentleman and the bunny uncle. on and on they went for a long, long time, it seemed to uncle wiggily, and it was getting quite late, as he could tell by the star fish which were twinkling on the beach, and still they had seen no signs of a dance. "i can't understand it," said the lobster. "alice said i was to walk until i met her, and she'd take me to the party. and we certainly have been walking a long time." "we have," agreed uncle wiggily. "it is so late i'm afraid i'll have to leave you and go home to supper, as i promised nurse jane." "that's too bad," went on the lobster. "i wanted you to see how well i can dance on the end of my tail. but i can't understand why we don't get to the quadrille. we certainly have walked down the beach, haven't we?" "we have," answered the bunny. "but--ah! i have it!" uncle wiggily suddenly cried. "you have been walking backward, and i have been following you. we have been going =away= from the dance instead of =toward= it." "of course!" cried the lobster, in a cold and clammy voice. "why didn't i think of that before? i always have to go backward, on account of my claws being so heavy i have to pull them after me, instead of pushing them ahead. "and so, of course, going backward as i do, and as all lobsters do, when i want to get anywhere i always turn my back toward it, and get to it that way. this time i forgot to do that." "but what can we do now?" uncle wiggily wanted to know. "how can we get to the dance?" "i'll just turn around and back up to it," spoke the lobster. "i'm sorry to have mixed things up for you, especially as you were so kind as to get me from under the pile of seaweed." "oh, don't worry!" laughed uncle wiggily, jolly-like. "i dare say it will be all right. come on!" so the lobster turned around and began to back toward where he hoped to find the dance. it grew darker and darker, and the star fish were twinkling more than ever, and then, all of a sudden, they came to the hollow stump bungalow where uncle wiggily lived. "hurray!" cried the lobster. "here we are at the quadrille. now i'll explain to alice--" "no, this isn't the dance," said uncle wiggily. "this is where i live. but i'd be pleased to have you come in to supper, and we can go to the dance tomorrow." "i will!" cried the lobster, after thinking about it. into the hollow stump bungalow they went, the lobster backing in, of course, and uncle wiggily cried: "supper for two, if you please, nurse jane!" "right away!" answered the muskrat lady. and she began to set the table. and then, while uncle wiggily and the lobster were talking together nurse jane called: "oh, dear! i've lost the can opener, and i can't open this tin of peaches. what shall i do?" "let me try!" begged uncle wiggily. but his paws were not big enough. "i'll do it!" said the lobster. and with his strong, pinching claws he punched open the can of peaches as easily as you can eat a chocolate cream drop. it was no trouble at all for him. so it was a good thing uncle wiggily brought the lobster home for supper, you see. and if the stairs don't stand on their heads and with their toes tickle all the holes out of the lawn tennis nets, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and father william. chapter xiii uncle wiggily and father william one morning, soon after he had finished his breakfast, having taken his red, white and blue striped barber pole rheumatism crutch down from behind the clock, uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, started out from his hollow stump bungalow. there were quite a few friends of the little girl named alice in wonderland whom he had not yet met, and he hoped to have an adventure with one of them. so, tossing up in the air his tall silk stovepipe hat, and letting it bounce three times on the end of his pink nose, uncle wiggily hurried off. the rabbit gentleman had not gone very far, over the fields and through the woods, before he saw something very strange indeed. this something was what seemed to be a funny sort of flower vase, with two things sticking up in it, and on the end of them were two shoes. "my goodness me, sakes alive and some chocolate cake pudding!" cried the surprised bunny uncle. "what's this?" then, as he looked again, he saw a funny face, and a pair of bright eyes looking at him from the bottom part of what seemed to be a flower vase. "why, it's a man!" cried uncle wiggily. "of course i'm a man," was the jolly answer. "but don't be afraid of me; i'm not a hunter man." "and you--you're standing on your head!" went on uncle wiggily, more surprised than ever. "of course i'm standing on my head!" said the funny man. "i have to do that to make things come out as they do in the alice in wonderland book. i'm father william, you know," and with that he gave a nimble spring, turned a back somersault, putting himself right side up, and began to recite this verse: "you are old, father william, the young man said, and your hair has become very white. but yet you incessantly stand on your head. do you think, at your age, that is right?" "but is it?" asked uncle wiggily quickly, as soon as funny father william had ceased speaking. "of course it is," was the answer. "otherwise it wouldn't be in the book and i wouldn't do it. at first it came very hard to me, but now i can easily manage. and you'll find you get quite a different view of things, looking at them upside down as i do every now and then," he went on. "i wonder if i could stand on my head?" spoke uncle wiggily. "try it," said father william. "i'd like to," went on the bunny uncle. "but i might crush my tall silk hat." "take it off," suggested father william. "yes, i could do that. but suppose some one were to see me?" asked the bunny. "it would look sort of queer." "no one will see you here behind the trees," spoke father william. "besides, if they do, learning to stand on one's head is very useful. there is no telling when you may want to do it at home." "that's so," agreed uncle wiggily. "well, i'll try." at first he couldn't stand up on his head at all, just turning over in a sort of flip-flop every time he tried. but at last father william held up the bunny rabbit by the heels, and then uncle wiggily did it better. after a while he could stand straight, right side up, on his hind paws, give a little wiggle, and then suddenly, with a funny twist and a somersault flop, there he was, standing on his head, with his silk hat twirling around on his upper paws. and father william could do the same thing. if you had happened to walk through the woods when uncle wiggily and father william, who had a little holiday from the alice book, were standing on their heads, surely you would have laughed. "and, now that i have learned a new trick, i must go look for an adventure," said the bunny. "i'll go with you," spoke father william. together they went along through the woods and over the fields and, all of a sudden, from behind a currant jam bush, out jumped a bad, old, double-jointed skillery-scalery alligator. "ah, ha!" cried the alligator. "at last i have caught some one to whom i can do it! ah, ha!" "do what?" asked uncle wiggily, while father william looked around for a place to hide. "what are you going to do?" "tickle your feet!" was the surprising answer. "i am the ticklish alligator, and feet i must tickle! get ready now, here i come." "oh, dear!" cried father william. "i never can bear to have my feet tickled. for, when that happens i laugh and then i sneeze and then i catch cold and have to go to bed. oh, dear! i don't want my feet tickled!" "hush!" whispered uncle wiggily, as the 'gator was hopping toward them. "you won't have to suffer that! quick! stand on your head as you taught me to, and hold your feet up in the air!" and in the twinkle of a spiced pear uncle wiggily and father william were standing on their heads. the surprised alligator saw them, and after trying to reach their feet with his claws, which he couldn't do, as they were up in the air, he cried: "ah, ha! thought you'd fool me, didn't you, by standing on your heads! well, i'll tickle your feet after all. i'll climb a tree and reach down to them!" "oh, dear! he'll make me catch cold no matter what i do," sighed father william. "no, he won't," said uncle wiggily. "the alligator is very good at climbing up trees, but it takes him ever so long to climb down. as soon as he climbs up we'll stop standing on our heads. we'll flip-flop to our feet and run away." and that's exactly what the bunny and father william did. as soon as the alligator was up in the tree branches they turned a flip-flop, stood up straight and away they ran, and the alligator was all day getting down out of the tree. so he didn't tickle their feet after all, but he might have if uncle wiggily had not learned to stand on his head. and if the ice wagon doesn't slide down hill and throw snowballs at the potato pudding in the parlor i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the magic bottles. chapter xiv uncle wiggily and the magic bottles uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, was hopping along through the woods one morning after having eaten breakfast in his hollow stump bungalow, when, just as he reached a nice, grassy place, near a spring of water, he saw the little flaxen-haired girl, alice from wonderland, coming toward him. "oh, i'm so glad to see you!" cried alice. "you are just in time to win the first prize." she handed the gentleman rabbit a little bottle, filled with what seemed to be water, and stoppered with a blue cork. "first prize for what?" asked uncle wiggily. "for getting here early," answered alice. "and you also get second prize, too," and she handed him another bottle, stoppered with a red cork. "why do i get second prize?" asked the bunny. "for not being late," answered alice with a smile. "it is very simple. first prize for being early, second prize for not being late." "hum!" said uncle wiggily, sort of scratching his pink, twinkling nose, thoughtful like. "it's much the same thing, it seems to me." "not at all," said alice, quickly. "the prizes are very different. those bottles are magical. they are filled with water from the pool of tears. if you drink a few drops from the one with the blue cork you will grow very small. and if you take some of the water from the red-stoppered bottle you will grow very large. be careful of your prizes." "i will," promised uncle wiggily. "are there any others coming?" he asked, looking about through the trees. "any others coming where?" inquired alice. "here. i mean, might they have gotten prizes, too?" "no, only you," said the flaxen-haired girl. "you were the only one expected." "but," spoke the puzzled bunny rabbit, "if i was the only one expected, what was the use of giving prizes? no one else could have gotten here ahead of me; could they?" "please don't ask me," begged alice. "all i know is that it's one of the riddles like those the march hare asks, such as 'what makes the mirror look crooked at you?' the answer is it doesn't if you don't. in this case you get the prizes because there is no one else to give them to. so take them and have an adventure. i have to go see what the duchess wants." with that alice faded away like the cheshire cat, beginning at her head and ending up at her feet, the last things to go being the buttons on her shoes. "well," said uncle wiggily to himself, "i have two prizes, it seems, of magic bottles. i wonder what i am to do with them?" he looked at the red and blue corked bottles, holding one in each paw, and he was wondering whether it would be best to grow small or large, when, all at once, he felt himself caught from behind by a pair of big claws, and, looking over his shoulder, as best he could, uncle wiggily saw that he was held fast by a big alligator; a skillery-scalery chap with a double-jointed tail that he could swing back and forth like a pantry door. "ah, ha! i have you!" gurgled the 'gator. "yes, i see you have!" said uncle wiggily, sadly. "you thought you and father william would fool me by standing on your heads so i couldn't tickle your feet," went on the 'gator, as i call him for short. "but i got down out of the tree, and here i am. i have you now and you can't get away from me!" indeed it did seem so, for he held uncle wiggily very tight and fast in his claws. "what are you going to do with me?" asked the rabbit. "take you home to my den, and my dear little foxes, eight, nine and ten," said the alligator. "foxes!" cried uncle wiggily. "have you foxes?" "i have!" answered the alligator. "i am keeping them until their father gets back from a hunting trip, and they are very hungry. their father is the fox who went out 'in a hungry plight, and he begged of the moon to give him light, for he'd many miles to go that night, before he could reach his den-o.'" "oh, now i remember," said uncle wiggily. "it's in mother goose." "yes, and so is the rest of it," went on the alligator. "'at last the fox reached home to his den, and his dear little foxes, eight, nine, ten.' those are their names, though they sound like numbers," said the 'gator. "i'll soon introduce you to them. come along!" now uncle wiggily did not like this at all. he wanted to get away from the alligator, but he did not know how he could do it. at last he thought of the magical bottles alice had given him. "ah, ha!" thought uncle wiggily. "i'll give the alligator a drink from the blue-corked one, and we'll see what happens." so uncle wiggily slyly said to the 'gator: "before you take me off to your den, would you not like a drink from this bottle to refresh you?" "yes, i would," said the skillery-scalery creature, not at all politely. "i was going to take some anyhow whether you asked me or not." with that he took the blue-corked bottle from the paw of the bunny rabbit gentleman, pulled out the stopper with his teeth and drank a few drops. and, no sooner had he done that, than the alligator began to shrink. first he became as small as a dog, then as little as a cat, then as tiny as a kitten, then no larger than a bird and finally he was no bigger than a baby angle worm. and when the alligator became that size uncle wiggily was not afraid and easily got away from him, taking the two magic bottles. "oh, dear!" cried the 'gator in a baby angle worm voice, which was about as loud as the head of a pin. "how foolish i was to drink from the magic bottle and grow small." but it served him right, i think, and the bunny uncle was safe. and if the head of the table doesn't step on the front door mat and make it slide off the porch i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the croquet ball. chapter xv uncle wiggily and the croquet ball "why in the world are you taking those bottles with you?" asked nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she saw uncle wiggily, the bunny rabbit gentleman, hopping off the front porch of his hollow stump bungalow one morning. "these are the prizes which alice from wonderland gave me," answered mr. longears, as he looked at the blue and red corked bottles. "the red one makes things grow larger and the blue one makes them smaller. i am going to take them with me as i go looking for an adventure today, as there is no telling when i might need them. i did yesterday, when the alligator caught me. i gave him a drink from the blue bottle and he shrunk until he was no larger than a baby angle worm." the rabbit gentleman had not gone very far, twinkling his pink nose as he hopped, before, all of a sudden, he came to a place where a big stone grew out of the ground, and near it he heard a voice, saying: "oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!" "ha! that sounds like trouble!" exclaimed the bunny. "who are you and what is the matter?" he asked, kindly. "oh, i am a lady bug," was the answer, "and i am so small that i either get lost all the while, or all the other animals and bugs in the forest step on me. oh, i wish i were larger so i could be more easily seen!" "indeed, you are rather hard to see," said uncle wiggily, and he had to look twice through his glasses before he could notice the lady bug. at the first look he only half saw her, but the second time he saw her fully. "i'd like to be about as large as a june beetle," said the lady bug. "but i don't s'pose i ever shall be." "oh, yes you will!" cried jolly uncle wiggily. "i will! how?" asked the lady bug, eagerly. "i have here some water in a magic bottle," said the bunny. "i'll give you a few drops of it, and it will make you grow larger." so he took some water from the red-corked flask, and let the lady bug sip it. instantly she grew as large as a turkey. "oh, now i'm too big," she said. "i see you are," said uncle wiggily. "i'll have to give you some from the other bottle and make you grow smaller." so he did, but he must have given a little too much, for the lady bug suddenly grew as small as the point of a baby pin. "oh, this is worse and worse," she said sadly. "i know it!" agreed uncle wiggily. "wait, i'll give you a little of both kinds," and he did, so the lady bug grew to the size of a small potato, which was just right, so she would not get lost or stepped on. after the lady bug had thanked him, uncle wiggily, with his two magical bottles, hopped on through the woods. he had not gone very far before he saw alice of wonderland and the queen of hearts playing croquet on a grassy place. "come on, uncle wiggily!" called alice. "you're just in time for the game." "fine!" said the bunny uncle, taking a mallet and round wooden ball which the queen handed him. "three strikes and you go out!" warned the queen. "what does she mean?" asked uncle wiggily of alice. "this isn't baseball." "she means," explained the little flaxen-haired girl, "that if you miss striking the croquet ball three times with your mallet you have to go out and bring in some ice cream." "oh, i shan't mind that," the bunny rabbit said. "in fact, i shall rather like it. now, what do i do--?" "play ball!" suddenly cried the queen of hearts, and she struck with her mallet the croquet ball near her such a hard blow that it sailed through the air and hit uncle wiggily in the coat tails. and then something cracked. all at once the croquet ball began growing larger! bigger and bigger it grew, like a snowball which you roll in the yard, and then it began to roll after uncle wiggily. down the croquet ground the big wooden ball chased after him, rolling closer and closer. "oh, my!" cried the queen of hearts, "what have i done?" "the ball cracked the magical red stoppered bottle that was in my coat tail pocket!" cried uncle wiggily over his shoulder, as he ran. "some of the magic, big-growing water spilled on the ball, and now it has turned into a giant! oh, it will crush me!" and, really, it did seem as though the big croquet ball would, for now it was as large as a house and still growing, so strong was the water in the magical bottle that had been broken. larger and larger grew the croquet ball, and faster and faster it rolled after uncle wiggily. it was almost on his heels now, and the bunny gentleman was running so fast that his tall silk hat flew off. "oh, what shall i do?" he cried. alice thought for a minute, then she called: "quick, uncle wiggily. take out the blue-corked bottle and sprinkle some of that water on the croquet ball! hurry now!" uncle wiggily did. as he ran he turned and threw back over his shoulder some of the blue bottle water on the big rolling croquet ball. and, all at once, just as the alligator had done, the croquet ball shrank and shrank until it was no larger than a boy's marble, and then it couldn't hurt uncle wiggily even if it did roll on him. but it is a good thing he had that bottle of shrinking water with him; isn't it? and, if the expressman doesn't take the baby carriage to ride the trunk down to the five-and-ten-cent store to buy a new piano, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the do-do. chapter xvi uncle wiggily and the do-do "i declare!" exclaimed nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper for uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, "i declare, i'll never get it done--never!" "what?" asked uncle wiggily. "what won't you get done?" "all this housework," answered miss fuzzy wuzzy. "you see, going over to call on mrs. bushytail, the squirrel lady, last night i didn't wash the supper dishes, and now i have them to do, and also the breakfast dishes and the sweeping and dusting and i ought to bake a cake, and mend some of your socks and--" "whoa!" called uncle wiggily with a jolly laugh, as though he had spoken to munchie trot, the pony. "that's enough! don't say any more. you have too much work to do." "and i'm worried about it," said nurse jane. "don't be," advised the rabbit gentleman. "i'll stay and help you do it." "no," said nurse jane. "thank you just the same, but i'd rather you wouldn't stay around the hollow stump bungalow when there is so much to do. you might get in my way and i'd step on you. that would give me the fidgets. it is very kind of you, but if you'll go off and have an adventure i think that will be best." "just as you say," agreed uncle wiggily. "but i'd like to help. can't i bring you a diamond dishpan or a gold wash rag from the five and ten cent store?" "no! hop along with you!" laughed nurse jane. "i dare say i'll manage somehow." so uncle wiggily hopped along, over the fields and through the woods, and then he suddenly said to himself: "i know what i'll do. i'll play a little trick on nurse jane. she shouldn't spend so much time in the kitchen. a little is all right, but there is too much trouble about housework. here i go off and have an adventure and she has to slop around in dishwater. it isn't right!" then the rabbit gentleman hopped along until he came to a woodland telephone, made from a trumpet vine flower, and into that he called, speaking right into his own hollow stump bungalow and to nurse jane. "oh, miss fuzzy wuzzy!" called uncle wiggily. "can you come over to mrs. wibblewobble's duck house right away?" "why, yes, i can," answered the muskrat lady, "though i have a lot of work to do. what is the matter?" "i'll tell you when you get there," said the voice of uncle wiggily, pretending he was mrs. wibblewobble, the duck lady. then he called up mrs. wibblewobble herself, told her how he had fooled nurse jane, and asked the duck lady, when the muskrat lady housekeeper came, to keep her talking and visiting as long as she could. "and while nurse jane is at your house, mrs. wibblewobble," said uncle wiggily, over the trumpet vine telephone, "i'll run around the back way to the hollow stump bungalow and do all the work." "that will be a nice surprise for nurse jane," the duck lady said. uncle wiggily guessed so, too, and when he thought nurse jane was safely at mrs. wibblewobble's house, he went to the bungalow. he took off his tall silk hat, laid aside his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, and began with the dishes. there was a large pile of them, but uncle wiggily was brave. "when i was a soldier i fought a great many more mosquitoes than there are dishes here," he said. "i will make believe the plates, cups and saucers are the enemy, and i will charge on them and souse them." and uncle wiggily did, with a cake of soap for a gun and washing powder to fire with. but, still and with all, there were many dishes, and when he thought of the beds to make, the sweeping and dusting to be done and the socks to mend, uncle wiggily said: "oh, dear!" "what's the matter?" asked a voice behind him, and turning, he saw alice from wonderland. with her was a queer bird, which had a tail like that of a mouse. "oh, i'm glad to see you!" said uncle wiggily. "but i can't go and have an adventure with you, alice, as i have to do all these dishes. then i have to do the sweeping and do the dusting and do--" "that's enough!" laughed alice. "there are too many do-dos. i am just in time, i see. my friend will help you," and she pointed to the queer bird. "what?" cried uncle wiggily. "can he do dishes?" "he can do anything!" laughed alice. "he is the do-do bird, and all i have to do is to pinch his tail and he will work very fast." "doesn't it hurt him?" asked uncle wiggily. "what, to work fast?" alice wanted to know. "no, to pinch his tail." "not in the least," answered alice. "he's used to it. the only trouble is i have to keep on pinching it to make him do things, and that means i have to keep my finger and thumb on his tail all the while and follow him around. now we'll begin to do things, dear do-do," and she pinched the bird's tail. at once the bird began to wash dishes, and soon they were all done, and then when the do-do started to do the beds uncle wiggily thought of a new plan. "as long as you have to pinch his tail," said the bunny to alice, "i'll get nurse jane's hair curlers. you can snap them on his tail and they'll keep pinching on it, and pinching on it all the while, and you and i can go take a walk." "fine!" cried alice. so with the hair curlers pinching his tail the do-do bird quickly did all the bungalow housework, and uncle wiggily and alice had a fine walk. and when nurse jane came home from mrs. wibblewobble's and found the work all done she was very happy. and so was the do-do, for he loved to do dishes. and if the teacup doesn't try to hide in the milk pitcher, where the bread crumbs can't tickle it when they play tag with the butter knife, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the lory. chapter xvii uncle wiggily and the lory once upon a time the skillery-scalery alligator was out walking in the fields near the muddy river where he lived, and he happened to meet a big spider. "good morning, mr. alligator," said mr. spider. "have you caught that uncle wiggily longears bunny yet?" "i have not, i am sorry to say," answered the alligator chap. "i've tried every way i know how, but something always happens so that he gets away. either he is helped by that funny book-girl, alice from wonderland, or by some of her friends. i'm afraid i'll never catch uncle wiggily." "oh, yes, you will," said mr. spider. "i'll help you." "how?" asked the 'gator, which was his short name, though he was rather long. "i'll crawl through the woods and over the fields until i find him asleep," said mr. spider. "and, when i do, i'll spin a strong web around and over him so he cannot get loose. then i'll come and tell you and you can get him." "very good," spoke mr. alligator. "please do it." so the alligator went back to sleep in the mud to wait until mr. spider should bring him word that uncle wiggily was held fast in the web. and now let us see what happens to the bunny gentleman. as he always did, he started out from his hollow stump bungalow one morning to look for an adventure. there had been a little accident at breakfast time. nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, had boiled the eggs too long and they were as hard as bullets. "you can't eat them," she said to uncle wiggily. "i'll boil you some fresh ones." "all right," laughed the bunny. "i don't want to get indyspepsia by eating hard bullet eggs. but i'll take them with me and give them to johnnie or billie bushytail, the squirrel boys. they can crack hard nuts so they must be able to crack hard boiled eggs." so it was that uncle wiggily, after having eaten the newly boiled soft eggs, started from his hollow stump bungalow with the hard boiled eggs in his pocket. he had not traveled very far before he heard from behind a big log a voice crying: "oh, dear! it isn't hard enough! it isn't half hard enough!" "what isn't?" asked uncle wiggily, as he saw a funny looking bird with a very large bill like a parrot's. "what isn't hard enough?" "this log of wood," was the answer. "i need something hard to bite on to sharpen my beak, but this wood is too soft." "you are a funny bird," laughed the bunny gentleman. "who might you be?" "i am the lory bird," was the answer. "i belong in the book with alice of wonderland, but i'm out for a day's pleasure, and, as i can't tell what i might have to eat, i thought i'd sharpen my bill. but i can't find anything hard enough to use as a grindstone." "suppose you try these," said uncle wiggily, taking the hard boiled eggs out of his pocket. "the very thing!" cried the lory. "these will be fine for my bill!" with that he champed his beak down on the hard eggs and he had all he could do to bite them. "now i'll get my beak good and sharp," said lory. "you have done me a great favor, uncle wiggily, and i hope some day to do you one." "pray, do not mention it," said the bunny rabbit, modest-like and shy. then, having found a good use for the hard boiled eggs, even if he didn't give them to the bushytail squirrel boys, uncle wiggily hopped along, and the lory kept on biting the shells for practice. now, it was a warm day, and, as uncle wiggily felt tired, he sat down in a shady place in the fields, and soon fell fast asleep. and, no sooner was he in dreamland than along came mr. spider. "ah, ha!" said the spider. "now's my chance to catch this bunny for the alligator. i'll spin a strong web around him, so strong that he cannot break loose. then i'll go get my friend, the 'gator." so while uncle wiggily slept, mr. spider spun a strong web about the bunny--a very extra strong web, with such big strands that uncle wiggily never could have broken them himself. and when the web was all finished, and the bunny was helpless, he awakened just as mr. spider was going off to call mr. alligator. "oh, what has happened to me?" cried the bunny, as he found he could not move his paws or even twinkle his pink nose. "oh, what is it? let me go!" "no, you can't go!" said the spider. "you are going to stay there until i bring mr. alligator," and away he crawled. uncle wiggily tried to get loose, but he could not. "oh, if only some one would come who's good and strong, and would cut this web, then i would be free!" said the bunny. and then, all of a sudden, out from behind the bush came the four and twenty tailors, from mother goose. they had their big scissors with them, and they were led by alice of wonderland. "i told these silly tailors i'd help them hunt the snail, because they are so timid that they even fear her tail," laughed alice, "but we'll stop and help you first, dear uncle wiggily!" then the four and twenty tailors, with their shears, sniped and snapped the strong spider's web until it was all in pieces and the bunny could easily get loose. and when the alligator, fetched by the spider, came to get the bunny he wasn't there. but the strong-billed lory bird was there. he had heard about uncle wiggily's trouble from the do-do bird, and had come, with his strong bill, to bite the spider web into little pieces. "but i am too late, i see," said the lory. "the mother goose tailors got here first. however, as i want to bite something hard and mean i'll bite the alligator." and he did and the alligator said "ouch!" and i'm glad of it. and if the telephone bell doesn't ring at the front door and make believe it's the milkman looking for old rags, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the puppy. chapter xviii uncle wiggily and the puppy "oh, uncle wiggily! oh, uncle wiggily! oh, uncle wiggily!" called jackie and peetie bow wow, the two doggie boys, as they ran barking up to the hollow stump bungalow one morning. "well, well! what's the matter now?" asked uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, as he came out on the porch. "oh, we've got a baby over at our house!" cried jackie. "come and see it!" barked peetie. "a baby? at your house?" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "well, a little puppy dog," said jackie. "that's the same to us as a real baby is to real persons." "to be sure," agreed the bunny uncle. "i'll come over and see the new baby puppy," and putting on his tall silk hat, and taking down his red-white-and-blue-striped barber pole rheumatism crutch from the electric light, mr. longears started away over the fields to the kennel house, where the bow wow dog family lived. "there's the new baby puppy!" cried jackie, as he poked away the straw from the bed where something was moving about. "i--why, bless my spectacles--i can hardly see him!" said uncle wiggily, taking off his glasses to polish them, for he thought maybe he had splashed some carrot oatmeal on them at breakfast and that they were clouded over. "he's so small, that's why you can't see him," spoke peetie. "but he'll soon grow big like us, uncle wiggily." "let us hope so," spoke the bunny uncle. "he's so small now i'd be afraid of stepping on him if i lived here." "he's got awful cute eyes," said peetie. "they aren't open yet, but i can pull 'em apart a little bit to show you they're going to be blue color, i guess," and peetie began opening the shut eyes of his little baby brother puppy. of course, the puppy whined and mrs. bow wow called: "now, what are you boys doing to that baby?" "nothing, ma," answered jackie. "we're jest pokin' open his eyes so uncle wiggily can see 'em," answered peetie. "oh, you doggie boys!" cried mrs. bow wow. "you mustn't do that! i'm glad uncle wiggily came to see our baby, but now you run out and play, peetie and jackie, while i visit with mr. longears." so the doggie boys ran out to play with johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels, and mrs. bow wow told uncle wiggily what a nice baby wuff-wuff was. wuff-wuff was the new puppy's name. "i'm sure he'll grow up to be a fine dog," said the bunny. just then the telephone bell in the kennel house rang, and when mrs. bow wow answered she said, after listening awhile: "oh, dear! this is your friend nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy talking to me. she wants me to come over to show her how to make a strawberry longcake, as there is a lot of company coming for supper. a short cake won't be large enough." "are you going to my hollow stump bungalow?" asked uncle wiggily. "i'd like to, only i can't leave baby wuff wuff," said mrs. bow wow. "oh, i'll stay and take care of him," said the bunny uncle. "i think i can do it, and it may be an adventure for me. trot along, mrs. bow wow." "very well, i will. if wuff wuff gets hungry, just give him some milk from this bottle," and she handed a nursing one to uncle wiggily. so mrs. bow wow went over to help nurse jane, the muskrat lady housekeeper, make the longcake, and the bunny man stayed with the puppy baby. uncle wiggily sat in the kennel house, while the little doggie nestled in the straw. the bunny rabbit was just wondering who the company could be that were coming to his bungalow, when, all of a sudden, there was a big noise outside the kennel, and a big voice cried: "now i know you're in there, uncle wiggily, for i saw you hop in with jackie and peetie. and i know they're gone, for i saw them go out. and i know mrs. bow wow is out. so you're there all alone and i'm going to get you!" and uncle wiggily saw the big skillery-scalery alligator standing outside the door. "oh, my!" thought the bunny rabbit gentleman. "he'll surely get me this time, for he can knock the kennel house apart with one flip-flap of his double-jointed tail. but maybe, if i keep real still, he will think i'm gone." so uncle wiggily snuggled down in the straw with the baby puppy, but the alligator cried: "oh, i know you're there, and i'm going to get you!" "oh, if only this puppy was a big, strong dog, like nero!" thought uncle wiggily, "he could save me from the alligator." just then the puppy began to whine, and the bunny rabbit said: "oh, don't do that, wuff wuff! don't whine, and make a noise, or the alligator will get you, too." but the puppy baby still whined, for he was hungry. uncle wiggily picked up a bottle and put the end of it in wuff wuff's mouth. "here, drink that," said the bunny. "then you won't be hungry." the puppy baby did so, and then something very strange happened. the little puppy suddenly began growing very large. first he was the size of mr. bow wow, and then he swelled up until he was as big as a horse, and had to get out of the kennel house for fear of bursting off the roof. and when the alligator saw the great big puppy dog, like the one in alice of wonderland, suddenly standing in front of him, mr. 'gator just gave one flip of his tail, and away he ran crying: "oh, my! i didn't know an elephant was there to save uncle wiggily!" but there wasn't. it was only the puppy who had suddenly grown big. for by mistake instead of giving him the bottle of milk, the bunny rabbit gave him some of the water from the magical red-stoppered, big-growing bottle that alice from wonderland had sent the bunny. it had been mended after the croquet ball broke it. and, after the puppy had scared away the alligator, uncle wiggily gave wuff wuff some water from the magical blue-stoppered bottle and shrunk him to his regular baby size, and everybody was happy. and if the fairy tale doesn't waggle itself all around the book case and scare all the big words out of the dictionary, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the unicorn. chapter xix uncle wiggily and the unicorn "well, you look just as if you were going somewhere, uncle wiggily," said nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, as the rabbit gentleman whizzed around the corner of his hollow stump bungalow in his automobile, with the bologna sausage tires, one morning. "i am going somewhere," he answered, and really he was, for the wheels were whizzing around like anything. "and going where, may i ask?" politely inquired the muskrat lady. "i am going to give alice a ride," answered uncle wiggily. "alice from wonderland, i mean. she never has ridden in an automobile." "she never has?" cried nurse jane, in surprise. "never! you see, when she was put in that nice book, which tells so much about her, there weren't any autos, and, of course, she never could have had a ride in one. "but she had ever so many other nice adventures, such as going down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass. however, i promised her a ride in my auto, and here i go to give it to her," and with that uncle wiggily sprinkled some pepper and salt on the sausage tires of his auto's wheels to make them go faster. the rabbit gentleman found alice, the little book girl, in the white queen's garden having a make-believe tea party with the mock turtle, who soon would have to go into the 5 o'clock soup. "oh, how kind of you to come for me, uncle wiggily!" cried alice, and she jumped up so quickly that she overturned the multiplication table, at which she and the mock turtle had been sitting, and ran to jump in the auto. "well, i don't call that very nice," said the mock turtle. "here she's gone and mixed up the seven times table with the three times six, and goodness knows when i'll ever get them straightened out again." "i'm sorry!" called alice, waving her hand as she rode off with uncle wiggily. "i'll help you when i come back." "and i'll help too," promised the bunny uncle. mr. longears and wonderland alice rode over the fields and through the woods, and they were having a fine time when, all of a sudden, as the automobile came near a place where some oak trees grew in a thick cluster alice cried: "hark! they're fighting!" "who?" asked uncle wiggily. "please don't tell me it is the mosquito enemy coming after me to bite me." "no, it's the lion and the unicorn," alice answered. "don't you remember how it goes in my book: "'the lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown, the lion beat the unicorn all around the town. some gave them white bread, some gave them brown, and then the funny unicorn jumped right up and down.' "that last line isn't just right," explained alice to the bunny uncle, "but i couldn't properly think of it, i'm so frightened!" "frightened? at what?" asked uncle wiggily. "at the unicorn," answered alice. "here he comes," and, as she said that, uncle wiggily saw a funny animal, like a horse, with a big long horn sticking out of the middle of his head, straight in front of him, galloping out of the clump of trees. "hurray! i beat him!" cried the unicorn. "come on now, quick, i must get away from here before they catch me!" "you beat him? do you mean beat the lion?" asked uncle wiggily for he was not frightened as was alice. "sure i beat him," answered the unicorn, as he jumped into the back seat of the automobile. "drive on!" he ordered just as if the bunny uncle gentleman were the coachman. "did you beat him very hard, with a broomstick?" asked alice, putting out her head from behind uncle wiggily's tall silk hat where she had hidden herself. "beat him with a broomstick? ha! ha! i should say not!" laughed the unicorn. "we're too jolly good friends for that," and he spoke like an english chap. "i beat him playing hop-scotch and jack-straws. i was two hops and three straws ahead of him when i stopped and ran away because they were after me." "who were after you?" asked alice. "the lion's friends?" "no, the straws that show which way the wind blows. when the wind blows the straws against me they tickle, and i can't bear to be tickled. i'm worse than a soap bubble that way. so i ran to get in the auto. i hope you don't mind," and the unicorn leaned back on the seat cushions. "mind? not in the least!" cried uncle wiggily. "i'm glad to give you a ride with alice," and he made the auto go very fast. on and on they went, over the fields and through the woods and then, all of a sudden, out from behind a tree jumped the big skillery-scalery alligator walking on his hind legs and the end of his double-jointed tail. "halt!" he cried, like a sentry soldier, and uncle wiggily stopped the auto. "at last i have caught you," said the alligator in a nutmeg grater sort of a voice. "i want you, uncle wiggily, and that alice girl also. as for your friend in the back seat, he may go--" "oh, may i? thank you!" cried the unicorn, and with that he leaned forward. and, as he did so the long sharp horn in his head reached over uncle wiggily's shoulder, and began to tickle the alligator right under his soft ribs. "oh, stop! stop it, i tell you!" giggled the 'gator. "stop tickling me!" and he laughed and wiggled and squirmed like an angle worm going fishing. "stop! stop!" he begged. "i will when you let my friends, uncle wiggily and alice, alone," said the unicorn, still tickling away. "yes! yes! i'll let them alone," promised the alligator, and he laughed until the tears ran down his tail. and then he had to run off by himself through the woods, and so he didn't get the bunny uncle nor wonderland alice either. and he never could have gotten the unicorn, because of his long, ticklish horn. so it is sometimes a good thing to take one of these stickery chaps along when you go for an automobile ride. and if the skyrocket doesn't fall down and stub its nose when it tries to jump over the moon with the crumpled horn cow, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and humpty dumpty. chapter xx uncle wiggily and humpty dumpty "excuse me," spoke a gentle voice behind nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, who was cleaning the steps of the hollow stump bungalow one morning. "excuse me, but can uncle wiggily be out to play?" "be out to play?" repeated nurse jane. "do you mean play with you?" and the muskrat lady turned to see a little girl, with flaxen hair, standing at the foot of the steps. "yes, play with me, if you please," said the little girl. "i'm alice from wonderland, you know, and uncle wiggily and i had such a jolly time yesterday, when the unicorn tickled the alligator and made him laugh, that i'd like to go off with him again." "with whom--the alligator?" asked nurse jane. "no, with uncle wiggily," laughed alice. "where is he?" "here i am, alice. i've just finished breakfast," answered the bunny rabbit gentleman himself, as he came out on the front bungalow steps. "are you ready for another auto ride?" "indeed i am, thank you. and as tomorrow is a holiday i don't have any school today." "that's funny," said uncle wiggily, twinkling his pink nose. "what holiday is it?" "the fourth of july!" answered alice. "have you forgotten? even though i am an english girl i know what it means. your boys and girls shoot off lollypops, bang ice cream cones and light red, white and blue candy." "candy? i guess you mean candles!" laughed uncle wiggily. "however, you're right. it is the fourth of july tomorrow, and whereas, years ago, we used to shoot off firecrackers (when many children were burned), now we have a nicer holiday. "we go off in the woods and gather flowers. why, do you know!" cried the bunny uncle, "there are flowers just right for fourth of july. there are puff balls that are as good as torpedoes, and snap-dragons that open their mouths and make believe bite you, and there are dogwood flowers that bark, and red sumach which is just the color of firecrackers." "then let's go off in the woods and have fourth of july there," proposed alice, and soon she and the bunny uncle were in the automobile. and then along came sammie and susie littletail, the rabbit children, and johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels, and jackie and peetie bow wow, the puppy dogs. "oh, uncle wiggily!" cried these animal boys and girls. "take us with you for fourth of july!" "of course i shall!" promised the bunny gentleman, so they all got in the automobile with him and wonderland alice, and away they went. they had not gone very far before, all of a sudden, they came to a stone wall, and when alice saw something on top of it, she cried: "why, there's my old friend humpty dumpty. i must stop and speak to him or he'll think i'm proud," and she waved her hands. "why, that--that's nothing but an--egg!" said sammie. "it's like the ones i colored for easter when the skilli-gimink dye splashed all over me. that isn't humpty dumpty at all--it's an egg!" "hush!" whispered susie. "humpty dumpty is an egg, of course, but he doesn't like to be told of it. don't you know the little verse? "'humpty dumpty sat on the wall, humpty dumpty had a great fall. all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put humpty dumpty together again.'" "that's right," said alice from wonderland. "only don't speak of the fall before humpty. he doesn't like to be reminded of it." "i don't see why," spoke jackie bow wow. "he can't hear a word we say. he's only an egg--he hasn't any ears." "he really isn't dressed yet," said alice. "it's a bit early. but i'll soon make him look more human." with that she jumped out of the auto and, taking two ears of corn from a field nearby, she fastened them with silk from the cob, one on each side of the egg. "now he can hear," said alice. then with tulip flowers she made humpty a mouth and from a potato she took two eyes, so the egg could see. a comb made him as nice teeth as one could wish for, and they never ached, and for a nose she took out a cute little bottle of perfumery. "i think that's a queer nose," said johnnie bushytail, frisking his tail. "well, a bottle of perfumery smells, doesn't it?" asked alice, "and that's what a nose is especially for; smells." "indeed it is!" cried humpty dumpty in his jolly voice, speaking through the tulips. "i'm all made now. i only hope--" and then he suddenly turned pale, for he nearly fell off the wall. "has any one any powder?" he asked. "i think i'd like to clean my teeth." "i have some talcum," spoke lulu wibblewobble, the duck girl, coming along just then. "that will do," spoke humpty dumpty. "it will be just fine." and with a brush made from the end of a soft fern he began to clean his teeth with the talcum powder which lulu gave him. and then, all of a sudden, there was a loud noise, a puff of smoke, and humpty dumpty, the egg man, was seen sailing off through the air like a big white balloon. "well, this is better than falling off the wall!" he cried in a faint voice. "oh, my! what happened?" asked sammie littletail, trying to make his pink nose twinkle as uncle wiggily did his. "humpty dumpty was blown up instead of falling down," said alice. "i guess your talcum powder was too strong for him, lulu, my dear. and it being the fourth of july tomorrow, humpty wanted to give us some fireworks. so he's gone, but i'm glad he wasn't broken, for if he was the way the book has it, when he falls off the wall, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put him together again. maybe it is best as it is." but, after a while humpty dumpty sailed back again, not hurt a bit, and he sat on the wall as well as ever. then alice and uncle wiggily and the animal boys and girls had fun in the woods. and, if the pink pills don't hide in the green bottle and pretend they're peppermint candy for the rag doll, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the looking glass. chapter xxi uncle wiggily and the looking glass "a package came for you while you were out adventuring today," said nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, to uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, as he hopped down the stairs of the hollow stump bungalow to breakfast one morning. "i wonder what's in it?" asked the bunny as he put a slice of carrot jam on his bread and held it over the lettuce coffee to have it flavored. "i don't know. you'll have to open it to find out," answered nurse jane. "it is marked 'glass. with care.'" uncle wiggily was so eager and excited like that he could not wait to finish his breakfast, but quickly opened the package which mr. hummingbird, the lightning express messenger, had left at the bungalow early that morning. "it's a looking glass!" exclaimed the bunny uncle when he saw what it was. "and it's from alice in wonderland--at least she used to live in wonderland before she came to woodland to have adventures with me." "and there's a note with it," spoke nurse jane, as she saw a piece of white birch bark, with writing on it; the letters having been made with a burned stick which marks black like a lead pencil. "yes, it's a little letter," said uncle wiggily as he read it. "and it's from alice. it says: 'dear uncle wiggily: i send you the looking glass i once went through, and on the other side i had many adventures. i wish you the same!'" "that's queer," said the bunny, as he turned the glass over and looked at the back. "i don't see any hole where alice went through." "maybe it closed up after her, the same as fairy doors always close once you pass through," explained nurse jane. "i believe you are right," said uncle wiggily. "but this is a very small glass for a girl like alice to get through," and indeed the glass was one of the kind you hold in your hand. "maybe the glass was larger when alice went through it," said nurse jane, "or else perhaps she had taken some drops from the magic bottle and grew small like a rubber doll." "i guess that was it," agreed uncle wiggily. "anyhow, it is very kind of her to send me the looking glass. i may have an adventure with it. i'll take it out on the front steps and then we'll see what happens next." so, having finished his breakfast, the bunny went out on the bungalow porch and sat with the looking glass in his paw, waiting for something to happen. he sat there and sat there and sat there and he was just beginning to wonder if anything would happen, when, all of a sudden, there was a rustling in the bushes, and up on the porch popped a bad old skillery-scalery alligator, with bumps all down the middle of his back like the buttons on a lady's dress. "ah, ha! i am just in time, i see!" exclaimed the 'gator. "for what?" asked uncle wiggily, suddenly awakening, for he had fallen into a little sleep while he waited for an adventure to happen with the looking glass. "in time for what?" "to go away with you," answered the alligator. "but i am not going away," said the bunny. "at least i did not know i was going," and he looked around rather sad and lonesome, for he did not like the bad alligator, and he wanted to see, uncle wiggily did, if brave nurse jane fuzzy would not come out and throw cold water on him--on the alligator, i mean--to drive him away. but the muskrat lady had gone to the store to get some cheese for supper. "i am not going away," said uncle wiggily again. "oh, yes you are!" exclaimed the alligator, and he smiled in such a way that it seemed as though the whole top of his head would pop off, so large was the smile. "you may not know it, but you are going away, uncle wiggily." "with whom?" asked the bunny. "with me," answered the 'gator. "we are going away together. i came on purpose to fetch you. come along," and with that the bad alligator wound his double-jointed tail around the bunny uncle's ears, lifted him out of the rocking chair and started to walk off the bungalow porch with him. "oh, stop it!" cried uncle wiggily. "let me go! let me go!" "no! no!" barked the alligator, like a dog. "i'll not let you go, now i have you!" and he started to drag the bunny uncle off to the dark, damp, dismal swamp, where the mosquitoes lived with the tent caterpillars. "oh, please don't take me away!" begged the bunny. "i wish some one would help me!" and as he said that the alligator gave him a sudden twist and the looking glass, which uncle wiggily still held in his paw, came around in front of the alligator's face. and, no sooner had the 'gator looked in the glass than he gave a loud cry, and, unwinding his tail from uncle wiggily, away the bad creature scurried, leaving the bunny alone and safe. and the alligator cried: "oh, excuse me! i didn't mean anything! i'll be good! i won't hurt uncle wiggily!" "well, i wonder what frightened him away?" asked uncle wiggily, out loud. "seeing himself in the looking glass," was the answer, and there stood alice from wonderland. "that is a magical mirror i sent you, uncle wiggily," she explained. "it shows the reflection of anything and anybody just as they are and not as they'd like to be. "and the alligator is such a mean-looking and ugly chap, that, never before having seen himself, this time when he did, in the looking glass, he was frightened, seeing himself as others see him. he thought he was looking at a chinese dragon who would bite him. so he ran away, leaving you alone." "and i'm so glad he did," said uncle wiggily. "it's a good thing i had your looking glass." then alice and uncle wiggily had a good time, and if the clothes pin doesn't pinch the pillow case so hard that it tickles the bedspread and makes it sneeze all the feathers out, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the white queen. chapter xxii uncle wiggily and the white queen uncle wiggily longears, the nice rabbit gentleman, was hopping along through the woods one day, wondering if he would have an adventure with alice of wonderland or some of her friends, when, all of a sudden, coming to a place where a rail fence ran along among the trees he saw, caught in a crack of one of the rails by its legs, a white butterfly. the poor butterfly was fluttering its wings, trying to pull out its legs, but it had to pull very gently, for a butterfly's leg, you know, is very tender and easily broken, like a piece of spider-web. "oh, my!" cried kind uncle wiggily, when he saw what was the matter. "you are in trouble, aren't you? i'm glad i happened to come along." "why are you glad; to see me in trouble?" asked the white butterfly. "no, indeed!" exclaimed the bunny uncle. "but i want to help you." "well, i wish you would," went on the fluttering creature. "i've tried and tried again to get my poor leg loose, but i can't. and i'm on my way--oh, but i forgot. that part is a secret!" quickly said the butterfly. "well, then, don't tell me," spoke uncle wiggily with a laugh, "for i might not be very good at keeping secrets. but i'll soon have your leg loose." with that he took the small end of his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch that nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy had gnawed for him out of a cornstalk and putting the little end of his crutch in the crack of the rail fence, uncle wiggily gave a hard push, opened the crack wider, and soon the butterfly's leg was loose and she could fly away. "but first i must thank you, uncle wiggily," she said. "and as you did me so great a favor i want to do you one in return. not now, perhaps, as i am in a hurry, but later. so if ever you find you want something you can't get, just come to these woods and say a little verse. then you shall have your wish." "what verse shall i say?" asked uncle wiggily. "this," answered the butterfly. then she recited: "when the wind blows in the trees, making perfume for the breeze, will you grant to me this boon, that my wish may come true soon?" "and what then?" asked the bunny. "then," answered the butterfly, "you must whisper your wish to a green leaf and--well, we'll see what happens next." "thank you," said uncle wiggily, and then he hopped on through the woods while the butterfly fluttered away. uncle wiggily had no adventure that day, but when he reached home to his hollow stump bungalow he found his muskrat lady housekeeper in the kitchen looking quite sad and blue. "well, nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy!" cried the jolly bunny uncle. "whatever is the matter?" "oh, i have broken my nice gold and diamond dishpan, and i can't do any more kitchen work until it is mended. i can't wash the dishes nor get you any supper." "oh, never mind about that," said uncle wiggily. "i'll take the diamond dishpan down to the five and ten cent store and have them mend it for you. where is it?" nurse jane gave it to him. the pan had a big crack right across the middle. the muskrat lady said it had fallen to the floor and had broken when she went to get jackie bow wow, the little puppy dog boy a slice of bread and jam. "i'll soon have it fixed for you," said uncle wiggily. but it was more easily said than done. the five and ten cent store was closed because every one was on a picnic, and no one else could mend the dishpan. "never mind, i'll buy nurse jane a new one and say nothing about it," said uncle wiggily. "i'll surprise her." but this, too, was more easily said than done. in all woodland, where uncle wiggily and the animal folk lived, there was not another gold and diamond dishpan to be had. they were all sold. "oh, dear! what shall i do?" thought uncle wiggily. "nurse jane will be so unhappy!" then he happened to think of the white butterfly and what she had told him. so, taking the dishpan, he went to the wood where he had helped the fluttering creature and whispered to a leaf the little verse: "when the wind blows in the trees, making perfume for the breeze, will you grant to me this boon, that my wish may come true soon?" "well, what is your wish?" asked a sudden voice. "i wish nurse jane's gold and diamond dishpan to be mended," said uncle wiggily. instantly something white came fluttering down out of a tree, and the bunny saw it was the white butterfly. and then, all of a sudden, before he could count up to sixteen thousand, the white butterfly seemed to fade away and in its place was a beautiful white queen, seated on a golden throne with a diamond crown on her head. "you shall have your wish, uncle wiggily," she said. "give me the dishpan." "why--why!" exclaimed the bunny. "you are--you are--" "i am the white queen from alice in wonderland," was the answer, "and i will ask you a riddle. when you take the dishes out of the pan what remains?" "nothing," answered the bunny. "wrong," answered the white queen. "the water does. now i'll mend this for you." and she did, taking some gold from her throne and some diamonds from her crown to mend the broken dishpan. soon nurse jane's pan was as good as ever and she could wash the dishes in it. "thank you," said uncle wiggily. "but how is it you are a queen and a butterfly, too?" "oh, we queens lead a sort of butterfly existence," said the white queen. "but i must go now, for i have to find the tarts for the queen of hearts who is always losing hers." then, changing herself into a white butterfly again, the queen flew away, and uncle wiggily, with the mended dishpan, hopped on to his hollow stump bungalow, where he and nurse jane were soon having a nice supper and were very happy. and if the potato masher doesn't go to the moving pictures and step on the toes of the egg beater i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the red queen. [illustration] chapter xxiii uncle wiggily and the red queen once upon a time, when uncle wiggily longears, the rabbit gentleman, was out walking in the woods, he stopped beside a little hole in the ground near a pile of oak tree leaves, and listening, when the wind stopped blowing, he heard a little voice saying: "oh, but where can she be? i fear she is lost! little crawlie is lost!" "my! that's too bad," thought uncle wiggily. "somebody's little girl is lost. i must ask if i cannot help find her." so he called: "oh, ho, there! may i have the pleasure of helping you in your trouble, whoever you are?" "but who are you?" asked a voice that seemed to come out of the little hole in the ground. "i am uncle wiggily longears," answered the bunny. "you can easily see me, but i can't see you. and who is this crawlie who is lost?" "she is my little girl," was the answer, and up the hole in the ground came crawling a red ant lady, who was crying tear drops about as large as that part of a pin point which you can't see but can only feel. "oh, my!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "i couldn't imagine who would live in such a little house, but of course ants can. and now what about crawlie?" "she is my little girl," answered the red ant. "i sent her to the store about an hour ago to get a loaf of sand bread, but she hasn't come back and i'm sure something has happened to her." "let us hope not," spoke uncle wiggily, softly. "i'll go at once and look for her. have no fear, mrs. ant. i'll find crawlie for you. it is rather a queer name." "crawlie is called that because she crawls in such a funny way," said mrs. ant. "oh, dear! i hope she is all right. if she should happen to have fallen down a crack in a peach stone she'd never get out." "i'll find her," said uncle wiggily, bravely. so off started the bunny uncle, hopping on his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch over the fields and through the woods, looking for crawlie. he had not gone very far before he heard a small voice calling: "help! help! oh, will no one help me?" "yes, of course, i will!" answered the bunny, and then he saw an acorn which seemed to be moving along the ground in a queer way. "ha! can it be that this acorn is alive?" asked uncle wiggily. "and can that acorn want help?" he cried. "no, it is i--crawlie, the ant girl--under the acorn," was the answer, "and i want help, for i'm in such trouble." "what kind?" asked uncle wiggily. "what's the trouble?" "why, i'm caught under this acorn here and i can't get out," was the answer, and crawlie's voice sounded as though she had gone down cellar to get a crumb of apple and couldn't find her way back again. "i went under the acorn shell, which is empty," said the little ant girl, "and though it was nicely propped up on one side when i crawled in, it was blown over by the wind and i was held beneath it. oh, dear! i can't get out and go to the store for the loaf of sand bread!" "oh, yes you can!" cried jolly uncle wiggily. "i'll lift the acorn shell off you and let you out." so he did, easily picking up the empty oak tree acorn from where it was covering crawlie, and then the little ant girl, who was red, just like her mother, could walk about. "oh, thank you, uncle wiggily," she said. "if ever we ants can do you a favor we will." "oh, pray do not mention it," spoke uncle wiggily, modest-like and shy. then crawlie hurried on to the sand bread store and the bunny hopped along over the fields and through the woods. he had not gone very far before he met a poor old june bug gentleman, and the june bug seemed very sad and unhappy. "what is the matter?" asked uncle wiggily. "lots," was the answer. "you see it is now time, being july, for june bugs like myself to get in their winter wood so we will not freeze in the cold weather. but i hurt my legs, banging into an electric light one night, and i'm so lame and stiff that i can't gather any wood at all. i shall freeze, i know i shall!" and the june bug gentleman was more sad than ever. "oh, cheer up!" cried uncle wiggily. "there is plenty of wood under these trees. i'll help you gather it." "there is no need to do that," said another voice, and, looking up, uncle wiggily and the june bug saw, sitting on a green mossy log, a red queen wearing a golden crown. "oh!" exclaimed uncle wiggily in surprise. "you are--" "i am the red queen from alice in wonderland," interrupted the lady on the log. "i was also the red ant lady who was crying and also crawlie, the red ant girl. you were so kind to me when you thought i was only a crawling insect that now, when i have changed myself into a red queen, i want to help you. and i know i can best help you by helping this june bug friend of yours." "indeed, you can!" said uncle wiggily, thankful like. "i thought so," spoke the red queen. "watch!" with that she waved her magic wand, and, instantly, ten million red, white and black ants came crawling out of old logs from holes in the ground and from under piles of leaves, and each ant took up a little stick of wood and carried it into the june bug's house for him, so he had plenty of wood for all winter, and couldn't freeze. "there you are, uncle wiggily!" laughed the red queen. "one kindness, you see, makes another," and then she got in her golden chariot and drove away, and when the june bug gentleman had thanked him, and the ants had crawled home, the bunny himself went to his hollow stump bungalow very happy. and if the looking glass doesn't make faces at the hairbrush and knock the teeth out of the comb so it can't have fun and bite the talcum powder, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and tweedledum. chapter xxiv uncle wiggily and tweedledum "are you in, uncle wiggily?" asked a voice at the hollow stump bungalow one morning, and the rabbit gentleman looked up to see alice from wonderland standing on the door sill. "yes, of course i'm in, my dear," he answered. "can't you see me?" "i can't be sure of anything i see," answered the little girl with flaxen hair, "especially since i've been having so many queer adventures. i used to think i saw the cheshire cat, when it was only his grin smiling at me. and maybe now i'm only looking at your ears, or tall silk hat, and thinking it's you." "no, i'm here all right," answered the bunny. "is there anything i can do for you?" "yes," answered alice. "i'd like you to come for a walk with me. i haven't much longer time to stay with you, and i want to have all the fun i can." "are you going away?" asked uncle wiggily. "i have very soon to go back in the book where i belong," answered alice. "but no matter. come now, and we'll go look for an adventure." so alice and uncle wiggily started off over the fields and through the woods, and they had not gone very far before they suddenly heard, among the trees, some voices crying: "you did it!" "no, i didn't!" "yes, you did; you know you did!" "no, i didn't! i know i didn't!" "well, we'll have to have a battle, anyhow!" and then came a sound as if some one was beating a carpet with a fishing pole and voices cried: "oh! oh, dear! ouch! oh, how it hurts!" "my, what in the world can that be?" asked uncle wiggily. "it sounds like an adventure all right." "i think it is," answered alice. "it's probably tweedledum and tweedledee fighting." "fighting? tweedledee and tweedledum?" asked the surprised bunny. "oh, it's only in fun," laughed alice, "and they have to do it because it's that way in the book, for if they didn't things wouldn't come out right. yes, there they are." and she pointed off through the trees, where uncle wiggily saw two round, fat, little boys, dressed exactly the same, and looking so like one another that no one could tell them apart, except when they were together--just like twins, you know. "oh, i'm so glad to see you!" called alice to the two queer fat chaps. they were as round as barrels, both of them. uncle wiggily noticed that on the collar of one was the word dum, while on the other was the word dee. "tweedle, the rest of their name, is on the back of their collars," alice explained. "as it's the same for both, they didn't need it in front." then the fat boys turned around, like tops slowly spinning, and, surely enough, on the back of the white collar of each were letters spelling tweedle. "i'm glad to see you," spoke uncle wiggily. "i heard you--sort of--er--well, you know," he went on, diffident-like, not wishing to say he had heard the brothers quarreling. "oh, it's all right, we do that every day," said tweedledee. "and, contrariwise, twice on sunday," added tweedledum. "we have to for the verse about us says: "'tweedledum and tweedledee agreed to have a battle; for tweedledum said tweedledee had spoiled his nice new rattle. "'just then down flew a monstrous crow, as black as a tar barrel, which frightened both the heroes so, they quite forgot their quarrel.'" "only we weren't really frightened," said tweedledee. "we just made believe so, and laughed at the crow. and i didn't really spoil tweedledum's nice new rattle, for here it is now," and taking his arm down from around his brother's neck he took the rattle from his pocket and shook it, making a noise like a drum. and, just as he did that, all of a sudden, out from behind a big stump came--not a monstrous crow, but the bad old skillery-scalery alligator, who cried: "ah, ha! at last i have him! now i'll get that uncle wiggily longears chap! ah, ha!" and he made a grab for the gentleman bunny. "oh, dear!" exclaimed alice. "please don't hurt uncle wiggily!" "yes, i shall!" snapped the 'gator. "i'll bumble him and mumble him, that's what i'll do." "oh, no you won't!" exclaimed tweedledum, wabbling toward the alligator as jimmie wibblewobble, the boy duck, waddled when he walked. "i won't what?" asked the 'gator. "you won't bumble or mumble uncle wiggily. first you have to catch me!" "pooh! that's easily done," snapped the alligator. "you are so fat that you can't run any more than a rubber ball." "will you promise to let uncle wiggily alone until you catch me?" asked tweedledum, eagerly. "i promise," said the alligator smiling to himself, for he thought he could easily catch the fat twin, and his promise wouldn't count. "then here i go! catch me!" suddenly cried tweedledum. and with that he stretched out on the ground and began to roll down hill in the woods. and as he was fat and round he rolled as fast as a rubber ball, and he rolled so fast (ever so much faster than if he had run) that when the alligator raced after him, as he had promised he would do, why the bad double-jointed skillery-scalery creature got all out of breath and couldn't bumble or mumble a strawberry, to say nothing of uncle wiggily. and the 'gator didn't catch the fat boy either. so tweedledum, rolling down hill that way, which he could do much better than walking or running, saved the bunny uncle from the alligator, and mr. longears was very glad, and so was alice. and if the knife and fork don't go to the candy store, just when supper is ready, and make the spoon holder wait for them before eating the ice cream, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and tweedledee. chapter xxv uncle wiggily and tweedledee "oh, uncle wiggily!" cried a voice, as the old rabbit gentleman started out from his hollow stump bungalow one morning to walk in the woods and look for an adventure. "oh, uncle wiggily, be careful!" "be careful of what, if you please, and who are you, if i may ask?" politely inquired the bunny. "i am your friend alice, from wonderland," was the answer, "and i want you to be careful and not get hurt today." "i always am careful," answered uncle wiggily. "i look for cabbage and turnip traps wherever i go, and i never pick up a bit of carrot on the woodland path without first making sure there is no string fast to it, to catch me. what do you mean, alice?" he asked the little flaxen-haired girl as she came out of the bushes and sat down on the stoop of the hollow stump bungalow. "what do you mean?" "i don't know just what i do mean, uncle wiggily," said alice. "but last night i dreamed you were in trouble and i could not help you. i felt so sorry! as soon as i woke up this morning i hurried over to tell you to be careful." "oh, i'll be careful," promised the bunny gentleman. "but in your dream did no one help me?" "yes, after a while two funny little fat boys did," answered alice. "but i don't remember that part of my dream. however, if you are going for a walk i'll go with you and do what i can in case the jabberwocky or the hop scotch bird try to chase you." "the hop scotch isn't a bird," said uncle wiggily, with a laugh that made his pink nose twinkle like the strawberry on top of a cheese cake. "it's a bit of candy." "oh, uncle wiggily! it's a game!" cried susie littletail, the rabbit girl, coming out from behind a stump just then. "it's a game where you jump around on the pavement, and if you and alice are going to play it, please may i watch you?" "we aren't going to play," said alice. "it's long past play time." "i am going to look for an adventure," said uncle wiggily. "then, please, may i come?" begged susie. "i'll help look." "come along!" cried jolly uncle wiggily and soon the three of them were on their way through the woods. they had not gone very far, over the paths with the big green ferns on either side, when, all of a onceness out from behind a big log jumped the two bad old skillery-scalery alligators, one with the humps on his tail and the other with his tail all double-jointed, so he could wiggle it seven ways from sunday. "ah, ha!" cried the hump-tailed 'gator. "ha, ha!" cried the double-jointed one. "at last we have caught you!" and they both made a grab for the rabbit gentleman, one catching him on the left side and the other on the right, and holding him fast. "oh!" cried uncle wiggily. "oh, dear! please let me go!" "no!" snapped the first 'gator. and "no!" snapped the second, both flapping their tails. "oh, this is my dream! this is my dream!" said alice, sadly. "but where are the two fat boys that saved uncle wiggily. where are they?" "here is one, if you please," answered a voice, and out stepped tweedledee, the queer little fat chap from the alice in wonderland book. "i'll help you, uncle wiggily." "thank you, very much," spoke the rabbit gentleman. "if you would kindly make these alligators let me go--" "pooh! huh! humph! what! him make us let you go? well, i should say not!" sniffed the first alligator. "the very idea" sneered the second. "it will take a great deal more than one fat boy to make us let go of a nice, fat, juicy rabbit once we have caught him. certainly not!" "ahem! how about two fat boys?" suddenly asked another voice, and there stood another beside tweedledee, a fat boy, who looked just the same exactly; even as you seem to yourself when you peek at your reflection in the bath room mirror. "no, we won't let you go for two fat boys, either," said the double-jointed alligator, while alice murmured: "oh, this is my dream! this is my dream! i wish i could remember how it came out!" "was uncle wiggily saved?" asked susie littletail in a whisper. "yes," said alice. "then it's all right," spoke the rabbit girl. "let uncle wiggily go!" cried tweedledee in his most grown-up sort of voice. "yes, let him go at once!" added tweedledum. "no, indeed!" snapped both alligators together like twins, only, of course, they weren't. "well, then," went on tweedledee, "don't you dare to take away or hurt him unless you guess which are our names. now tell me truly who am i? and, remember, if you don't guess right, you can't have uncle wiggily!" "you are tweedledum," said the hump-tailed 'gator. "no, he is tweedledee," said the other 'gator. "the one standing next to him is tweedledum. i guess i ought to know!" "you're wrong," said the hump-tailed 'gator. "the one i saw first is tweedledum. i guess i ought to know!" "i know better!" the double-jointed alligator declared. "he is tweedledee!" "tweedledum!" shouted the other 'gator. "tweedledee!" snapped his chum. and then they both began disputing, calling each other names, and throwing mud at one another, until, finally, they were so mixed up about tweedledum and tweedledee that they let go of uncle wiggily and began shaking their claws at one another, so the rabbit gentleman and alice and susie (as well as the two fat boys who looked exactly alike) ran safely away and the bunny was saved, just as alice had dreamed. "and to think, if the alligators had only looked at our collars, they would have seen our right names," tweedledum laughed. "of course," said tweedledee. but everything came out all right and the alligators only had sawdust for supper. and if the wash lady doesn't take my best collar button to fasten the tablecloth to the ironing board in the clothes basket, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the pool of tears. chapter xxvi uncle wiggily and the tear pool uncle wiggily longears, the nice rabbit gentleman, was out walking in the woods one day, wondering what sort of an adventure he would have when he saw a little path, leading away from his hollow stump bungalow, and it seemed to go through a part of the forest in which he had never before been. "i'll take that path and see where it leads," said the bunny gentleman to himself. so, taking a piece of ribbon grass, which grew near a clump of ferns, he tied his tall silk hat firmly on his head, leaving his ears sticking out of the holes at the top, and tucking under his paw his red, white and blue striped barber pole rheumatism crutch that nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, his muskrat lady housekeeper, had gnawed for him out of a cornstalk, away started uncle wiggily. it was a nice warm summer day, and before the old gentleman bunny had gone very far he began to feel thirsty, just as you do when you go on a picnic and eat pickles, only i hope you don't eat too many of them. "i wonder if there is not a spring of water around here?" thought uncle wiggily, and he began to look about under the low branches of the trees and bushes, at the same time listening for the laughing murmur of a brook flowing over green, mossy stones. then uncle wiggily sniffed with his pink, twinkling nose until it looked like a chicken picking up corn. "ah, ha!" cried the bunny uncle, "i smell water!" for you know animals and birds can smell water when they cannot see it, in which they are more gifted than are we. so uncle wiggily sniffed and sniffed, and then, holding his pink, twinkling nose straight in front of him and letting it go on ahead, instead of lagging behind, he followed it until it led him straight to a little pool of water that was sparkling in the sun, while green moss ferns and bushes grew all around. "oh, what a fine spring!" cried the bunny, "and how thirsty i am!" mr. longears, which i call him when first i introduce him to any strangers--mr. longears was just going to take a long drink from the pool, or spring, when he happened to notice a little piece of white birch bark tied with a bit of grass to a fern that grew near the water. "ha! i wonder if that is a notice not to trespass, or not to fish or hunt, and to keep off the grass, or no admittance except on business or something like that?" thought uncle wiggily, as he put on his glasses to see if there was any writing on the birch bark, which animal folk use as we use paper. and there was some writing on the bark. it read: "please do not jump in, or drink until i come. alice from wonderland." "ha! that is strange," thought uncle wiggily. "alice must have been here and put up that sign. but i wonder why she did it? if she knew how warm and thirsty i was she would not make me wait until she came to get a drink. perhaps it is all a joke, and not her writing at all. one of the bad skillery-scalery alligators or the fuzzy fox may have put up the sign to fool me." but when the rabbit gentleman took a second look at the birch bark sign he saw that it really was alice's writing. "well, she must have some reason for it," said the bunny, with a sigh. "she dreamed right about two fat boys--tweedledum and tweedledee--saving me from the alligators, so she must have some reason for asking me to wait until she comes. but i am very thirsty." uncle wiggily sat down on the green, mossy bank beside the spring of water and looked at it. and it seemed so cool and wet, and he was so thirsty, that it was all he could do to keep from jumping in and having a bath, as well as drinking all he wanted. the sun grew hotter and more hot, and the rabbit gentleman more and more thirsty, and he didn't know what to do when, all of a sudden, out from the bushes jumped a bad old black bear. "ah, ha!" growled the bear. "i am just in time, i see!" and he ran his red tongue over his white teeth as though giving it a trolley ride in a baby carriage. "in time for what?" asked uncle wiggily, casual like and make-believe indifferent. "in time for lunch," answered the bear. "i was afraid i'd be a little late. i hope i haven't kept you waiting." "for my lunch?" asked uncle wiggily. "no. for mine!" and once more the bear smacked his lips hungry like. "i am just in time, i see." "oh, i thought you meant you were just in time to take a drink of this water," said the bunny, pointing at the pool. "if you did, you aren't." "if i did i aren't? what kind of talk is that?" asked the bear, curious like. "i mean we can't have a drink until alice comes--the sign says so," spoke uncle wiggily, politely. "pooh! i don't believe in signs," snapped the bear. "i'm thirsty and i'm going to have a drink," and with that he took a long one from the woodland pool. and then a funny thing happened. the bear began to grow smaller and smaller. first he was the size of a dog, then of a cat, then of a kitten, then he shrank to the littleness of a mouse, and next he was like a june bug. then he became a july bug, next he was no larger than a little black ant, and finally he became a microbe, and uncle wiggily couldn't see him at all. "well, thank goodness he's gone!" said the bunny. "but what made him so shrinking like i wonder?" "it was the pool of tears," said a voice behind the bunny, and there stood alice from wonderland. "this pool is sour alum water, uncle wiggily," she said, "and if you drink it you shrink and shrivel up and blow away. that's why i put up the sign so nothing would happen to you. i knew about the pool, as it's in my story book. and now we can go have some funny adventures." and away they went over the hills and far away and that bear was never seen again. but if your cat doesn't catch the ice cream cone in the mosquito net and feed it to the gold fish, i'll tell you more of uncle wiggily's adventures in a little while. for the old gentleman rabbit had many surprising things happen to him. you may read about them in another book to be called "uncle wiggily in fairyland," which tells of some of the genii and gnomes of the arabian nights. so, until i have that book ready for you, i'll just wish you a good-night and many, many happy dreams! the end uncle wiggily picture books three stories in each book by howard r. garis [illustration] also twenty-seven color pictures by lang campbell in these funny little books you can see in bright colored pictures the adventures of myself and my woodland friends. also the pictures of some bad fellows, whose names you know. so if the spoon holder doesn't go down cellar and take the coal shovel away from the gas stove, you may read no. 1. uncle wiggily's auto sled if the rocking chair doesn't tickle the rag carpet and make the brass bed fall upstairs, you may read no. 2. uncle wiggily's snow man if the umbrella doesn't go out in the rain and splash water all over the rubber boots on the gold fish, you may read no. 3. uncle wiggily's holidays if the electric light doesn't cry for some molasses, when the match leaves it all alone in the china closet, you may read no. 4. uncle wiggily's apple roast if the egg beater doesn't try to jump over the coffee pot and fall in the sink when the potato is learning to swim, you may read no. 5. uncle wiggily's picnic if the sugar cookie doesn't go out walking with the fountain pen, and get all black so it looks like a chocolate cake, you may read no. 6. uncle wiggily goes fishing hurry up and get these nice little books from the bookstore man, or send direct to the publishers, 50 cents per copy, postpaid. charles e. graham & co. new york [illustration: uncle wiggily his mark] burt's series of one syllable books 14 titles. handsome illuminated cloth binding a series of classics, selected specially for young people's reading, and told in simple language for youngest readers. printed from large type, with many illustrations. price 75 cents per volume ã�sop's fables retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mary godolphin. with 41 illustrations. alice's adventures in wonderland retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mrs. j. c. gorham. with many illustrations. andersen's fairy tales (selections.) retold in words of one syllable for young people. by harriet t. comstock. with many illustrations. bible heroes told in words of one syllable for young people. by harriet t. comstock. with many illustrations. black beauty retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mrs. j. c. gorham. with many illustrations. grimm's fairy tales (selections.) retold in words of one syllable. by jean s. remy. with many illustrations. gulliver's travels into several remote regions of the world. retold in words of one syllable for young people. by j. c. g. with 32 illustrations. life of christ told in words of one syllable for young people. by jean s. remy. with many illustrations. lives of the presidents told in words of one syllable for young people. by jean s. remy. with 24 large portraits. pilgrim's progress retold in words of one syllable for young people. by samuel phillips day. with 33 illustrations. reynard the fox the crafty courtier. retold in words of one syllable for young people. by samuel phillips day. with 23 illustrations. robinson crusoe his life and surprising adventures retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mary a. schwacofer. with 32 illustrations. sanford and merton retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mary godolphin. with 20 illustrations. swiss family robinson retold in words of one syllable for young people. adapted from the original. with 31 illustrations. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, =a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23rd street, new york=. the mother goose series 24 titles handsome cloth binding, illuminated covers a series of popular books for young people. each book is well printed from large type on good paper, frontispiece in colors, profusely illustrated, and bound in cloth, with ornamental covers in three colors, making a series of most interesting books for children at a reasonable price. =price, 75 cents per copy= =aladdin and the wonderful lamp=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =animal stories= for little people. profusely illustrated. =beauty and the beast=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =bird stories= for little people. profusely illustrated. =bluebeard=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =cinderella; or, the little glass slipper=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =foolish fox, the=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =goody two shoes=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =hansel and grethel=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =house that jack built, the=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =jack and the beanstalk=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =jack the giant killer=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =little red riding hood=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =little snow white=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =mother goose rhymes.= profusely illustrated. =mother hubbard's melodies.= profusely illustrated. =night before christmas=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =patty and her pitcher; or, kindness of heart=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =peter and his goose; or, the folly of discontent=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =puss in boots=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =sleeping beauty, the=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =tom thumb=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =ugly duckling, the=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. =who killed cock robin=, and other stories. profusely illustrated. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, =a. l. burt co., 114-120 east 23rd street, new york city=. =aunt amy's animal stories= =by amy prentice= a series of stories, told by animals, to aunt amy prentice. each illustrated with many pictures in black, and four illustrations in colors, by j. watson davis. 12 titles, in handsome cloth binding. =price 75 cents. net ----= bunny rabbit's story 30 illustrations billy goat's story 32 illustrations brown owl's story 31 illustrations croaky frog's story 28 illustrations frisky squirrel's story 30 illustrations gray goose's story 32 illustrations mickie monkey's story 35 illustrations mouser cat's story 35 illustrations plodding turtle's story 30 illustrations quacky duck's story 34 illustrations speckled hen's story 28 illustrations towser dog's story 32 illustrations for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, =a. l. burt company, 114-130 east 23rd street, new york=. =the boy scouts series= =by herbert carter= =handsome cloth binding,= the boy scouts' first camp fire; or, scouting with the silver fox patrol. the boy scouts in the blue ridge; or, marooned among the moonshiners. the boy scouts on the trail; or, scouting through the big game country. the boy scouts in the main woods; or, the new test for the silver fox patrol. the boy scouts through the big timber; or, the search for the lost tenderfoot. the boy scouts in the rockies; or, the secret of the hidden silver mine. the boy scouts on sturgeon island; or, marooned among the game fish poachers. the boy scouts down in dixie; or, the strange secret of alligator swamp. the boy scouts at the battle of saratoga. a story of burgoyne's defeat in 1777. the boy scouts along the susquehanna; or, the silver fox patrol caught in a flood. the boy scouts on war trails in belgium; or, caught between the hostile armies. the boy scouts afoot in france; or, with the red cross corps at the marne. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers =a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23rd st., new york= =the boy allies= (registered in the united states patent office) =with the navy= =by ensign robert l. drake= =handsome cloth binding,= frank chadwick and jack templeton, young american lads, meet each other in an unusual way soon after the declaration of war. circumstances place them on board the british cruiser "the sylph" and from there on, they share adventures with the sailors of the allies. ensign robert l. drake, the author, is an experienced naval officer, and he describes admirably the many exciting adventures of the two boys. the boy allies on the north sea patrol; or, striking the first blow at the german fleet. the boy allies under two flags; or, sweeping the enemy from the seas. the boy allies with the flying squadron; or, the naval raiders of the great war. the boy allies with the terror of the sea; or, the last shot of submarine d-16. the boy allies under the sea; or, the vanishing submarine. the boy allies in the baltic; or, through fields of ice to aid the czar. the boy allies at jutland; or, the greatest naval battle of history. the boy allies with uncle sam's cruisers; or, convoying the american army across the atlantic. the boy allies with the submarine d-32; or, the fall of the russian empire. the boy allies with the victorious fleets; or, the fall of the german navy. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers =a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23rd st., new york= =the boy allies with the army= (registered in the united states patent office) =by clair w. hayes= =handsome cloth binding,= in this series we follow the fortunes of two american lads unable to leave europe after war is declared. they meet the soldiers of the allies, and decide to cast their lot with them. their experiences and escapes are many, and furnish plenty of the good, healthy action that every boy loves. the boy allies at liege; or, through lines of steel. the boy allies on the firing line; or, twelve days battle along the marne. the boy allies with the cossacks; or, a wild dash over the carpathians. the boy allies in the trenches; or, midst shot and shell along the aisne. the boy allies in great peril; or, with the italian army in the alps. the boy allies in the balkan campaign; or, the struggle to save a nation. the boy allies on the somme; or, courage and bravery rewarded. the boy allies at verdun; or, saving france from the enemy. the boy allies under the stars and stripes; or, leading the american troops to the firing line. the boy allies with haig in flanders; or, the fighting canadians of vimy ridge. the boy allies with pershing in france; or, over the top at chateau thierry. the boy allies with the great advance; or, driving the enemy through france and belgium. the boy allies with marshal foch; or, the closing days of the great world war. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers =a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23rd st., new york= =our young aeroplane scout series= (registered in the united states patent office) =by horace porter= =handsome cloth binding,= a series of stories of two american boy aviators in the great european war zone. the fascinating life in mid-air is thrillingly described. the boys have many exciting adventures, and the narratives of their numerous escapes make up a series of wonderfully interesting stories. our young aeroplane scouts in france and belgium; or, saving the fortunes of the trouvilles. our 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company, 114-120 east 23rd st., new york= =the boy spies series= [illustration] these stories are based on important historical events, scenes wherein boys are prominent characters being selected. they are the romance of history, vigorously told, with careful fidelity to picturing the home life, and accurate in every particular. handsome cloth bindings =the boy spies at the battle of new orleans.= a story of the part they took in its defence. by william p. chipman. =the boy spies at the defence of fort henry.= a boy's story of wheeling creek in 1777. by james otis. =the boy spies at the battle of bunker hill.= a story of two boys at the siege of boston. by james otis. =the boy spies at the siege of detroit.= a story of two ohio boys in the war of 1812. by james otis. =the boy spies with lafayette.= the story of how two boys joined the continental army. by james otis. =the boy spies on chesapeake bay.= the story of two young spies under commodore barney. by james otis. =the boy spies with the regulators.= the story of how the boys assisted the carolina patriots to drive the british from that state. by james otis. =the boy spies with the swamp fox.= the story of general marion and his young spies. by james otis. =the boy spies at yorktown.= the story of how the spies helped general lafayette in the siege of yorktown. by james otis. =the boy spies of philadelphia.= the story of how the young spies helped the continental army at valley forge. by james otis. =the boy spies of fort griswold.= the story of the part they took in its brave defence. by william p. chipman. =the boy spies of old new york.= the story of how the young spies prevented the capture of general washington. by james otis. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers. a. l. burt company. 114-120 east 23rd street, new york =the navy boys series= [illustration] a series of excellent stories of adventure on sea and land, selected from the works of popular writers; each volume designed for boys' reading. handsome cloth bindings =the navy boys in defence of liberty.= a story of the burning of the british schooner gaspee in 1772. by william p. chipman. =the navy boys on long island sound.= a story of the whale boat navy of 1776. by james otis. =the navy boys at the siege of havana.= being the experience of three boys serving under israel putnam in 1772. by james otis. =the navy boys with grant at vicksburg.= a boy's story of the siege of vicksburg. by james otis. =the navy boys' cruise with paul jones.= a boy's story of a cruise with the great commodore in 1776. by james otis. =the navy boys on lake ontario.= the story of two boys and their adventures in the war of 1812. by james otis. =the navy boys' cruise on the pickering.= a boy's story of privateering in 1780. by james otis. =the navy boys in new york bay.= a story of three boys who took command of the schooner "the laughing mary," the first vessel of the american navy. by james otis. =the navy boys in the track of the enemy.= the story of a remarkable cruise with the sloop of war "providence" and the frigate "alfred." by william p. chipman. =the navy boys' daring capture.= the story of how the navy boys helped to capture the british cutter "margaretta," in 1775. by william p. chipman. =the navy boys' cruise to the bahamas.= the adventures of two yankee middies with the first cruise of an american squadron in 1775. by william p. chipman. =the navy boys' cruise with columbus.= the adventures of two boys who sailed with the great admiral in his discovery of america. by frederick a. ober. transcriber's note punctuation, capitalization and formatting markup have been normalized. apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below. illustrations have been moved near their mention in the text. "_" surrounding text represents text in italics. "=" surrounding text represents text in bold. page 76, missing "the" added. ("oh, uncle wiggily! will you please take me with you this morning?" asked a little voice, somewhere down near the lower, or floor-end, of the old rabbit gentleman's rheumatism crutch, as mr. longears sat at the breakfast table in his hollow stump bungalow.) page 93, "current" changed to "currant". (together they went along through the woods and over the fields and, all of a sudden, from behind a currant jam bush, out jumped a bad, old, double-jointed skillery-scalery alligator.) page 93, "wigwily" changed to "wiggly" for consistency. (and if the ice wagon doesn't slide down hill and throw snowballs at the potato pudding in the parlor i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the magic bottles.) page 120, "wigggly" changed to "wiggily". (he had heard about uncle wiggily's trouble from the do-do bird, and had come, with his strong bill, to bite the spider web into little pieces.) page 158, missing "to" added. ("i sent her to the store about an hour ago to get a loaf of sand bread, but she hasn't come back and i'm sure something has happened to her.") page 184, missing "to" added. (for the old gentleman rabbit had many surprising things happen to him.) transcriber's note: table of contents added. * * * * * [illustration: the wallypug in london by g. e. farrow.] the wallypug in london [illustration: his majesty arrives at windsor. see page 143] the wallypug in london by g. e. farrow author of "the wallypug of why," "the missing prince," etc illustrated by alan wright methuen & co. 36 essex street, w.c. london 1898 contents chant royal preface i his majesty and suite arrive ii the next day's adventures iii sundry small happenings iv lost v an 'at home' and the academy vi the jubilee vii more adventures viii his majesty is interviewed ix the wallypug's own x the wallypug goes to windsor xi his majesty at the seaside xii the departure chant royal addressed to her most gracious majesty queen victoria in commemoration of 22nd june, 1897 victoria! by grace of god our queen, to thee thy children truest homage pay. thy children! ay, for mother thou hast been, and by a mother's love thou holdest sway. thy greatest empire is thy nation's heart, and thou hast chosen this the better part. behold, an off'ring meet thy people bring; hark! to the mighty world-sound gathering from shore to shore, and echoing o'er the sea, attend! ye nations while our paeans ring- victoria's children sing her jubilee. the grandest sight the world hath ever seen thy kingdom offers. clothed in fair array, the majesty of love and peace serene, while hosts unnumbered loyalty display, striving to show, by every loving art, the day for them can have no counterpart. lo! sixty years of joy and sorrowing for queen and people, either borrowing from other sympathy, in woe or glee, hath knit their hearts to thine, wherefore they sing- victoria's children sing her jubilee. with royal dignity and gracious mien thine high position thou hast graced alway; no cloud of discord e'er hath come between thy nation and thyself; the fierce white ray that beats upon thy throne bids hence depart the faintest slander calumny can dart. thy fame is dear alike to churl and king, and highest honour lies in honouring the sovereign to whom we bend the knee; "god save the queen," one strain unvarying- victoria's children sing her jubilee. what prophet, or what seer, with vision keen, reading the message of a far-off day, the wonders of thy reign could have foreseen, or known the story that shall last for aye? a page that history shall set apart; peace and prosperity in port and mart, honour abroad, and on resistless wing a steady progress ever-conquering. thy glorious reign, our glorious theme shall be, and gratitude in every heart upspring- victoria's children sing her jubilee. behold, ye tyrants, and a lesson glean how subjects may be governed. lo! the way a woman teaches who doth ne'er demean her office high. hark! how her people pray for blessings on the head that doth impart so wise a rule. for them no wrongs do smart, no cruelties oppress, no insults sting, nor does a despot hand exaction wring; though governed, britain's subjects still are free. gaze then--ye unwise rulers wondering- victoria's children sing her jubilee. envoy. queen mother, love of thee doth ever spring within thy children's hearts, a priceless thing, nor pomp nor state that falleth unto thee can ever rival this grand carolling- victoria's children sing her jubilee. g. e. farrow [illustration: preface] my dear little friends, you will no doubt be surprised to find this book commencing with a perfectly serious poem, and one which probably some of you will find a little difficulty in understanding. when you have grown older, however, and happen to look at this little book again, you will be glad to be reminded of the historic event which the poem commemorates. now, about ourselves, when i asked in my last book, _the missing prince_, for letters from my little readers, i had no idea that i had so many young friends, and i can hardly tell you how delighted i have been at receiving such a number of kind letters from all parts of the world. i do hope that i have answered everyone, but really there have been so many, and if by mistake any should have been overlooked, i hope my little correspondents will write again and give me an opportunity of repairing the omission. such charming little letters, and all, i am happy to find, really written by the children themselves, which makes them doubly valuable to me. and how funny and amusing some of them were to be sure! and what capital stories some of you have told me about your pets. some pathetic incidents too; as, for instance, that of 'shellyback,' the tortoise, whose little owner wrote a few months after her first letter to say that poor 'shellyback' was dead. i have been very happy to notice how fond you all seem of your pets, for i have always found that children who make friends with animals invariably have kind and good hearts. and the poor dumb creatures themselves are always so ready to respond to any little act of kindness, and are so grateful and affectionate, that i am sure it adds greatly to one's happiness in life to interest oneself in them. one of my correspondents, aged eight, has embarrassed me very much indeed by suggesting that i should "wait for her till she grows up," as she should "so like to marry a gentleman who told stories." i hope she didn't mean that i did anything so disgraceful; and besides, as it would take nearly twenty-five years for her to catch up to me, she _might_ change her mind in that time, and then what would become of me. some of my letters from abroad have been very interesting. one dear little girl at darjeeling, in india, wrote a very nice descriptive letter, and concluded by asking me to write "something about the stars," and speaking of new stories brings me to another subject that i wish to talk to you about. you know that i spoke in my last book about writing a school story, and one about animals. well, when i found that so many of you wanted to hear "more about the wallypug," i was obliged to put these two books aside in order to gratify your wishes. i hope that you will be as interested in hearing about his majesty this time as you were last. you will be sure to notice that the pictures are by another artist, but mr. harry furniss has been away from england for some months, and so it has been impossible for him to illustrate this volume. some other time, perhaps, dorothy and he will give us more of their work; but in the meantime mr. alan wright has been very interested in drawing pictures for this book, and i hope you will be pleased with his efforts. now, about writing to me next time. when i asked you to address me under care of my publishers, i did not realize that in the course of business i might find it necessary to change them sometimes, and so to avoid any possibility of confusion, will you please in future address all letters to mr. g. e. farrow, c/o messrs. a. p. watt & son, hastings house, norfolk street, strand. what am i to do with all the beautiful christmas and new year's cards which i have received? will you be vexed if, after having enjoyed receiving them as i have done so much, i give them to the poor little children at the hospitals to make scrap books with? i happen to know how much they value and appreciate gifts of this kind, and by allowing me to bestow them in this way, your pretty presents will be giving a double happiness. well, i must conclude this rather long letter now, or i shall be accused of being tedious; but really it gives me almost as much pleasure to write to you, as it does to receive your letters. good-bye. don't forget that many of you have promised to write to me again, and that i am always more than glad to welcome any new friends. believe me, dear children, yours affectionately, g. e. farrow [illustration: the wallypug in london.] chapter i his majesty and suite arrive a most extraordinary thing has happened; the wallypug has been to london! but there, i am forgetting that possibly you have never read _the wallypug of why_, in which case you will, of course, know nothing about his majesty, and so i had better explain to you who, and what, he is. to begin with, then, he is a kind of king of a place called why, which adjoins the mysterious kingdom of zum. i am afraid, though, that if you searched your atlases for a very long while you might not find either of these places, for the geographers are so undecided as to their exact position that they have not shown them on the maps at all. some little friends of mine, named girlie and boy, have been there, however, and i can tell you, if you like, the way they went. this is the way to why: just go to bed and shut your eyes and count one hundred, one by one; perhaps you'll find to your surprise that you're at why when this is done. i say _perhaps_, because this only happens when you have been particularly good all day, and _sometimes_ boys and girls are not quite as good as they--but there, i won't say what i was going to, for i am quite sure that it would not apply to you. this is the way to zum: not when the moon is at its full, but just a tiny boat-shaped thing, you _may_ see pierrot sitting there and hear the little fellow sing. if so, just call him, and he'll come and carry you away to zum. there, now, i've told you the way to go to both places, so that, if you wish to, you can go there whenever you please. i am telling you all this because one day in the spring girlie and boy, who live in another part of london, came to see me, and we had been talking about these things for about the hundredth time, i should think: for these children are never tired of telling me of all the strange things which happened to them when they journey to these wonderful places. in fact they were just arguing as to which was the most interesting place to go to, why or zum, when my housekeeper, mrs. putchy, came to the door with the unwelcome news that the carriage had come for my little friends, and that it was time to say good-bye. after they had gone i sat staring into the fire wondering where why could be, and if there was really such a person as the wallypug, when my little dog dick, who had been lying on the rug before the fire, suddenly jumped up, and barking excitedly, ran to the other end of the study, where a picture, which i had bought the day before at an auction sale, stood leaning against the wall. now this picture had been sold very cheap, because no one could tell at all what it was about, it was so old and dusty, and the colours were so dark and indistinct. i had bought it hoping that it might prove valuable, and there it stood till it could be sent to be cleaned and restored. imagine my surprise then, when, on following dick across the study, i discovered that the colours in the picture had all become bright, and were working one into the other in the most remarkable way, red running into green, and blue into yellow, while a little patch of black in the centre of the picture was whirling round and round in quite a distracting manner. what could it all mean? i stared and wondered, till, out of the confusion, there gradually grew shapes which bore some resemblance to human beings, and, presently, i could recognize quite distinctly, first a young man in knee breeches, smiling in a particularly self-satisfied way, and escorting a large fish, who was walking upright, with slippers on his tail, and who wore a waistcoat and necktie. then an amiable-looking old gentleman, carrying a wand, who was followed by a curious little person, wearing a crown and carrying an orb and sceptre. a particularly stiff and wooden-looking soldier stood at the back of this strange group. judge of my amazement when, quite as a matter of course, the whole party deliberately stepped out of the picture into the room, and, before i could realize what had happened, the old gentleman with the wand came forward with a flourish and an elaborate bow, and announced: "a-hem! his majesty the wallypug of why and suite." [illustration: with slippers on his tail] i was so astonished that for the moment i could not think what to say, but at last i managed to stammer, as i made a low bow to the wallypug: "i am delighted to make your majesty's acquaintance." the wallypug smiled very affably, and held out his hand. "i have come up for the jubilee, you know," he said. "_we've_ come up, you mean to say, wallypug," corrected the old gentleman with the wand, frowning somewhat severely. "i am the wallypug's professional adviser," he continued. "i am called the doctor-in-law--allow me to introduce the rest of our party. this," he went on, bringing the young man with the self-satisfied smile forward, "is the jubilee rhymester from zum; he hopes to become a minor poet in time. and this," indicating the wooden-looking soldier, "is sergeant one-and-nine, also from zum." here the doctor-in-law took me aside and whispered in my ear, "slightly cracked, crossed in love; speaks very peculiarly; capital chap though." then crossing to where the fish was standing, he said, "and this is a. fish, esq., the celebrated lecturer on the 'whichness of the what as compared with the thatness of the thus.' he desired to accompany us here in order to find material for a new lecture which he is preparing upon the 'perhapness of the improbable.' he's awfully clever," he whispered impressively. [illustration: "his majesty the wallypug"] "i'm sure i'm delighted to see you all," i said, shaking hands with each one till i came to the fish, who held out a fin. "er-er-how do you do?" i stammered, somewhat taken aback by this strange proceeding. "quide well with the egscebtiod of a slide cold id by head," said the fish. "i'b subjecd to theb, you doe. it's beig id the water so butch, i fadcy," and he _smiled_. i don't know if you have ever seen a fish smile, but if not i may tell you that it is a very curious sight. "i suppose you can manage to put us up here for a month or two?" calmly suggested the doctor-in-law after a pause. "dear me," i exclaimed in alarm, "i don't think my housekeeper could possibly--" "why not ask her?" suggested the doctor-in-law, touching the bell. a moment or two afterwards a knock at the door announced that mrs. putchy was there. "oh, mrs. putchy," i said, stepping just outside, "these gentlemen, er--that is to say, his majesty the wallypug of why and suite, have honoured me with a visit, and i am anxious if possible to offer them such hospitality as my poor home affords. do you think that we could manage anyhow to find room for them, for a few days at any rate?" now mrs. putchy is a very remarkable woman, and i have never known her to show the slightest surprise at anything, and, so far from seeming alarmed at the prospect of having to entertain such notable visitors, she seemed positively delighted. "his majesty of why, sir? how charming! of course we must do our best, and how fortunate that i put on my best gown to-day, isn't it? dear me, and shall i be presented to his majesty?" "certainly, mrs. putchy, if you wish it," i said. "in fact, if you will call general mary jane, i will introduce you both, as you represent my entire household." mrs. putchy disappeared, returning almost immediately, followed by the servant, general mary jane, with her mouth wide open, and accompanied by the cat, who rejoices in the extraordinary name of mrs. mehetable murchison. these members of my household were duly presented to the wallypug. mrs. putchy made her curtsey with great dignity, but general mary jane was so overcome at the thought of being presented to royalty that she fell flat on her hands and knees in her humility, while mrs. mehetable murchison, realizing, no doubt, the truth of the old saying that "a cat may look at a king," went up and sharpened her claws on the wallypug's legs in the most friendly manner possible. it was when the cat caught sight of a. fish, esq., that she completely lost her presence of mind, and with arched back and bristling fur glared at him in amazement. "priddy pussy, cub alog thed," said the fish, stooping down and trying to stroke her with one of his fins; but mrs. mehetable murchison, with a startled glance, tore out of the room, showing every sign of alarm. "and she's so fond of fish too, as a rule, ain't she, mum?" remarked general mary jane, who had somewhat overcome the awe with which she had at first regarded the presence of royalty. "fod of fish?" repeated a. fish, esq., inquiringly. "what do you mead?" "why, you see, sir," explained mrs. putchy, "we often have fish for dinner--er--that is to say--er--a-hem!" [illustration: "priddy pussy"] the fish was glaring at her in a horrified way, and mrs. putchy had become quite nervous. "let's change the subject," suggested the doctor-in-law, to our great relief. "the most important question for the moment is, where are we all going to sleep?" this gave mrs. putchy an opportunity for exercising her wonderful ability for management, and after arranging for the wallypug to have the spare bedroom, and the doctor-in-law to have my room, i was to have a bed made up in the study, while the jubilee rhymester was to sleep in the attic, one-and-nine was to have a box under the stairs, and there only remained a. fish, esq., to dispose of. "there is the bathroom, mum," suggested general mary jane brilliantly; "we could put a lid on the bath and make up a bed there." "bedder sdill, fill id with wadter, ad thed i could sleeb _in_ id," suggested the fish. "oh yes, of course!" said mrs. putchy, "and now i must go and see about the supper." and, with a low curtsey to the wallypug, the admirable little woman hurried out, followed by general mary jane, who gave a nervous little bob when she reached the door. they had scarcely disappeared before one-and-nine came up to me and whispered: "i am muchly impressionated by that lady with the most militaryish name who has just gone out. can you kindly inform me is she detached?" "detached?" i inquired in bewilderment. "what ever do you mean?" "if a person is not attached to anyone else, they are detached, i suppose, are they not?" said one-and-nine rather impatiently. "well, if you put it that way, i suppose they are," i replied, laughing. "you mean, has she a sweetheart? well, really i don't know. i have an idea though that mrs. putchy does not allow followers." "then i shall considerize my prospectuousness with great hopefulosity!" remarked the soldier with considerable dignity, walking back to the wallypug's chair. "what does he say?" asked the jubilee rhymester. "he is a little bit cracked, you know. could you make out what he was driving at?" "oh, yes, i could understand within a little what he meant," i replied. "he seems to have fallen in love with general mary jane at first sight, from what i can gather." "really! dear me! he is always doing that sort of thing, do you know, and he generally asks me to write poems for him when he gets into that state. i have written as many as 137 odes in one month on his behalf." "good gracious," i replied, "and does he pay you well for them?" "pay me!" exclaimed the jubilee rhymester, staring at me in surprise. "of course not. do people ever get paid for writing poetry?" "why, yes, to be sure they do," i answered. "well, i've never heard of such a thing in all my life," said the jubilee rhymester; "i always thought that poets had to pay to have their verses used at all, and that that was why they were always so poor while they were alive. of course i knew that people sometimes made a fuss about them after they were dead, but i have never heard of such a thing as a live poet being paid for his work." "nonsense," i replied; "i believe that quite a lot of money is sometimes paid by the magazines and other papers for poems and verses." "well, i am delighted to hear it," said the jubilee rhymester, "and i shall certainly start writing to-morrow. i have no doubt whatever that i shall make my fortune before i go back to zum." shortly after this mrs. putchy announced that supper was served, and a little later my guests retired to rest, being thoroughly tired out with their long journey. i sat up in my study a little while longer to smoke a pipe, but was just thinking of going to bed when there was a tap at the door and the doctor-in-law entered. "i say, i thought i had better come and arrange with you about money matters," he said; "i didn't like to mention such things before the others. now then," he continued, "how much are you going to pay us for staying with you?" "pay _you_!" i gasped. "what on earth do you mean?" "well, you see, it will be a great thing for you to have such distinguished visitors, don't you know, and you ought to be quite willing to pay liberally for the honour," said the doctor-in-law, smiling amiably. now girlie had told me what a greedy, avaricious person the doctor-in-law really was, despite his benevolent appearance, but this cool cheek almost took my breath away. i was determined, however, to let him see at once that i was not to be imposed upon, so i said as firmly as i could, "now, look here, mr. doctor-in-law, please understand once and for all, that as you were all so kind to my little friend girlie when she was at why, i am quite willing to entertain his majesty the wallypug, and the rest of you, to the very best of my ability, but as for paying you for being here, the idea is absurd--impossible!" [illustration: "id quide gave be a turn"] just then a terrific hullabaloo in the passage caused us both to run to the door. we could hear that the noise proceeded from the bathroom, and, hurrying to the door, we found a. fish, esq., sitting up in the water shouting for help, while mrs. mehetable murchison and a whole group of her feline friends were out on the tiles, glaring through the window. "dear be, dear be," panted the fish, when he saw us, "i'b so frighteded, just look at all those cats. i had beed to sleeb ad was just dreabig that sobeone was sayig, 'mrs. behetable burchison is _so_ fod of fish, and we ofted have fish for didder,' whed i woke ub and saw all those horrible cats lookig id ad the widdow; id quide gave be a turn. do drive theb away please." we soon did this, and, pulling down the blinds, we left a. fish, esq., to his dreams and soon afterwards retired to rest ourselves. chapter ii the next day's adventures when i entered the breakfast room the next morning i found that the wallypug and the doctor-in-law had been up for some time, and were both gazing out of the window with the greatest of interest. "i hope your majesty slept well," i remarked to the wallypug as i approached them. "very well indeed, thank you," he replied smilingly. "the doctor-in-law and myself have just been saying that we are sure to have an enjoyable visit here. we have been greatly interested in the man-machines going past. we have never seen anything like them before." "the man-machines!" i exclaimed, puzzled to know whatever he could mean. "yes, the men with wheels instead of legs, you know." "oh, you mean the bicyclists," i replied, laughing. "have you really never seen any before?" "no, indeed," replied his majesty. "are they born with wheels on, or do they grow afterwards?" i laughed, and fortunately just then the youngster opposite, who always rides to school on his bicycle, came out of doors wheeling his machine, and i was able to explain to the wallypug the principle upon which they worked. "dear me; the doctor-in-law told me that the machinery was part of the man, but now i see that it is separate. and he charged me sixpence for the information too," he complained, looking reproachfully at the doctor-in-law. "charged you sixpence!" i cried. "yes," replied the poor wallypug. "he offered to tell me all about them for sixpence, and as i was really very curious to know i gave it to him, and then he informed me that they were a peculiar race of people who came from coventry, and who were all born with wheels instead of legs." "take your old sixpence then, if you are going to make all that fuss about it," said the doctor-in-law, crossly, throwing the coin down on the table and walking out of the room in a huff. "i'm sure i did read somewhere that they came from coventry," he added, popping his head in at the door and then slamming it violently after him. the boy opposite was still riding up and down the road, and i made up my mind that although i had never spoken to him before, i would ask him to let the wallypug examine his bicycle more closely. "with pleasure," he replied, raising his hat politely to the wallypug, when i had explained who he was; "and if his majesty would like to try it he is quite welcome to do so." the doctor-in-law's curiosity had so far overcome his ill-humour that, when he saw us talking to the boy, he came forward and offered to help the wallypug to mount. "i really don't think he had better," i said, "he might damage the machine." "oh no, he won't hurt it, i'm sure," said the boy generously; and so with our united assistance the wallypug got on to the bicycle, and after a few preliminary wobblings started off in fine style. faster and faster he went, clinging desperately to the handle-bars, till we, who were running beside him, could no longer keep pace with him. [illustration: the start] "i can't stop," we heard him shout; and a moment later he charged straight at a large stone and half a brick which lay in the middle of the roadway. poor wallypug! the sudden impact threw him right over the handle-bars, and he landed in a huddled heap on his hands and knees in the gutter. the machine flew in half, and the front portion careered madly away by itself till stopped by the kerb. we hurried up to his majesty to discover if he was much hurt, but, with the exception of a few scratches on his hands and knees and a thorough shaking, he seemed to have come off pretty well. [illustration: the finish] "i suppose we can't stick it together again?" he inquired, gazing ruefully at the broken bicycle, and i was obliged to tell him that there was not much chance of our doing so. the boy to whom it belonged bravely made the best of the matter, especially when i told him that the next half-holiday he had i would take him to holborn to choose another one in its place. and when i discovered that he had a half-holiday that very afternoon, it was arranged that general mary jane should order a carriage at the livery stable, and that we should all drive to the city after luncheon. the wallypug, after a good wash and a hearty breakfast, went to his room to lie down for an hour or two to recover from the effects of his accident, and i was just answering my morning letters when there was a knock at the study door, and the rhymester entered. [illustration: hippety-hoppety-plop] "i sat up most of the night writing poetry," he remarked, "and i have just brought you one or two specimens. the first one is called 'the ode of a toad.' perhaps i had better read it to you. my writing is rather peculiar," and he began as follows: the ode of a toad. there was once an old toad who lived under a tree, hippety hop--flippety flop, and his head was as bald as bald could be, he was deaf as a post and could hardly see, but a giddy and frivolous toad was he, with his hippety-hoppety-plop. and he gambolled and danced on the village green, hippety hop--flippety flop, in a way that had never before been seen, tho' he wasn't so young as once he had been, and the people all wondered whate'er he could mean, with his hippety-hoppety-plop. but the old chap kept bobbing about just the same, hippety hop--flippety flop, till everyone thought he _must_ make himself lame, and not a soul ever could find out his aim, in keeping up such a ridiculous game, as his hippety-hoppety-plop. some said he was mad, tho' as mild as a dove, hippety hop--flippety flop, and as the result of a push or a shove, was a little bit cracked in the storey above, _but i fancy myself the old boy was in love_, with his hippety-hoppety-plop. "there! what do you think of it?" he asked when he had finished. "well, candidly, i'm afraid not very much," i replied; "and what on earth do you call it an ode for?" "why, you see, ode went so well with the word toad. i was going to call it 'ode to a toad,' but it isn't _to_ a toad at all, though it's about a toad. ah! by the bye, i might call it 'a toad's ode,' mightn't i? i think that sounds very jolly." he altered the title in pencil. [illustration: "i love but thee"] "i have another which i think you will say is very touching." and after getting his handkerchief out in case he should be moved to tears, he began: the ballade of a bun. don't talk to me of "sally lunn," or toasted tea-cake nice and hot, i do not care for either one a single solitary jot; my heart is fixed and changeth not, in all the world--whate'er i see, and rich or poor--whate'er my lot- oh! penny bun, i love but thee. for thy dear sake all cakes i shun smeared o'er with jam. no apricot or greengage tart my heart hath won; their sweetness doth but cloy and clot. what marmalade in fancy pot or cream meringue, though fair it be, thine image e'er can mar or blot? oh! penny bun, i love but thee. i vowed to cherish thee, or none (such love thy simple charms begot), when first i saw thee, precious one; and now to some sweet lonely spot, some shady dell or mossy grot, come let us hasten, you and me, and i will eat you like a shot; oh! penny bun, i love but thee. _envoy._ small boys or girls that homeward trot from school in time for early tea, this moral ne'er must be forgot: "love penny buns, and they'll love thee." "isn't it affecting?" he inquired, wiping his eyes when he had finished. "well, perhaps i didn't quite appreciate the pathos of it as i might have done," i answered, trying hard not to laugh. "you see i was paying so much attention to the scansion. i find that you have altered the refrain in the envoy. surely that's not correct, is it?" "oh, you are a great deal too particular," remarked the rhymester crossly. "why, i should think from the doctor-in-law's description of a critic that you must be one." "what did he say a critic was?" i asked. "why, he said a critic was a person who found fault with another, for not doing what he was unable to do himself. and he charged me fourpence three-farthings for the information, and as i only had fourpence halfpenny i have to pay him the odd farthing when i sell some of my poems. can you tell me how i can set to work about it?" "well, i hardly know," i replied, "unless you send them to the editors of the various magazines. they may take them, but you must not be disappointed if some of them are rejected. you see they cannot possibly print everything that is sent to them." there were several magazines in the study, and i suggested that the rhymester should make a list of the addresses of the various editors, and he was busy about that till luncheon time. at half-past two the carriage came to the door, and goodness only knows what general mary jane must have told the livery stable people about the wallypug, for, evidently anxious to send an equipage worthy of royalty, they had painted an enormous monogram in gold on the sides of the carriage, while the coachman was resplendent in blue plush and gold lace, with silk stockings and a powdered wig. [illustration: "equipageous grandiosity"] the wallypug was delighted when he saw this elaborate turn-out, and so were the others, for i overheard one-and-nine murmuring something about "equipageous grandiosity," as he climbed up to the seat beside the coachman. when the wallypug, the doctor-in-law, a. fish, esq., and the rhymester, were seated, there was no room left for the boy and myself, so we followed behind in a modest dog-cart, which was hurriedly procured from the livery stable. many were the wondering glances bestowed upon the carriage, with its somewhat remarkable burden, as we drove along through kensington to the gardens. and everywhere our appearance was hailed with enthusiasm, people being evidently under the impression that the wallypug was one of the royal guests invited to the jubilee festivities. who could he be? that was decidedly the question which everyone was asking, and i could not quite determine who was causing the greater sensation, the wallypug or a. fish, esq. these two individuals, however, comported themselves with the calmest dignity, only the doctor-in-law seemed flurried by the attention which they attracted, and smiled and bowed right and left, whether the people took any notice of him or not. as we approached hyde-park corner attention was diverted from the wallypug's carriage by the fact that _another_ royal equipage had entered the park gates; and as the princess passed us, an amused glance and a whispered conversation with the other occupant of the carriage showed that the wallypug's extraordinary party had not escaped her royal highness's attention. after going once round the park we went out at the marble arch and along oxford street to holborn, our progress through the crowded streets everywhere attracting the most excited interest. and when we stopped before one of the large bicycle _depã´ts_ in holborn the crowd around the carriage was so large that the policeman had quite a difficulty in preventing a block in the traffic. our business was soon transacted, and, having secured an excellent machine for the boy in place of the one which his majesty had damaged in the morning, we drove back to kensington without further adventure. the wallypug's curiosity, however, was so awakened by what he had seen that, as soon as we had been refreshed by a cup of afternoon tea, he suggested that we should go out for a walk; accordingly the whole party proceeded to kensington gardens, followed by a curious and somewhat derisive crowd of small boys, who would insist upon advising the wallypug to "get his hair cut." now, i happened to know, from what girlie had told me about her adventures in why, that the wallypug, though a kind of king, had to do as his people directed and not as he liked, and that when he had presented a petition in parliament to be allowed to have his hair cut, they had divided upon the subject, and so he had only been allowed to have _half_ of it cut, and as the long half had by this time grown very long indeed, he certainly did look rather remarkable; that was no excuse though for the street boys' rudeness, and his majesty very wisely took no notice of them. a. fish, esq., came in for the greatest amount of attention, and when a few drops of rain began to fall, and he put up an umbrella for fear that he should get wet, the crowd became so excited that the doctor-in-law wisely suggested that a return should be made. his majesty, however, was bent upon sight-seeing, and so the party separated, the doctor-in-law, a. fish, esq., and one-and-nine going home, while the rest of us continued our walk. when we reached the gardens, the wallypug was greatly interested in seeing the palace where the queen was born, and said that he should certainly petition his parliament to allow him to have soldiers walk up and down before the gates of his palace, like those which he saw here. he admired greatly princess louise's statue of the queen, which stands in front of the palace, and said he couldn't imagine where-ever they could have got all the white sugar from to make it with, and i think that he was inclined to disbelieve me when i told him that it was not made of sugar at all, but of white marble; for he said that if that were the case he couldn't think why they wanted to put such high railings around it, as no one would wish to carry away a marble statue of that size, whereas, if it were sugar, as he suggested, why, of course, the railings were there to prevent the children from climbing up and breaking off little pieces to eat. [illustration: for fear he should get wet] the round pond and the little model ships interested his majesty most of all though, i fancy, and he spent quite a long time admiring them, until, while assisting a small boy to get his ship ashore, he had the misfortune to slip into the water himself, and had to be fished out with the assistance of a boathook. his majesty certainly did not look either dignified or regal as he stood on the bank saturated with water, and his royal robes clinging about him in the most woe-begone manner--and as the crowd had greatly increased, i was very glad to get the poor wallypug into a cab and drive home. [illustration: his majesty has an accident] on our way there, the rhymester, being very much afraid of getting his clothes wet, sat in the furthest corner of the cab and amused himself by writing a verse on the subject of his majesty's misfortune, which read somehow like this: "king george i've heard is king of greece, but since this luckless slipping, the wallypug i do declare should be the king of _dripping_." i think his majesty thought it rather unkind of the rhymester to make fun of him in this way, but before he had time to think much about the matter, we had arrived at our destination, and to my great surprise i could see a vast crowd collected at the doors of the building in which my flat is situated. chapter iii sundry small happenings whatever could it all mean? the doctor-in-law stood on the steps, calling out, "walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the talking fish," while large posters were pasted on the walls, bearing the words, "admission sixpence" and "one day only." the commissionaire who usually stands at the door was looking very surprised and angry, while the page boy was grinning all over his face. whatever was happening? i hastily paid the cabman, and followed by the wallypug made my way through the crowd to the entrance. "admission sixpence each," said the doctor-in-law, holding out his hand. [illustration: "walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen"] "what do you mean?" i replied, "and what is all this crowd doing here?" "admission sixpence each!" repeated the doctor-in-law stubbornly, not taking the least notice of my questions, and holding his wand across the doorway so that i could not get in. "nonsense!" i cried; "i'm not going to pay to go into my own house." "pay for the wallypug then and i'll let you in free," said the little man insinuatingly. "i shall do nothing of the sort," i cried, pushing past him and hurrying up the stairs. to my surprise i found my rooms occupied by strangers. sergeant one-and-nine was reciting some of the rhymester's poems in the dining room to three deaf old ladies, two of whom had ear trumpets, while a. fish, esq., was holding a kind of _levã©e_ in my study, seated in a chair placed on the writing table, and was surrounded by an admiring crowd of people who were asking all sorts of questions. mrs. putchy met me at the door. "oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "i'm so glad you've come home. i haven't known what to do with all these people." "but what does it all mean, putchy?" i inquired. "what are they doing here at all?" "why, you see, sir!" said mrs. putchy, "mr. doctor-in-law found that a. fish, esq., was attracting a good deal of attention out of doors, and he thought that it would be a capital idea to have a kind of show here and charge sixpence admission to see him; and if there's been one, i'm sure there's been a hundred people up here this afternoon. the remarks they've been making too, and the questions they've been asking. why, one old lady, sir, wanted to know how much you paid a. fish, esq., a week, and if i was _quite_ sure that you gave him enough to eat. they've broken three chairs too, and that little venetian glass vase that stood on the bracket in the corner. and just now i caught some little boys tearing pictures out of one of those illustrated books you brought home last week." here was a pretty state of affairs. the strangers had by this time left a. fish, esq., and had collected around the poor wallypug, who had been waiting in his wet clothing in the hall, and i was obliged to politely but firmly insist upon them at once leaving the house, telling them that their money would be returned at the door. "i should think so, indeed," said one angry-looking stout lady. "why, the whole thing is a fraud and you ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. talking fish indeed! i don't believe he's a fish at all--at any rate, not what i call a 'fish,'" and she flounced down the stairs only to return a moment or two afterwards to say, "i thought you said that we were to have our money back." "so you are, madam," i replied. "well, why don't you see that we get it then? that man downstairs refuses to give me any money. the whole thing is a swindle. but i don't mean to be defrauded in this way, i can tell you." i went downstairs and told the doctor-in-law that he must at once return everyone their money, and this after a great deal of grumbling he did, while the commissionaire and the page boy tore down the posters outside the door at my request. i explained to the doctor-in-law that this sort of thing must not occur again, and made him promise that he would never again use my rooms as a place in which to hold a show. i really felt rather annoyed about it, for i could not imagine whatever the neighbours would think of me for permitting such a scene to take place in my rooms, but it evidently was useless now to say anything more about it. the next morning, despite the wetting which the wallypug had received at the round pond, his thoughts still ran upon boating, and nothing would satisfy his majesty but that he should go for a row. i suggested richmond as the best place to start from, and so we drove over hammersmith bridge and across barnes common. arrived at richmond we had no difficulty in securing a nice boat. "i'll row for one," said his majesty. "and i for another," said the rhymester. "very well then," i replied. "perhaps the doctor-in-law will steer, and so we will manage very nicely." quite a large crowd had collected to see us start, and perhaps that is what made the wallypug so nervous; as it was, as soon as we pushed off, his majesty fell backwards with his feet sticking up above the seat, while the rhymester stuck one oar deep down into the water and pulled it with all his might, while the other flourished about in the air. [illustration: his majesty fell backwards] the doctor-in-law's idea of steering consisted in pulling first one string and then the other, and so we did not get along very well just at first. when the wallypug had picked himself up from the bottom of the boat, however, and the rhymester and he made another attempt, i think we should have got along fairly well if the doctor-in-law, in trying to get out of the way of a passing boat, had not steered us into the bank, where we stuck fast in the mud till someone on the footpath very kindly pushed us off again. after that i thought it best to take the oars myself, and his majesty steered under my direction. in this way we managed to get a little way past teddington lock by luncheon time, and having found an _eyot_ with no one on it we went ashore and unpacked the hamper of good things which we had brought with us. it was a beautiful day, and i think that we all enjoyed the picnic immensely. i know that i did for one, and so, i think, did his majesty, for after the meal he laid aside his crown and royal robes and made himself comfortable on the grass under the trees, and looked thoroughly happy with a big cigar in his mouth. [illustration: his majesty enjoys himself] a. fish, esq., busied himself in preparing notes for his lecture on the "perhapness of the improbable," and the doctor-in-law, having piled all the cushions in the boat at one end, threw himself upon them and read the newspaper. in this way the afternoon passed very comfortably, and the rhymester, after scribbling upon several pieces of paper, came and read to me a poem which had been inspired by our beautiful surroundings; he called it soul yearnings. the water's as wet as wet can be, and the trees, and the grass, are green, while the little birds sing and the fishes swim; 'tis a most delightful scene. it makes me yearn for i don't know what, to come from i don't know where, and take me away to the thingummybob and the what-you-may-call-'ems there; and he told me that beautiful scenery always affected him in that way. [illustration: an unfortunate volley] it was now time for us to be thinking about getting back, especially as i should have to do all of the rowing. so we got into the boat again, and i rowed back as far as twickenham, where we stopped at eel-pie island to have some tea. while we were waiting for it to be prepared, we began a game of tennis, but were obliged to leave off, as an unfortunate volley of the doctor-in-law's caught the wallypug on the nose, and so his majesty declined to play any more. we persuaded him to join us at cricket, though, having found some stumps and a bat and ball in an outhouse on the island, and got on very well for some time till, at a shout of "out, leg before wicket," the wallypug (who had caught the ball very nicely on his shin) fell forward on to the doctor-in-law, crushing his hat well over his eyes, and ruffling his temper considerably. [illustration: "out"] in fact, i was very glad that tea was announced just then, for i feared that there was going to be a bother, and, as it was, the doctor-in-law kept scowling at his majesty very fiercely. "i shall make him pay for it," declared the little man, and, during tea, which we had at wicker tables by the river's edge, he was busy making out an account, which later he handed with great solemnity to the wallypug. his majesty apparently could not understand it, and passed it on to me. on examination, i found it to be worded as follows: his majesty the wallypug of why, in account with the doctor-in-law. to damage of one hat, â£0 7 6 " physical injury, 0 2 0 " moral deterioration, 15 6 9 -------- â£22 17 8 " 3 per cent. discount for cash, 3 6 2 -------- â£26 4 11 "what do you mean by moral deterioration?" demanded the wallypug. "oh, i don't know. same as other people do, i suppose," said the doctor-in-law. "it's always charged now, i believe. i read something about it in the papers this afternoon." "but the addition is all wrong," i expostulated. "no, it isn't," replied the doctor-in-law, rudely snatching the document from me and putting it into his pocket-book, "and if it is, it's nothing to do with you. i shall charge it in our expenses, which the people of why have undertaken to pay, so there." and the avaricious little fellow ran off to the boat, which we afterwards found he had been letting out on hire to small boys at a penny a head. the return journey was accomplished without any remarkable incidents, and on reaching home i found a very pressing invitation from girlie's mother for the whole party to attend her "at home" the next day. it appears that this lady had called upon me while we were out, and mrs. putchy had told her of the wallypug's arrival. his majesty was good enough to say that he should be delighted to accept, and so i wrote off at once to say that she might expect us. chapter iv lost we had a terrible fright the next morning, for the poor dear wallypug got lost, and for some time we could not imagine what had become of him. it happened in this way: directly after breakfast his majesty said that he should like to go for a walk and look at the shops. "i'm not going," declared the doctor-in-law. "i have some _very_ important letters to write." we all looked up in surprise, for we did not know that the doctor-in-law had any other acquaintances in london. "letters from which i hope to derive a princely income," continued the little man grandly; "and, therefore, i have no time for such foolishness as looking into shop windows." "he's afraid thad he bight have to sped sub buddy," remarked a. fish, esq. "nothing of the sort," replied the doctor-in-law, turning very red though. "well, don't waste time talking about it; let's go if we are going," said the rhymester; and so, as i also had some correspondence to attend to, it was arranged that the wallypug, the rhymester, and a. fish, esq., should go for a little stroll by themselves. i had some doubts in my own mind as to the advisability of letting them go alone, but they promised not to go beyond kensington gardens, and to wait for me there just inside the gates. after they had gone i settled down to my letter-writing, and was getting along nicely when the doctor-in-law interrupted me with: "i say, i wish you would let me have about twenty sheets of note-paper, will you, please?" "twenty!" i exclaimed in surprise. "yes, twenty," said the doctor-in-law. "or you had better make it a quire while you are about it." i thought the quickest way to get rid of him was to give him the paper, so i got up and got it for him. "and a packet of envelopes, please," he said, as i handed it to him. "anything else?" i asked rather sarcastically. "stamps!" he replied, calmly holding out his hand. "well, really--" i expostulated. "oh, halfpenny ones will do. you're surely not so mean as to mind tenpence, are you?" "i don't think i'm mean, but--" "hand them over then, and don't waste so much time talking," said the little man impatiently, and so, just to get rid of him, i gave him the stamps and sat down to my letters again. i had hardly begun when he came back. "don't you take any other newspapers than these?" he demanded, showing me a handful. "no, i don't, and i think it's rather extravagant of me to have those," i replied. "well, then, how do you suppose that i am going to manage? i want at least five other papers, and it's _most_ important that i should have them." "you might buy them," i suggested. "they are so dear," he grumbled. "well, why don't you go to the public library then?" i suggested. "you know where it is, and you could see all of the papers there, you know." "ah, a capital idea," he said, putting on his hat and going out. "now," i thought, "i shall have peace at last." i was not left undisturbed long though, for a few minutes later mrs. putchy came to the door. "oh, please, sir, will you go down? mr. doctor-in-law is having such a bother with the postman." i hurried out, and found the little man very angry indeed. "this postman won't give me a letter," he cried when he saw me. "perhaps he hasn't one for you," i answered. "but i saw him giving them away all down the street for nothing," persisted the doctor-in-law. "and when i asked him in a civil way for one, he refused to give it to me. it's no use for him to say he hasn't one, when he has a whole packet in his hand now, and a lot more in his bag, no doubt. are you going to give me a letter or not?" he continued, turning to the postman. [illustration: "are you going to give me a letter or not?"] "no, sir," continued the man, smiling. "i haven't any for you." "very well, then," said the doctor-in-law decidedly, "i shall certainly write to the queen and tell her that if she employs you any longer i shall take all my custom away, and i shall not send the twenty letters, that i intended writing to-day, off at all." i endeavoured to explain to the little man that the postman could not possibly give him a letter if he had not one addressed to him. "oh, that's all nonsense," he exclaimed, going off in a huff. "of course you would take his part." before i could settle down to work again the rhymester and a. fish, esq., returned. "where's the wallypug?" i demanded. "oh, he's coming by the next 'bus," said the rhymester. "haven't you had any rain here?" "no," i replied. "oh, we had quidt a sharb shower," said a. fish, esq., "ad i was afraid of gettig wet, so we stopped a 'bus--there was odly roob for two though, ad the wallypug said thad he would cub od by the dext." "i hope he will get home all right," i said anxiously. "i don't think you ought to have left his majesty by himself." "oh! it's only a little way," said the rhymester; "he's sure to get home all right." [illustration: "so we stopped a 'bus"] an hour passed and there was no signs of the wallypug. i now began to get seriously anxious. it would, of course, be the easiest thing in the world for his majesty to take the wrong 'bus, and be taken goodness knows where. i couldn't think what was best to be done. the rhymester suggested sending the crier out, but i never remembered having seen one at kensington, and at last, after searching for some time ourselves in kensington gardens, and making inquiries in high street, and failing to glean any tidings of his majesty, i thought it best to go to the police station. here i found a very important-looking official in uniform, with a big book in front of him. "what is it?" he inquired, glaring at me fiercely. "i've called to know if you could assist me in finding a friend who, i fear, has lost his way," i replied. the official did not answer me, but reached down another large book. "what's his name?" he inquired gruffly. "his name? oh--er--his name is--er--that is to say he is the--" i had not the least idea what the wallypug's name really was, so i couldn't very well say. "what's his name?" shouted the official. "i'll ask you what he _is_ presently." "well, i'm very sorry, but i really do not know his name." the man glanced at me very suspiciously. "you said he was a friend of yours--it's a very odd thing that you don't know his name. what is he?" "he's a--a--wallypug," i stammered. "that is to say he--er--" "wallypug!" exclaimed the man contemptuously. "what's that?" "why, it's a kind of king, you know," i explained, feeling that the explanation was rather a lame one. "a _kind_ of king!" exclaimed the police officer. "explain yourself." "well, i'm afraid i can't explain more clearly than that," i replied. "this gentleman has been staying with me for a couple of days, and went out this morning and lost his way." "where did he come from?" asked the man. "why," i answered. "why? because i want to know," he shouted. "don't let me have any further prevarication. where did the man, or wallypug, or whatever you call him, come from?" "from why. from a place called why, you know," i repeated. "i _don't_ know," said the officer. "i've never heard of such a place. where is it?" "well, really," i said, "i'm very sorry, but i cannot tell you. i don't know myself." "this is _very_ remarkable," said the man, glaring at me through his glasses. "you don't know your friend's name; you call him a wallypug, and can't explain what that is, you don't know where he comes from--perhaps you can tell me how he reached your house?" i was now really in a fix, for how could i tell this man that his majesty had stepped out of a picture. i thought the best thing to do was to hold my tongue. "how did he come?" repeated the officer. "by train?" i shook my head. "by steamer?" i shook my head again. "did he drive?--or come on a bicycle, or walk?" i remained silent. the police officer stared at me for a moment or two, waiting for my answer. "look here, young man," said he at last, evidently very angry indeed. "it strikes me that you are having a game with me. you had better go away quietly or i shall be obliged to take you in charge as a lunatic." "but i assure you that--" "how was your friend dressed?" "oh, he wore a somewhat battered gold crown, and carried an orb and sceptre, and was dressed in knee breeches and a velvet cloak with an ermine collar." the man gave me a keen glance and then rang a bell. a policeman appeared a moment or two afterwards, and the officer whispered something to him, of which i only caught the words, "harmless lunatic." "lunatic, sir; yes, sir. step this way, please," said the policeman, and before i could realize what had happened i was bundled into a small bare room, and the key was turned in the lock and i was a prisoner. here was a pretty state of affairs. the stupid people had mistaken me for a lunatic, and i was no doubt to be locked up here till a doctor arrived. of course the only thing for me to do was to sit still and wait as patiently as i could. fortunately the police people thought of telegraphing to the other stations to find out if anything was known of an escaped lunatic; and from fulham came the reply, "we have found one ourselves. he calls himself a wallypug, and is dressed like a second-hand king." this caused inquiries to be made, and eventually i was taken in a cab to fulham, where we found his majesty in the charge of the police, he having been found wandering about the fulham road quite unable to give what they considered a satisfactory account of himself. it was most unfortunate that his majesty should have taken the wrong 'bus, for, not having any money with him, he was set down in a totally strange neighbourhood, and had quite forgotten my address. of course, now that we had been brought face to face, we had no difficulty in convincing the police people that we were what we represented ourselves to be, and were soon, to our great relief, on our way home again. "i don't think that i should like to be a policeman," remarked the wallypug, on our way there. "no?" i answered. "why not?" "they have to catch dogs for a living?" remarked his majesty solemnly. "there were several brought in while i was waiting, and the policeman who had caught them seemed so pleased about it." i explained to the wallypug as well as i was able about the muzzling order, and his majesty was highly indignant, and when i pointed out several dogs with muzzles on he was more indignant still. "and are they always obliged to wear those horrible wire cages over their heads?" he inquired. i told his majesty that in london the order for wearing them had been in force for some considerable time, and we had a long talk over the matter, his majesty declaring that he should try and invent a new muzzle which should be more comfortable for the poor dogs. [illustration: unable to give an account of himself] "oh, here we are at last," he exclaimed, as we turned the corner near my house. "and there are the others on the steps!" "here they are! here they are!" shouted the rhymester to the others, and everyone rushed forward to assist his majesty to alight, seemingly very glad to see us back again. we were quite as delighted to get back, i can tell you, and i was so relieved at having found the wallypug that i hadn't the heart to refuse the doctor-in-law's request that i would give him ten shillings worth of penny stamps to put into the letters which he had been writing while we had been away, although he would not give me the slightest clue as to what they were wanted for. chapter v an 'at home' and the academy we were quite ready for luncheon, as you may imagine, after our morning's adventures, and directly afterwards his majesty set to work on the new dog's muzzle which he had promised to invent. in about half an hour he had constructed one with which he was intensely delighted, and he persuaded a. fish, esq., to try it on that we might see the effect. it certainly was very simple, but as there was nothing whatever to go over the mouth, i felt sure that it could not possibly be very useful. i did not like to tell his majesty so though, for he seemed so thoroughly proud of his achievement. it was now time to go to the 'at home,' so, wishing to do honour to the occasion, our 'state coach,' as we called it, was sent for, and we drove off in fine style. there were a great many people invited to meet us, and i could see that there was quite a little flutter of excitement when the wallypug entered. [illustration: it certainly was very simple] his majesty, however, in his simple, good-natured way soon put everybody at their ease, and laughed and chattered with the utmost affability. girlie and boy had both been allowed to come into the drawing-room, and girlie quite claimed the wallypug as her own particular guest, while boy renewed his acquaintance with the rhymester, whom he had met before at zum, and despite their mother's protests they carried these two members of our party off in triumph to show them their play-room and toys and to talk over old times. while they were away the doctor-in-law made himself very agreeable to the ladies, and i watched him bowing and smiling and chatting, first with one group, then with another, with great amusement. i found out afterwards that he had promised several of them portraits of his majesty and suite for 2s. 6d. each as soon as they should be taken, and in every case had asked for the money in advance; but the great event of the afternoon was when a. fish, esq., wrapped up in mrs. putchy's pink woollen shawl, borrowed for the occasion, and surrounded by a group of young ladies, consented after much pressing to deliver part of his lecture on the "perhapness of the improbable." "you bust sed for the rhymebster though to help be to read id, for by cold is still so bad thad i can'd do id by byself," he explained. [illustration: a. fish, esq., obliges] so the rhymester was sent for, and his majesty also came down to hear the wonderful lecture. it had been turned into verse by the rhymester, who, after an affected attempt to clear his throat, read as follows: the perhapness of the improbable. if _this_ were that, and _these_ were those, and _hither_ nearer thither, why, _which_ might be whate'er it chose, and _there_ be any whither. somehow 'twould be the simpler way to _dearer_ be than cheaper, and that's why _when_ (each other day) would _higher_ be than _deeper_. so _worst_ would be the _best_ of all, and _far more less_ than either; while _short_ would certainly be _tall_, and therefore thus be neither. [illustration: absent-mindedly spilt his tea] "beautiful! charming!" echoed all the young ladies at once when he had finished, while one lady sitting near me exclaimed, "how sweetly simple!" for my own part i thought that it was anything but simple, and caught myself trying to follow the line of argument with the most brain-confusing results. the wallypug was greatly distressed when he discovered that while listening to the reading, and looking at the charming young lady with whom he had been conversing, he had absent-mindedly spilt the whole of his cup of tea over her dress. "you see, they didn't give me a plate to put my cake on," i heard him explain apologetically, "and it _was_ so awkward, for my cup would keep slipping about on the saucer." the young lady smiled very sweetly and assured his majesty that it didn't matter in the least, and shortly afterwards we left, having stayed, as it was, far beyond the regulation time. when we arrived home we found a letter addressed to the rhymester in the letter-box, which in a state of great excitement he tore open with trembling fingers. upon reading the contents he burst into tears. "poor man, poor man!" he sobbed. "i am so sorry to have caused him so much trouble." "it is a letter from an editor," he explained through his tears, "and he is in great distress through not being able to publish my poem. he says he greatly regrets his inability to make use of it! poor man, he evidently feels it very keenly. i must write and tell him not to be too unhappy about it." i had some letters to write too, one to a photographer in regent street, asking for an appointment the next morning, for i was determined that the doctor-in-law should send the promised photographs to the young ladies without delay. the first thing in the morning came a telegram to say that we could be photographed at eleven o'clock, so, after my guests had made themselves as spruce as possible, we started off and reached there in good time. it was suggested that the wallypug should be taken by himself, but when he saw the camera pointed directly at him while the operator disappeared beneath the black cloth, he came to the conclusion that it was too dangerous a machine to be faced with impunity, so he suddenly turned his back upon it, and nervously fled from the room. it was only by promising that the others should be taken with him that we could get him to sit at all, and even then there was a strained and nervous expression upon his face, which suggested that he was in momentary fear that the thing would "go off." the rhymester insisted upon being taken with one of his poems in his hand, the doctor-in-law wore his usual complacent smile, and altogether the group was quite a success. as soon as the "operation," as the wallypug would insist upon calling it, was over, we went downstairs, his majesty leading the way, while the doctor-in-law stayed behind for a moment to make some arrangements with the photographer about commission. we had intended going home by 'bus, but when we got to the door his majesty was nowhere to be seen. what could have become of him? we looked up and down the street, but could see no signs of him anywhere; and at last, after hunting about for a considerable time, he was discovered calmly sitting inside a furniture removal van, waiting for it to start, under the impression that it was an omnibus. "i'm sure this is the right one," he explained, "for it has 'kensington' printed in large letters on it. come along, there's plenty of room inside; the conductor and the driver will be here presently, i suppose." i laughingly explained to his majesty the mistake which he had made, and we walked on as far as piccadilly circus, where we found a 'bus to take us to the academy, which we intended visiting on our way home. we had not gone far though, when i suddenly remembered that the 22nd june was very close at hand, and that i had better make arrangements for seats to view the jubilee procession or i should be too late. so it was arranged that the doctor-in-law should take charge of the party while i went on to the agents to see about the seats. they would have no difficulty in getting home by themselves for the 'buses ran from just outside the academy doors straight to kensington, so i felt sure that they would be all right. "how much is the entrance fee to the academy?" asked the doctor-in-law, as i was getting down from the 'bus. "a shilling each," i replied, and i saw the little man collecting the money from the others as the 'bus disappeared from view. [illustration: waiting for it to start] i was very fortunate at the agents in being able to secure a capital window in piccadilly, and some stores in the neighbourhood undertook to provide a luncheon and to suitably decorate the window for us. these arrangements being satisfactorily concluded, i hurried home, and was greatly relieved to find my guests there before me. "how did you enjoy the academy?" i inquired. [illustration: could not understand the catalogue] "not at all!" said his majesty decidedly. "waste of money, i call it," said the rhymester, sniffing contemptuously. "i was dever so disappointed id edythig id all by life!" declared a. fish, esq. "besides, the catalogue was no good at all," complained his majesty. "we could make neither head nor tail of it." the doctor-in-law was silent, and it was only by very careful inquiry that i found out that, after pocketing their money, he had taken them to an immense hoarding covered with advertisement posters, and had gammoned them into believing that _that_ was the academy, while it was no wonder that the poor wallypug could not understand the 'catalogue,' for it was nothing more nor less than an old illustrated stores price list. it was really too bad of the doctor-in-law. chapter vi the jubilee the few days which elapsed before the memorable 22nd of june passed very quickly, and we were all more or less busy making preparations for the festival. his majesty would insist upon polishing up his regalia himself in order to do honour to the occasion, and spent hours over his crown with a piece of chamois leather and some whitening till, though somewhat battered by the rough usage it had sustained, it shone quite brilliantly. mrs. putchy herself suggested making his majesty some new red silk rosettes for his shoes, which he very graciously consented to accept. the doctor-in-law was always so spick and span that we scarcely noticed any change in his appearance, but the rhymester had made arrangements with general mary jane to wash, starch, and iron his lace collar, and he remained in his room one entire day while it was being done up. a. fish, esq., purchased a necktie of most brilliant colouring, and one-and-nine touched himself up here and there with some red enamel where his tunic had become shabby in places, so that altogether our party looked very smart as we drove at a very early hour to our seats in piccadilly. to avoid the crowd we went by way of bayswater road, and then passed down park lane and through berkeley square, in order to reach the back entrance to the house in piccadilly where i had booked seats. our gorgeous carriage was everywhere hailed with great delight, being of course mistaken for a portion of the jubilee procession, and many were the conjectures heard on all sides as to who the wallypug could possibly be. [illustration: with some red enamel] our window was in the centre of the building on the first floor, and we had it all to ourselves. a table at the back of the room was tastefully set out with an excellent cold collation, and in front of the window, which was most elaborately decorated with velvet curtains, flags, and trophies, and which was surmounted by a device which was understood to be the wallypug's coat-of-arms, a gorgeous, gilded, high-backed chair was placed as a throne for his majesty, and comfortable seats were also provided for the rest of the party. the crowd outside greeted our appearance with quite a demonstration, as by the enormous placard outside announcing the name of the decorators, and stating that they were by appointment to his majesty the wallypug of why, of course everybody knew who we were. indeed, one learned-looking person in the crowd was holding forth to an eager audience, and explaining exactly where why was situated, and pretending that he had been there, and had seen the wallypug before, ever so many times. as the time approached for the procession to pass, the wallypug became very excited and nervous. "shall i really see the queen of england?" he kept asking over and over again. "do you think she will see me? will she bow to me? what must i say? must i keep my crown on or take it off?" and innumerable other questions of the same nature. presently the excitement and enthusiasm reached their height, as amid a confused shouting of "here they are," the guards in advance came in sight. slowly the mighty procession, with its innumerable squadrons and bands passed, and at last, after the english and foreign princes and eastern potentates, the eight cream-coloured hanoverian horses, drawing the jubilee landau, made their appearance, and the queen was seen, smiling and bowing graciously to the cheering populace. the doctor-in-law, in his excitement, scrambled on to the window ledge in order to obtain a better view; the wallypug loyally waved his crown; while the rhymester, hurriedly unrolling a lengthy ode which he had written especially for the occasion, began reading it in a loud voice, and, though nobody paid the slightest attention to him, did not desist until long after the procession had passed. [illustration: the wallypug loyally waved his crown] the wallypug was very thoughtful for some time after the queen had gone by, and, during the drive home, expressed his great surprise that her majesty had not worn a crown, and apparently could not understand why it should not be worn on all occasions. "i suppose her majesty has a crown of her own, hasn't she?" he asked anxiously. "oh yes, of course!" i replied. "where is it then?" persisted his majesty. "i believe all of the regalia is kept carefully locked up and guarded in the tower of london," i said. "well, i think it's very unkind of them not to let her majesty have them out on an occasion like this. i shall see what i can do about it." the dear wallypug's intentions were evidently so good that i did not say anything in reply to this, though i wondered to myself whatever his majesty thought that _he_ could do in the matter. there were so many people about that we considered it best to spend the rest of the day quietly at home, though we did venture out in the evening to see the illuminations, which delighted his majesty exceedingly. the next afternoon the whole party, with the exception of one-and-nine, drove over the route taken by the procession, in order to see the street decorations. i remained at home, and late in the afternoon there was a knock at my door, and general mary jane entered. she was nervously wringing a handkerchief wet with tears, and her eyes were quite red with weeping. "please, sir," she began, sniffing pathetically, "i want to gi--gi--give no--notice." "why! what ever for?" i asked in surprise, for general mary jane was an excellent servant, and mrs. putchy had always been very pleased with her. "please, sir, it's sergeant one-and-nine; he's broken my 'art, sir, and i can't bear it no longer," and the poor girl burst into a flood of tears. "bless me!" i cried, "whatever do you mean?" "well, sir, you see ever since he's been 'ere, sir, he's been a making hup to me; leastwise that's what i thought he meant, sir; but this afternoon bein' my day hout, i went up to kensington gardens for a walk (him a saying as he would be there), and what should i see when i gets there, but him a walkin' about with half-a-dozen of them nursemaids in white frocks a followin' of him. not that i says as it's altogether his fault; they will run after the military; but it's more than i can stand, sir, me bein' that proud at 'avin' a soldier for a sweetheart, and all," and she began to cry again. [illustration: they will run after the military] i hardly knew what to do, but suggested that she should not think too seriously about it, and general mary jane, saying she hoped i would excuse her troubling me in the matter, decided to go to her married sister at barnes and spend the rest of her day out there, and talk the matter over with her. i had a lot of writing to do all the afternoon, and the time passed so quickly that until the gong sounded for dinner i did not realize that the wallypug and his party had not returned. it was now past seven, and they should have been home hours since. i was so anxious about them that i could scarcely eat any dinner, and as soon as the meal was over i hurried to the livery stables to hear if they knew anything about the matter. the first person i encountered when i arrived there was the coachman, now divested of his fine livery, and busy in the yard. "bless you, sir, yes, back hours ago," said he. "i set his majesty and the others down at your door about five o'clock, and i did hear them say something about going down to hammersmith for a walk." "to hammersmith?" i echoed in surprise. "yes, sir--they wanted to see the suspension bridge and the river again, so i told them the way to get there. they're all right, sir, i'll be bound. the doctor-in-law is too wide awake for anything to happen to them while he is with them." i walked home somewhat easier in my mind now that i knew the party had returned safely, though still somewhat anxious as to their whereabouts. about nine o'clock it began to get quite dark, and i was just setting out to see if i could find any trace of them when general mary jane returned. [illustration: "and donkey rides"] "oh, sir!" she exclaimed directly she saw me, "what do you think? his majesty and the doctor-in-law and the others are down at the fair by hammersmith bridge, and they are 'aving such a lark. i see them all 'aving a roundabout as i was coming past on my way 'ome from my sister's just now; such a crowd there was a cheering and a hollering. cocoa-nut shies, too, a boy told me they had been 'aving, and old aunt sally, and donkey rides along the towing path." [illustration: "they are 'aving such a lark"] i hurriedly put on my hat and rushed off to hammersmith, for i didn't know what might happen to my guests among the rough crowd which i knew usually gathered there. when i arrived on the scene i found the whole party on the roundabout, and when they alighted i learned that the doctor-in-law had arranged with one of the show people to share the proceeds of exhibiting the wallypug and a. fish, esq., in separate tents, at 3d. a head. i met with considerable opposition from the show people in my endeavours to persuade my guests to come home, as they had evidently been a source of considerable profit to them, though the man with the cocoa-nut shies declared that the doctor-in-law had claimed a great many more nuts than he was properly entitled to. the crowd made quite a demonstration when we departed in a four-wheeler, and the rhymester evidently considered it a compliment that the contents of so many "ladies' tormentors," as the little tubes filled with water are called, were directed at him. altogether the whole party had evidently been delighted with their evening's amusement, though, as i explained to them while we were driving home, it was highly inconsistent with the dignity of his majesty's position, and calculated to cause him to be treated with a certain amount of disrespect. i could see, however, that all i said had very little effect on any of the party, and that they were one and all highly delighted with their adventure. chapter vii more adventures "it's the most contraryish place i've ever seen," declared one-and-nine. "yes," agreed the wallypug. "there was no water in the moat." "the drawbridge didn't draw," echoed the rhymester. "ad the beefeaters didn't eat beef," chimed in a. fish, esq., while the doctor-in-law declared that for his part he "considered the morning spent there had been entirely wasted." they were talking about the tower of london, and were telling girlie and boy, who were spending the afternoon with us, all about their visit there on the previous day. i was sitting in an adjoining room--but the door being open i could hear all that was said. "how did you go?" asked boy. "oh!" exclaimed the wallypug, "in the most extraordinary way you can possibly imagine. we went into a house in high street, kensington, and bought some little tickets, and then we handed them to a man at a barrier, who cut a little piece out of each one as we passed through." "to rebebber us by," chimed in a. fish, esq. "yes," continued the wallypug; "and then we went down two flights of stairs, and by-and-bye a lot of little houses on wheels came rushing into the station, and we got into one of them and before you could say 'jack robinson' we were rushing through a big black tunnel under the ground." "why, you mean the underground railway," declared girlie. "yes," agreed his majesty. "and the little room we sat in had beautiful soft cushions and a big light in the middle of the roof, and little texts printed on the wall--" "texts!" exclaimed both of the children. "texts," repeated the wallypug. "what were they? do you remember?" he asked of the others. "oh, one was, 'you are requested not to put your feet on the cushions,'" said the rhymester. "oh, yes, and 'to seat five,' and 'wait till the train stops'--i remember now," continued the wallypug. "well, we kept rushing through the tunnel till we came to 'holman's mustard,' and a lot of people got out, and then we went on again till we came to 'smears' soap.'" [illustration: "holman's mustard again"] "it wasn't 'smears' soap,'" contradicted the doctor-in-law. "it was somebody's ink." "well, there were such a lot of names," declared the wallypug, "it was impossible to really tell which was which. i always took the name opposite to my window to be the right one. the funniest part of it all was, we kept coming to 'holman's mustard' over and over again. i can't think how on earth the people know when to get out." "why, those weren't the names of the stations at all," laughed boy. "they were advertisements!" "well, where were the names of the stations then?" demanded his majesty. "why, in big letters on the walls of course," was the reply. "they couldn't have been much bigger than those of 'holman's mustard,'" persisted the wallypug somewhat ungrammatically. "never mind about that; get on with your story," remarked the doctor-in-law impatiently. "well, after going through a lot of tunnels and stopping ever so many times, we got out at one of the stations and went upstairs into the light again, and almost opposite the station we could see a lot of grey stone buildings with towers and battlements." "i know! you mean the tower. we've been there," interrupted girlie. "did you see the lions?" asked the wallypug eagerly. "lions! no!" exclaimed the children. "there weren't any; you didn't see any, did you?" "no, we didn't," admitted the wallypug, "but the doctor-in-law told us that there were some there." "i read it in a book," declared the doctor-in-law. "but i daresay it was all a pack of stories, like the rest of the things they said. look at the crown jewels for instance--bits of glass and rubbish. that's why they put them in an iron cage, so you can't get at them to see if they are real." "oh! i think they _are_ real," said boy. "the guide told us that they were worth ever so many thousands of pounds." "yes, he may have _said_ so," remarked the doctor-in-law, "but i'll be bound he wouldn't let you take them away and examine them for yourself. i asked them to let me have one or two of the crowns and things to take home and test, but they positively refused, although i promised to return them within a week. they are afraid that we should find out that they are only imitations--that's what's the matter." "there weren't any kings or queens executed either the day we were there," he continued, grumbling. "well, i'm sure i'm very glad that _that_ fashion has died out," declared his majesty. "i don't mind admitting now that i was rather nervous about going at all, for fear that i should have _my_ head chopped off, and i should feel so very awkward without one, you know." "pooh! you needn't have been alarmed, for there wasn't a lord high executioner on the premises, because i asked," declared the rhymester. "no, but do you know," said his majesty, "i've found out since, that he lives at the bottom of our street, and mends shoes for a living--he does a little executing still on the sly, for i have seen his bill in the window, 'orders _executed_ with promptness and dispatch.' i asked him one day what class he executed most, and he said that his connection was principally amongst the 'uppers.' he seems a very kind man though, and not only executes orders, but heals them too, poor souls! he charges 1s. 3d. for healing. his education has been sorely neglected, i am afraid, however, for he spells it 'heeling.'" "did you see the armoury at the tower?" asked boy. "yes, and there was another instance of deception," declared the doctor-in-law. "what do you mean?" asked boy. "well, what is an armoury?" inquired the doctor-in-law. "a place where arms are kept, i suppose," replied boy. "just so, and there wasn't an arm in the place except our own," said the doctor-in-law wrathfully. "why, they call guns and things arms," said boy, laughing. "oh! do they?" remarked the doctor-in-law sarcastically. "why don't they call things by their proper names then? they might as well call them legs, or turnips, or paraffin oil--bah! i've no patience with such folly!" [illustration: "they went for by calves"] "i think they bight feed the raveds[1] bedder," complained a. fish, esq. "they went for by calves, and if wud of those beefeaters hadn'd cub and driven theb away i shouldn't have had a leg left to stand up od." [1] he meant the tame ravens which are kept at the tower. "beefeaters, yes!" remarked the rhymester, "and a pretty lot they were. i tried several of them with a piece that i had brought with me in a little paper bag, and not one of them would touch it." "madame tussaud's was better; we went there in the afternoon," said his majesty. "yes, but who was to know which were wax figures and which were not?" asked the doctor-in-law. "well, you made a pretty muddle of it anyhow," said the wallypug. "do you know," he went on, "the doctor-in-law made us all pay sixpence each towards the catalogue, and then went around with us explaining the various groups. he had just finished telling us that several ladies, who were standing together, were henry the eighth's wives, when they all marched off looking highly indignant." "well, how was i to know?" remarked the doctor-in-law pettishly. "i'd never met a single one of henry the eighth's wives in my life, and how was i to recognize them?" "i don't think they would have binded so butch if the rhymebster hadn't pinched wud of theb to see if they were alive or dot," remarked a. fish, esq. "did you see the sleeping beauty?" asked girlie. [illustration: he could get no answer] "oh, yes! isn't it cruel to keep her shut up in that case," cried the wallypug. "i'm sure she's alive, for we could see her breathing quite distinctly. i was so concerned about it that i asked the doctor-in-law to speak to a policeman who was standing near by about it. but he could get no answer from him, and we found out afterwards that he was only a wax figure." "the best thig of all," remarked a. fish, esq., "was whed we all pretended that we--" "dear me, it's very warm!" interrupted the doctor-in-law. "let's change the subject." "pretended that we--" continued a. fish, esq. "hush--sh--sh--!" cried the doctor-in-law in a warning voice. "the fact of the matter is," explained the rhymester, "the doctor-in-law got us all to pretend that we were wax figures ourselves, and he tied little money boxes in front of us with the words: 'put a penny in the slot and the figure will move,' written on them, and when anyone put a penny in we all moved our heads and rolled our eyes about." "i didn't!" said the wallypug. "no, i know you didn't," replied the rhymester. "and the doctor-in-law had to explain that you were out of order, and that's how we were found out, for the people wanted their money back and he wouldn't give it to them, so they called the attendant, and we had to go out as quickly as we could." "ad wasn't id beade?" said a. fish, esq. "there were four shillings ad threepedce id the boxes, ad the doctor-id-law wouldn't give us a penny of id." "well, i let you pay my fare home. that amounted to the same thing," replied the little man. just then mrs. putchy came in with afternoon tea, and i joined my guests in the drawing-room. chapter viii his majesty is interviewed the next morning we were all seated around the breakfast table laughing over our adventures of the evening before, when we had visited the earl's court exhibition together. we had been up in the great wheel, and having passed through the pretty old english village were walking around the artificial lake listening to the band playing in their little pavilion on the island in the middle, when the doctor-in-law declared that he heard a strange trumpeting sound, and asked me what it could be. i had not heard it and so could not tell him, and we were just discussing the matter when the wallypug clutched wildly at his crown, and turning around we saw a huge elephant lifting it gracefully off his head with its trunk. directly his majesty realized what it was, he gave a wild scream and took to his heels, as did all the others, with the exception of the rhymester, who tripped against a stone and lay with his head buried in his arms for some time, kicking and screaming for help. of course it was only the tame elephant that carries the children on its back, but to the unaccustomed eyes of the wallypug and his party it seemed, so they told me afterwards, some strange and awful monster ready to devour them. as i said, we were laughing merrily over this adventure when the postman arrived, and the doctor-in-law, without asking to be excused from the table, rushed out to meet him, and returned a few minutes later with his arms loaded with a number of little packages and one rather large box, which had arrived by carter paterson. "dear me, what a lot of letters," remarked his majesty. "yes. wouldn't you like to know what they are all about, eh?" inquired the doctor-in-law. "yes, i should," admitted the wallypug; while the faces of the others all expressed the same curiosity. [illustration: a strange and awful monster] "well, i'll tell you what i'll do," said the doctor-in-law. "if you'll all pay me fourpence halfpenny each, i will let you open them and see for yourselves." there was a little grumbling at this, but eventually the money changed hands, and, the breakfast things having been removed, the little packages were opened with great eagerness. besides a printed circular, each one contained some little article--a pencil case, a pen knife, a comb, a sample tin of knife polish, a card of revolving collar studs, and so on. "ah!" remarked the doctor-in-law complacently as these articles were spread about the table; "i told you that i expected to derive a princely revenue from my correspondence, and now i will explain to you how it is done. i observed a great number of advertisements in the daily papers, stating that 'a handsome income could be earned without the slightest trouble or inconvenience, and particulars would be forwarded to any one sending six stamps and an addressed envelope'; so i sent off about twenty, and here is the result. i see by these circulars that i have only to sell two hundred of these little pencil cases at half-a-crown each in order to earn 1s. 6d. commission, and for every dozen tins of knife polish i sell, i shall be paid 1-1/2d., besides being able to earn 6d. a thousand by addressing envelopes for one firm, if i supply my own envelopes." "what's in the big box?" inquired the rhymester. "a dittig bachede," replied a. fish, esq., who had been busily engaged in opening it. "a what?" exclaimed the others. "a dittig bachede for dittig socks," repeated a. fish, esq. "oh yes, of course!" explained the doctor-in-law, "a knitting machine. i was persuaded to buy it on the understanding that i was to have constant work all the year round, and be paid so much per pair for knitting socks with it. it's a most interesting and amusing occupation, and, i'll tell you what, i don't mind letting any one of you use the machine for sixpence an hour, if you find your own worsted and give me the socks when they are finished. there now! nothing could be fairer than that, could it?" [illustration: the "dittig bachede"] and positively a. fish, esq., was so infatuated with the charms of the "dittig bachede," as he called it, that he actually agreed to these terms, and sent out for some worsted, and commenced "dittig" with great enthusiasm. the doctor-in-law then set the rhymester to work, addressing the envelopes on the understanding that he was to share the sixpence per thousand to be paid for them. and, having bothered the wallypug and myself into buying a pencil-case and a knife each, in order to get rid of him, he started off to the kitchen to see if he could do any business with mrs. putchy in the knife-polish or black-lead line. his majesty and myself were just saying what an extraordinary little man he was, when he burst in upon us again. "heard the news?" he inquired, his face beaming with importance. "no. what is it?" inquired the others eagerly. "ah! wouldn't you like to know?" exclaimed the doctor-in-law. "how much will you give me for telling you?" "how much do you want?" asked the rhymester dubiously. "a penny each," was the reply. "come on then, let's have it," said the rhymester, collecting the pennies from the others and handing them to the doctor-in-law. "why--er--er--queen anne is dead, and the dutch have taken holland--yah!" and the little man burst out laughing. "oh! i say, that's _too_ bad," grumbled the wallypug. "isn't it now?" he cried, appealing to me. "well, really," i replied, "you shouldn't be so silly as to give him money. you ought to know by this time what to expect from him." "no, but truly," said the doctor-in-law, pulling a serious face, "i _have_ got some news, the other was only my fun. a lady is going to call on us at eleven, to interview the wallypug. i had almost forgotten it." "a lady!" i exclaimed. "whoever do you mean?" "oh, she's the duchess of something. i forget her name," answered the doctor-in-law nonchalantly. "she called the other day while you were out, and explained that she was a contributor to one of the latest society magazines, and was anxious to send an illustrated interview with the wallypug, to her paper; so--a-hem!--after we had come to terms, i arranged for her to come to-day and see him. you had better go and make yourself tidy, hadn't you?" he continued, turning to the wallypug. "well, really," i interposed, "i think you might have consulted his majesty first, before making these arrangements." "oh! do you?" said the doctor-in-law rudely. "well, i don't see that it's any business of yours, my good sir--so there!" and he bounced out of the room again, rattling his sample tins. it was nearly eleven then, and a few minutes afterwards a beautifully-appointed carriage drew up to the door, and mrs. putchy brought up a card inscribed: [illustration: _her grace the duchess of mortlake._] and immediately ushered in a fashionably-dressed lady, who smilingly offered me the tips of her fingers. "oh, _how_ do you do? you are the gentleman, i think, who is to introduce me to his majesty, are you not?" "well, really, your grace, we have only just heard of the appointment, but his majesty the wallypug will be very pleased to receive you i am sure." "and is that his majesty at the other end of the room?" whispered the duchess. "pray present me." i made the necessary introduction, and the duchess gave the regulation court 'dip,' which the wallypug gravely imitated, and then in his usual simple manner offered his hand with a smile. [illustration: in the most approved fashion] her grace made a deep presentation curtsey and bowed over it in the most approved fashion; but the wallypug, evidently unused to being treated with so much ceremony, withdrew it hastily and remarked nervously but politely: "won't you take a seat, madam?" "say, 'your grace,'" i whispered. "what for?" asked his majesty blankly. "because this lady is a duchess, and you must always say 'your grace' when speaking to her," i replied. "oh!" said the wallypug vaguely--then going up to the duchess he solemnly said, "i'm grace." "no, no!" i explained. "you don't understand me. i mean, when you speak to this lady you must call her 'your grace.'" "dear me, how stupid of me, to be sure!" said his majesty. "i understand now. i beg your pardon. i meant to say, 'you are my grace,' madam," he continued, addressing himself to the duchess. her grace amiably laughed away this little mistake, and was soon busy asking questions. the wallypug, however, got very nervous, and made a shocking lot of mistakes in his answers. he couldn't even say how old he was. "i know i've been in the family for years," he remarked, "and i fancy i must have come over with william the conqueror. such a lot of people did that, you know, and it's so respectable. i don't remember it, of course; but then i've been told that i was born very young, and so naturally i shouldn't do so." "does your majesty remember any of the incidents of your early life?" asked the duchess. "i was considered remarkably bald for my age as an infant," replied the wallypug simply. "and i believe i had several measles, and a mump or two as a child. but i don't wish to boast about them," he added modestly. "where were you educated, your majesty?" was the next question. "i wasn't," replied the wallypug with a sigh. "does your majesty mean that you received no education at all?" asked the duchess in surprise. "oh! i was taught reading, and writing, and arithmetic, and the use of the globes, and latin and greek, and all that rubbish, of course," replied the wallypug. "but i mean there were no universities at why, where i could receive a higher education, and be taught cricket, and football, and rowing, and all those classical things taught at oxford and cambridge, you know. i was considered the best boy in my form at marbles though," he added proudly. "and i could beat any of the masters at hop scotch." "what is your favourite diet, your majesty?" came next. "oh! jumbles, i think--or bull's eyes. i'm very fond of hardbake too, and i love cocoa-nut ice." a few more questions such as these, and her grace took her departure, after taking several snap-shot photographs of various articles in the drawing room. i felt convinced that with such a scanty amount of information at her disposal the duchess would have great difficulty in writing an article on the wallypug, and was therefore the more surprised a few days later to receive a copy of the magazine which her grace represented, with a long and particular account of the interview, under the heading of, "'why wallypug and wherefore of why?' by a lady of title." into it her grace had introduced the most preposterous and extravagant statements about his majesty. we learned with amazement that "the wallypug came of a very ancient family, and had early been distinguished for many remarkable accomplishments. while at school his majesty displayed such a natural aptitude for learning as to readily out-distance his instructors." "i suppose that's because i said i played hop scotch better than the masters," commented his majesty, to whom i was reading the account aloud. [illustration: the faithful hound] photographs of various articles in the drawing-room, which had no connection whatever with the wallypug, were reproduced with the most extraordinary and absolutely untrue stories attached to them. dick and mrs. mehetable murchison appeared as "the wallypug's favourite cat and dog," while pathetic stories were told of how the dog had on several occasions saved his royal master from an untimely and watery grave, while the cat had prevented him from being burned to death while reading in bed by gently scratching his nose when he had fallen asleep, and the candle had set fire to the bed curtains. sensational illustrations were also given depicting these incidents, which of course were purely imaginary. it was very remarkable to notice though, that directly the article of the duchess's appeared, invitations from all sorts of grand people poured in upon us--and the daily papers suddenly woke up to the fact that the wallypug and his suite were very important personages, and devoted whole columns to "our mysterious foreign guests," as they called them. [illustration: the sagacious pussy] there was always more or less of a crowd outside the house now, and when his majesty drove in the park, the people all stood up on the little green seats to get a better view of him as he passed. chapter ix the wallypug's own it was shortly after this that the doctor-in-law, hearing what a vast fortune might be made in literature, decided to start a magazine of his own. [illustration: the doctor-in-law was editor] after a lot of argument it was thought best to call it _the wallypug's own_, as the name was considered a striking one. the first number was to be a very elaborate affair, and, for weeks before it appeared, all of my guests were busily engaged in its production. "there will be a good opportunity for some of your poems appearing at last," hinted the doctor-in-law to the rhymester, which so delighted the poor little fellow that he set to work at once upon a number of new ones. a. fish, esq., contributed a very learned article on the subject of "the prevalence of toothache amongst fish: its cause and treatment"; while the great attraction of the number was an historical article by the wallypug on the subject of "julius caesar," illustrated by his majesty himself. as a special favour, the original drawing was presented to me by his majesty, and i am thus enabled to reproduce it for your benefit. his majesty confided to me that parts of it were traced from a picture which appeared in the _boys' own paper_ some time ago, but of course we did not tell everybody that. [illustration: from "the wallypug's own"] the essay itself was quite original, and was worded somehow like this: "_julius caesar was a man, and he lived in rome. he came over to conquer britain because he heard there was a lot of tin here, and when he arrived he said in latin_, 'veni, vidi, vici,' _which means, 'i have come, and thou wilt have to skedaddle', which has been the british motto ever since. but the ancient britons who lived here then, didn't understand latin, and so they went for julius caesar, and shook their fists in his face, and tried to drive him and his followers away. but julius caesar and the romans were civilized, and had daggers and things, and shields, and wore firemen's helmets, and kilts like scotchmen, so they soon overcame the ancient britons; and they built london wall, and made a lot of combs, and glass tear-bottles, and brooches, and sarcophaguses, that you can see in the museum at the guildhall; and then they went back to rome, and julius caesar was stabbed by his friend brutus, to show how much he liked him; and caesar, when he found out he was stabbed, cried out in latin_, 'et tu, brute,' _which means 'oh, you brute,' and lived happy ever after. i have drawn the picture of julius caesar landing in britain--that's him waving things, and calling to the others to come on._" the doctor-in-law was editor, and arranged a number of competitions, and in order to enter for them you had only to send two shillings in stamps, while the prizes were advertised as follows: first prize, â£1000 a year for life; second prize, thirty-six grand pianos and fourteen bicycles; third prize, a sewing machine and six cakes of scented soap. the prizes were to be awarded for the first correct answers received by post, but the doctor-in-law took good care to write three sets of answers himself, and put them in our letter-box a half-an-hour before the first post arrived, so that nobody got prizes but himself. he made a good deal of money, too, by pretending to tell your fortune by the creases in your collar. all you had to do was to send an old collar and fourteen penny stamps, and you would receive a letter in reply similar to this: "you are probably either a male or a female, and will no doubt live till you die. you like to have your own way when you can get it, and when you can't you get very cross and irritable. you are not so young as you were a few years ago, and you dislike pain of any kind. you will remain single until you marry, and whichever you do you will probably wish you hadn't." the greatest novelty, however, which the doctor-in-law introduced in his new magazine was his system of telling your character by your watch and chain. there was no fee charged, and all you had to do was to send your watch and chain (gold preferred), and the doctor-in-law would tell your character, quite correctly. it generally was as follows: "you are a silly donkey, for no one but a donkey would think of sending his watch and chain to a stranger, and if you imagine that you will ever see it again, you are greatly mistaken." the rhymester only had one poem in after all, as, when it came to the point, the doctor-in-law charged him a guinea a verse for printing it, and the poor rhymester could not afford more than one poem at that rate. this is what he sent: [illustration] the new robin. the north wind doth blow, and we ought to have snow, if 'tis true what my nurse used to sing, poor thing. yet up in yon tree robin redbreast i see as happy and gay as a king, poor thing. look! as true as i live, there's a boy with a sieve and a stick and a long piece of string, poor thing. but the bird doesn't care, for i hear him declare, "pooh! the old dodge he tried in the spring, poor thing." "what ridiculous cheek," and he turns up his beak ere he tucks his head under his wing, poor thing. [illustration] the poor rhymester was very disappointed at not being able to publish more of his poems, so the doctor-in-law, to console him, allowed him to contribute an article on "fashions for the month by our paris model." he made a frightful muddle of it though, not knowing the proper terms in which to describe the various materials and styles. here is an extract, which will show you better than i can tell, the stupid blunders which he made: "_hats this season are principally worn on the head, and may be trimmed with light gauzy stuff wobbled round the crown mixed up with various coloured ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers and fruit._ "_artificial vegetables are not much worn, although a cauliflower or two and a bunch of carrots, with a few cabbages, would form a striking and novel decoration for a hat. if this trimming is considered insufficient, a few brightly coloured tomatoes stuck round the brim might be added, and would render the head-gear particularly 'chic.'_ "_hats for the theatre should be worn large and handsomely trimmed, but for the economically inclined--a last year's clothes basket trimmed with art muslin, which may be purchased of any good draper at 1-3/4d. a yard, cut on the cross and tucked with chiffons, would form a sweetly simple hat, and if tied beneath the chin with an aigrette, and the front filled in with sequins, it would readily be mistaken for one of the new early victorian bonnets which continue to be worn by the upper housemaids in most aristocratic families._ _"i hear that dresses are to be worn again this year by ladies. the most fashionable ones will be made of various sorts of material._ _"a charming walking costume suitable for the autumn may be made of shaded grenadine, trimmed with buckram pom-poms, made up on the selvedge edge."_ there was a lot more nonsense of this kind which i did not at all understand, but which some lady friends who understood these things made great fun of. you will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that in a weak moment i allowed myself to be persuaded into contributing a little experience of my own. the rhymester told me that it was shockingly bad rhyme, but i think that he was jealous because the doctor-in-law published it. anyhow, here it is, so you can judge for yourself. i call it he and i and it. oh he was a publisher and i was a publishee, and it was a book which the publisher took and pub-l-i-s-h-e-d. the publisher's smile it was bland, 'twas a beautiful smile to see, as again and again he took pains to explain how large my "half-profits" _might_ be. it had a capital sale, well reviewed by the _times_ and _d.t._, and a great many more, so my friends by the score came around to congratulate me. [illustration: it had a capital sale] and people i scarcely had met, just "dropped in" to afternoon tea; while my aunt, who's a swell, _now_ remembered quite well that i was related to she. and girls that were rich and plain, or pretty and poor, did agree to let me suppose that i'd but to propose to be m-a-r-r-i-e-d. [illustration: my friends all turned tail] yes, he published it in the spring, that season of frolic and glee; "in the autumn," he said, gravely nodding his head, "'half-profits' will mean l.s.d." but autumn has come and gone, and i'm so to say, "all at sea," for he sobs and he sighs and he turns up his eyes when i ask what my "half-profits" be. there are "charges for this, and for that," and for "things that he couldn't foresee," and he "very much fears," so he says twixt his tears, "that there won't be a penny for me." oh! rich is the publisher and poor is the publishee; of the profits of it i shall touch not a bit, they are all swallowed up by he. the girls now all treat me with scorn- aunt turns up her n-o-s-e, and my friends all turn tail, while my book they assail and call rubbish and twad-d-l-e. even one-and-nine and general mary jane were smitten with a desire to rush into print, and i overheard them concocting a tragic love story in the kitchen, and they were highly indignant later on, because the doctor-in-law would not accept it. you can hardly wonder at it though, for it really was too bad for anything. it was called "the viscount's revenge," and in it several characters who had been killed in the first part of the book kept cropping up all through the story in a most confusing manner, while one-and-nine and general mary jane could not agree as to whether the heroine should be dark or fair, so in one part of the book she had beautiful golden hair and blue eyes, and in another she was described as "darkly, proudly handsome, with a wealth of dusky hair and eyes as black as night." [illustration: the literary housemaid] at the last moment it was found necessary to include another poem in the magazine, and, as all of the rhymester's were too long, the doctor-in-law decided to write one himself, which he called commercial problems. why doth the little busy bee not charge so much an hour, for gathering honey day by day from every opening flower? and can you tell me why, good sir, the birds receive no pay for singing sweetly in the grove throughout the livelong day? why flow'rs should bloom about the place and give their perfume free, in so unbusinesslike a way, seems very odd to me. i cannot meet a single cow that charges for her milk, and though they are not paid a sou, the silkworms still spin silk. while ducks and hens, i grieve to find, lay eggs for nothing too, which is a most ridiculous and foolish thing to do. these problems often puzzle me; i lie awake at night, and think and think what i can do to set this matter right. i've found a way at last, and though it may at first seem funny, it cannot fail--'tis this: _you_ pay, and _i'll_ collect the money. chapter x the wallypug goes to windsor while they were all busy in the preparation of _the wallypug's own_, i thought it an excellent opportunity to run down to folkestone in order to make arrangements for hiring a house, as i intended taking my guests to the seaside for a few weeks. i felt a little anxious about leaving them to themselves, but hoped that they would be too busy and interested in the new magazine to get into trouble. it was most unfortunate that i should have gone just then though, for directly i had left the wallypug received a polite letter from one of the court officials to say that the queen would be pleased to receive his majesty and suite at windsor on the following day. [illustration: a royal invitation] of course, as you may imagine, the wallypug was in a great state of excitement at receiving this royal invitation, and wished to telegraph at once for me to return and advise them how to act and what to do, on this important occasion; however, the doctor-in-law, so i have been given to understand, persuaded his majesty not to do anything of the sort, and added that i "was always poking about and interfering, and was better out of the way"; so his majesty, who was very anxious to do the right thing, consulted mrs. putchy as to the proper costume to be worn, and the etiquette to be observed. "well, your majesty," remarked mrs. putchy in reply, "i scarcely know what to advise. when in my younger days, i acted as lady's maid to the countess of wembley, i know her ladyship wore a court train and carried a bouquet when she was presented to the queen." "where did the engine go?" asked his majesty curiously. "the engine!" exclaimed mrs. putchy. "yes; you said she wore a train, didn't you?" said the wallypug. "oh! but i didn't mean that kind of train," laughed mrs. putchy; "i meant a long sort of cloak fastened on to the shoulders and trailing along the ground at the back--they are generally made of satin and velvet, and are decorated with flowers and feathers and lace, and that sort of thing. your majesty's cloak would do nicely if i trimmed it for you." "but are you sure that gentlemen wear these sort of things?" inquired the wallypug. "well, i couldn't rightly say, your majesty, but i'm sure i've seen pictures of kings and such like wearing trains which were borne by pages, so i feel sure your majesty would be safe in wearing one." so it was arranged that, after having been carefully brushed, his majesty's velvet cloak was to be gaily decorated with lace and large bunches of flowers, and, to make the thing complete, a large bouquet was tied around his sceptre, and, at the rhymester's suggestion, little knots of flowers were attached to the knobs of his majesty's crown. the little man was highly delighted with his appearance when all these arrangements were concluded, and could get but very little sleep that night for thinking of the great honour which was to be his the next day. the whole household was early astir in the morning, and at about eleven o'clock the carriage came to take the royal guests to the station. arrived at waterloo, the doctor-in-law, after making various inquiries as to the price of the tickets, etc., actually had the meanness, despite the remonstrance of the railway officials, to insist upon the whole party travelling down third-class, remarking that he "found the third-class carriages reached there quite as soon as the first, and a penny saved was a penny gained." the station master at windsor was particularly put out about it, as, in honour of his majesty's visit, the station had been gaily decorated and a carpet laid down to the carriage door. his majesty, however, made a brave show as he walked up the platform preceded by the doctor-in-law, his gaily decorated train borne by the rhymester, and followed by a. fish, esq., and one-and-nine, the latter carrying a mysterious bandbox, which contained a present from the wallypug to her majesty. (see frontispiece.) inside and out the station was crowded with curious spectators, all eager to catch a glimpse of his majesty and his remarkable retinue, and cheer after cheer resounded as the station master, bare-headed and bowing, ushered the party to the royal carriage with the red and gold-liveried servants, which had been sent from the castle to meet them. the bells were ringing, and the streets were crowded as they drove through the old town, and his majesty thoroughly enjoyed the drive, while the doctor-in-law was quite in his element amidst all this fuss and excitement. i did not care to inquire too fully into the details of his majesty's interview with the queen, but i was given to understand that the whole party was treated with the utmost kindness. her majesty graciously accepted at the wallypug's hands a gilded crown, an exact copy of the one he wore himself, and which he had had made expressly for her majesty, having been struck by the fact that her majesty's real crown was always kept locked up in the tower, and hoping that perhaps this one would do for second best. i could not gather that her majesty had actually promised to wear it, but i do know that the wallypug was made exceedingly proud and happy by the gift of a portrait of her majesty herself, with the royal autograph attached, and that he will always remember the occasion of his visit to windsor, and the kindness with which he was treated by everyone, particularly by the little princes and princesses, her majesty's great grand-children, who led him about the castle grounds, and showed him their pets, and the flowers, and conservatories, and all the wonderful sights of that wonderful place. in the evening there was a dinner party, at which her majesty did not appear, and early the next morning a royal carriage again drove them to the station _en route_ for london. all this i learned on my return from folkestone. i also heard of an extraordinary evening party which had been given at my house during my absence. it appears that the invitations had been sent out by the doctor-in-law the very day upon which i left, and about thirty guests, including the duchess of mortlake, had been invited. unfortunately, however, this visit to windsor had entirely driven the matter from the wallypug's mind, and the others had forgotten about it too, and so a pretty confusion was the result. it appears that one evening about seven o'clock they were all in the kitchen making toffee, having persuaded mrs. putchy to let them have the frying-pan and some sugar and butter, and it having been cooking for some time the doctor-in-law had just told the wallypug to stick his finger in and see if it was done, when mrs. putchy came in to say that some ladies and gentlemen had arrived, and were waiting in the drawing-room. [illustration: to see if it was done] all of a sudden it flashed upon their minds that _this_ was the evening upon which they had invited their visitors to the party. whatever was to be done? not the slightest preparation had been made--and his majesty and the others were all more or less in a sticky condition, and quite unfit to be seen by company. a hurried consultation took place, during which they could hear more and more guests arriving, and at last, by a brilliant inspiration, the doctor-in-law thought of making it a surprise party, similar to those given in america. "it won't cost us anything either," he remarked complacently. "but what is a surprise party?" asked the others. "never mind, you'll see presently," remarked the little man. "run and wash your hands now and make yourselves tidy." a few minutes later the whole party filed into the drawing-room, the wallypug looking rather blank and nervous, and the doctor-in-law full of profuse apologies for having kept the guests waiting so long. "by the way," he remarked airily, "i suppose you all know that it's a surprise party." "dear me, no," said the duchess of mortlake, speaking for the others. "whatever is that; i don't think it was mentioned on the cards of invitation, was it?" "ah! a trifling oversight," remarked the doctor-in-law. "a surprise party," he continued in explanation, "is one at which each guest is expected to contribute something towards the supper--some bring one thing and some another. what have you brought, may i ask, your grace?" "well, really," said the duchess, "i've never heard of such a thing in my life before. i've not brought anything at all, of course; i'm surprised at your asking me such a question." "ah, yes, just so," remarked the doctor-in-law triumphantly, "just what i told you--a _surprise_ party, don't you see! now, what i would advise is that you should all go out and order various things to be sent in for supper; we, for our part, will provide some excellent toffee, and then you can come back and help us to set the tables and all that sort of thing, you know--it's the greatest fun in the world, i assure you." and really the little man carried it off with such gaiety, that entering into the spirit of the thing the guests really did as he suggested, and went out and ordered the things, and afterwards came back, and, amidst great laughter and fun, the tables were laid, every one doing some share of the work, with the exception of the doctor-in-law, who contented himself with directing the others and chatting to the ladies. [illustration: the wallypug helps] the poor dear wallypug amiably toiled backward and forward between the kitchen and dining-room with great piles of plates and other heavy articles, and a. fish, esq., in his eagerness to help, was continually treading on his own tail, upsetting himself and the various dishes entrusted to his charge. [illustration: a. fish, esq., upset] at last, however, the supper was set, and the merriest evening you can possibly imagine was spent by the guests. his majesty was in capital spirits, and after supper suggested a little dancing, which suggestion was hailed with delight by the others, and, having moved some of the furniture out of the drawing-room and pushed the rest away into corners, the wallypug led off with her grace the duchess of mortlake, and quite distinguished himself in "sir roger de coverley." afterwards there was a little singing and music, several of the guests contributing to the evening's entertainment. amongst other items was a song by a. fish, esq., rendered as well as his bad cold would permit, of which the first lines ran: i'b siddig here ad lookig at the bood, love, ad thinkig ov the habby days of old, wed you ad i had each a wooded spood, love, to eat our porridge wed we had a cold. altogether the evening was such a success that her grace declared that it should not be her fault if surprise parties were not the fashion in society during the coming winter. chapter xi his majesty at the seaside i sent mrs. putchy and general mary jane down to the house, which i had engaged on the "lees" at folkestone, the day before we were to go, in order to see that everything was ready for us. "the only thing that is wrong is the kitchen chimney, and that smokes, sir," said mrs. putchy, in answer to my inquiry on the night of our arrival. "i think that we had better have the sweep in the morning, sir." "very well, mrs. putchy, i'm sure you know best," i replied, and thought no more of the matter. early in the morning, however, i was awakened by screams and cries proceeding from the lower part of the house. "help! help! burglars! fire and police! thieves!" screamed a voice, and hastily dressing myself, i rushed out into the passage, and was confronted by the rhymester, who had evidently just jumped out of bed, and who, though it was broad daylight, bore a lighted candle in one hand, and a pair of fire tongs in the other. his teeth were chattering with fright, and his knees were knocking together from the same cause. "what's the matter," i asked in alarm. "oh! oh! there are burglars in the house," he cried excitedly, "and the others have gone down to them; i'm sure they'll be killed--i told them not to go, but they would. let's go and hide under a bed somewhere. oh! oh, what will become of us?" "don't be such a coward," i cried, hurrying down stairs, while the poor little rhymester, afraid to be left alone upstairs, tremblingly followed. sure enough there was a sound of struggling going on, and voices raised in loud dispute. "oh, that story won't do for me," i heard the doctor-in-law exclaim. "but i tell yez, sor," chimed in another strange voice, "i waz only going to----" "never mind what you were going to do, give up the sack," said the doctor-in-law. then there were sounds of struggling, and amidst the confusion a voice saying: "hold him down! sit on him! that's right! now for the sack." and, bursting the door open, a curious sight met my eyes. a poor sweep lay flat upon the floor, with the wallypug sitting upon him, and one-and-nine keeping guard; while the doctor-in-law and a. fish, esq., examined his bag of soot in the corner. the poor little rhymester summoned up sufficient courage to peep in at the doorway, and stood there making a piteous picture, with his white face and trembling limbs. "whatever is the matter," i inquired as soon as i entered. "we've caught him!" exclaimed his majesty, complacently wriggling his toes about. "but what's he been doing," i asked. [illustration: "we've caught him!"] "av ye plaze, sor," groaned the man, panting beneath the wallypug's weight, "i have been doing nothing at all, at all. i waz just a-finishin' me warrak of swapin' the chimneys, wen one ov the ould gintleman came up an' poked me in the nose with a sthick, and the other ould gintleman knocked me over and sthole me bag, while the soger hild me down till the other gintleman sat on me--it's among a lot of murtherin' thaves i've got entoirely, savin' yer presince, sor." "the man is a burglar," declared the doctor-in-law emphatically. "i happened to hear a very suspicious noise down here, and calling to the others, rushed down just in time to catch this man making off with a bag of things. i think he was trying to escape up the chimney, for his head was half-way up when we entered, and this bag, which evidently contains plunder of some kind, is covered with soot too." "why, the man is a sweep, and was sweeping the chimney," i cried, pointing to his brushes and sticks; and after a lot of explanations the man was told to get up and his majesty, followed by the others, retired to his bedroom, evidently greatly disappointed that it was not a real burglar that they had been combating. the sweep, who was a very good-natured irishman, took it in very good part, and the present of half-a-crown sent him away quite reconciled to his assailants. the rhymester afterwards made a great boast that he had not taken any part in the mã©lã©e. "of course i knew all along that he wasn't a burglar," he declared, "and that's the reason why i wouldn't interfere." "you managed to do a good deal of screaming though, i noticed," remarked the doctor-in-law grumpily. "ah! that was only for fun," asserted the rhymester. this was really about the only remarkable incident which occurred during our holiday at folkestone, which passed very pleasantly and very quietly. we went for a sea bathe nearly every day, and his majesty would insist upon wearing his crown in the water on every occasion. "no one will know that i am a king if i don't," he declared; and i am bound to admit that his majesty did not look very regal in his bathing costume, particularly when he was dripping with water and his long straight hair hung half over his face, and even when he wore his crown he was continually catching bits of seaweed in it, which gave him a singularly untidy appearance for a king. [illustration: his majesty did not look very regal] a. fish, esq., with the assistance of a lifebuoy, nearly learned to swim while we were down there; but the doctor-in-law thought that hiring bathing machines was a foolish waste of money, and contented himself with taking off his shoes and stockings and paddling, which he could do without having to pay. one day, however, he was knocked completely over by an incoming wave, and got wet to the skin. we could never persuade the rhymester either, to go out further than just to his knees; but i rather fancy that that was because he was afraid of wetting his bathing costume, of which he was particularly proud, and which was decorated with smart little bows of ribbon wherever they could be conveniently put. fear may have had something to do with it though, for i noticed that he always clung very tightly to the rope, and never by any chance went beyond its length. the switchback railway was a source of infinite amusement, and a great deal of time was spent on it. boating was not much indulged in, as it made one or two of the party, particularly a. fish, esq., very ill; but we all enjoyed the beautiful drives in the neighbourhood. there was an excellent punch and judy show in the town too, which so fascinated his majesty that we could scarcely tear him away whenever he joined the admiring crowd which daily surrounded it. the fickle one-and-nine, while we were here, fell in love with a wax figure exhibited in a hair-dresser's window in sandgate road. it represented a beautiful lady with her hair dressed in the latest fashion, and the wooden soldier was greatly infatuated. he spent hours gazing through the window, watching the lady slowly revolve by clockwork; and he became frightfully jealous of the hair-dresser, whom he caught one morning rearranging the drapery around the lady's shoulders. eventually, with the assistance of the rhymester, he composed the following piece of poetry--which he stuck, by means of six gelatine sweets, on to the hair-dresser's window with the writing inside, in order that the lady might see it. to the beautiful lady in the hairdresser's window. i love you, oh! i love you, and i beg you to be mine; i'm a gallant wooden soldier, and my name is 1/9. if you will only marry me, 'twill be the greatest fun to puzzle folks by telling them, that we're both 2/1. 'twill be the truth, for man and wife are one, i beg to state, this fact's as clear as 4/4, or 2/6 make 8. they tell me, dear, you have no feet; but what is that to me? 2 feet be 4/2 behind on animals you see. that you have none, is 0 to me, dear 1/4 your sake, no trifles such as these shall e'er my true affections shake. i bought some penny tarts for you, but i am much distrest to tell you by mistake i sat on 1/8 the rest. one-and-nine was quite happy in finding that the paper had disappeared from the shop window when he passed by a little later, and declared that it must mean that the lady had accepted him and his poetry. i think the funniest incident of all though, in connection with our visit to folkestone, was when his majesty and the others went into carlo maestrani's for some ices. they had never tasted any before, and were very much surprised to find them so cold. i shall never forget the expression on the wallypug's face when, having rather greedily taken a very large mouthful, he could not swallow it, or dispose of it in any way. a. fish, esq., declared that it gave him a violent toothache; while the doctor-in-law called for the waiter, and insisted upon him taking it away. [illustration: "it's not properly cooked"] "it's not properly cooked," he declared angrily. "it's cold." "cook, sare, no, sare, it is not cook," agreed the waiter. "very well, then, take it away and bring us some that is. have it warmed up; do something with it. it's disgraceful bringing us stuff like that." and no argument or persuasion would convince the little man that the ices were as they should be. chapter xii the departure we remained at folkestone till the latter part of september, and then returned to london just about the time that the first number of _the wallypug's own_ made its appearance. it caused quite a sensation in literary circles, and was mentioned by most of the papers; but it did _not_ turn out a monetary success, and so the doctor-in-law declared that he must devise some other means of making money. we had been once or twice to the circus, and i fancy that it must have been his intention to start something of the sort himself, for i caught him one day trying to teach his majesty to walk the tight-rope; but as he had only tied the rope between two very light chairs the result was not very satisfactory, particularly to the poor wallypug, who came to the ground with a terrific crash. a. fish, esq., dressed as a clown, and certainly looked very funny; but his bad cold prevented him from speaking his jokes distinctly, and so the idea was given up. [illustration: the result was not satisfactory] in fact it was not till november that the doctor-in-law hit upon a plan which seemed to give him any great satisfaction. we had been talking a great deal about guy fawkes' day and the fireworks at the crystal palace, which we intended going to see in the evening, and the doctor-in-law had been particularly curious to know all about the day and its customs. he did not say much about his plans, but i felt sure that he was up to some of his tricks, for i caught him several times whispering mysteriously to the rhymester and a. fish, esq., and i noticed that they were all particularly kind and respectful to his majesty, as though they wished to keep him in a good humour. on the morning of the fifth, when i came down to breakfast, i was greatly surprised to find that the whole party had gone out about an hour previous, after borrowing from mrs. putchy a kitchen chair, four broomsticks, and a long piece of clothes-line. whatever were they up to? i asked mrs. putchy if they had left any message, but no--they had said nothing as to where they were going, what they were going to do, or when they would be back; and the only thing that had struck mrs. putchy as being at all remarkable about their appearance, was the fact that the rhymester had added little bows of coloured ribbon to his costume, and wore a tall pointed cap gaily decorated with streamers, and a deep white frill around his neck--the others were dressed as usual. i felt sure that some mischief was brewing, and could not settle down to my work for thinking of them. about eleven o'clock i went out to see if i could find any traces of my guests. i had been walking about unsuccessfully for about an hour, when i heard some boys shouting, and turning to look in their direction, i beheld his majesty calmly seated in a chair which, by means of long poles attached to it, was being carried along by the rhymester and a. fish, esq. they were followed by a crowd of people who were cheering lustily, and the doctor-in-law was rushing about collecting money in his hat, and entreating the people "not to forget the fifth of november," and repeating some doggerel verse about: "guy fawkes guy, stick him up high; stick him on a lamp-post, and there let him die," while several little boys were dancing about in great excitement, and shouting, "holler, boys! holler! here's another guy." [illustration: a triumphal procession] his majesty evidently regarded it as a great compliment to himself, and complacently bowed right and left with considerable dignity. and i found out that the doctor-in-law had persuaded him into believing that this triumphal procession had been arranged solely in his majesty's honour. i was naturally very vexed at the poor wallypug being imposed upon in this manner, and spoke very plainly to the doctor-in-law about it on our way home, and i think the little man must have taken it very much to heart, for he seemed quite subdued, and actually himself suggested sharing the proceeds of the collection with the others. we went to see the fireworks in the evening, and i don't ever remember seeing the party in such excellent spirits as they were that night. mrs. putchy had prepared a capital supper for us on our return, and i love to remember my friends as they appeared sitting around the supper table talking over the adventures and excitements of the day. i can see them now whenever i close my eyes--the dear old wallypug at the head of the table, with one-and-nine in attendance, and the others all talking at once about the jolly time they had had at the skating rink in the afternoon, when a. fish, esq., had vainly tried to get along with roller-skates fastened on to his tail. [illustration: a capital story] i say i love to remember them thus, for it was the last occasion upon which we were all together. early the next morning mrs. putchy came to my room, and in a very agitated voice said, "please sir, i'm afraid that there is something wrong; i have knocked at his majesty's door and can get no answer, and the doctor-in-law's room is empty too." i hurried down, and on the breakfast table i found a letter addressed to me, in which his majesty, on behalf of the others, thanked me very heartily for my hospitality, and explained that state matters of the utmost importance had necessitated their immediate return to why. how they went i have never been able to discover. the outer door of my flat was found to be locked on the inside as usual, and the windows were all fastened; besides which, as they were some distance from the ground, the royal party could scarcely have got out that way. altogether the whole affair was involved in a mystery which i have never been able to solve to this day. of course i miss my strange, but withal lovable visitors, very much, and i value very highly the several little mementoes of their visit which remained behind. amongst others is a cheque of the doctor-in-law's for a considerable amount; which, however, i shall never be able to cash, as it is drawn upon the bank of, "don't-you-wish-you-may-get-it," at why. general mary jane was inconsolable for some time after the departure of her soldier hero, but eventually married our milkman, a very steady and respectable man in the neighbourhood. girlie and boy and many other friends of the wallypug greatly regretted that they were unable to say good-bye to his majesty before he left; and often and often, as i sit alone in my study, i think about the simple-natured, good-hearted little fellow, and his remarkable followers, and wonder if i shall ever see them again. who knows? [illustration: i often think of them] the end glasgow: printed at the university press by robert maclehose and co. * * * * * a catalogue of books and announcements of methuen and company publishers: london 36 essex street w.c. contents page forthcoming books, 2 poetry, 10 belles lettres, 11 illustrated books, 13 history, 14 biography, 16 travel, adventure and topography, 18 general literature, 19 science, 21 philosophy, 22 theology, 22 leaders of religion, 24 fiction, 25 books for boys and girls, 34 the peacock library, 35 university extension series, 35 social questions of to-day, 36 classical translations, 37 educational books, 38 november 1897 november 1897. messrs. methuen's announcements #poetry# shakespeare's poems. edited, with an introduction and notes, by george wyndham, m.p. _crown 8vo._ _buckram. 6s._ this is a volume of the sonnets and lesser poems of shakespeare, and is prefaced with an elaborate introduction by mr. wyndham. english lyrics. selected and edited by w. e. henley. _crown 8vo._ _buckram. 6s._ also 15 copies on japanese paper. _demy 8vo._ _â£2, 2s. net._ few announcements will be more welcome to lovers of english verse than the one that mr. henley is bringing together into one book the finest lyrics in our language. nursery rhymes. with many coloured pictures. by f. d. bedford. _small 4to._ _5s._ this book has many beautiful designs in colour to illustrate the old rhymes. the odyssey of homer. a translation by j. g. cordery. _crown 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ #travel and adventure# british central africa. by sir h. h. johnston, k.c.b. with nearly two hundred illustrations, and six maps. _crown 4to._ _30s. net._ contents.--(1) the history of nyasaland and british central africa generally. (2) a detailed description of the races and languages of british central africa. (3) chapters on the european settlers and missionaries; the fauna, the flora, minerals, and scenery. (4) a chapter on the prospects of the country. with the greeks in thessaly. by w. kinnaird rose, reuter's correspondent. with plans and 23 illustrations. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a history of the operations in thessaly by one whose brilliant despatches from the seat of war attracted universal attention. the benin massacre. by captain boisragon. with portrait and map. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ this volume is written by one of the two survivors who escaped the terrible massacre in benin at the beginning of this year. the author relates in detail his adventures and his extraordinary escape, and adds a description of the country and of the events which led up to the outbreak. from tonkin to india. by prince henri of orleans. translated by hamley bent, m.a. with 80 illustrations and a map. _crown 4to._ _25s._ the travels of prince henri in 1895 from china to the valley of the bramaputra covered a distance of 2100 miles, of which 1600 was through absolutely unexplored country. no fewer than seventeen ranges of mountains were crossed at altitudes of from 11,000 to 13,000 feet. the journey was made memorable by the discovery of the sources of the irrawaddy. to the physical difficulties of the journey were added dangers from the attacks of savage tribes. the book deals with many of the burning political problems of the east, and it will be found a most important contribution to the literature of adventure and discovery. three years in savage africa. by lionel decle. with an introduction by h. m. stanley, m.p. with 100 illustrations and 5 maps. _demy 8vo._ _21s._ few europeans have had the same opportunity of studying the barbarous parts of africa as mr. decle. starting from the cape, he visited in succession bechuanaland, the zambesi, matabeleland and mashonaland, the portuguese settlement on the zambesi, nyasaland, ujiji, the headquarters of the arabs, german east africa, uganda (where he saw fighting in company with the late major 'roddy' owen), and british east africa. in his book he relates his experiences, his minute observations of native habits and customs, and his views as to the work done in africa by the various european governments, whose operations he was able to study. the whole journey extended over 7000 miles, and occupied exactly three years. with the mounted infantry in mashonaland. by lieut.-colonel alderson. with numerous illustrations and plans. _demy 8vo._ _12s. 6d._ this is an account of the military operations in mashonaland by the officer who commanded the troops in that district during the late rebellion. besides its interest as a story of warfare, it will have a peculiar value as an account of the services of mounted infantry by one of the chief authorities on the subject. the hill of the graces: or, the great stone temples of tripoli. by h. s. cowper, f.s.a. with maps, plans, and 75 illustrations. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ a record of two journeys through tripoli in 1895 and 1896. the book treats of a remarkable series of megalithic temples which have hitherto been uninvestigated, and contains a large amount of new geographical and archã¦ological matter. adventure and exploration in africa. by captain a. st. h. gibbons, f.r.g.s. with illustrations by c. whymper, and maps. _demy 8vo._ _21s._ this is an account of travel and adventure among the marotse and contiguous tribes, with a description of their customs, characteristics, and history, together with the author's experiences in hunting big game. the illustrations are by mr. charles whymper, and from photographs. there is a map by the author of the hitherto unexplored regions lying between the zambezi and kafukwi rivers and from 18â° to 15â° s. lat. #history and biography# a history of egypt, from the earliest times to the present day. edited by w. m. flinders petrie, d.c.l., ll.d., professor of egyptology at university college. _fully illustrated._ _in six volumes._ _crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ vol. v. roman egypt. by j. g. milne. the decline and fall of the roman empire. by edward gibbon. a new edition, edited with notes, appendices, and maps by j. b. bury, m.a., fellow of trinity college, dublin. _in seven volumes._ _demy 8vo, gilt top._ _8s. 6d. each._ _crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ _vol. iv._ the letters of victor hugo. translated from the french by f. clarke, m.a. _in two volumes._ _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d. each._ _vol. ii._ 1835-72. this is the second volume of one of the most interesting and important collection of letters ever published in france. the correspondence dates from victor hugo's boyhood to his death, and none of the letters have been published before. a history of the great northern railway, 1845-95. by c. h. grinling. with maps and illustrations. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ a record of railway enterprise and development in northern england, containing much matter hitherto unpublished. it appeals both to the general reader and to those specially interested in railway construction and management. a history of british colonial policy. by h. e. egerton, m.a. _demy 8vo._ _12s. 6d._ this book deals with british colonial policy historically from the beginnings of english colonisation down to the present day. the subject has been treated by itself, and it has thus been possible within a reasonable compass to deal with a mass of authority which must otherwise be sought in the state papers. the volume is divided into five parts:--(1) the period of beginnings, 1497-1650; (2) trade ascendancy, 1651-1830; (3) the granting of responsible government, 1831-1860; (4) _laissez aller_, 1861-1885; (5) greater britain. a history of anarchism. by e. v. zenker. translated from the german. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ a critical study and history, as well as a powerful and trenchant criticism, of the anarchist movement in europe. the book has aroused considerable attention on the continent. the life of ernest renan. by madame darmesteter. with portrait. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a biography of renan by one of his most intimate friends. a life of donne. by augustus jessopp, d.d. with portrait. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ this is a new volume of the 'leaders of religion' series, from the learned and witty pen of the rector of scarning, who has been able to embody the results of much research. old harrow days. by j. g. cotton minchin. _crown 8vo._ _5s._ a volume of reminiscences which will be interesting to old harrovians and to many of the general public. #theology# a primer of the bible. by prof. w. h. bennett. _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ this primer sketches the history of the books which make up the bible, in the light of recent criticism. it gives an account of their character, origin, and composition, as far as possible in chronological order, with special reference to their relations to one another and to the history of israel and the church. the formation of the canon is illustrated by chapters on the apocrypha (old and new testament); and there is a brief notice of the history of the bible since the close of the canon. light and leaven: historical and social sermons. by the rev. h. hensley henson, m.a., fellow of all souls', incumbent of st. mary's hospital, ilford. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ _devotional series_ the confessions of st. augustine. newly translated, with an introduction, by c. bigg, d.d., late student of christ church. with a frontispiece. _18mo._ _1s. 6d._ this little book is the first volume of a new devotional series, printed in clear type, and published at a very low price. this volume contains the nine books of the 'confessions' which are suitable for devotional purposes. the name of the editor is a sufficient guarantee of the excellence of the edition. the holy sacrifice. by f. weston, m.a., curate of st. matthew's, westminster. _18mo._ _1s._ a small volume of devotions at the holy communion. #naval and military# a history of the art of war. by c. w. oman, m.a., fellow of all souls', oxford. _demy 8vo._ _illustrated._ _21s._ vol. ii. mediã�val warfare. mr. oman is engaged on a history of the art of war, of which the above, though covering the middle period from the fall of the roman empire to the general use of gunpowder in western europe, is the first instalment. the first battle dealt with will be adrianople (378) and the last navarette (1367). there will appear later a volume dealing with the art of war among the ancients, and another covering the 15th, 16th, and 17th centuries. the book will deal mainly with tactics and strategy, fortifications and siegecraft, but subsidiary chapters will give some account of the development of arms and armour, and of the various forms of military organization known to the middle ages. a short history of the royal navy, from early times to the present day. by david hannay. illustrated. _2 vols. demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d. each._ vol. i. this book aims at giving an account not only of the fighting we have done at sea, but of the growth of the service, of the part the navy has played in the development of the empire, and of its inner life. the story of the british army. by lieut.-colonel cooper king, of the staff college, camberley. illustrated. _demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ this volume aims at describing the nature of the different armies that have been formed in great britain, and how from the early and feudal levies the present standing army came to be. the changes in tactics, uniform, and armament are briefly touched upon, and the campaigns in which the army has shared have been so far followed as to explain the part played by british regiments in them. #general literature# the old english home. by s. baring-gould. with numerous plans and illustrations. _crown 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ this book, like mr. baring-gould's well-known 'old country life,' describes the life and environment of an old english family. oxford and its colleges. by j. wells, m.a., fellow and tutor of wadham college. illustrated by e. h. new. _fcap. 8vo._ _3s._ _leather._ _4s._ this is a guide--chiefly historical--to the colleges of oxford. it contains numerous illustrations. voces academicã�. by c. grant robertson, m.a., fellow of all souls', oxford. _with a frontispiece._ _fcap. 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ this is a volume of light satirical dialogues and should be read by all who are interested in the life of oxford. a primer of wordsworth. by laurie magnus. _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ this volume is uniform with the primers of tennyson and burns, and contains a concise biography of the poet, a critical appreciation of his work in detail, and a bibliography. neo-malthusianism. by r. ussher, m.a. _cr. 8vo._ _6s._ this book deals with a very delicate but most important matter, namely, the voluntary limitation of the family, and how such action affects morality, the individual, and the nation. primã�val scenes. by h. n. hutchinson, b.a., f.g.s., author of 'extinct monsters,' 'creatures of other days,' 'prehistoric man and beast,' etc. with numerous illustrations drawn by john hassall and fred. v. burridge. _4to._ _6s._ a set of twenty drawings, with short text to each, to illustrate the humorous aspects of prehistoric times. they are carefully planned by the author so as to be scientifically and archã¦ologically correct and at the same time amusing. the wallypug in london. by g. e. farrow, author of 'the wallypug of why.' with numerous illustrations. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ an extravaganza for children, written with great charm and vivacity. railway nationalization. by clement edwards. _social questions series._ _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ #sport# sporting and athletic records. by h. morgan browne. _crown 8vo._ _1s. paper;_ _2s. cloth._ this book gives, in a clear and complete form, accurate records of the best performances in all important branches of sport. it is an attempt, never yet made, to present all-important sporting records in a systematic way. the golfing pilgrim. by horace g. hutchinson. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ this book, by a famous golfer, contains the following sketches lightly and humorously written:--the prologue--the pilgrim at the shrine--mecca out of season--the pilgrim at home--the pilgrim abroad--the life of the links--a tragedy by the way--scraps from the scrip--the golfer in art--early pilgrims in the west--an interesting relic. #educational# evagrius. edited by professor lã�on parmentier of liã©ge and m. bidez of gand. _demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ _byzantine texts._ the odes and epodes of horace. translated by a. d. godley, m.a., fellow of magdalen college, oxford. _crown 8vo. buckram._ _2s._ ornamental design for woven fabrics. by c. stephenson, of the technical college, bradford, and f. suddards, of the yorkshire college, leeds. with 65 full-page plates, and numerous designs and diagrams in the text. _demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ the aim of this book is to supply, in a systematic and practical form, information on the subject of decorative design as applied to woven fabrics, and is primarily intended to meet the requirements of students in textile and art schools, or of designers actively engaged in the weaving industry. its wealth of illustration is a marked feature of the book. essentials of commercial education. by e. e. whitfield, m.a. _crown 8vo._ _1s. 6d._ a guide to commercial education and examinations. passages for unseen translation. by e. c. marchant, m.a., fellow of peterhouse, cambridge; and a. m. cook, m.a., late scholar of wadham college, oxford: assistant masters at st. paul's school. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ this book contains two hundred latin and two hundred greek passages, and has been very carefully compiled to meet the wants of v. and vi. form boys at public schools. it is also well adapted for the use of honour men at the universities. exercises in latin accidence. by s. e. winbolt, assistant master in christ's hospital. _crown 8vo._ _1s. 6d._ an elementary book adapted for lower forms to accompany the shorter latin primer. notes on greek and latin syntax. by g. buckland green, m.a., assistant master at the edinburgh academy, late fellow of st. john's college, oxon. _cr. 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ notes and explanations on the chief difficulties of greek and latin syntax, with numerous passages for exercise. a digest of deductive logic. by johnson barker, b.a. _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ a short introduction to logic for students preparing for examinations. test cards in euclid and algebra. by d. s. calderwood, headmaster of the normal school, edinburgh. in a packet of 40, with answers. _1s._ a set of cards for advanced pupils in elementary schools. how to make a dress. by j. a. e. wood. illustrated. _crown 8vo._ _1s. 6d._ a text-book for students preparing for the city and guilds examination, based on the syllabus. the diagrams are numerous. #fiction# lochinvar. by s. r. crockett, author of 'the raiders,' etc. illustrated by frank richards. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ byeways. by robert hichens, author of 'flames,' etc. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ the mutable many. by robert barr, author of 'in the midst of alarms,' 'a woman intervenes,' etc. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ the lady's walk. by mrs. oliphant. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a new book by this lamented author, somewhat in the style of her 'beleagured city.' traits and confidences. by the hon. emily lawless, author of 'hurrish,' 'maelcho,' etc. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ bladys. by s. baring gould, author of 'the broom squire,' etc. illustrated by f. h. townsend. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a romance of the last century. the pomp of the lavilettes. by gilbert parker, author of 'the seats of the mighty,' etc. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ a daughter of strife. by jane helen findlater, author of 'the green graves of balgowrie.' _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a story of 1710. over the hills. by mary findlater. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a novel by a sister of j. h. findlater, the author of 'the green graves of balgowrie.' a creel of irish stories. by jane barlow, author of 'irish idylls.' _crown 8vo._ _6s._ the clash of arms. by j. bloundelle burton, author of 'in the day of adversity.' _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a passionate pilgrim. by percy white, author of 'mr. bailey-martin.' _crown 8vo._ _6s._ secretary to bayne, m.p. by w. pett ridge. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ the builders. by j. s. fletcher, author of 'when charles i. was king.' _crown 8vo._ _6s._ josiah's wife. by norma lorimer. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ by stroke of sword. by andrew balfour. illustrated by w. cubitt cooke. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a romance of the time of elizabeth. the singer of marly. by i. hooper. illustrated by w. cubitt cooke. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a romance of adventure. kirkham's find. by mary gaunt, author of 'the moving finger.' _crown 8vo._ _6s._ the fall of the sparrow. by m. c. balfour. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ scottish border life. by james c. dibdin. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ a list of messrs. methuen's publications #poetry# rudyard kipling's new poems #rudyard kipling.# the seven seas. by rudyard kipling. _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _buckram, gilt top._ _6s._ 'the new poems of mr. rudyard kipling have all the spirit and swing of their predecessors. patriotism is the solid concrete foundation on which mr. kipling has built the whole of his work.'--_times._ 'full of passionate patriotism and the imperial spirit.'--_yorkshire post._ 'the empire has found a singer; it is no depreciation of the songs to say that statesmen may have, one way or other, to take account of them.'--_manchester guardian._ 'animated through and through with indubitable genius.'--_daily telegraph._ 'packed with inspiration, with humour, with pathos.'--_daily chronicle._ 'all the pride of empire, all the intoxication of power, all the ardour, the energy, the masterful strength and the wonderful endurance and death-scorning pluck which are the very bone and fibre and marrow of the british character are here.'--_daily mail._ #rudyard kipling.# barrack-room ballads; and other verses. by rudyard kipling. _twelfth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'mr. kipling's verse is strong, vivid, full of character.... unmistakable genius rings in every line.'--_times._ 'the ballads teem with imagination, they palpitate with emotion. we read them with laughter and tears; the metres throb in our pulses, the cunningly ordered words tingle with life; and if this be not poetry, what is?'--_pall mall gazette._ #"q."# poems and ballads. by "q.," author of 'green bays,' etc. _crown 8vo._ _buckram._ _3s. 6d._ 'this work has just the faint, ineffable touch and glow that make poetry. 'q.' has the true romantic spirit.'--_speaker._ #"q."# green bays: verses and parodies. by "q.," author of 'dead man's rock,' etc. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'the verses display a rare and versatile gift of parody, great command of metre, and a very pretty turn of humour.'--_times._ #e. mackay.# a song of the sea. by eric mackay, author of 'the love letters of a violinist.' _second edition._ _fcap. 8vo._ _5s._ 'everywhere mr. mackay displays himself the master of a style marked by all the characteristics of the best rhetoric. he has a keen sense of rhythm and of general balance; his verse is excellently sonorous.'--_globe._ #ibsen.# brand. a drama by henrik ibsen. translated by william wilson. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'the greatest world-poem of the nineteenth century next to "faust." it is in the same set with "agamemnon," with "lear," with the literature that we now instinctively regard as high and holy.'--_daily chronicle._ #"a. g."# verses to order. by "a. g." _cr. 8vo._ _2s. 6d. net._ a small volume of verse by a writer whose initials are well known to oxford men. 'a capital specimen of light academic poetry. these verses are very bright and engaging, easy and sufficiently witty.'--_st. james's gazette._ #belles lettres, anthologies, etc.# #r. l. stevenson.# vailima letters. by robert louis stevenson. with an etched portrait by william strang, and other illustrations. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _buckram._ _7s. 6d._ 'few publications have in our time been more eagerly awaited than these "vailima letters," giving the first fruits of the correspondence of robert louis stevenson. but, high as the tide of expectation has run, no reader can possibly be disappointed in the result.'--_st. james's gazette._ #henley and whibley.# a book of english prose. collected by w. e. henley and charles whibley. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a unique volume of extracts--an art gallery of early prose.'--_birmingham post._ 'an admirable companion to mr. henley's "lyra heroica."'--_saturday review._ 'quite delightful. a greater treat for those not well acquainted with pre-restoration prose could not be imagined.'--_athenã¦um._ #h. c. beeching.# lyra sacra: an anthology of sacred verse. edited by h. c. beeching, m.a. _crown 8vo._ _buckram._ _6s._ 'a charming selection, which maintains a lofty standard of excellence.'--_times._ #"q."# the golden pomp: a procession of english lyrics from surrey to shirley, arranged by a. t. quiller couch. _crown 8vo._ _buckram._ _6s._ 'a delightful volume: a really golden "pomp."'--_spectator._ #w. b. yeats.# an anthology of irish verse. edited by w. b. yeats. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'an attractive and catholic selection.'--times. #g. w. steevens.# monologues of the dead. by g. w. steevens. _foolscap 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ a series of soliloquies in which famous men of antiquity--julius cã¦sar, nero, alcibiades, etc., attempt to express themselves in the modes of thought and language of to-day. the effect is sometimes splendid, sometimes bizarre, but always amazingly clever.--_pall mall gazette._ #victor hugo.# the letters of victor hugo. translated from the french by f. clarke, m.a. _in two volumes._ _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d. each._ _vol. i._ 1815-35. this is the first volume of one of the most interesting and important collection of letters ever published in france. the correspondence dates from victor hugo's boyhood to his death, and none of the letters have been published before. the arrangement is chiefly chronological, but where there is an interesting set of letters to one person these are arranged together. the first volume contains, among others, (1) letters to his father; (2) to his young wife; (3) to his confessor, lamennais; (4) a very important set of about fifty letters to sainte-beauve; (5) letters about his early books and plays. 'a charming and vivid picture of a man whose egotism never marred his natural kindness, and whose vanity did not impair his greatness.'--_standard._ #c. h. pearson.# essays and critical reviews. by c. h. pearson, m.a., author of 'national life and character.' edited, with a biographical sketch, by h. a. strong, m.a., ll.d. with a portrait. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'remarkable for careful handling, breadth of view, and knowledge.'--_scotsman._ 'charming essays.'--_spectator._ #w. m. dixon.# a primer of tennyson. by w. m. dixon, m.a., professor of english literature at mason college. _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ 'much sound and well-expressed criticism and acute literary judgments. the bibliography is a boon.'--_speaker._ #w. a. craigie.# a primer of burns. by w. a. craigie. _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ this book is planned on a method similar to the 'primer of tennyson.' it has also a glossary. 'a valuable addition to the literature of the poet.'--_times._ 'an excellent short account.'--_pall mall gazette._ 'an admirable introduction.'--_globe._ #sterne.# the life and opinions of tristram shandy. by lawrence sterne. with an introduction by charles whibley, and a portrait. _2 vols._ _7s._ 'very dainty volumes are these; the paper, type, and light-green binding are all very agreeable to the eye. _simplex munditiis_ is the phrase that might be applied to them.'--_globe._ #congreve.# the comedies of william congreve. with an introduction by g. s. street, and a portrait. _2 vols._ _7s._ 'the volumes are strongly bound in green buckram, are of a convenient size, and pleasant to look upon, so that whether on the shelf, or on the table, or in the hand the possessor is thoroughly content with them.'--_guardian._ #morier.# the adventures of hajji baba of ispahan. by james morier. with an introduction by e. g. browne, m.a., and a portrait. _2 vols._ _7s._ #walton.# the lives of donne, wotton, hooker, herbert, and sanderson. by izaak walton. with an introduction by vernon blackburn, and a portrait. _3s. 6d._ #johnson.# the lives of the english poets. by samuel johnson, ll.d. with an introduction by j. h. millar, and a portrait. _3 vols._ _10s. 6d._ #burns.# the poems of robert burns. edited by andrew lang and w. a. craigie. with portrait. _demy 8vo, gilt top._ _6s._ this edition contains a carefully collated text, numerous notes, critical and textual, a critical and biographical introduction, and a glossary. 'among the editions in one volume, mr. andrew lang's will take the place of authority.'--_times._ #f. langbridge.# ballads of the brave: poems of chivalry, enterprise, courage, and constancy. edited, with notes, by rev. f. langbridge. _crown 8vo._ _buckram._ _3s. 6d._ _school edition._ _2s. 6d._ 'a very happy conception happily carried out. these "ballads of the brave" are intended to suit the real tastes of boys, and will suit the taste of the great majority.'--_spectator._ 'the book is full of splendid things.'--_world._ #illustrated books# #jane barlow.# the battle of the frogs and mice, translated by jane barlow, author of 'irish idylls,' and pictured by f. d. bedford. _small 4to._ _6s. net._ #s. baring gould.# a book of fairy tales retold by s. baring gould. with numerous illustrations and initial letters by arthur j. gaskin. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _buckram._ _6s._ 'mr. baring gould is deserving of gratitude, in re-writing in honest, simple style the old stories that delighted the childhood of "our fathers and grandfathers." as to the form of the book, and the printing, which is by messrs. constable, it were difficult to commend overmuch.'--_saturday review._ #s. baring gould.# old english fairy tales. collected and edited by s. baring gould. with numerous illustrations by f. d. bedford. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _buckram._ _6s._ 'a charming volume, which children will be sure to appreciate. the stories have been selected with great ingenuity from various old ballads and folk-tales, and, having been somewhat altered and readjusted, now stand forth, clothed in mr. baring gould's delightful english, to enchant youthful readers.'--_guardian._ #s. baring gould.# a book of nursery songs and rhymes. edited by s. baring gould, and illustrated by the birmingham art school. _buckram, gilt top._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'the volume is very complete in its way, as it contains nursery songs to the number of 77, game-rhymes, and jingles. to the student we commend the sensible introduction, and the explanatory notes. the volume is superbly printed on soft, thick paper, which it is a pleasure to touch; and the borders and pictures are among the very best specimens we have seen of the gaskin school.'--_birmingham gazette._ #h. c. beeching.# a book of christmas verse. edited by h. c. beeching, m.a., and illustrated by walter crane. _crown 8vo, gilt top._ _5s._ a collection of the best verse inspired by the birth of christ from the middle ages to the present day. a distinction of the book is the large number of poems it contains by modern authors, a few of which are here printed for the first time. 'an anthology which, from its unity of aim and high poetic excellence, has a better right to exist than most of its fellows.'--_guardian._ #history# #gibbon.# the decline and fall of the roman empire. by edward gibbon. a new edition, edited with notes, appendices, and maps, by j. b. bury, m.a., fellow of trinity college, dublin. _in seven volumes._ _demy 8vo._ _gilt top._ _8s. 6d. each._ _also crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ _vols. i., ii., and iii._ 'the time has certainly arrived for a new edition of gibbon's great work.... professor bury is the right man to undertake this task. his learning is amazing, both in extent and accuracy. the book is issued in a handy form, and at a moderate price, and it is admirably printed.'--_times._ 'the edition is edited as a classic should be edited, removing nothing, yet indicating the value of the text, and bringing it up to date. it promises to be of the utmost value, and will be a welcome addition to many libraries.'--_scotsman._ 'this edition, so far as one may judge from the first instalment, is a marvel of erudition and critical skill, and it is the very minimum of praise to predict that the seven volumes of it will supersede dean milman's as the standard edition of our great historical classic.'--_glasgow herald._ 'the beau-ideal gibbon has arrived at last.'--_sketch._ 'at last there is an adequate modern edition of gibbon.... the best edition the nineteenth century could produce.'--_manchester guardian._ #flinders petrie.# a history of egypt, from the earliest times to the present day. edited by w. m. flinders petrie, d.c.l., ll.d., professor of egyptology at university college. _fully illustrated._ _in six volumes._ _crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ vol. i. prehistoric times to xvi. dynasty. w. m. f. petrie. _third edition._ vol. ii. the xviith and xviiith dynasties. w. m. f. petrie. _second edition._ 'a history written in the spirit of scientific precision so worthily represented by dr. petrie and his school cannot but promote sound and accurate study, and supply a vacant place in the english literature of egyptology.'--_times._ #flinders petrie.# egyptian tales. edited by w. m. flinders petrie. illustrated by tristram ellis. _in two volumes._ _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d. each._ 'a valuable addition to the literature of comparative folk-lore. the drawings are really illustrations in the literal sense of the word.'--_globe._ 'it has a scientific value to the student of history and archã¦ology.'--_scotsman._ 'invaluable as a picture of life in palestine and egypt.'--_daily news._ #flinders petrie.# egyptian decorative art. by w. m. flinders petrie, d.c.l. with 120 illustrations. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'professor flinders petrie is not only a profound egyptologist, but an accomplished student of comparative archã¦ology. in these lectures, delivered at the royal institution, he displays both qualifications with rare skill in elucidating the development of decorative art in egypt, and in tracing its influence on the art of other countries.'--_times._ #s. baring gould.# the tragedy of the cã�sars. the emperors of the julian and claudian lines. with numerous illustrations from busts, gems, cameos, etc. by s. baring gould, author of 'mehalah,' etc. _fourth edition._ _royal 8vo._ _15s._ 'a most splendid and fascinating book on a subject of undying interest. the great feature of the book is the use the author has made of the existing portraits of the cã¦sars, and the admirable critical subtlety he has exhibited in dealing with this line of research. it is brilliantly written, and the illustrations are supplied on a scale of profuse magnificence.'--_daily chronicle._ 'the volumes will in no sense disappoint the general reader. indeed, in their way, there is nothing in any sense so good in english.... mr. baring gould has presented his narrative in such a way as not to make one dull page.'--_athenã¦um._ #h. de b. gibbons.# industry in england: historical outlines. by h. de b. gibbins, m.a., d.litt. with 5 maps. _second edition._ _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ this book is written with the view of affording a clear view of the main facts of english social and industrial history placed in due perspective. beginning with prehistoric times, it passes in review the growth and advance of industry up to the nineteenth century, showing its gradual development and progress. the book is illustrated by maps, diagrams, and tables. #a. clark.# the colleges of oxford: their history and their traditions. by members of the university. edited by a. clark, m.a., fellow and tutor of lincoln college. _8vo._ _12s. 6d._ 'a work which will certainly be appealed to for many years as the standard book on the colleges of oxford.'--_athenã¦um._ #perrens.# the history of florence from 1434 to 1492. by f. t. perrens. translated by hannah lynch. _8vo._ _12s. 6d._ a history of florence under the domination of cosimo, piero, and lorenzo de medicis. 'this is a standard book by an honest and intelligent historian, who has deserved well of all who are interested in italian history.'--_manchester guardian._ #j. wells.# a short history of rome. by $1, fellow and tutor of wadham coll., oxford. with 4 maps. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ this book is intended for the middle and upper forms of public schools and for pass students at the universities. it contains copious tables, etc. 'an original work written on an original plan, and with uncommon freshness and vigour.'--_speaker._ #e. l. s. horsburgh.# the campaign of waterloo. by e. l. s. horsburgh, b.a. _with plans._ _crown 8vo._ _5s._ 'a brilliant essay--simple, sound, and thorough.'--_daily chronicle._ 'a study, the most concise, the most lucid, the most critical that has been produced.'--_birmingham mercury._ #h. b. george.# battles of english history. by h. b. george, m.a., fellow of new college, oxford. _with numerous plans._ _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'mr. george has undertaken a very useful task--that of making military affairs intelligible and instructive to non-military readers--and has executed it with laudable intelligence and industry, and with a large measure of success.'--_times._ #o. browning.# a short history of mediã�val italy, a.d. 1250-1530. by oscar browning, fellow and tutor of king's college, cambridge. _second edition._ _in two volumes._ _crown 8vo._ _5s. each._ vol. i. 1250-1409.--guelphs and ghibellines. vol. ii. 1409-1530.--the age of the condottieri. 'a vivid picture of mediã¦val italy.'--_standard._ 'mr. browning is to be congratulated on the production of a work of immense labour and learning.'--_westminster gazette._ #o'grady.# the story of ireland. by standish o'grady, author of 'finn and his companions.' _cr. 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ 'most delightful, most stimulating. its racy humour, its original imaginings, make it one of the freshest, breeziest volumes.'--_methodist times._ #biography# #s. baring gould.# the life of napoleon bonaparte. by s. baring gould. with over 450 illustrations in the text and 12 photogravure plates. _large quarto._ _gilt top._ _36s._ 'the best biography of napoleon in our tongue, nor have the french as good a biographer of their hero. a book very nearly as good as southey's "life of nelson."'--_manchester guardian._ 'the main feature of this gorgeous volume is its great wealth of beautiful photogravures and finely-executed wood engravings, constituting a complete pictorial chronicle of napoleon i.'s personal history from the days of his early childhood at ajaccio to the date of his second interment under the dome of the invalides in paris.'--_daily telegraph._ 'the most elaborate account of napoleon ever produced by an english writer.'--_daily chronicle._ 'a brilliant and attractive volume. never before have so many pictures relating to napoleon been brought within the limits of an english book.'--_globe._ 'particular notice is due to the vast collection of contemporary illustrations.'--_guardian._ 'nearly all the illustrations are real contributions to history.'--_westminster gazette._ 'the illustrations are of supreme interest.'--_standard._ #morris fuller.# the life and writings of john davenant, d.d. (1571-1641), president of queen's college, lady margaret professor of divinity, bishop of salisbury. by morris fuller, b.d. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'a valuable contribution to ecclesiastical history.'--_birmingham gazette._ #j. m. rigg.# st. anselm of canterbury: a chapter in the history of religion. by j. m. rigg. _demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ 'mr. rigg has told the story of the great primate's life with scholarly ability, and has thereby contributed an interesting chapter to the history of the norman period.'--_daily chronicle._ #f. w. joyce.# the life of sir frederick gore ouseley. by f. w. joyce, m.a. with portraits and illustrations. _crown 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ 'this book has been undertaken in quite the right spirit, and written with sympathy, insight, and considerable literary skill.'--_times._ #w. g. collingwood.# the life of john ruskin. by w. g. collingwood, m.a., editor of mr. ruskin's poems. with numerous portraits, and 13 drawings by mr. ruskin. _second edition._ _2 vols._ _8vo._ _32s._ 'no more magnificent volumes have been published for a long time.'--_times._ 'it is long since we had a biography with such delights of substance and of form. such a book is a pleasure for the day, and a joy for ever.'--_daily chronicle._ #c. waldstein.# john ruskin: a study. by charles waldstein, m.a., fellow of king's college, cambridge. with a photogravure portrait after professor herkomer. _post 8vo._ _5s._ 'a thoughtful, impartial, well-written criticism of ruskin's teaching, intended to separate what the author regards as valuable and permanent from what is transient and erroneous in the great master's writing.'--_daily chronicle._ #w. h. hutton.# the life of sir thomas more. by w. h. hutton, m.a., author of 'william laud.' _with portraits._ _crown 8vo._ _5s._ 'the book lays good claim to high rank among our biographies. it is excellently, even lovingly, written.'--_scotsman._ 'an excellent monograph.'--_times._ #clark russell.# the life of admiral lord collingwood. by w. clark russell, author of 'the wreck of the grosvenor.' with illustrations by f. brangwyn. _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a book which we should like to see in the hands of every boy in the country.'--_st. james's gazette._ 'a really good book.'--_saturday review._ #southey.# english seamen (howard, clifford, hawkins, drake, cavendish). by robert southey. edited, with an introduction, by david hannay. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'admirable and well-told stories of our naval history.'--_army and navy gazette._ 'a brave, inspiriting book.'--_black and white._ #travel, adventure and topography# #r. s. s. baden-powell.# the downfall of prempeh. a diary of life with the native levy in ashanti, 1895. by colonel baden-powell. with 21 illustrations and a map. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'a compact, faithful, most readable record of the campaign.'--_daily news._ 'a bluff and vigorous narrative.'--_glasgow herald._ #r. s. s. baden-powell.# the matebele campaign 1896. by colonel r. s. s. baden-powell. with nearly 100 illustrations. _second edition._ _demy 8vo._ _15s._ 'written in an unaffectedly light and humorous style.'--_the world._ 'a very racy and eminently readable book.'--_st. james's gazette._ 'as a straightforward account of a great deal of plucky work unpretentiously done, this book is well worth reading. the simplicity of the narrative is all in its favour, and accords in a peculiarly english fashion with the nature of the subject.'--_times._ #captain hinde.# the fall of the congo arabs. by sidney l. hinde. with portraits and plans. _demy 8vo._ _12s. 6d._ 'the book is full of good things, and of sustained interest.'--_st. james's gazette._ 'a graphic sketch of one of the most exciting and important episodes in the struggle for supremacy in central africa between the arabs and their europeon rivals. apart from the story of the campaign, captain hinde's book is mainly remarkable for the fulness with which he discusses the question of cannibalism. it is, indeed, the only connected narrative--in english, at any rate--which has been published of this particular episode in african history.'--_times._ 'captain hinde's book is one of the most interesting and valuable contributions yet made to the literature of modern africa.'--_daily news._ #w. crooke.# the north-western provinces of india: their ethnology and administration. by w. crooke. with maps and illustrations. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'a carefully and well-written account of one of the most important provinces of the empire. in seven chapters mr. crooke deals successively with the land in its physical aspect, the province under hindoo and mussulman rule, the province under british rule, the ethnology and sociology of the province, the religious and social life of the people, the land and its settlement, and the native peasant in his relation to the land. the illustrations are good and well selected, and the map is excellent.'--_manchester guardian._ #w. b. worsfold.# south africa: its history and its future. by w. basil worsfold, m.a. _with a map._ _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'an intensely interesting book.'--_daily chronicle._ 'a monumental work compressed into a very moderate compass.'--_world._ #general literature# #s. baring gould.# old country life. by s. baring gould, author of 'mehalah,' etc. with sixty-seven illustrations by w. parkinson, f. d. bedford, and f. masey. _large crown 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ _fifth and cheaper edition._ _6s._ '"old country life," as healthy wholesome reading, full of breezy life and movement, full of quaint stories vigorously told, will not be excelled by any book to be published throughout the year. sound, hearty, and english to the core.'--_world._ #s. baring gould.# historic oddities and strange events. by s. baring gould. _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a collection of exciting and entertaining chapters. the whole volume is delightful reading.'--_times._ #s. baring gould.# freaks of fanaticism. by s. baring gould. _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'mr. baring gould has a keen eye for colour and effect, and the subjects he has chosen give ample scope to his descriptive and analytic faculties. a perfectly fascinating book.'--_scottish leader._ #s. baring gould.# a garland of country song: english folk songs with their traditional melodies. collected and arranged by s. baring gould and h. fleetwood sheppard. _demy 4to._ _6s._ #s. baring gould.# songs of the west: traditional ballads and songs of the west of england, with their traditional melodies. collected by s. baring gould, m.a., and h. fleetwood sheppard, m.a. arranged for voice and piano. in 4 parts (containing 25 songs each), _parts i., ii., iii.,_ _3s. each._ _part iv.,_ _5s._ _in one vol.,_ _french morocco,_ _15s._ 'a rich collection of humour, pathos, grace, and poetic fancy.'--_saturday review._ #s. baring gould.# yorkshire oddities and strange events. _fourth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ #s. baring gould.# strange survivals and superstitions. with illustrations. by s. baring gould. _crown 8vo._ _second edition._ _6s._ 'we have read mr. baring gould's book from beginning to end. it is full of quaint and various information, and there is not a dull page in it.'--_notes and queries._ #s. baring gould.# the deserts of southern france. by s. baring gould. with numerous illustrations by f. d. bedford, s. hutton, etc. _2 vols._ _demy 8vo._ _32s._ 'his two richly-illustrated volumes are full of matter of interest to the geologist, the archã¦ologist, and the student of history and manners.'--_scotsman._ #g. w. steevens.# naval policy: with a description of english and foreign navies. by g. w. steevens. _demy 8vo._ _6s._ this book is a description of the british and other more important navies of the world, with a sketch of the lines on which our naval policy might possibly be developed. it describes our recent naval policy, and shows what our naval force really is. a detailed but non-technical account is given of the instruments of modern warfare--guns, armour, engines, and the like--with a view to determine how far we are abreast of modern invention and modern requirements. an ideal policy is then sketched for the building and manning of our fleet; and the last chapter is devoted to docks, coaling-stations, and especially colonial defence. 'an extremely able and interesting work.'--_daily chronicle._ #w. e. gladstone.# the speeches and public addresses of the rt. hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p. edited by a. w. hutton, m.a., and h. j. cohen, m.a. with portraits. _8vo._ _vols. ix. and x._ _12s. 6d. each._ #j. wells.# oxford and oxford life. by members of the university. edited by j. wells, m.a., fellow and tutor of wadham college. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'we congratulate mr. wells on the production of a readable and intelligent account of oxford as it is at the present time, written by persons who are possessed of a close acquaintance with the system and life of the university.'--_athenã¦um._ #l. whibley.# greek oligarchies: their organisation and character. by l. whibley, m.a., fellow of pembroke college, cambridge. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'an exceedingly useful handbook: a careful and well-arranged study of an obscure subject.'--_times._ 'mr. whibley is never tedious or pedantic.'--_pall mall gazette._ #l. l. price.# economic science and practice. by l. l. price, m.a., fellow of oriel college, oxford. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'the book is well written, giving evidence of considerable literary ability, and clear mental grasp of the subject under consideration.'--_western morning news._ #c. f. andrews.# christianity and the labour question. by c. f. andrews, b.a. _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ 'a bold and scholarly survey.'--_speaker._ #j. s. shedlock.# the pianoforte sonata: its origin and development. by j. s. shedlock. _crown 8vo._ _5s._ 'this work should be in the possession of every musician and amateur, for it not only embodies a concise and lucid history of the origin of one of the most important forms of musical composition, but, by reason of the painstaking research and accuracy of the author's statements, it is a very valuable work for reference.'--_athenã¦um._ #e. m. bowden.# the example of buddha: being quotations from buddhist literature for each day in the year. compiled by e. m. bowden. with preface by sir edwin arnold. _third edition._ _16mo._ _2s. 6d._ #science# #freudenreich.# dairy bacteriology. a short manual for the use of students. by dr. ed. von freudenreich. translated from the german by j. r. ainsworth davis, b.a., f.c.p. _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ #chalmers mitchell.# outlines of biology. by p. chalmers mitchell, m.a., f.z.s. _fully illustrated._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a text-book designed to cover the new schedule issued by the royal college of physicians and surgeons. #g. massee.# a monograph of the myxogastres. by george massee. with 12 coloured plates. _royal 8vo._ _18s. net._ 'a work much in advance of any book in the language treating of this group of organisms. it is indispensable to every student of the myxogastres. the coloured plates deserve high praise for their accuracy and execution.'--_nature._ #philosophy# #l. t. hobhouse.# the theory of knowledge. by l. t. hobhouse, fellow and tutor of corpus college, oxford. _demy 8vo._ _21s._ 'the most important contribution to english philosophy since the publication of mr. bradley's "appearance and reality." full of brilliant criticism and of positive theories which are models of lucid statement.'--_glasgow herald._ 'an elaborate and often brilliantly written volume. the treatment is one of great freshness, and the illustrations are particularly numerous and apt.'--_times._ #w. h. fairbrother.# the philosophy of t. h. green. by w. h. fairbrother, m.a., lecturer at lincoln college, oxford. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ this volume is expository, not critical, and is intended for senior students at the universities and others, as a statement of green's teaching, and an introduction to the study of idealist philosophy. 'in every way an admirable book. as an introduction to the writings of perhaps the most remarkable speculative thinker whom england has produced in the present century, nothing could be better.'--_glasgow herald._ #f. w. bussell.# the school of plato: its origin and its revival under the roman empire. by f. w. bussell, m.a., fellow and tutor of brasenose college, oxford. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'a highly valuable contribution to the history of ancient thought.'--_glasgow herald._ 'a clever and stimulating book, provocative of thought and deserving careful reading.'--_manchester guardian._ #f. s. granger.# the worship of the romans. by f. s. granger, m.a., litt.d., professor of philosophy at university college, nottingham. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a scholarly analysis of the religious ceremonies, beliefs, and superstitions of ancient rome, conducted in the new instructive light of comparative anthropology.'--_times._ #theology# #e. c. s. gibson.# the xxxix. articles of the church of england. edited with an introduction by e. c. s. gibson, d.d., vicar of leeds, late principal of wells theological college. _in two volumes._ _demy 8vo._ _15s._ 'the tone maintained throughout is not that of the partial advocate, but the faithful exponent'--_scotsman._ 'there are ample proofs of clearness of expression, sobriety of judgment, and breadth of view.... the book will be welcome to all students of the subject, and its sound, definite, and loyal theology ought to be of great service.'--_national observer._ 'so far from repelling the general reader, its orderly arrangement, lucid treatment, and felicity of diction invite and encourage his attention.'--_yorkshire post._ #r. l. ottley.# the doctrine of the incarnation. by r. l. ottley, m.a., late fellow of magdalen college, oxon., principal of pusey house. _in two volumes._ _demy 8vo._ _15s._ 'learned and reverent: lucid and well arranged.'--_record._ 'accurate, well ordered, and judicious.'--_national observer._ 'a clear and remarkably full account of the main currents of speculation. scholarly precision ... genuine tolerance ... intense interest in his subject--are mr. ottley's merits.'--_guardian._ #f. b. jevons.# an introduction to the history of religion. by f. b. jevons, m.a., litt.d., principal of bishop hatfield's hall. _demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ mr. f. b. jevons' 'introduction to the history of religion' treats of early religion, from the point of view of anthropology and folk-lore; and is the first attempt that has been made in any language to weave together the results of recent investigations into such topics as sympathetic magic, taboo, totemism, fetishism, etc., so as to present a systematic account of the growth of primitive religion and the development of early religious institutions. 'dr. jevons has written a notable work, and we can strongly recommend it to the serious attention of theologians, anthropologists, and classical scholars.'--_manchester guardian._ 'the merit of this book lies in the penetration, the singular acuteness and force of the author's judgment. he is at once critical and luminous, at once just and suggestive. it is but rarely that one meets with a book so comprehensive and so thorough as this, and it is more than an ordinary pleasure for the reviewer to welcome and recommend it. dr. jevons is something more than an historian of primitive belief--he is a philosophic thinker, who sees his subject clearly and sees it whole, whose mastery of detail is no less complete than his view of the broader aspects and issues of his subject is convincing.'--_birmingham post._ #s. r. driver.# sermons on subjects connected with the old testament. by s. r. driver, d.d., canon of christ church, regius professor of hebrew in the university of oxford. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a welcome companion to the author's famous 'introduction.' no man can read these discourses without feeling that dr. driver is fully alive to the deeper teaching of the old testament.'--_guardian._ #t. k. cheyne.# founders of old testament criticism: biographical, descriptive, and critical studies. by t. k. cheyne, d.d., oriel professor of the interpretation of holy scripture at oxford. _large crown 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ this book is a historical sketch of o. t. criticism in the form of biographical studies from the days of eichhorn to those of driver and robertson smith. 'a very learned and instructive work.'--_times._ #c. h. prior.# cambridge sermons. edited by c. h. prior, m.a., fellow and tutor of pembroke college. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a volume of sermons preached before the university of cambridge by various preachers, including the archbishop of canterbury and bishop westcott. 'a representative collection. bishop westcott's is a noble sermon.'--_guardian._ #e. b. layard.# religion in boyhood. notes on the religious training of boys. with a preface by j. r. illingworth. by e. b. layard, m.a. _18mo._ _1s._ #w. yorke faussett.# the _de catechizandis rudibus_ of st. augustine. edited, with introduction, notes, etc., by w. yorke faussett, m.a., late scholar of balliol coll. _crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ an edition of a treatise on the essentials of christian doctrine, and the best methods of impressing them on candidates for baptism. 'ably and judiciously edited on the same principle as the ordinary greek and latin texts.'--_glasgow herald._ _devotional books_ _with full-page illustrations._ _fcap. 8vo._ _buckram._ _3s. 6d._ _padded morocco, 5s._ the imitation of christ. by thomas ã� kempis. with an introduction by dean farrar. illustrated by c. m. gere, and printed in black and red. _second edition._ 'amongst all the innumerable english editions of the "imitation," there can have been few which were prettier than this one, printed in strong and handsome type, with all the glory of red initials.'--_glasgow herald._ the christian year. by john keble. with an introduction and notes by w. lock, d.d., warden of keble college, ireland, professor at oxford. illustrated by r. anning bell. 'the present edition is annotated with all the care and insight to be expected from mr. lock. the progress and circumstances of its composition are detailed in the introduction. there is an interesting appendix on the mss. of the "christian year," and another giving the order in which the poems were written. a "short analysis of the thought" is prefixed to each, and any difficulty in the text is explained in a note.'--_guardian._ 'the most acceptable edition of this ever-popular work.'--_globe._ #leaders of religion# edited by h. c. beeching, m.a. _with portraits, crown 8vo._ a series of short biographies of the most prominent leaders of religious life and thought of all ages and countries. 3/6 the following are ready- cardinal newman. by r. h. hutton. john wesley. by j. h. overton, m.a. bishop wilberforce. by g. w. daniel, m.a. cardinal manning. by a. w. hutton, m.a. charles simeon. by h. c. g. moule, m.a. john keble. by walter lock, d.d. thomas chalmers. by mrs. oliphant. lancelot andrewes. by r. l. ottley, m.a. augustine of canterbury. by e. l. cutts, d.d. william laud. by w. h. hutton, b.d. john knox. by f. m'cunn. john howe. by r. f. horton, d.d. bishop ken. by f. a. clarke, m.a. george fox, the quaker. by t. hodgkin, d.c.l. other volumes will be announced in due course. #fiction# six shilling novels marie corelli's novels _crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ a romance of two worlds. _sixteenth edition._ vendetta. _thirteenth edition._ thelma. _seventeenth edition._ ardath. _eleventh edition._ the soul of lilith. _ninth edition._ wormwood. _eighth edition._ barabbas: a dream of the world's tragedy. _thirty-first edition._ 'the tender reverence of the treatment and the imaginative beauty of the writing have reconciled us to the daring of the conception, and the conviction is forced on us that even so exalted a subject cannot be made too familiar to us, provided it be presented in the true spirit of christian faith. the amplifications of the scripture narrative are often conceived with high poetic insight, and this "dream of the world's tragedy" is, despite some trifling incongruities, a lofty and not inadequate paraphrase of the supreme climax of the inspired narrative.'--_dublin review._ the sorrows of satan. _thirty-sixth edition._ 'a very powerful piece of work.... the conception is magnificent, and is likely to win an abiding place within the memory of man.... the author has immense command of language, and a limitless audacity.... this interesting and remarkable romance will live long after much of the ephemeral literature of the day is forgotten.... a literary phenomenon ... novel, and even sublime.'--w. t. stead in the _review of reviews._ anthony hope's novels _crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ the god in the car. _seventh edition._ 'a very remarkable book, deserving of critical analysis impossible within our limit; brilliant, but not superficial; well considered, but not elaborated; constructed with the proverbial art that conceals, but yet allows itself to be enjoyed by readers to whom fine literary method is a keen pleasure.'--_the world._ a change of air. _fourth edition._ 'a graceful, vivacious comedy, true to human nature. the characters are traced with a masterly hand.'--_times._ a man of mark. _fourth edition._ 'of all mr. hope's books, "a man of mark" is the one which best compares with "the prisoner of zenda."'--_national observer._ the chronicles of count antonio. _third edition._ 'it is a perfectly enchanting story of love and chivalry, and pure romance. the outlawed count is the most constant, desperate, and withal modest and tender of lovers, a peerless gentleman, an intrepid fighter, a very faithful friend, and a most magnanimous foe.'--_guardian._ phroso. illustrated by h. r. millar. _third edition._ 'the tale is thoroughly fresh, quick with vitality, stirring the blood, and humorously, dashingly told.'--_st. james's gazette._ 'a story of adventure, every page of which is palpitating with action and excitement.'--_speaker._ 'from cover to cover "phroso" not only engages the attention, but carries the reader in little whirls of delight from adventure to adventure.'--_academy._ s. baring gould's novels _crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ 'to say that a book is by the author of "mehalah" is to imply that it contains a story cast on strong lines, containing dramatic possibilities, vivid and sympathetic descriptions of nature, and a wealth of ingenious imagery.'--_speaker._ 'that whatever mr. baring gould writes is well worth reading, is a conclusion that may be very generally accepted. his views of life are fresh and vigorous, his language pointed and characteristic, the incidents of which he makes use are striking and original, his characters are life-like, and though somewhat exceptional people, are drawn and coloured with artistic force. add to this that his descriptions of scenes and scenery are painted with the loving eyes and skilled hands of a master of his art, that he is always fresh and never dull, and under such conditions it is no wonder that readers have gained confidence both in his power of amusing and satisfying them, and that year by year his popularity widens.'--_court circular._ arminell: a social romance. _fourth edition._ urith: a story of dartmoor. _fifth edition._ 'the author is at his best.'--_times._ in the roar of the sea. _sixth edition._ 'one of the best imagined and most enthralling stories the author has produced.'--_saturday review._ mrs. curgenven of curgenven. _fourth edition._ 'the swing of the narrative is splendid.'--_sussex daily news._ cheap jack zita. _fourth edition._ 'a powerful drama of human passion.'--_westminster gazette._ 'a story worthy the author.'--_national observer._ the queen of love. _fourth edition._ 'you cannot put it down until you have finished it.'--_punch._ 'can be heartily recommended to all who care for cleanly, energetic, and interesting fiction.'--_sussex daily news._ kitty alone. _fourth edition._ 'a strong and original story, teeming with graphic description, stirring incident, and, above all, with vivid and enthralling human interest.'--_daily telegraph._ noã�mi: a romance of the cave-dwellers. illustrated by r. caton woodville. _third edition._ '"noã©mi" is as excellent a tale of fighting and adventure as one may wish to meet. the narrative also runs clear and sharp as the loire itself.'--_pall mall gazette._ 'mr. baring gould's powerful story is full of the strong lights and shadows and vivid colouring to which he has accustomed us.'--_standard._ the broom-squire. illustrated by frank dadd. _fourth edition._ 'a strain of tenderness is woven through the web of his tragic tale, and its atmosphere is sweetened by the nobility and sweetness of the heroine's character.'--_daily news._ 'a story of exceptional interest that seems to us to be better than anything he has written of late.'--_speaker._ the pennycomequicks. _third edition._ dartmoor idylls. 'a book to read, and keep and read again; for the genuine fun and pathos of it will not early lose their effect.'--_vanity fair._ guavas the tinner. illustrated by frank dadd. _second edition._ 'mr. baring gould is a wizard who transports us into a region of visions, often lurid and disquieting, but always full of interest and enchantment.'--_spectator._ 'in the weirdness of the story, in the faithfulness with which the characters are depicted, and in force of style, it closely resembles "mehalah."'--_daily telegraph._ 'there is a kind of flavour about this book which alone elevates it above the ordinary novel. the story itself has a grandeur in harmony with the wild and rugged scenery which is its setting.'--_athenã¦um._ gilbert parker's novels _crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ pierre and his people. _fourth edition._ 'stories happily conceived and finely executed. there is strength and genius in mr. parker's style.'--_daily telegraph._ mrs. falchion. _fourth edition._ 'a splendid study of character.'--_athenã¦um._ 'but little behind anything that has been done by any writer of our time.'--_pall mall gazette._ 'a very striking and admirable novel.'--_st. james's gazette._ the translation of a savage. 'the plot is original and one difficult to work out; but mr. parker has done it with great skill and delicacy. the reader who is not interested in this original, fresh, and well-told tale must be a dull person indeed.'--_daily chronicle._ the trail of the sword. _fifth edition._ 'everybody with a soul for romance will thoroughly enjoy "the trail of the sword."'--_st. james's gazette._ 'a rousing and dramatic tale. a book like this, in which swords flash, great surprises are undertaken, and daring deeds done, in which men and women live and love in the old straightforward passionate way, is a joy inexpressible to the reviewer.'--_daily chronicle._ when valmond came to pontiac: the story of a lost napoleon. _fourth edition._ 'here we find romance--real, breathing, living romance, but it runs flush with our own times, level with our own feelings. the character of valmond is drawn unerringly; his career, brief as it is, is placed before us as convincingly as history itself. the book must be read, we may say re-read, for any one thoroughly to appreciate mr. parker's delicate touch and innate sympathy with humanity.'--_pall mall gazette._ 'the one work of genius which 1895 has as yet produced.'--_new age._ an adventurer of the north: the last adventures of 'pretty pierre.' _second edition._ 'the present book is full of fine and moving stories of the great north, and it will add to mr. parker's already high reputation.'--_glasgow herald._ the seats of the mighty. _illustrated._ _eighth edition._ 'the best thing he has done; one of the best things that any one has done lately.'--_st. james's gazette._ 'mr. parker seems to become stronger and easier with every serious novel that he attempts.... in "the seats of the mighty" he shows the matured power which his former novels have led us to expect, and has produced a really fine historical novel.... most sincerely is mr. parker to be congratulated on the finest novel he has yet written.'--_athenã¦um._ 'mr. parker's latest book places him in the front rank of living novelists. "the seats of the mighty" is a great book.'--_black and white._ 'one of the strongest stories of historical interest and adventure that we have read for many a day.... a notable and successful book.'--_speaker._ #conan doyle.# round the red lamp. by a. conan doyle, author of 'the white company,' 'the adventures of sherlock holmes,' etc. _fifth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'the book is, indeed, composed of leaves from life, and is far and away the best view that has been vouchsafed us behind the scenes of the consulting-room. it is very superior to "the diary of a late physician."'--_illustrated london news._ #stanley weyman.# under the red robe. by stanley weyman, author of 'a gentleman of france.' with twelve illustrations by r. caton woodville. _twelfth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a book of which we have read every word for the sheer pleasure of reading, and which we put down with a pang that we cannot forget it all and start again.'--_westminster gazette._ 'every one who reads books at all must read this thrilling romance, from the first page of which to the last the breathless reader is haled along. an inspiration of "manliness and courage."'--_daily chronicle._ #lucas malet.# the wages of sin. by lucas malet. _thirteenth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ #lucas malet.# the carissima. by lucas malet, author of 'the wages of sin,' etc. _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ #arthur morrison.# tales of mean streets. by arthur morrison. _fourth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'told with consummate art and extraordinary detail. he tells a plain, unvarnished tale, and the very truth of it makes for beauty. in the true humanity of the book lies its justification, the permanence of its interest, and its indubitable triumph.'--_athenã¦um._ 'a great book. the author's method is amazingly effective, and produces a thrilling sense of reality. the writer lays upon us a master hand. the book is simply appalling and irresistible in its interest. it is humorous also; without humour it would not make the mark it is certain to make.'--_world._ #arthur morrison.# a child of the jago. by arthur morrison. _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ this, the first long story which mr. morrison has written, is like his remarkable 'tales of mean streets,' a realistic study of east end life. 'the book is a masterpiece.'--_pall mall gazette._ 'told with great vigour and powerful simplicity.'--_athenã¦um._ #mrs. clifford.# a flash of summer. by mrs. w. k. clifford, author of 'aunt anne,' etc. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'the story is a very sad and a very beautiful one, exquisitely told, and enriched with many subtle touches of wise and tender insight. it will, undoubtedly, add to its author's reputation--already high--in the ranks of novelists.'--_speaker._ #emily lawless.# hurrish. by the honble. emily lawless, author of 'maelcho,' etc. _fifth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ a reissue of miss lawless' most popular novel, uniform with 'maelcho.' #emily lawless.# maelcho: a sixteenth century romance. by the honble. emily lawless. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a really great book.'--_spectator._ 'there is no keener pleasure in life than the recognition of genius. good work is commoner than it used to be, but the best is as rare as ever. all the more gladly, therefore, do we welcome in "maelcho" a piece of work of the first order, which we do not hesitate to describe as one of the most remarkable literary achievements of this generation. miss lawless is possessed of the very essence of historical genius.'--_manchester guardian._ #j. h. findlater.# the green graves of balgowrie. by jane h. findlater. _fourth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a powerful and vivid story.'--_standard._ 'a beautiful story, sad and strange as truth itself.'--_vanity fair._ 'a work of remarkable interest and originality.'--_national observer._ 'a very charming and pathetic tale.'--_pall mall gazette._ 'a singularly original, clever, and beautiful story.'--_guardian._ '"the green graves of balgowrie" reveals to us a new scotch writer of undoubted faculty and reserve force.'--_spectator._ 'an exquisite idyll, delicate, affecting, and beautiful.'--_black and white._ #h. g wells.# the stolen bacillus, and other stories. by h. g. wells, author of 'the time machine.' _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'the ordinary reader of fiction may be glad to know that these stories are eminently readable from one cover to the other, but they are more than that; they are the impressions of a very striking imagination, which, it would seem, has a great deal within its reach.'--_saturday review._ #h. g. wells.# the plattner story and others. by h. g. wells. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'weird and mysterious, they seem to hold the reader as by a magic spell.'--_scotsman._ 'such is the fascination of this writer's skill that you unhesitatingly prophesy that none of the many readers, however his flesh do creep, will relinquish the volume ere he has read from first word to last.'--_black and white._ 'no volume has appeared for a long time so likely to give equal pleasure to the simplest reader and to the most fastidious critic.'--_academy._ 'mr. wells is a magician skilled in wielding that most potent of all spells--the fear of the unknown.'--_daily telegraph._ #e. f. benson.# dodo: a detail of the day. by e. f. benson. _sixteenth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a delightfully witty sketch of society.'--_spectator._ 'a perpetual feast of epigram and paradox.'--_speaker._ #e. f. benson.# the rubicon. by e. f. benson, author of 'dodo.' _fifth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'an exceptional achievement; a notable advance on his previous work.'--_national observer._ #mrs. oliphant.# sir robert's fortune. by mrs. oliphant. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'full of her own peculiar charm of style and simple, subtle character-painting comes her new gift, the delightful story before us. the scene mostly lies in the moors, and at the touch of the authoress a scotch moor becomes a living thing, strong, tender, beautiful, and changeful.'--_pall mall gazette._ #mrs. oliphant.# the two marys. by mrs. oliphant. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ #w. e. norris.# matthew austin. by w. e. norris, author of 'mademoiselle de mersac,' etc. _fourth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ '"matthew austin" may safely be pronounced one of the most intellectually satisfactory and morally bracing novels of the current year.'--_daily telegraph._ #w. e. norris.# his grace. by w. e. norris. _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'mr. norris has drawn a really fine character in the duke of hurstbourne, at once unconventional and very true to the conventionalities of life.'--_athenã¦um._ #w. e. norris.# the despotic lady and others. by w. e. norris. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a budget of good fiction of which no one will tire.'--_scotsman._ #w. e. norris.# clarissa furiosa. by w. e. norris, author of 'the rogue,' etc. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'one of mr. norris's very best novels. as a story it is admirable, as a _jeu d'esprit_ it is capital, as a lay sermon studded with gems of wit and wisdom it is a model which will not, we imagine, find an efficient imitator.'--_the world._ 'the best novel he has written for some time: a story which is full of admirable character-drawing.'--_the standard._ #robert barr.# in the midst of alarms. by robert barr. _third edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'a book which has abundantly satisfied us by its capital humour.'--_daily chronicle._ 'mr. barr has achieved a triumph whereof he has every reason to be proud.'--_pall mall gazette._ #j. maclaren cobban.# the king of andaman: a saviour of society. by j. maclaren cobban. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'an unquestionably interesting book. it would not surprise us if it turns out to be the most interesting novel of the season, for it contains one character, at least, who has in him the root of immortality, and the book itself is ever exhaling the sweet savour of the unexpected.... plot is forgotten and incident fades, and only the really human endures, and throughout this book there stands out in bold and beautiful relief its high-souled and chivalric protagonist, james the master of hutcheon, the king of andaman himself.'--_pall mall gazette._ #j. maclaren cobban.# wilt thou have this woman? by j. m. cobban, author of 'the king of andaman.' _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'mr. cobban has the true story-teller's art. he arrests attention at the outset, and he retains it to the end.'--_birmingham post._ #h. morrah.# a serious comedy. by herbert morrah. _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'this volume is well worthy of its title. the theme has seldom been presented with more freshness or more force.'--_scotsman._ #h. morrah.# the faithful city. by herbert morrah, author of 'a serious comedy.' _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'conveys a suggestion of weirdness and horror, until finally he convinces and enthrals the reader with his mysterious savages, his gigantic tower, and his uncompromising men and women. this is a haunting, mysterious book, not without an element of stupendous grandeur.'--_athenã¦um._ #l. b. walford.# successors to the title. by mrs. walford, author of 'mr. smith,' etc. _second edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'the story is fresh and healthy from beginning to finish; 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vocabularies for repetition: arranged according to subjects. _fifth edition._ _fcap. 8vo._ _1s._ _school examination series_ edited by a. m. m. stedman, m.a. _crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ french examination papers in miscellaneous grammar and idioms. by a. m. m. stedman, m.a. _ninth edition._ a key, issued to tutors and private students only, to be had on application to the publishers. _fourth edition._ _crown 8vo._ _6s. net._ latin examination papers in miscellaneous grammar and idioms. by a. m. m. stedman, m.a. _seventh edition._ key issued as above. _6s. net._ greek examination papers in miscellaneous grammar and idioms. by a. m. m. stedman, m.a. _fifth edition._ key issued as above. _6s. net._ german examination papers in miscellaneous grammar and idioms. by r. j. morich, manchester. _fifth edition._ key issued as above. _6s. net._ history and geography examination papers. by c. h. spence, m.a., clifton college. science examination papers. by r. e. steel, m.a., f.c.s., chief natural science master, bradford grammar school. _in two vols._ part i. chemistry; part ii. physics. general knowledge examination papers. by a. m. m. stedman, m.a. _third edition._ key issued as above. _7s. net._ printed by t. and a. constable, printers to her majesty at the edinburgh university press generously made available by the internet archive.) lewis carroll in wonderland and at home [illustration: lewis carroll.] lewis carroll in wonderland and at home _the story of his life_ by belle moses author of "louisa may alcott" d. appleton and company new york and london 1910 copyright, 1910, by d. appleton and company _published october, 1910_ printed in the united states of america to e. m. m. and m. j. m. introduction. lewis carroll discovered a new country, simply by rowing up and down the river, and telling a story to the accompaniment of dipping oars and rippling waters, as the boat glided through. it is not everyone who can discover a country, people it with marvelous, fanciful shapes, and give it a place in our mental geography. but lewis carroll was not "everyone"--in fact he was like no one else to the many who called him friend. he had the magic power of creating something out of nothing, and gave to the eager children who had tired of "aunt louisa's picture books," and "garlands of poetry," something to think about, to guess about, and to talk about. if he had written nothing else but "alice in wonderland," that one book would have been quite enough to make him famous, but his pen was never idle, and the world of children has much for which to thank him. how much, and for what, the following pages will strive to tell, and if they succeed in conveying to their readers half the charm that lay in the life of this man, who did so much for others, they will not have been written in vain. in telling the story of his life i am indebted to many, for courtesy and assistance. i wish specially to thank my brother, montrose j. moses. columbia library, astor library, st. agnes branch of the public library, and miss brown, of the traveling library, have all been exceedingly kind and helpful. to messrs. e. p. dutton and company i extend my thanks for permission to quote from miss isa bowman's interesting reminiscences, and to the american and english editors of _the strand_ i am also indebted for a similar courtesy. belle moses. new york, _october, 1910_. contents chapter page i.--there was once a little boy 1 ii.--school days at richmond and rugby 15 iii.--home life during the holidays 30 iv.--oxford scholarship and honors 42 v.--a many-sided genius 60 vi.--up and down the river with the real alice 80 vii.--alice in wonderland and what she did there 98 viii.--lewis carroll at home and abroad 125 ix.--more of "alice through the looking-glass" 146 x.--"hunting of the snark" and other poems 176 xi.--games, riddles and puzzles 202 xii.--a fairy ring of girls 221 xiii.--"alice" on the stage and off 242 xiv.--a trip with sylvie and bruno 272 xv.--lewis carroll--man and child 287 lewis carroll. chapter i. there was once a little boy. there was once a little boy whose name was _not_ lewis carroll. he was christened charles lutwidge dodgson, in the parish church of daresbury, england, where he was born, on january 27, 1832. a little out-of-the-way village was daresbury, a name derived from a word meaning oak, and daresbury was certainly famous for its beautiful oaks. the christening of baby charles must have been a very happy occasion. to begin with, the tiny boy was the first child of what proved to be a "numerous family," and the officiating clergyman was the proud papa. the name of charles had been bestowed upon the eldest son for generations of dodgsons, who had carried it honorably through the line, handing it down untarnished to this latest charles, in the parish church at daresbury. the dodgsons could doubtless trace their descent much further back than a great-great-grandfather, being a race of gentlemen and scholars, but the rev. christopher dodgson, who lived quite a century before baby charles saw the light, is the earliest ancestor we hear of, and he held a living in yorkshire. in those days, a clergyman was dependent upon some noble patron for his living, a living meaning the parish of which he had charge and the salary he received for his work, and so when the rev. christopher's eldest son charles also took holy orders, he had for _his_ patron the duke of northumberland, who gave him the living of elsden in northumberland, a cold, bleak, barren country. the rev. charles took what fell to his lot with much philosophy and a saving sense of humor. he suffered terribly from the cold despite the fact that he snuggled down between two feather beds in the big parlor, which was no doubt the best room in a most uncomfortable house. it was all he could do to keep from freezing, for the doors were rarely closed against the winds that howled around them. the good clergyman was firmly convinced that the end of the world would come by frost instead of fire. even when safely in bed, he never felt _quite_ comfortable unless his head was wrapped in three nightcaps, while he twisted a pair of stockings, like a cravat, around his suffering throat. he generally wore two shirts at a time, as washing was cheap, and rarely took off his coat and his boots. this uncomplaining, jovial clergyman finally received his reward. king george iii bestowed upon him the see of elphin, which means that he was made bishop, and had no more hardships to bear. this gentleman, who was the great-grandfather of our charles, had four children; elizabeth anne, the only daughter, married a certain charles lutwidge of holmrook in cumberland. there were two sons who died quite young, and charles, the eldest, entered the army and rose to the rank of captain in the 4th dragoon guards. he lost his life in the performance of a perilous duty, leaving behind him two sons; charles, the elder, turned back into the ways of his ancestors and became a clergyman, and hassard, who studied law, had a brilliant career. this last charles, in 1830, married his cousin, frances jane lutwidge, and in 1832 we find him baptizing another little charles, in the parish church at daresbury, his eldest son, and consequently his pride and hope. the living at daresbury was the beginning of a long life of service to the church. the father of our charles rose to be one of the foremost clergymen of his time, a man of wide learning, of deep piety, and of great charity, beloved by rich and poor. though of somewhat sober nature, in moments of recreation he could throw off his cares like a boy, delighting his friends by his wit and humor, and the rare gift of telling anecdotes, a gift his son inherited in full measure, long before he took the name of "lewis carroll," some twenty years after he was received into the fold of the parish church at daresbury. little charles headed the list of eleven young dodgsons, and the mother of this infant brigade was a woman in a thousand. we all know what mothers are; then we can imagine this one, so kind and gentle that never a harsh word was known to pass her lips, and may be able to trace her quiet, helpful influence on the character of our boy, just as we see her delicate features reproduced in many of his later pictures. a boy must be a poor specimen, indeed, if such a father and mother could not bring out the best in him. saddled as he was, with the responsibility of being the oldest of eleven, and consequently an example held up to younger brothers and sisters, charles was grave and serious beyond his years. only an eldest child can appreciate what a responsibility this really is. you mustn't do "so and so" for fear one of the younger ones might do likewise! if his parents had not been very remarkable people, this same charles might have developed into a virtuous little prig. "good brother charles who never does wrong" might have grown into a terrible bugbear to the other small dodgsons, had he not been brimful of fun and humor himself. as it was he soon became their leader in all their games and plays, and the quiet parsonage on the glebe farm, full a mile and a half from even the small traffic of the village, rang at least with the echoes of laughter and chatter from these youngsters with strong healthy lungs. we cannot be quite sure whether they were good children or bad children, for time somehow throws a halo around childhood, but let us hope they were "jes' middlin'." we cannot bear to think of all those prim little saints, with ramrods down their backs, sitting sedately of a sunday in the family pew--perhaps it took two family pews to hold them--with folded hands and pious expressions. we can't believe these dodgsons were so silly; they were reverent little souls doubtless, and probably were not bad in church, but oh! let us hope they got into mischief sometimes. there was plenty of room for it in the big farm parsonage. "an island farm 'mid seas of corn, swayed by the wand'ring breath of morn. the happy spot where i was born," wrote lewis carroll many years after, when "alice in wonderland" had made him famous. glebe farms were very common in england; they consisted of large tracts of land surrounding the parsonage, which the pastor was at liberty to cultivate for his own use, or to eke out his often scanty income, and as the parsonage at daresbury was comparatively small, and the glebe or farm lands fairly large, we can be sure these boys and girls loved to be out of doors, and little charlie at a very early age began to number some queer companions among his intimate friends. his small hands burrowing in the soft, damp earth, brought up squirming, wriggling things--earthworms, snails, and the like. he made pets of them, studying their habits in his "small boy" way, and having long, serious talks with them, lying on the ground beside them as they crawled around him. an ant-hill was to him a tiny town, and many a long hour the child must have spent busying himself in their small affairs, settling imaginary disputes, helping the workers, supplying provisions in the way of crumbs, and thus early beginning to understand the ways of the woodland things about which he loved to write in after years. he had, for boon companions, certain toads, with whom he held animated conversations, and it is said that he really taught earthworms the art of warfare by supplying them with small pieces of pipe with which to fight. he did not, like hiawatha in the legend, "learn of ev'ry bird its language," but he invented a language of his own, in which no doubt he discoursed wisely to the toads and snails who had time to listen; he learned to speak this language quite fluently, so that in later years when eager children clustered about him, and with wide eyes and peals of laughter listened to his nonsense verses, full of the queerest words they ever heard, they could still understand from the very tones of his voice exactly what he meant. indeed, when little charles lutwidge dodgson grew up to be lewis carroll, he worked this funny language of his by equally funny rules, so that, as he said, "a perfectly balanced mind could understand it." of course, there were other companions for the dodgson children--cats and dogs, and horses and cows, and in the village of warrington, seven miles away, there were children to be found of their own size and age, but daresbury itself was very lonely. a canal ran through the far end of the parish, and here bargemen used to ply to and fro, carrying produce and fodder to the near-by towns. mr. dodgson took a keen interest in these men who seemed to have no settled place of worship. in a quiet, persuasive way he suggested to sir francis egerton, a large landholder of the country, that it would be nice to turn one of the barges into a chapel, describing how it could be done for a hundred pounds, well knowing, clever man, that he was talking to a most interested listener; for a few weeks later he received a letter from sir francis telling him that the chapel was ready. in this odd little church, the first of its kind, mr. dodgson preached every sunday evening. but at daresbury itself life was very monotonous; even the passing of a cart was a great event, and going away was a great adventure. there was one never-to-be-forgotten occasion when the family went off on a holiday jaunt to beaumaris. railroads were then very rare things, so they made the journey in three days by coach, allowing also three days for the return trip. it was great fun traveling in one of those old-time coaches with all the luggage strapped behind, and all the bright young faces atop, and four fast-trotting horses dashing over the ground, and a nice long holiday with fine summer weather to look forward to. but in winter, in those days, traveling was a serious matter; only a favored few could squeeze into the body of the coach; the others still sat atop, muffled to the chin, yet numb with the cold, as the horses went faster and faster, and the wind whistled by, and one's breath froze on the way. let us hope the little dodgsons went in the summer time. daresbury must have been a beautiful place, with its pleasant walks, its fine meadows, its deep secluded woods, and best of all, those wonderful oak trees which the boy loved to climb, and under whose shade he would lie by the hour, filling his head with all those quaint fancies which he has since given to the world. he was a clever little fellow, eager to learn, and from the first his father superintended his education, being himself a scholar of very high order. he had the english idea of sending his eldest son along the path he himself had trod; first to a public school, then to oxford, and finally into the church, if the boy had any leaning that way. education in those days began early, and not by way of the kindergarten; the small boy had scarcely lost his baby lisp before he was put to the study of latin and greek, and charles, besides, developed a passion for mathematics. it is told that when a very small boy he showed his father a book of logarithms, asking him to explain it, but mr. dodgson mildly though firmly refused. "you are too young to understand such a difficult subject," he replied; "a few years later you will enjoy the study--wait a while." "_but_," persisted the boy, his mind firmly bent on obtaining information, "please explain." whether the father complied with his request is not recorded, but we rather believe that explanations were set aside for the time. certain it is, they were demanded again and again, for the boy soon developed a wonderful head for figures and signs, a knowledge which grew with the years, as we shall see later. when he was still quite a little boy, his mother and father went to hull to visit mrs. dodgson's father who had been ill. the children, some five or six in number--the entire eleven had not yet arrived--were left in the care of an accommodating aunt, but charles, being the eldest, received a letter from his mother in which he took much pride, his one idea being to keep it out of the clutches of his little sisters, whose hands were always ready for mischief. he wrote upon the back of the note, forbidding them to touch his property, explaining cunningly that it was covered with slimy pitch, a most uncomfortable warning, but it was "the ounce of prevention," for the letter has been handed down to us, and a sweet, cheery letter it was, so full of mother-love and care, and tender pride in the little brood at home. no wonder he prized it! this is probably the first letter he ever received, and it takes very little imagination to picture the important air with which he carried it about, and the care with which he hoarded it through all the years. there is a dear little picture of our boy taken when he was eight years old. photography was not yet in use, so this black print of him is the copy of a silhouette which was the way people had their "pictures taken" in those days. it was always a profile picture, and little charles's finely shaped head, with its slightly bulging forehead and delicate features, stands sharply outlined. we have also a silhouette of mrs. dodgson, and the resemblance between the two is very marked. when the boy was eleven, a great change came into his life. sir robert peel, the famous statesman, presented to his father the crown living of croft, a yorkshire village about three miles from darlington. a crown living is always an exceptionally good one, as it is usually given by royal favor, and accompanied by a comfortable salary. mr. dodgson was sorry to leave his old parishioners and the little parsonage where he had seen so much quiet happiness, but he was glad at the same time, to get away from the dullness and monotony of daresbury. with a growing family of children it was absolutely necessary to come more into contact with people, and croft was a typical, delightful english town, famous even to-day for its baths and medicinal waters. before mr. dodgson's time it was an important posting-station for the coaches running between london and edinburgh, and boasted of a fine hotel near the rectory, used later by gentlemen in the hunting season. mr. dodgson's parish consisted not only of croft proper, but included the neighboring hamlets of halnaby, dalton and stapleton, so he was a pretty busy man going from one to the other, and the little dodgsons were busy, too, making new friends and settling down into their new and commodious quarters. the village of croft is on the river tees, in fact it stands on the dividing line between yorkshire and durham. a bridge divides the two counties, and midway on it is a stone which marks the boundary line. it was an old custom for certain landholders to stand on this bridge at the coming of each new bishop of durham, and to present him with an old sword, with an appropriate address of welcome. this sword the bishop returned immediately. the tees often overflowed its banks--indeed, floods were not infrequent in these smiling english landscape countries, kept so fertile and green by the tiny streams which intersect them. two or three heavy rainfalls will swell the waters, sending them rushing over the country with enormous force. jean ingelow in her poem "high tide on the coast of lincolnshire" paints a vivid picture of the havoc such a flood may make in a peaceful land: "where the river, winding down, onward floweth to the town." but the quaint old church at croft has doubtless weathered more than one overflow from the restless river tees. the rectory, a large brick house, with a sloping tile roof and tall chimneys, stood well back in a very beautiful garden, filled with all sorts of rare plants, intersected by winding gravel paths. as in all english homes, the kitchen garden was a most attractive spot; its high walls were covered with luxuriant fruit trees, and everybody knows that english "wall fruit" is the most delicious kind. the trees are planted very close to the wall, and the spreading boughs, when they are heavy with the ripening fruit, are not bent with the weight of it, but are thoroughly propped and supported by these walls of solid brick, so the undisturbed fruit comes to a perfect maturity without any of the accidents which occur in the ordinary orchard. the garden itself was bright with kitchen greens, filled with everything needed for household use. with so much space the little dodgsons had room to grow and "multiply" to the full eleven, and fine times they had with plays and games, usually invented by their clever brother. one of the principal diversions was a toy railroad with "stations" built at various sections of the garden, usually very pretty and rustic looking, planned and built by charles himself. he also made a rude train out of a wheelbarrow, a barrel, and a small truck, and was able to convey his passengers comfortably from station to station, exacting fare at each trip. he was something of a conjurer, too, and in wig and gown, could amaze his audience for hours with his inexhaustible supply of tricks. he also made some quaint-looking marionettes, and a theater for them to act in, even writing the plays, which were masterpieces in their way. once he traced a maze upon the snow-covered lawn of the rectory. mazes were often found in the real old-time gardens of england; they consisted of intersecting paths bordered by clipped shrubbery and generally arranged in geometrical designs, very puzzling to the unwary person who got lost in them, unable to discover a way out, until by some happy accident the right path was found. "threading the maze" was a fashionable pastime in the days of the tudors; the maze at hampton court being one of the most remarkable of that period. charles's early knowledge of mathematics made his work on the snow-covered lawn all the more remarkable, for the love of that particular branch of learning certainly grew with his growth. meanwhile, it was a very serious, earnest little boy, who looked down the long line of dodgsons, saying with a choke in his voice: "i must leave you and this lovely rectory, and this fair, smiling countryside, and go to school." he was shy, and the thought struck terror; but everybody who is anybody in england goes to some fine public school before becoming an oxford or a cambridge student, and for that reason charles lutwidge dodgson buried his regrets beneath a smiling face, bade farewell to his household, and at the mature age of twelve, armed with enough greek and latin to have made a dictionary, with a knowledge of mathematics that a college "don" might well have envied, set forth to this alluring world of books and learning. chapter ii. school days at richmond and rugby. with the removal to croft, mr. dodgson was brought more and more into prominence; he was appointed examing chaplain to the bishop of ripon, and finally he was made archdeacon of richmond and one of the canons of ripon cathedral. the grammar school at richmond was well known in that section of england. it was under the rule of a certain mr. tate, whose father, dr. tate, had made the school famous some years before, and it was there that our boy had his first taste of school life. holidays in those days were not arranged as they are now, for one of the first letters of charles, sent home from richmond, was dated august 5th; so it is probable that the term began in midsummer. this special letter was written to his two eldest sisters and gives an excellent picture of those first days, when as a "new boy" he suffered at the hands of his schoolmates. as advanced as he was in latin and greek and mathematics, this letter, for a twelve-year-old boy, does not show any remarkable progress in english. the spelling was precise and correct, but the punctuation was peculiar, to say the least. still his description of the school life, when one overcame the presence of commas and the absence of periods, presented a vivid picture to the mind. he tells of the funny tricks the boys played upon him because he was a "new boy." one was called "king of the cobblers." he was told to sit on the ground while the boys gathered around him and to say "go to work"; immediately they all fell upon him, and kicked and knocked him about pretty roughly. another trick was "the red lion," and was played in the churchyard; they made a mark on a tombstone and one of the boys ran toward it with his finger pointed and eyes shut, trying to see how near he could get to the mark. when _his_ turn came, and he walked toward the tombstone, some boy who stood ready beside it, had his mouth open to bite the outstretched finger on its way to the mark. he closes his letter by stating three uncomfortable things connected with his arrival--the loss of his toothbrush and his failure to clean his teeth for several days in consequence; his inability to find his blotting-paper, and his lack of a shoe-horn. the games the richmond boys played--football, wrestling, leapfrog and fighting--he slurred over contemptuously, they held no attraction for him. a schoolboy or girl of the present day can have no idea of the discomforts of school life in charles dodgson's time, and the boy whose gentle manners were the result of sweet home influence and association with girls, found the rough ways of the english schoolboy a constant trial. strong and active as he was, he was always up in arms for those weaker and smaller than himself. bullying enraged him, and distasteful as it was, he soon learned the art of using his fists for the protection of himself and others. these were the school-days of _nicholas nickleby_, _david copperfield_, and _little paul dombey_. of course, all schoolmasters were not like _squeers_ or _creakle_, nor all schoolmasters' wives like _mrs. squeers_, nor indeed all schools like dotheboys' hall or salem hall, or _dr. blimber's_ cramming establishment, but many of the inconveniences were certainly prominent in the best schools. flogging was considered the surest road to knowledge; kind, honest, liberal-minded teachers kept a birch-rod and a ferrule within gripping distance, and the average schoolboy thus treated like a little beast, could be pardoned for behaving like one. in spring or summer the big, bare, comfortless schoolhouses were all very well, but when the days grew chill, the small boy shivered on his hard bench in his draughty corner, and in winter time the scarcity of fires was trying to ordinary flesh and blood. the poor unfortunate who rose at six, and had to fetch and carry his own water from an outdoor pump, or if he had taken the precaution to draw it the night before, had found it frozen in his pitcher, was not to be blamed if washing was merely a figure of speech. mr. and mrs. tate were most considerate to their boys, and richmond was a model school of its class. charles loved his "kind old schoolmaster" as he called him, and he was not alone in this feeling, for mr. tate's influence over the boys was maintained through the affection and respect they had for him. of course he let them "fight it out" among themselves according to the boy-nature; but the earnest little fellow with the grave face and the eager, questioning eyes, attracted him greatly, and he began to study him in his keen, kind way, finding much to admire and praise in the letters which he wrote to his father, and predicting for him a bright career. admitting that he had found young dodgson superior to other boys, he wisely suggested that he should never know this fact, but should learn to love excellence for its own sake, and not for the sake of excelling. charles made quite a name for himself during those first school days. mathematics still fascinated him and latin grew to be second nature; he stood finely in both, and while at richmond he developed another taste, the love of composition, often contributing to the school magazine. the special story recorded was called "the unknown one," but doubtless many a rhyme and jingle which could be traced to him found its way into this same little magazine, not forgetting odd sketches which he began to do at a very early age. they were all rough, for the most part grotesque, but full of simple fun and humor, for the quiet studious schoolboy loved a joke. charles stayed at the richmond school for three years; then he took the next step in an english boy's life, he entered rugby, one of the great public schools. in america, a public school is a school for the people, where free instruction is given to all alike; but the english public school is another thing. it is a school for gentlemen's sons, where tuition fees are far from small, and "extras" mount up on the yearly bills. rugby had become a very celebrated school when the great dr. arnold was head-master. up to that time it was neither so well known nor so popular as eton, but dr. arnold had governed it so vigorously that his hand was felt long after his untimely death, which occurred just four years before charles was ready to enter the school. the head-master at that time was, strangely enough, named tait, spelt a little differently from the richmond schoolmaster. dr. tait, who afterwards became archbishop of canterbury, was a most capable man, who governed the school for two of the three years that our boy was a pupil. the last year, dr. goulburn was head-master. charles found rugby a great change from the quiet of richmond. he went up in february of 1846, the beginning of the second term, when football was in full swing. the teams practiced on the broad open campus known as "big-side," and a "new boy" could only look on and applaud the great creatures who led the game. rugby was swarming with boys--three hundred at least--from small fourteen-year-olders of the lowest "form," or class, to those of eighteen or twenty of the fifth and sixth, the highest forms. they treated little dodgson in their big, burly, schoolboy fashion, hazed him to their hearts' content when he first entered, shrugging their shoulders good-naturedly over his love of study, in preference to the great games of cricket and football. to have a fair glimpse of our boy's life at this period, some little idea of rugby and its surroundings might serve as a guide. those who visit the school to-day, with its pile of modern, convenient, and ugly architecture, have no conception of what it was over sixty years ago, and even in 1846 it bore no resemblance to the original school founded by one lawrence sheriffe, "citizen and grocer of london" during the reign of henry viii. to begin with, it is situated in shakespeare's own country, warwickshire on the avon river, and that in itself was enough to rouse the interest of any musing, bookish boy like charles dodgson. from "tom brown's school days," that ever popular book by thomas hughes, we may perhaps understand the feelings of the "new boy" just passing through the big, imposing school gates, with the oriel window above, and entering historic rugby. what first struck his view was the great school field or "close" as they called it, with its famous elms, and next, "the long line of gray buildings, beginning with the chapel and ending with the schoolhouse, the residence of the head-master where the great flag was lazily waving from the highest round tower." as we follow _tom brown_ through _his_ first day, we can imagine our boy's sensations when he found himself in this howling wilderness of boys. the eye of a boy is as keen as that of a girl regarding dress, and before _tom brown_ was allowed to enter rugby gates he was taken into the town and provided with a cat-skin cap, at seven and sixpence. "'you see,' said his friend as they strolled up toward the school gates, in explanation of his conduct, 'a great deal depends on how a fellow cuts up at first. if he's got nothing odd about him and answers straightforward, and holds his head up, he gets on.'" having passed the gates, _tom_ was taken first to the matron's room, to deliver up his trunk key, then on a tour of inspection through the schoolhouse hall which opened into the quadrangle. this was "a great room, thirty feet long and eighteen high or thereabouts, with two great tables running the whole length, and two large fireplaces at the side with blazing fires in them." this hall led into long dark passages with a fire at the end of each, and this was the hallway upon which the studies opened. now, to charles dodgson as well as to _tom brown_, a study conjured up untold luxury; it was in truth a "rugby boy's citadel" usually six feet long and four feet broad. it was rather a gloomy light which came in through the bars and grating of the one window, but these precautions had to be taken with the studies on the ground floor, to keep the small boys from slipping out after "lock-up" time. under the window was usually a wooden table covered with green baize, a three-legged stool, a cupboard, and nails for hat and coat. the rest of the furnishings included "a plain flat-bottom candlestick with iron extinguisher and snuffers, a wooden candle-box, a staff-handle brush, leaden ink-pot, basin and bottle for washing the hands, and a saucer or gallipot for soap." there was always a cotton curtain or a blind before the window. for such a mansion the rugby schoolboy paid from ten to fifteen shillings a year, and the tenant bought his own furniture. _tom brown_ had a "hard-seated sofa covered with red stuff," big enough to hold two in a "tight squeeze," and he had, besides, a good, stout, wooden chair. those boys who had looking-glasses in their rooms were able to comb their own locks, those who were not so fortunate went to what was known as the "combing-house" and had it done for them. unfortunately there are recorded very few details of these school-days at rugby. we can only conjecture, from our knowledge of the boy and his studious ways, that charles dodgson's study was his castle, his home, and freehold while he was in the school. he drew around him a circle of friends, for the somewhat sober lad had the gift of talking, and could be jolly and entertaining when he liked. the chapel at rugby was an unpretentious gothic building, very imposing and solemn to little dodgson, who had been brought up in a most reverential way, but the rugbeans viewed it in another light. _tom brown's_ chosen chum explained it to him in this wise: "that's the chapel you see, and there just behind it is the place for fights; it's most out of the way for masters, who all live on the other side and don't come by here after first lesson or callings-over. that's when the fights come off." all this must have shocked the simple, law-abiding son of a clergyman. it took from four to six years to tame the average rugby boy, but little charles needed no discipline; he was not a "goody-goody" boy, he simply had a natural aversion to rough games and sports. he liked to keep a whole skin, and his mind clear for his studies; he was fond of tramping through the woods, or fishing along the banks of the pretty, winding avon, or rowing up and down the river, or lying on some grassy slope, still weaving the many odd fancies which grew into clearer shape as the years passed. the boys at rugby did not know he was a genius, he did not know it himself, happy little lad, just a bit quiet and old-fashioned, for the noisy, blustering life about him. in fact, strange as it may seem, charles dodgson was never really a little boy until he was quite grown up. he easily fell in with the routine of the school, but discipline, even as late as 1846, was hard to maintain. the head-master had his hands full; there were six under-masters--one for each form--and special tutors for the boys who required them, and from the fifth and sixth forms, certain monitors were selected called "prã¦posters," who were supposed to preserve order among the lower forms. in reality they bullied the smaller boys, for the system of fagging was much abused in those days, and the poor little fags had to be bootblacks, water-carriers, and general servants to very hard task-masters, while the "prã¦poster" had little thought of doing any service for the service he exacted; in fact the unfortunate fag had to submit in silence to any indignity inflicted by an older boy, for if by chance a report of such doings came to the ears of the head-master or his associates, the talebearer was "sent to coventry," in other words, he was shunned and left to himself by all his companions. injustice like this made little dodgson's blood boil; he submitted of course with the other small boys, but he always had a peculiar distaste for the life at rugby. he owned several years later that none of the studying at rugby was done from real love of it, and he specially bewailed the time he lost in writing out impositions, and he further confessed that under no consideration would he live over those three years again. these "impositions" were the hundreds of lines of latin or greek which the boys had to copy out with their own hands, for the most trifling offenses--a weary and hopeless waste of time, with little good accomplished. in spite of many drawbacks, he got on finely with his work, seldom returning home for the various holidays without one or more prizes, and we cannot believe that he was quite outside of all the fun and frolic of a rugby schoolboy's life. for instance, we may be sure that he went bravely through that terrible ordeal for the newcomer, called "singing in hall." "each new boy," we are told, "was mounted in turn upon a table, a candle in each hand, and told to sing a song. if he made a false note, a violent hiss followed, and during the performance pellets and crusts of bread were thrown at boy or candles, often knocking them out of his hands and covering him with tallow. the singing over, he descended and pledged the house in a bumper of salt and water, stirred by a tallow candle. he was then free of the house and retired to his room, feeling very uncomfortable." "on the night after 'new boys' night' there was chorus singing, in which solos and quartets of all sorts were sung, especially old rugby's favorites such as: "'it's my delight, on a shiny night in the season of the year,' and the proceedings always wound up with 'god save the queen.'" guy fawkes' day was another well-known festival at rugby. there were bonfires in the town, but they were never kindled until eight o'clock, which was "lock-up" time for rugby school. the boys resented this as it was great fun and they were out of it, so each year there was a lively scrimmage between the rugbeans and the town, the former bent on kindling the bonfires before "lock-up" time, the latter doing all they could to hold back the ever-pressing enemy. victory shifted with the years, from one side to the other, but the boys had their fun all the same, which was over half the battle. charles must have gone through rugby with rapid strides, accomplishing in three years' time what _tom brown_ did in eight, and when he left he had the proud distinction of being among the _very_ few who had never gone up a certain winding staircase leading, by a small door, into the master's private presence, where the rod awaited the culprit, and a good heavy rod it was. during these years dickens was doing his best work, and while at rugby, charles read "david copperfield," which came out in numbers in the _penny magazine_. he was specially interested in _mrs. gummidge_, that mournful, tearful lady, who was constantly bemoaning that she was "a lone lorn creetur," and that everything went "contrairy" with her. dickens's humor touched a chord of sympathy in him, and if we go over in our minds, the weeping animals we know in "alice in wonderland" and "through the looking-glass," we will find many excellent portraits of _mrs. gummidge_. he also read macaulay's "history of england," and from it was particularly struck by a passage describing the seven bishops who had signed the invitation to the pretender. bishop compton, one of the seven, when accused by king james, and asked whether he or any of his ecclesiastical brethren had anything to do with it, replied: "i am fully persuaded, your majesty, that there is not one of my brethren who is not innocent in the matter as myself." this tickled the boy's sense of humor. those touches always appealed to him; as he grew older they took even a firmer hold upon him and he was quick to pluck a laugh from the heart of things. his life at rugby was somewhat of a strain; with a brain beginning to teem with a thousand fairy fancies that the boys around him could not appreciate, he was forced to thrust them out of sight. he flung himself into his studies, coming out at examinations on top in mathematics, latin, and divinity, and saving that other part of him for his sisters, when he went home for the holidays. meantime he continued to write verses and stories and to draw clever caricatures. there is one of these drawings peculiarly rugbean in character; it is supposed to be a scene in which four of his sisters are roughly handling a fifth, because she _would_ write to her brother when they wished to go to halnaby and the castle. this noble effort he signed "rembrandt." the picture is really very funny. the five girls have very much the appearance of the marionettes he was fond of making, especially the unfortunate correspondent who has been pulled into a horizontal position by the stern sister. the whole story is told by the expression of the eyes and mouth of each, for the clever schoolboy had all the secrets of caricature, without quite enough genius in that direction to make him an artist. the rugby days ended in glory; our boy, no longer little dodgson, but young dodgson, came home loaded with honors. mr. mayor, his mathematical master, wrote to his father in 1848, that he had never had a more promising boy at his age, since he came to rugby. mr. tait also wrote complimenting him most highly not only for his high standing in mathematics and divinity, but for his conduct while at rugby, which was all that could be desired. we can now see the dawning of the two great loves of his life, but there was another love, which rugby brought forth in all its beauty and strength, the love for girls. from that time he became their champion, their friend, and their comrade; whatever of youth and of boyhood was in his nature came out in brilliant flashes in their company. boys, in his estimation, _had_ to be, of course--a necessary evil, to be wrestled with and subdued. but girls--god bless 'em! were girls; that was enough for young dodgson to the end of the chapter. chapter iii. home life during the holidays. when charles came home on his holiday visits, he was undoubtedly the busiest person at croft rectory. we must remember there were ten eager little brothers and sisters who wanted the latest news from "the front," meaning rugby of course, and charles found many funny things to tell of the school doings, many exciting matches to recount, many a thrilling adventure, and, alas! many a tale of some popular hero's downfall and disgrace. he had sketches to show, and verses to read to a most enthusiastic audience, the girls giggling over his funny tales, the boys roaring with excitement as in fancy they pictured the scene at "big-side" during some great football scrimmage, for charles's descriptions were so vivid, indeed he was such a good talker always, that a few quaint sentences would throw the whole picture on the canvas. vacation time was devoted to literary schemes of all kinds. from little boyhood until he was way up in his "teens," he was the editor of one magazine or another of home manufacture, chiefly, indeed, of his own composition, or drawn from local items of interest to the young people of croft rectory. while he was still at richmond school, _useful and instructive poetry_ was born and died in six months' time, and many others shared the same fate; but the young editor was undaunted. this was the age of small periodicals and he had caught the craze; it was also the age when great genius was burning brightly in england. tennyson was in his prime; dickens was writing his stories, and macaulay his history of england. there were many other geniuses who influenced his later years, carlyle, browning and others, but the first three caught his boyish fancy and were his guides during those early days of editorship. _punch_, the great english magazine of wit and humor, attracted him immensely, and many a time his rough drawings caught the spirit of some of the famous cartoons. he never imagined, as he laughed over the broad humor of john tenniel, that the great cartoonist would one day stand beside him and share the honors of "alice in wonderland." one of his last private efforts in the editorial line was _the rectory umbrella_, a magazine undertaken when he was about seventeen or eighteen years old, on the bridge, one might say, between boyhood and his approaching oxford days. his mind had developed quickly, though his views of life did not go far beyond the rectory grounds. he evidently took his title out of the umbrella-stand in the rectory hall, the same stand doubtless which furnished him with "the walking stick of destiny," a story of the lurid, exciting sort, which made his readers' hair rise. the magazine also contained a series of sketches supposed to have been copied from paintings by rembrandt, sir joshua reynolds and others whose works hang in the vernon gallery. one specially funny caricature of sir joshua reynolds's "age of innocence" represents a baby hippopotamus smiling serenely under a tree not half big enough to shade him. another sketch ridicules homeopathy and is extremely funny. homeopathy is a branch of medical science which believes in _very_ small doses of medicine, and this picture represents housekeeping on a homeopathic plan; a family of six bony specimens are eating infinitesimal grains of food, which they can only see through the spectacles they all wear, and their table talk hovers round millionths and nonillionths of grains. but the cleverest poem in _the rectory umbrella_ is the parody on "horatius," macaulay's famous poem, which is supposed to be a true tale of his brothers' adventures with an obdurate donkey. it is the second of the series called "lays of sorrow," in imitation of macaulay's "lays of ancient rome," and the tragedy lies in the sad fact that the donkey succeeds in getting the better of the boys. "horatius" was a great favorite with budding orators of that day. the rugby boys declaimed it on every occasion, and reading it over in these modern times of peace, one is stirred by the martial note in it. no wonder boys like charles dodgson loved macaulay, and it is pretty safe to say that he must have had it by heart, to have treated it in such spirited style and with such pure fun. indeed, fun bubbled up through everything he wrote; wholesome, honest fun, which was a safety valve for an over-serious lad. this period was his halting time, and the humorous skits he dashed off were done in moments of recreation. he was mapping out his future in a methodical way peculiarly his own. oxford was to be his goal, divinity and mathematics his principal studies, and he was working hard for his examinations. the desire of the eldest son to follow in his father's footsteps was strengthened by his own natural inclination, for into the boy nature crept a rare golden streak of piety. the reverence for holy things was a beautiful trait in his character from the beginning to the end of his life; it never pushed itself aggressively to the front, but it sweetened the whole of his intercourse with people, and was perhaps the secret of the wonderful power he had with children. the intervening months between rugby and oxford were also the boundary-line between boyhood and young manhood, that most important period when the character shifts into a steadier pose, when the young eyes try vainly to pierce the mists of the future, and the young heart-throbs are sometimes very painful. between those rugby school-days and the more serious oxford ones, something happened--we know not what--which cast a shadow on our boy's life. he was young enough to live it down, yet old enough to feel keenly whatever sorrow crossed his path, and as he never married, we naturally suspect that some unhappy love affair, or death perhaps, had cut him off from all the joys so necessary to a young and deep-feeling man. whatever it was--and he kept his own secret--it did not mar the sweetness of his nature, it did not kill his youth, nor deaden the keen wit which was to make the world laugh one day. it drew some pathetic lines upon his face, a wistful touch about mouth and eyes, as we can see in all his portraits. a slight reserve hung as a veil between him and people of his own age, but it opened his heart all the wider to the children, whose true knight he became when, as "lewis carroll" he went forth to conquer with a laugh. we say "children," but we mean "girls." the little boy might just as well have been a caged animal at the zoo, for all the notice he inspired. of course, there were some younger brothers of his own to be considered, but he had such a generous provision of sisters that he didn't mind, and then, besides, one's own people are different somehow; we know well enough we wouldn't change _our_ brothers and sisters for the finest little paragons that walk. so with lewis carroll; he strongly objected to everybody else's little brothers but his own, and it is even true that in later years there were some small nephews and boy cousins, to whom he was extremely kind. but as yet there is no lewis carroll, only a grave and earnest charles lutwidge dodgson, reading hard to enter christ church, oxford, that grand old edifice steeped in history, where his own father had "blazed a trail." mathematics absorbed many hours of each day, and latin and greek were quite as important. english as a "course" was not thought of as it is to-day; the classics were before everything else, although ancient and modern history came into use. for lighter reading, dickens was a never-failing source of supply. all during this holiday period "david copperfield" was coming out in monthly instalments, and though the hero was "only a boy," there was something in the pathetic figure of lonely little _david_, irresistibly appealing to the young fellow who hated oppression and injustice of any kind, and was always on the side of the weak. while the dainty picture of _little em'ly_ might have been his favorite, he was keenly alive to the absurdities of _mrs. gummidge_, the doglike devotion of _peggotty_, and the horrors of the "cheap school," which turned out little shivering cowards instead of wholesome hearty english boys. later on, he visited the spot on which dickens had founded _dotheboys hall_ in "nicholas nickleby." "barnard's castle" was a most desolate region in yorkshire. he tells of a trip by coach, over a land of dreary hills, into bowes, a godforsaken village where the original of _dotheboys hall_ was still standing, though in a very dilapidated state, actually falling to pieces. as we well know, after the writing of "nicholas nickleby," government authorities began to look into the condition of the "cheap schools" and to remedy some of the evils. even the more expensive schools, where the tired little brains were crammed to the brim until the springs were worn out and the minds were gone, were exposed by the great novelist when he wrote "dombey and son" and told of _dr. blimber's_ school, where poor little _paul_ studied until his head grew too heavy for his fragile body. the victims of these three schools--_david_, _smike_, and _little paul_--twined themselves about the heartstrings of the thoughtful young student, and many a humorous bit besides, in the works of lewis carroll, bears a decided flavor of those dips into dickens. macaulay furnished a more solid background in the reading line. his history, such a complete chronicle of england from the fall of the stuarts to the reign of victoria, appealed strongly to the patriotism of the english boy, and the fact that macaulay was not only a _writer_ of english history, but at the same time a _maker_ of history, served to strengthen this feeling. if we compare the life of lord macaulay with the life of lewis carroll, we will see that there was something strangely alike about them. both were unmarried, living alone, but with strong family ties which softened their lives and kept them from becoming crusty old bachelors. it is very probable, indeed, that the younger man modeled his life somewhat along the lines of the older, whom he greatly admired. both were parts of great institutions; macaulay stood out from the background of parliament, as lewis carroll did from oxford or more particularly christ church, and both names shone more brilliantly outside the routine of daily life. but the influence that crept closer to the heart of this boy was that of tennyson. the great poet with the wonderful dark face, the piercing eyes, the shaggy mane, sending forth clarion messages to the world in waves of song, was the inspiration of many a quaint phrase and poetic turn of thought which came from the pen of lewis carroll. for tennyson became to him a thing of flesh and blood, a friend, and many a pleasant hour was spent in the poet's home in later years, when the fame of "alice" had stirred his ambition to do other things. many a verse of real poetry could trace its origin to association with the great man, who was quick to discover that there were depths in the soul of his young friend where genius dwelt. meantime charles dodgson read his poems over and over, in the seclusion of croft rectory, during that quiet pause in his life before he went up to oxford. there was a village school of some importance in croft, and members of the dodgson family were interested in its welfare, often lending a hand with the teaching, and during those months, no doubt, charles took his turn. for society, his own family seemed to be sufficient. if he had any boy friends, there are no records of their intercourse; indeed, the only friend mentioned is t. vere bayne, who in childish days was his playfellow and who later became, like himself, a student of christ church. this association cemented a lasting friendship. one or two rugbeans claimed some intimacy, but his true friendships were formed when lewis carroll grew up and really became young. walking was always a favorite pastime; the woods were full of the things he loved, the wild things whose life stirred in the rustling of the leaves or the crackle of a twig, as some tiny animal whisked by. the squirrels were friendly, the hares lifted up their long ears, stared at him and scurried out of sight. turtles and snails came out of the river to sun themselves on the banks; the air was full of the hum of insects and the chirp of birds. as he lay under the friendly shelter of some great tree, he thought of this tree as a refuge for the teeming life about it; the beauty of its foliage, its spreading branches, were as nothing to its convenience as a home for the birds and chipmunks and the burrowing things that lived beneath its roots or in the hollows of its trunk. these creatures became real companions in time. he studied their ways and habits, he looked them up in the natural history, and noting their peculiarities, tucked them away in that quaint cupboard of his which he called his memory. how many things were to come out of that cupboard in later days! he himself did not know what was hidden there. it reminded one of a chest which only a special key could open, and he did not even know there _was_ a key, until on a certain "golden afternoon" he found it floating on the surface of the river. he grasped it, thrust it into the rusty lock, and lo!--but dear me, we are going too far ahead, for that is quite another chapter, and we have left charles dodgson lying under a tree, watching the lizards and snails and ants at their work or play, weaving his quaint fancies, dreaming perhaps, or chatting with some little sister or other who chanced to be with him. there was always a sister to chat with, which in part accounted for his liking for girls. so, through a long vista of years, we have the picture of our boy, between eighteen and nineteen, when he was about to put boyhood by forever and enter the stately ranks of the oxford undergraduates. as he stands before us now, young, ardent, hopeful, and inexperienced, we can see no glimmer of the fairy wand which turned him into a wizard. we see only a boy, somewhat old for his years, very manly in his ways, with a well-formed head, on which the clustering dark hair grew thick; a sensitive mouth and deep blue eyes, full of expression. he was clever, imitative, and consequently a good actor in the little plays he wrote and dramatized; he was very shy, but at his best in the home circle. he enjoyed nothing so much as an argument, always holding his ground with great obstinacy; a fine student, frank and affectionate, brimful of wit and humor, fond of reading, with a quiet determination to excel in whatever he undertook. with such weapons he was well equipped to "storm the citadel" at oxford. on may 23, 1850, he went up to matriculate--that is, to register his name and go through some examinations and the formality of becoming a student. christ church was to be his college, as it had been his father's before him. archdeacon dodgson was much gratified by the many letters he received congratulating him on the fact that he had a son worthy to succeed him, for he was well remembered in the college, where he had left a brilliant record behind him. it certainly sounds a little queer to have the name of a church attached to one of the colleges of a university, but our colleges in america are comparatively so new that we cannot grasp the vastness and the antiquity of the great english universities. under the shelter of oxford, and covering an area of at least five miles, twenty colleges or more were grouped, each one a community in itself, and all under the rule of the chancellor of oxford. christ church received as students those most interested in the divinity courses, though in other respects the undergraduates could take up whatever studies they pleased, and charles dodgson put most of his energy into mathematics and the necessary study of the classics. seven months intervened between his matriculation and his real entrance into oxford; these seven months we have just reviewed, full of study and pleasant family associations, with youthful experiments in literature, full of promise for the future--and something deeper still--which must have touched him just here, "where the brook and river meet." into all our lives at some time or other comes a solemn silence; it may spring from many causes, from a joy which cannot be spoken, or from a sorrow too deep for utterance, but it comes, and we cover it gently and hide it away, as something too sacred for the common light of every day. this was the silence which came to lewis carroll on the threshold of his career; but lusty youth was with him as he stood before the portal of a brilliant future, and there was courage and high hope in his heart as he knocked for entrance. chapter iv. oxford scholarship and honors. on january 24, 1851, just three days before his nineteenth birthday, charles dodgson took up his residence at christ church, and from that time to the day of his death his name was always associated with the fine old building which was his _alma mater_. the men of christ church called it the "house," and were very proud of their college, as well they might be, for oxford could not boast of a more imposing structure. there is a great difference between a university and a college. a university is great enough to shelter many colleges, and its chancellor is ruler over all. when we reflect that christ church college, alone, included as many important buildings as are to be found in some of our modern american universities, we may have some idea of the extent of oxford university, within whose boundaries twenty such colleges could be counted. their names were all familiar to the young fellow, and many a time, in those early days, he could be found in his boat upon the river, floating gently down stream, the whole panorama of oxford spread out before him. "now rising o'er the level plain, 'mid academic groves enshrined. the gothic tower, the grecian fane, ascend in solemn state combined." the spire of st. aldates (pronounced st. olds); sir christopher wren's domed tower over the entrance to christ church; the spires of the cathedral of st. mary; the tower of all saints; the twin towers of all souls; the dome of radcliffe library; the massive tower of merton, and the beautiful pinnacles of magdalen, all passed before him, "rising o'er the level plain" as the verse puts it, backed by dense foliage, and sharply outlined against the blue horizon. history springs up with every step one takes in oxford. the university can trace its origin to the time of alfred the great. beginning with only three colleges, each year this great center of learning became more important. henry i built the palace of beaumont at oxford, because he wished frequent opportunities to talk with men of learning. it was from the castle of oxford that the empress maud escaped at dead of night, in a white gown, over the snow and the frozen river, when stephen usurped the throne. it was in the palace of beaumont that richard the lion-hearted was born, and so on, through the centuries, great deeds and great events could be traced to the very gates of oxford. but most of all, the young student's affections centered around christ church, and indeed, for the first few years of his college life, he had little occasion to go outside of its broad boundaries unless for a row upon the river. christ church really owes its foundation to the famous cardinal wolsey. charles lutwidge dodgson had its history by heart; how the wicked old prelate, wishing to leave behind him a monument of lasting good to cover his many misdeeds, obtained the royal license to found the college as early as 1525; how, in 1529, as shakespeare said, he bade "a long farewell to all his greatness," and his possessions, including cardinal college as it was then called, fell into the ruthless hands of henry viii; and how, after many ups and downs, the present foundation of christ church was created under "letters patent of henry viii dated november 4, 1546." christ church, with its imposing front of four hundred feet, is built around the great quadrangle, quite famous in the history of the college. it includes in the embrace of its four sides the library and picture gallery, the cathedral and the chapter house, and the homes of the dean and his associates. there was another smaller quadrangle called peckwater quadrangle, where young dodgson had his rooms when he first entered college, but later when he became a tutor or a "don" as the instructors were usually called, he moved into the great quadrangle. a beautiful meadow lies beyond the south gate, spreading out in a long and fertile stretch to the river's edge. the massive front gate has towers and turrets on either side, while just above it is the great "tom tower," the present home of "tom" the famous bell, measuring over seven feet in diameter and weighing over seven tons. this bell was originally dedicated to st. thomas of canterbury, and bore a latin inscription in praise of the saint. it was brought from the famous abbey of oseney, when that cloister was transferred to oxford, and on the accession of queen mary, the ruling dean rechristened it mary, out of compliment to her; but this was not a lasting change; "tom" was indeed the favored name. after "bonnie prince charlie" came into his own, and christopher wren's tower was completed, the great bell was moved to the new resting place, where it rang first on the anniversary of the restoration, may 29, 1684, and since then has rung each morning and evening, at the opening and closing of the college gates. "tom tower," as it is called, overlooks that portion of the great quadrangle popularly known as "tom quad," and it was in this corner of the great quadrangle that lewis carroll had his rooms. he speaks of it often in his many reminiscences, as he also spoke of the new bell tower over the hall staircase in the southeast corner. this new tower was built to hold the twelve bells which form the famous christ church peal, some twenty years after his entrance as an undergraduate. this, and the new entrance to the cathedral from "tom quad," were designed by the architect, george bodley, and lewis carroll, who was then a very dignified and retiring "don," ridiculed his work in a clever little booklet called "the vision of the three t's." in it he calls the new tower the "tea-chest," the passage to the cathedral the "trench," the entrance itself the "tunnel" (here we have the three t's). the architect, whose initials are g. b., he thinly disguises as "jeeby," and his disapproval is expressed through "our willie," meaning william e. gladstone, who gives vent to his rage in this fashion: "for as i'm true knight, a fouler sight, i'd never live to see. before i'd be the ruffian dark, who planned this ghastly show, i'd serve as secretary's clerk [pronounced _clark_] to ayrton or to lowe. before i'd own the loathly thing, that christ church quad reveals, i'd serve as shoeblack's underling to odger and to beales." but no thought of ridicule entered the earnest young scholar's mind during those early days at oxford. everything he saw in his surroundings was most impressive. there was much about the college routine to remind him of the old rugby days. indeed, it was not so very long before his time that the birch-rod was laid aside in oxford; the rules were still very strict, and the student was forced to work hard to gain any standing whatever. young dodgson went into his studies, as he did into everything else, with his whole soul. he devoted a great deal of his time to mathematics, and quite as much to divinity, but just as he had settled down for months of serious work, the news of his mother's sudden death sent him hurrying back to croft rectory to join the sorrowing household. it was a terrible blow to them all; with this young family growing up around her, she could ill be spared, and the loss of her filled those first oxford days with dark shadows for the boy--he was only a boy still for all his nineteen years--and we can imagine how deeply he mourned for his mother. what we know of her is very faint and shadowy. that her influence was keenly felt for many years, we can only glean from the love and reverence with which the memory of her was guarded; for this english home hid its grief in the depths of its heart, and only the privileged few might enter and console. this was the first and only break in the family for many years. charles went back to oxford immediately after the funeral, and took up his studies again with redoubled zeal. thomas gaisford was dean of christ church during the four years that charles dodgson was an undergraduate. he was a most able man, well known as scholar, writer, and thinker, but he died, much lamented, in 1855, just as the young student was thinking seriously of a life devoted to his college. george henry liddell came into residence as dean of christ church, an office which he held for nearly forty years, and as dean liddell stood for a great deal in the life of charles dodgson, we shall hear much of him from time to time, dating more especially from the comradeship of his three little daughters, who were the first "really truly" friends of lewis carroll. but we are jumping over too many years at once, and must go back a few steps. his hard study during the first year won him a boulter scholarship; the next year he took first class honors in mathematics, and a second in classical studies, and on christmas eve, 1852, he was made a student of christ church college. to become a student of christ church was not only a great honor, conferred only on one altogether worthy of it, but it was a very serious step in life for a young man. a student remained unmarried and always took holy orders; he was of course compelled to be very regular at chapel service, and to be devoted, heart and soul, to the interests of christ church, all of which this special young student had no difficulty in following to the letter. from that time forth he ordered his life as he planned his mathematics, clearly and simply, and once his career was settled, charles lutwidge dodgson dropped from his young shoulders--he was only twenty--the mantle of over-seriousness, and looked about for young companionship. he found what he needed in the households of the masters and the tutors, whose homes looked out upon the great quadrangle. here on sunny days the nurses brought the children for an airing; chubby little boys in long trousers and "roundabouts," dainty little girls, with corkscrew ringlets and long pantalets and muslin "frocks" and poke bonnets, in the depths of which were hidden the rosebud faces. these were the favorites of the young student, whose slim figure in cap and gown was often the center of an animated group of tiny girls; one on his lap, one perhaps on his shoulder, several at his knee, while he told them stories of the animals he knew, and drew funny little pictures on stray bits of paper. the "roundabouts" went to the wall: they were only boys! his coming was always hailed with delight. sometimes he would take them for a stroll, always full of wonder and interest to the children, for alone, with these chosen friends of his, his natural shyness left him, the sensitive mouth took smiling curves, the deep blue eyes were full of laughter, and he spun story after story for them in his quaint way, filling their little heads with odd fancies which would never have been there but for him. the "bunnies" held animated conversations with these small maids; every chirp and twitter of the birds grew to mean something to them. he took them across the meadow, and showed them the turtles swimming on the river bank; sometimes even--oh, treat of treats!--he took them in his boat, and pulling gently down the pretty rippling stream, told them stories of the shining fish they could see darting here and there in its depths, and of wonderful creatures they could _not_ see, who would not show themselves while curious little girls were staring into the water. these were hours of pure recreation for him. the small girls could not know what genuine pleasure they gave; the young undergraduates could never understand his lack of sympathy with their many sports. athletics never appealed to him, even boating he enjoyed in his own mild way; a quiet pull up or down the river, a shady bank, an hour's rest under the trees, a companion perhaps, generally some small girl, whose round-eyed interest inspired some remarkable tale--this was what he liked best. on other days a tramp of miles gave just the exercise he needed. his busy day began at a quarter past six, with breakfast at seven, and chapel at eight. then came the day's lectures in greek and latin, mathematics, divinity, and the classics. meals were served to the undergraduates in the hall. the men were divided into "messes" just as in military posts; each "mess" consisted of about six men, who were served at a small table. there were many such tables scattered over the hall, a vast and ancient room, completed at the time of wolsey's fall, 1529, an interesting spot full of memorials of henry viii and wolsey. the great west window with its two rows of shields, some with a cardinal's hat, others with the royal arms of henry viii, is most interesting, while the wainscoting, decorated with shields also arranged in orderly fashion, is very attractive. the hall is filled with portraits of celebrities, from henry viii, wolsey and elizabeth to the many students, and famous deans, who have added luster to christ church. in charles dodgson's time, the meals were poorly served. the hall was lighted at night with candles in brass candlesticks made to hold three lights each. the undergraduates were served on pewter plates, and the poor young fellows were in the hands of the cook and butler, and consequently were cheated up to their eyes. they did not complain in charles dodgson's time, but after he graduated and became a master himself he no doubt took part in what was known as the "bread and butter" campaign, when the undergraduates rose up in a body and settled the cook and butler for all time, appointing a steward who could overlook the doings of those below in the kitchen. this kitchen is a very wonderful old place, the first portion of wolsey's work to be completed, and so strongly was it built, and so well has it lasted, that it seems scarcely to have been touched by time. of course there are some modern improvements, but the great ranges are still there, and the wide fireplace and spits worked by a "smoke jack." wolsey's own gridiron hangs just above the fireplace, a large uncouth affair, fit for cooking the huge hunks of meat the cardinal liked best. we must not imagine that the years at oxford were "all work and no play," for charles dodgson's many vacations were spent either at home, where his father made much of him, his brothers looked up to him, and his sisters petted and spoiled him, or on little trips of interest and amusement. once, during what is known as the "long vacation," he visited london at the time of the great exhibition, and wrote a vivid letter of description to his sister elizabeth. what seemed to interest him most was the vastness of everything he saw, the huge crystal fountain and the colossal statues on either side of the central aisle. one statue he particularly noticed. it was called the "amazon and the tiger," and many of us have doubtless seen the picture, the strong, erect, girlish figure on horseback, and the tiger clinging to the horse, his teeth buried in his neck, the girl's face full of terror, the horse rearing with fright and pain. he always liked anything that told a story, either in statues or in pictures, and in after years, when he became a skilled photographer, he was fond of taking his many girlfriends in costume, for somehow it always suggested a story. he was also very fond of the theater, and he made many a trip to london to see a special play. shakespeare was his delight, and "henry viii" was certainly the most appropriate play for a student of christ church college to see. the great actor, charles kean, took the part of _cardinal wolsey_, and mrs. kean shone forth as poor _queen katharine_, the discarded wife of henry viii. what impressed him most was the vision of the sleeping queen, the troops of floating angels with palm branches in their hands, which they waved slowly over her, while shafts of light fell upon them from above. then as the queen awoke they vanished, and raising her arms she called "spirits of peace, where are ye?" poor queen, no wonder her audience shed tears! henry viii was not an easy man to get along with, even in his sweetest mood! in 1854, charles dodgson began hard study for final examinations, working sometimes as many as thirteen hours a day during the last three weeks, but the subjects which he had to prepare were philosophy and history, neither of which were special favorites, and though he passed fairly well, his name was not among the first. during the following long vacation he went to whitby, where he prepared for final examination in mathematics, and so well did he work that he took first class honors and became quite a distinguished personage among the undergraduates. his prowess in so difficult a subject traveled even beyond the college walls, and congratulations poured in upon him until he laughingly declared that if he had shot the dean there could not have been more commotion. this meant a great deal to him; to begin with, he stood head on the list of five very able men who were close to him in the marking. he came out number 279 and the lowest of the five was 213, so it was a hard fight in a hard subject, and lewis carroll might be forgiven for a little quiet "bragging" in the letter he wrote his father, telling the result of the examinations. of one thing he was now quite sure--a future lectureship in christ church college. on december 18, 1854, he graduated, taking the degree of bachelor of arts, and the following year, october 15, 1855, to celebrate the appointment of dean liddell, he was made a "master of the house," meaning that under the roof of christ church college he had all the privileges of a master of arts, which is the next higher degree; but he did not become a master of arts in the university until two years later. when a college graduate puts b.a. after his name, we know that means bachelor of arts, the first college degree, and m.a. means master of arts, the second degree. the young student was glad to be free of college restraint and to begin work. archdeacon dodgson was not a rich man, and though his son had never faced the trials of poverty, he was anxious to become independent. now that the "grinding" study was over, his thoughts turned fondly to a literary life. his numerous clever sketches, too, gave him hope of better work hereafter, and this we know had been his dream through his boyish years; it was his dream still, but where his talent would lie he had no idea, though hazy poems and queer jumbles of words popped into his mind on the slightest notice. still he could not settle down seriously to such work just at first; there was other work at hand and he must learn to wait. during the first year of tutorship he took many private pupils, besides lecturing in mathematics, his chosen profession, from three to three and a half hours a day. the next year he was one of the regular lecturers, and often lectured seven hours a day, not counting the time it took him to prepare his work. mathematicians are born, not made; this young fellow had not only the power of solving problems, but the rare gift of being able to teach others to solve them also, and many a student has been heard to declare that mathematics was never a dull study with mr. dodgson to explain. we can imagine the slight, youthful figure of the young college "don," his clean-cut, refined face, full of light and interest, his blue eyes flashing as he tackled some difficult problem, wrestled with it before his class in the lecture-hall, and undid the tangle without the slightest trouble. he "took to" problems as naturally as a duck to water; the harder they were the more resolutely he bent to his task. sometimes the tussle kept him awake half the night, often he was up at dawn to renew the battle, but he usually "won out," and this is what made him so good a teacher--he _never_ "let go." whatever mathematical ax he had to grind, he always managed to put a keen edge upon it sooner or later. to his many friends, especially his many girl friends, this side of his character was most remarkable. how this fun-making, fun-loving, story-telling nonsense rhymer could turn in a twinkling into the grave, precise "don" and discourse on rectangles, and polygons, and parallel lines, and unknown quantities was more than they could understand. girls, the best of them, the rarest and finest of them, are not, as a rule, fond of mathematics. they "take" it in school, as they "take" whooping cough and measles at home, but in those days they seldom went further than the "first steps" in plain arithmetic. girls, especially the little girls of charles dodgson's immediate circle, rarely went to school; they were usually in the care of governesses who helped them along the narrow path of learning which they themselves had trod, and these little maids could truly say, with all their hearts: "multiplication is vexation, division is as bad, the rule of three, it puzzles me, and fractions drive me mad!" it was certainly thought quite unnecessary to educate girls in higher mathematics; those were not the days when colleges for girls were thought of. the little daughters of the wise oxford men were considered finely grounded if they had mastered the three r's--("reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic") and the young "don" knew pretty well how far they were led along these paths, for if we remember our "alice in wonderland" we may easily recall that interesting conversation between _alice_, the _mock turtle_ and the _gryphon_, about schools, the _mock turtle_ remarking with a sigh: "i took only the regular course." "what was that?" inquired alice. "reeling and writhing, of course, to begin with," the mock turtle replied, "and then the different branches of arithmetic--ambition, distraction, uglification, and derision." "what else had you to learn?" asks alice later on. "well, there was mystery," the mock turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "mystery--ancient and modern--with seography; then drawling--the drawling-master was an old conger-eel that used to come once a week; _he_ taught us drawling, stretching, and fainting in coils." [drawing, sketching, and painting in oils.] lewis carroll loved this play upon words. "what was _that_ like?" said alice. "well, i can't show it you myself," the mock turtle said, "i'm too stiff. and the gryphon never learnt it." "hadn't time," said the gryphon. "i went to the classical master though. he was an old crab, _he_ was." "i never went to him," the mock turtle said, with a sigh; "he taught laughing and grief, they used to say." "so he did, so he did," said the gryphon, sighing in his turn, and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. it is doubtful if any little girl in lewis carroll's time ever learned "laughing and grief" unless she was _very_ ambitious, but many a quick, active young mind absorbed the simple problems which he was constantly turning into games for them. so the years passed over the head of this young student of christ church. they were pleasantly broken by long vacations at croft rectory, by trips through the beautiful english country, by one special journey to the english lakes, where wordsworth, southey, and coleridge lived and wrote their poems. these trips were often afoot, and charles dodgson was very proud of the long distances he could tramp, no matter what the wind or the weather. there was nothing he liked better unless it was the occasional visits he made to the princess's theatre in london. on june 16, 1856, he records seeing "a winter's tale," where he was specially pleased with little ellen terry, a beautiful tiny creature, who played the child's part of _mamillius_ in the most charming way. this was the first of many meetings with the famous actress, who became one of his child-friends in later years. but that was when he was lewis carroll. as yet he was only charles dodgson, a struggling young student, anxious for independence, interested in his work, simple, sincere, devout, a dreamer of dreams which had not yet taken shape, and above all, a true lover of little girls, no matter how plain, or fretful, or rumpled, or even dirty. his kindly eyes could see beneath the creases on the top, his gentle fingers clasped the shrinking, trembling little hands; his low voice charmed them all unconsciously, and no doubt the children he loved did for him as much as he did for them. if he felt the strain of overwork nothing soothed him like a romp with his favorites, and young as he was, when dreaming of the future and the magic circle in which he would write his name, it was not of the great world he was thinking, but of bright young faces, with dancing eyes and sunny curls, and eager voices continually demanding--"one more story." chapter v. a many-sided genius. we have traveled over the years with some speed, from the time that little charles lutwidge dodgson was christened by his proud papa to the moment when the same proud father heard that his eldest son was made a student of christ college--a good large slice out of a birthday-cake--twenty candles--if one counts birthdays by candles. it's a charming old german fashion, for the older one grows the brighter the lights become, and if you chance to get _real_ old--a fine "threescore and ten"--why, if there's a candle for each year, there you are--in a perfect blaze of glory! we have just passed over the very oldest part of our boy's life; from the time he became lewis carroll, charles dodgson began to go backward; he did a lot of things backward, as we shall see later. he wrote letters backward, he told stories backward, he spelled and counted backward--in fact, he was so fond of doing things backward we do not wonder that he stepped out from the circle of the years, and turned backward to find the boyhood he had somehow missed before. this is when lewis carroll was born; but that is a story in itself. outwardly the life of the young student seemed unchanged, but that is all we mortals know about it; the fairies were already at work. in moments of leisure little poems went forth to the world--a world which at first consisted of croft rectory--for there was another and last family magazine, of which he was sole editor and composer. he named it _misch-masch_, a curious old german word, which in our english means hodge-podge, and everybody, young and old, knows what a jumble hodge-podge is--something like new england succotash. _misch-masch_ was started by this enterprising young editor during the year after his graduation. he had become a person of vast experience between _misch-masch_ and the days of _the rectory umbrella_, having been editor of _college rhymes_, his college paper. he also wrote stories for the _oxonian advertiser_ and the _whitby gazette_, and this printed matter, together with many new and original ideas and drawings, found a place in his new home venture. his mathematical genius blossomed forth in a wonderful labyrinth or maze, a geometrical design within a given square form, of a tangle of intersecting lines and angles containing a hidden pathway to the center. these designs, that seem so remarkable to outsiders, were very simple to the editor of _misch-masch_, who was always inventing puzzles of some sort. he also wrote a series of "studies from the english poets," which he illustrated himself. one specially good drawing was of the following line from one of keats's poems. "she did so--but 'tis doubtful how or whence." the picture represents a very fat old lady, with a capitally drawn placid face, perched on a post marked "_dangerous_," seemingly in midwater. in her chubby hand is a basket with the long neck of a goose hanging out. mr. stuart collingwood, lewis carroll's nephew, gives a most interesting account of these early editorial efforts, in an article written for the _strand_, an english magazine. speaking of the above illustration he says: "keats is the author whom our artist has honored, and surely the shade of that much neglected songster owes something to a picture which must popularize one passage at least in his works. "the only way i can account for the lady's hazardous position is by supposing her to have attempted to cross a frozen lake after a thaw has set in. the goose, whose long neck projects from her basket, proves that she has just returned from market; probably the route across the lake was her shortest way home. we are to suppose that for some time she proceeded without any knowledge of the risk she was running, when suddenly she felt the ice giving way under her. by frantic exertions she succeeded in reaching the notice-board, to which she clung for days and nights together, till the ice was all melted and a deluge of rain caused the water to rise so many feet that at last she was compelled for dear life to climb to the top of the post." we can now understand how well the illustration fits in with the line: "she did so, but 'tis doubtful how or whence." mr. collingwood continues: "whether she sustained life by eating raw goose is uncertain. at least she did not follow father william's example by devouring the beak. the question naturally suggests itself: why was she not rescued? my answer is that either such a dense fog enveloped the whole neighborhood that even her bulky form was invisible, or that she was so unpopular a character that each man feared the hatred of the rest if he should go to her succor." mr. collingwood concludes his article with the following riddle which the renowned editor of _misch-masch_ presented to his readers; there must be an answer, and it is therefore worth while guessing, for lewis carroll would never have written a riddle without one: a monument, men all agree- am i in all sincerity; half-cat, half-hindrance made if head and tail removed shall be then, most of all you strengthen me. replace my head--the stand you see on which my tail is laid. _misch-masch_ had a short but brilliant career, for magazines with a wider circulation than croft rectory began to claim his attention. _the comic times_ was a small periodical very much on the order of _punch_. edmund yates was the editor, and among the writers and artists were some of the best known in england. charles dodgson's poetry and sketches were too clever to hide themselves from public view, and he became a regular contributor. later, _the comic times_ changed hands, and the old staff started a new magazine called _the train_, in 1856, and the quiet oxford "don" found his poetry in such demand that after talking it over with the editor, he decided to adopt a suitable pen name. he first suggested "dares" in compliment to his birthplace, daresbury, but the editor preferred a _real_ name. then he took his first two names, charles lutwidge, and transposing them he got two names, edgar cuthwellis or edgar u. c. westhill, neither of which sounded in the least interesting. finally he decided to take the two names and look at them backward--this very queer young fellow always preferred to look at things backward--lutwidge charles. that was certainly not promising. then he took one name at a time and analyzed it in his own quaint way. lutwidge was surely derived from the latin word ludovicus--which in good sound english meant lewis--ah, that was not bad! now for charles. its latin equivalent was carolus--which could be easily changed in carroll. the whole thing worked out like one of his own word puzzles, and lewis carroll he was, henceforth, whenever he made his appearance in print. there was not much ceremony at _this_ christening. just two clever men put their heads together and the result was--lewis carroll! charles lutwidge dodgson retired to his rooms at christ church college, where he prepared his lectures on mathematics and wrote the most learned text-books for the university; but lewis carroll peeped out into the world, which he found full of light and laughter and happy childhood, and as lewis carroll he was known to that world henceforth. the first poem to appear with his new name was called "the path of roses," a very solemn, serious poem about half a yard long and not specially interesting, save as a contribution to a most interesting little paper. _the train_ was really very ambitious, full, indeed, of the best talent of the day. there were short stories and serials, poems, timely articles, jokes, puns, anecdates--in short, all the attractions that help toward the making of an attractive magazine, and though the illustrations were nothing but old-fashioned woodcuts, the reading was quite as good, and in many cases better than what we find in the average magazine of to-day. many of the little poems lewis carroll wrote at this time he tucked away in some cubby-hole and made use of later in one or the other of his books. one of his very earliest printed bits is called: my fancy. i painted her a gushing thing, with years perhaps a score, i little thought to find they were at least a dozen more. my fancy gave her eyes of blue, a curly auburn head; i came to find the blue--a green, the auburn turned to red. she boxed my ears this morning, they tingled very much; i own that i could wish her a somewhat lighter touch. and if you were to ask me how her charms might be improved, i would not have them _added_ to, but just a few _removed_! she has the bear's ethereal grace, the bland hyena's laugh, the footstep of the elephant, the neck of the giraffe; i love her still, believe me, tho' my heart its passion hides- "she is all my fancy painted her," but, oh--_how much besides_! the quoted line--"she is all my fancy painted her"--is the line upon which he built the poem; he was very fond of doing this, and though no special mention is made of the fact, it is highly probable that these three telling verses found their way into _misch-masch_, among the "studies from the poets." it is unfortunate, too, that we have not some funny drawing of this wonderful "gushing thing" of the giraffe neck, "the bear's ethereal grace," and the "footstep of the elephant," for lewis carroll's drawings generally followed his thoughts; a pencil and bit of paper were always ready in some inner pocket, for illustrating purposes, and it is doubtful if any celebrated artist could produce more sketches on such a variety of subjects. his power to make his pencil "talk" impressed his sisters and brothers greatly; they caught every scrap of paper that fluttered from his hands, treasured it, and if the drawing was distinct enough, they colored it with crayons or touched it up in black and white, for the use of _the rectory umbrella_ and the later publication of _misch-masch_. in his secret soul he longed to be an artist; he certainly possessed genius of a queer sort. a few strokes would tell the story, usually a funny one or a quaint one, but all his art failed to make his people look quite real or natural--just dolls stuffed with sawdust. but they were fine caricatures, and the young artist had to content himself with this smaller talent. _the train_ published many of his poems during 1856-57. "solitude," "novelty and romancement," "the three voices," followed one another in quick succession, but the best of all was decidedly "hiawatha's photographing," and this for more reasons than one. in the first place, from the time he went into residence at christ church photography was his great delight; he "took" people whenever he could--canons, deacons, deans, students, undergraduates and children. the "grown-ups" submitted with a gentle sort of patience, but he made his camera such a point of attraction for the youngsters that he could "take" them as often as he liked, and he has left behind him a wonderful array of photographs, many of well-known, even celebrated people, among whom we may find tennyson, the rossetti family, ellen and kate terry, john ruskin, george macdonald, charlotte m. yonge, sir john millais, and many others known to fame; and considering that photography had not reached its present perfection, lewis carroll's photographs show remarkable skill. he would not have been lewis carroll if he had not gone into this fascinating pastime with his whole soul. whenever he met a new face which interested him, we may be sure it was not long before the busy camera was at work. there is no doubt that his admiring family suffered agonies in posing, to say nothing of his friends who were not always beautiful enough to produce "pretty pictures"; their criticisms were often based entirely on their disappointment: hence the poem, hiawatha's photographing. [_with no apology to mr. longfellow._] from his shoulder hiawatha took the camera of rosewood, made of sliding, folding rosewood; neatly put it all together, in its case it lay compactly, folded into nearly nothing; but he opened out the hinges, pushed and pulled the joints and hinges till it looked all squares and oblongs, like a complicated figure in the second book of euclid. this he perched upon a tripod- crouched beneath its dusky cover- stretched his hand, enforcing silence- said, "be motionless, i beg you!" mystic, awful was the process. all the family in order sat before him for their pictures: each in turn, as he was taken, volunteered his own suggestions, his ingenious suggestions. all of which during the course of the poem succeeded in driving poor hiawatha to the verge of madness, until- finally my hiawatha tumbled all the tribe together ("grouped" is not the right expression), and, as happy chance would have it, did at last obtain a picture where the faces all succeeded: each came out a perfect likeness. then they joined and all abused it, unrestrainedly abused it, as "the worst and ugliest picture they could possibly have dreamed of." * * * * all together rang their voices, angry, loud, discordant voices, as of dogs that howl in concert, as of cats that wail in chorus. but my hiawatha's patience, his politeness and his patience, unaccountably had vanished, and he left that happy party. neither did he leave them slowly, with the calm deliberation, the intense deliberation, of a photographic artist: but he left them in a hurry, left them in a mighty hurry, stating that he would not stand it, stating in emphatic language what he'd be before he'd stand it. hurriedly he packed his boxes: hurriedly the porter trundled on a barrow all his boxes: hurriedly he took his ticket: hurriedly the train received him: thus departed hiawatha. but perhaps the cleverest part of the poem is the seemingly innocent paragraph of introduction which reads as follows: "in an age of imitation, i can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. any fairly practiced writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running meter of 'the song of hiawatha.' having, then, distinctly stated that i challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, i must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject." notice how metrically this sounds. tune up to the hiawatha pitch and you will have the same swinging measure in the above sentences. lewis carroll's real acquaintance with tennyson began in that eventful year of 1856. the odd, shaggy man, with the fine head and the keen, restless eyes, fascinated the young student greatly. he went often to tennyson's home and did his best to be interested in the poet's two little boys, hallam and lionel. had they been girls there would have been no difficulty, but he always had strained relations with boys; still, as these "roundabouts" belonged to the little tennysons, we find a sort of armed truce kept up between them. he bargained with lionel to exchange manuscripts, and he got both boys to sign their names in his album; he even condescended to play a game of chess with lionel, checkmating him in six moves, but he distinctly refused to allow that young gentleman to give him a blow on the head with a mallet in exchange for some of his verses. however, we may be pretty sure that lewis carroll's visits to the tennysons were much pleasanter when the "roundabouts" were not visible. that same year he made the acquaintance of john ruskin, and the great art critic turned out to be a very valuable friend, as was also sir james paget, the eminent surgeon, who gave him many hints on medicine and surgery, in which charles dodgson was deeply interested. his medical knowledge was quite remarkable, and the books he collected on the subject would have been valuable additions to any physician's library. in the year 1857 he met thackeray, who had come to oxford to deliver his lecture on george iii, and liked him very much. the oxford "dons" were certainly fortunate in meeting all the "great ones" and seeing them generally at their best. the year 1858 was an uneventful year; college routine varied by much reading, afternoons on the river or in the country, and evenings devoted to preparations for the morrow's work. lewis carroll kept a diary which harbored many fine thoughts and noble resolves, many doubts and fears, many hopes, many plans for the future, for he was making up his mind to the final step in the life of a christ church student--that of taking holy orders, in other words, of being ordained as a clergyman. there were one or two points to be considered: first, regarding an impediment in his speech which would make constant preaching almost impossible. he stammered, not on all occasions, but quite enough to make steady speaking an effort, painful to himself and his hearers. the other objection lay in the fact that christ church had rigid laws for its clergy concerning amusements. charles dodgson had no wish to be shut out of the world; he was fond of theaters and operas, and he did not see that he was doing any special good to his fellow-creatures by putting them out of his life. but at last, after battling with his conscience, and earnest consultation with a few wise friends, he decided that he would be ordained, though he would not become a regular preaching clergyman. it took him two years to reach this decision, for he was slow to act on such occasions, but strong of purpose when the step was taken. on october 17, 1859, the young prince of wales (the late king edward vii) came into residence at christ church college. this was a mark of special favor to dean liddell, who had for many years been chaplain to queen victoria and her husband, the prince consort. of course there was much ceremony attending the arrival of his royal highness; the dean went in person to the station to meet him, and all the "dons" were drawn up in a body in tom quadrangle to give him the proper sort of greeting. "hiawatha" had his camera along--"in its case it lay compactly," but his poor little highness had been "served up" on the camera to his utter disgust, and nothing would induce him to be photographed. later in the season, the queen, the prince consort, and several princes and princesses came up to oxford and surprised everybody. christ church was certainly in a flutter, and the day was turned into a gala occasion. there was a brilliant reception that evening at dean liddell's and _tableaux vivants_, to which we may be sure our modest lewis carroll gave much assistance. he was already on intimate terms with the three little liddells, lorina, alice, and edith, and as the children were to pose in a tableau, he was certainly there to help and suggest with a score of quaint ideas. he had a pleasant talk with the prince of wales, who shook hands cordially and condescended to ask several questions of the young photographer, praising the photographs which he had seen, and promised to choose some for himself some day. he regarded the pleasant-looking, chatty young fellow as just one of the college "dons"; he had never even heard of lewis carroll, indeed that gentleman was too newly born to be known very well anywhere outside of charles lutwidge dodgson's study, and it is extremely doubtful if the grave student himself knew of half the fun and merriment hidden away in the new name. as a result of his interview with the prince, lewis carroll obtained his autograph, which was quite a gem among his collection. there is no doubt he had many fine autographs and also an album, as he mentions several times. autograph-hunting was not carried to the excess that it was later on, and is to-day. it is, to put it mildly, a very bad habit. total strangers have no hesitancy in asking this favor of celebrities, who, as a rule, object to the wholesale signing of their names. but the signatures in lewis carroll's album were those of friends, which was quite another matter, and it was consequently most interesting to turn the leaves of the precious volume, and see in what friendly esteem he was held by the foremost men and women of his time. to him a letter or a sentiment would have had no meaning nor value if not addressed personally to himself; whereas, the autograph fiend of the present day would be content with the signature no matter to whom addressed. lewis carroll suffered from these pests in later years, as well as from the photograph fiend, to him as malicious as a hornet, and from whom he fled in terror. yet we find many good pictures of him, notwithstanding, the one which we have chosen for our frontispiece being the youngest and most attractive--lewis carroll at the age of twenty-three. there is another taken some two years later, when the dignity of the oxford "don" set well on the slim young figure. his face was always curiously youthful in expression: the eyes, deep blue, looked childlike in their innocent trust; a child had but to gaze into their depths and claim a friend. little girls, particularly, remembered their beauty, for they felt a thrill at their youthful heartstrings when those eyes, brimful of kindliness, turned upon them and warmed their childish souls. they were quick to feel the gentle pressure of his hand, his touch upon their shoulders or on their heads, which drew these little magnets close to his side where he loved to have them, for behind the shyness and reserve of lewis carroll was a great wealth of tenderness and love which only his girl friends understood, because it was only to them that he cared to show this part of himself. of course in his own home this side of him expanded in the sunny companionship of seven younger sisters. naturally they did not look upon him with the awe of the later generation, but they brought to the surface many winning characteristics which might never have come to light but for them. it had been his delight from early boyhood to tackle problems and to solve them; the "girl problem" he had studied from the very beginning, in all its stages, and so it is small wonder that he knew girls quite as well as he did mathematics, and loved them even better, if the truth must be told, though they were often quite as puzzling. on december 22, 1861, in spite of many doubts and misgivings as to his worthiness, charles dodgson was ordained deacon by the bishop of oxford. he did this partly from his duty as a student of christ church, but more because of the influence it would give him among the undergraduates, whose welfare he had so much at heart. he preached often but he never became a regular officiating clergyman, and his sermons were always delightful because they were never what we call "preachy." he was so truly good and religious, his faith was so simple, his desire to do right was so unfailing, that in spite of the slight drawback in his speech he had the gift of impressing his hearers deeply. his sermons were dedicated to the service of god, and he was content if they bore good fruit; he did not care what people said about them. he often preached at the evening service for the college servants; but most of all he loved to preach to children, to see the earnest young faces upturned to him, to feel that they were following each word. it was then that he put his whole heart into the task before him; the light grew in his eyes, he forgot to stammer, forgot everything, save the young souls he was leading, in his eagerness to show them the way. such was the character of lewis carroll up to the year 1862, that momentous year in which he found the golden key of fairyland. he had often peeped through the closed gates but he had never been able to squeeze through; he might have jumped over them, but that is forbidden in fairyland, where everything happens in the most natural way. he had succeeded beyond his hopes in his efforts for independence; he was establishing a brilliant record as a mathematical lecturer; he had several scholarships which paid him a small yearly sum, and he was also sublibrarian. his little poems were making their way into public notice and his more serious work had been "notes on the first two books of euclid," "text-books on plane geometry and plane trigonometry," and "notes on the first part of algebra." socially, the retiring "don" was scarcely known beyond the university. he ran up to london whenever the theaters offered anything tempting; he visited the studios of well-known artists, who were all fond of him, and he cultivated the friendship of men of learning and letters. if these gentlemen happened to have attractive little daughters, he cultivated their acquaintance also. one special anecdote we have of a visit to the studio of mr. munroe, where he found two of the children of george macdonald, the author of many books, among them "at the back of the north wind," a most charming fairy tale. these two children, a boy and a girl, instantly made friends with lewis carroll, who suggested to the boy, greville, that he thought a marble head would be such a useful thing, much better than a real one because it would not have to be brushed and combed. this appealed to the small boy, whose long hair was a torment, but after consideration he decided that a marble head would not be able to speak, and it was better to have his hair pulled and be able to cry out. in the case of the general small boy lewis carroll preferred marble, but he was overruled. mr. macdonald's two daughters, lily and mary, were, however, great favorites of his; indeed, his girl friends were rapidly multiplying. sometimes they came to see him in the pleasant rooms at christ church college, which were full of curious things that children love. sometimes they had tea with him or went for a stroll, for oxford had many beautiful walks about her colleges. a visit to him was always a great event, but perhaps those who enjoyed him most were his intimates in "tom quadrangle." the three little liddell girls were at that time his special favorites; their bright companionship brought forth the many sides of his genius; under the spell of their winsome chatter the long golden afternoon would glide happily by, while under _his_ spell they would sit for hours listening to the wonder tales he spun for them. chapter vi. up and down the river with the real alice. we generally speak of oxford-on-the-thames. indeed, if we were to journey by water from london to oxford, we would certainly go by way of the thames, and a pleasant journey that would be, too, gliding between well-wooded, fertile shores with charming landscape towns on either side and bits of history peeping out in unexpected places. but into the heart of oxford itself the thames sends forth its tributaries in opposite directions; the isis on one side, the cherwell on the other. the cherwell is what is called a "canoe river," the isis is the race course of oxford, where all the "eights" (every racing crew consists of eight men) come to practice for the great day and the great race, which takes place sometimes at henley, sometimes at oxford itself, when the isis is gay with bunting and flags. on one side of christ church meadow is a long line of barges which have been made stationary and which are used as boathouses by the various college clubs; these are situated just below what is known as folly bridge, a name familiar to all oxford men, and the goal of many pleasant trips. the original bridge was destroyed in 1779, but tradition tells us that the first bridge was capped by a tower which was the study or observatory of roger bacon, the franciscan friar who invented the telescope, gunpowder, and many other things unknown to the people of his time. it was even hinted that he had cunningly built this tower that it might fall instantly on anyone passing beneath it who proved to be more learned than himself. one could see it from christ church meadow, and doubtless lewis carroll pointed it out to his small companions, as they strolled across to the water's edge, where perhaps a boat rocked lazily at its moorings. it was the work of a moment to steady it so that the eager youngsters could scramble in, then he stepped in himself, pushing off with his oar, and a few long, steady strokes brought them in midstream. this was an ordinary afternoon occurrence, and the children alone knew the delights of being the chosen companions of lewis carroll. he would let them row, while he would lounge among the cushions and "spin yarns" that brought peals of merry laughter that rippled over the surface of the water. he knew by heart every story and tradition of oxford, from the time the romans reduced it from a city of some importance to a mere "ford for oxen to pass over," which, indeed, was the origin of its name, long before the christian era. he had a story or a legend about every place they passed, but most of all they loved the stories he "made up" as he went along. he had a low, well-pitched voice, with the delightful trick of dropping it in moments of profound interest, sometimes stopping altogether and closing his eyes in pretended sleep, when his listeners were truly thrilled. this, of course, produced a stampede, which he enjoyed immensely, and sometimes he would "wake up," take the oars himself, and pull for some green shady nook that loomed invitingly in the distance; here they would land and under the friendly trees they would have their tea, perhaps, and then they _might_ induce him to finish the story--if they were _ever_ so good. it was on just such an occasion that he chanced to find the golden key to wonderland. the time was midsummer, the place on the way up the river toward godstow bridge; the company consisted of three winsome little girls, lorina, alice, and edith liddell, or _prima_, _secunda_, and _tertia_, as he called them by number in latin. he tells of this himself in the following dainty poem--the introduction to "alice in wonderland": all in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide; for both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied, while little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide. ah, cruel three! in such an hour, beneath such dreamy weather, to beg a tale, of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather! yet what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together? imperious prima flashes forth her edict "to begin it"- in gentler tone secunda hopes "there will be nonsense in it"- while tertia interrupts the tale, not _more_ than once a minute. anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they pursue the dream-child moving through a land of wonders wild and new, in friendly chat with bird or beast- and half believe it true. and ever as the story drained the wells of fancy dry, and faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by, "the rest next time"--"it _is_ next time!" the happy voices cry. thus grew the tale of wonderland: thus slowly one by one, its quaint events were hammered out- and now the tale is done, and home we steer, a merry crew, beneath the setting sun. alice! a childish story take, and with a gentle hand lay it where childhood's dreams are twined in memory's mystic band, like pilgrims' withered wreath of flowers plucked in a far-off land. it was a very hot day, the fourth of july, 1862, that this special little picnic party set out for its trip up the river. godstow bridge was a quaint old-fashioned structure of three arches. in the very middle it was broken by a tiny wooded island, and guarding the east end was a picturesque inn called _the trout_. through the middle arch they could catch a distant glimpse of oxford, with christ church spire quite plainly to be seen. they had often gone as far as the bridge and had their tea in the ruins of the old nunnery near by, a spot known to history as the burial-place of fair rosamond, that beautiful lady who was supposed to have been poisoned by queen eleanor, the jealous wife of henry ii. but this day the sun streamed down on the little party so pitilessly that they landed in a cool, green meadow and took refuge under a hayrick. lewis carroll stretched himself out at full length in the protecting shade, while the expectant little girls grouped themselves about him. "now begin it," demanded lorina, who was called _prima_ in the poem. _secunda_ [alice] probably knew the story-teller pretty well when she asked for nonsense, while tiny _tertia_, the youngest, simply clamored for "more, more, more," as the speaker's breath gave out. now, as lewis carroll lay there, a thousand odd fancies elbowing one another in his active brain, his hands groping in the soft moist earth about him, his fingers suddenly closed over that magic golden key. it was a queer invisible key, just the kind that fairies use, and neither lorina, alice, nor edith would have been able to find it if they had hunted ever so long. he must have found it on the water and brought it ashore quite by accident, for there was the gleam of sunlight still upon it, and it was very shady under the hayrick. perhaps there was a door somewhere that the key might fit; but no, there was only the hayrick towering above him, and only the brown earth stretching all about him. perhaps a white rabbit _did_ whisk by, perhaps the real alice _really_ fell asleep, at any rate when _prima_ said "begin it," that is how he started. the golden key opened the brown earth--in popped the white rabbit--down dropped the sleeping alice--down--down--down--and while she was falling, clutching at things on the way, lewis carroll turned, with one of his rare sweet smiles, to the eager trio and began the story of "alice's adventures underground." the whole of that long afternoon he held the children spellbound. he did not finish the story during that one sitting. summer has many long days, and the quiet, prudent young "don" was not reckless enough to scatter _all_ his treasures at once; and, besides, all the queer things that happened to alice would have lost half their interest in the shadow of a hayrick, and how could one conjure up _mock turtles_ and _lorys_ and _gryphons_ on the dry land? lewis carroll's own recollection of the beginning of "alice" is certainly dated from that "golden afternoon" in the boat, and any idea of publishing the web of nonsense he was weaving never crossed his mind. indeed, if he could have imagined that his small audience of three would grow to be as many millions in the years to come, the book would have lost half its charm, and the real child that lay hidden under the cap and gown of this grave young student of thirty might never have been known to the world. into his mind, with all the freshness of unbidden thought, popped this story of _alice_ and her strange adventures, and while he chose the name of alice in seeming carelessness, there is no doubt that the little maid who originally owned the name had many points in common with the rev. charles lutwidge dodgson, never suspected save by the two most concerned. to begin with, the real alice had an imagination; any child who demands nonsense in a story has an imagination. nothing was too impossible or absurd to put into a story, for one could always "make believe" it was something else you see, and a constant "make believe" made everything seem quite real. dearly as he loved this posy of small girls, lewis carroll could not help being just the _least_ bit partial to alice, because, as he himself might have quaintly expressed it, she understood everything he said, even before he said it. she was a dear little round, chubby child, a great camera favorite and consequently a frequent visitor to his rooms, for he took her picture on all occasions. one, as a beggar child, has become quite famous. she is pictured standing, with her ragged dress slipping from her shoulders and her right hand held as if begging for pennies; the other hand rests upon her hip, and her head is bent in a meek fashion; but the mouth has a roguish curve, and there is just the shadow of a laugh in the dark eyes, for of course it's only "make believe," and no one knows it better than alice herself. lewis carroll liked the little bit of acting she did in this trifling part. a child's acting always appealed to him, and many of his youngest and best friends were regularly on the stage. he took another picture of the children perched upon a sofa; lorina in the center, a little sister nestling close to her on either side, making a pretty pyramid of the three dark heads. yet in studying the faces one can understand why it was alice who inspired him. lorina's eyes are looking straight ahead, but the lids are dropped with a little conscious air, as if the business of having one's picture taken was a very serious matter, to say nothing of the responsibility of keeping two small sisters in order. edith is staring the camera out of countenance, uncertain whether to laugh or to frown, a pretty child with curls drooping over her face; but alice, with the elf-locks and the straight heavy "bang," is looking far away with those wonderful eyes of hers; perhaps she was even then thinking of wonderland, perhaps even then a light flashed from her to lewis carroll in the shape of a promise to take her there some day. at any rate, if it hadn't been for alice there would have been no wonderland, and without wonderland, childhood is but a tale half-told, and even to this day, nearly fifty years since that "golden afternoon," every little girl bearing the name of alice who has read the book and has anything of an imagination, firmly believes that _she_ is the sole and only alice who could venture into lewis carroll's wonderland. after he had told the story and the original alice had expressed her approval, he promised to write it out for her to keep. of course this took time, because, in the first place, his writing was not quite plain enough for a child to read easily, so every letter was carefully printed. then the illustrations were troublesome, and he drew as many as he could, consulting a book on natural history for the correct forms of the queer animals _alice_ found. the _mock turtle_ was his own invention, for there never _was_ such an animal on land or sea. this book was handed over to the small alice, who little dreamed at that time of the treasure she was to have in her keeping. over twenty years later, when alice had become mrs. reginald hargreaves, the great popularity of "alice in wonderland" tempted the publishers to bring out a reproduction of the original manuscript. this could not be done without borrowing the precious volume from the original alice, who was willing to trust it in the hands of her old friend, knowing how over-careful he would be, and, as he resolved that he would not allow any workman to touch it, he had some funny experiences. to reproduce a book it must first be photographed, and of course lewis carroll consulted an expert. he offered to bring the book to london, to go daily to his studio and hold it in position to be photographed, turning over the pages one by one, but the photographer wished to do all that himself. finally, a man was found who was willing to come to oxford and do the work in lewis carroll's own way, while he stood near by turning over the pages himself rather than let him touch them. the photographer succeeded in getting a fine set of negatives, and in october, 1880, lewis carroll sent the book in safe custody back to its owner, thinking his troubles were over. the next step was to have plates made from the pictures, and these plates in turn could pass into print. the photographer was prompt at first in delivering the plates as they were made, but, finally, like the _baker_ in "the hunting of the snark," he "softly and suddenly vanished away," holding still twenty-two of the fine blocks on which the plates were made, leaving the book so far--incomplete. there ensued a lively search for the missing photographer. this lasted for months, thereby delaying the publication of the book, which was due christmas. then, as suddenly as he had disappeared, he reappeared like a ghost at the publishers, left eight of the twenty-two zinc blocks, and again vanished. finally, when a year had passed and poor lewis carroll, at his wits' end, had resolved to borrow the book again in order to photograph the remaining fourteen pages, the man was frightened by threats of arrest, and delivered up the fourteen negatives which he had not yet transferred to the blocks. the distracted author was glad to find them, even though he had to pay a second time for getting the blocks done properly. however, the book was finished in time for the christmas sale of 1886, just twenty-one years after "alice" made her first bow, and the best thing about it was that all the profits were given to the children's hospitals and convalescent homes for sick children. it was thoroughly illustrated with thirty-seven of the author's own drawings, and the grown-up "alice" received a beautiful special copy bound in white vellum; but pretty as it was, it could not take the place of that other volume carefully written out for the sole pleasure of one little girl. nothing was too much trouble if it succeeded in giving pleasure to any little girl whom lewis carroll knew and loved; even those he did not really know, and consequently could not love, he sought to please, just because they were "little girls." alice was among the chosen few who retained his friendship through the years. she was his first favorite, and she was indirectly the source of his good luck, and we may be sure there was a certain winsomeness about her long after the elf-locks were gathered into decorous coils of dark hair. true, the formal old bachelor came forward in their later association, and the numerous letters he wrote her always began "my dear mrs. hargreaves," but his fondness for her outlived many other passing affections. to go back to the little alice and the fair smiling river, and that wizard lewis carroll, who told the wonder tales so long ago. once the children had a taste of "alice," she grew to be a great favorite; sometimes a chapter was told on the river, sometimes in his study, often in the garden or after tea in christ church meadows--in fact, wherever they caught a glimpse of the grave young man in cap and gown, the trio of small liddells fell upon him, and in this fashion, as he tells us himself, "the quaint events were hammered out." when he presented the promised copy it might have passed forever from his mind, which was full of the higher mathematics he was teaching to the young men of christ church, but he chanced one day to show the manuscript to george macdonald, the well-known writer, who was so charmed with it that he advised his friend to send it to a publisher. he accordingly carried it to london, and macmillan & co. took it at once. this was a great surprise. he never dreamed of his nonsense being considered seriously, and growing suddenly about as young as a great, big, bashful boy, he refused to allow his own rough illustrations to appear in print, so he hunted over the long list of his artist friends, for the genius who could best illustrate the adventures of his dream-child. at last his friend, tom taylor, a well-known dramatist, suggested mr. tenniel, the clever cartoonist for _punch_, who was quite willing to undertake this rather odd bit of work, and on july 4, 1865, exactly three years since that memorable afternoon, alice liddell received the first printed copy of "alice in wonderland," the name the author finally selected for his book. his first idea, as we know, was "alice's adventures underground," the second was "alice's hour in elfland," but the last seemed best of all, for wonderland might mean any place where wonderful things could happen. and this was lewis carroll's idea; anywhere the dream "alice" chose to go would be wonderland, and none knew better than he did how eagerly the child-mind paints its own fairy nooks and corners. he was not at all excited about his first big venture; no doubt alice herself took much more interest. to feel that you are about to be put into print is certainly a great experience, almost as great as being photographed; and, knowing how conscientious lewis carroll was about little things, we may be quite sure that her suggestions crept into many of the pictures, while it is equally certain that the few additions he made to the original "alice" were carefully considered and firmly insisted upon by this critical young person. the first edition of two thousand copies was a great disappointment; the pictures were badly printed, and all who had bought them were asked to send them back with their names and addresses, as a new edition would be printed immediately and they would then receive perfect copies. the old copies lewis carroll gave away to various homes and hospitals, while the new edition, upon which he feared a great loss, sold so rapidly that he was astonished, and still more so when edition after edition was demanded by the public, and far from being a failure, "alice in wonderland" brought her author both fame and money. from that time forward, fortune smiled upon him; there were no strenuous efforts to increase his income. "alice" yielded him an abundance each year, and he was beset by none of the cares and perplexities which are the dragons most writers encounter with their literary swords. he welcomed the fortune, not so much for the good it brought to him alone, but for the power it gave him to help others. his countless charities are not recorded because they were swallowed up in the "little things" he did, not in the great benefits which are trumpeted over the world. his own life, so simple, so full of purpose, flowed on as usual; he was not one to change his habits with the turn of fortune's wheel, no matter what it brought him. of course, everyone knew that a certain lewis carroll had written a clever, charming book of nonsense, called "alice in wonderland"; that he was an oxford man, very much of a scholar, and little known outside of the university. what people did not know was that this same lewis carroll had for a double a certain "grave and reverend" young "don," named charles lutwidge dodgson, who, while "alice" was making the whole world laugh, retired to his sanctum and wrote in rapid succession the following learned pamphlets: "the condensation of determinants," "an elementary treatise on determinants," "the fifth book of euclid, treated algebraically," "the algebraic formulã¦ for responsions." now, whatever these may be, they certainly did not interest children in the least, and charles lutwidge dodgson did not care in the least, so long as he could smooth the thorny path of mathematics for his struggling undergraduates. but lewis carroll was quite a different matter. so long as the children were pleased, little he cared for algebra or geometry. a funny tale is told about queen victoria. it seems that lewis carroll sent the second presentation copy of "alice in wonderland" to princess beatrice, the queen's youngest daughter. her mother was so pleased with the book that she asked to have the author's other works sent to her, and we can imagine her surprise when she received a large package of learned treatises by the mathematical lecturer of christ church college. who can tell through what curious byways the thought of the dream-child came dancing across the flagstones of the great "tom quad." yet across those same flagstones danced the little liddells when they thought there was any possibility of a romp or a story; for lewis carroll lived in the northwest angle, while the girls lived in the beautiful deanery in the northeast angle, and it was only a "puss-in-the-corner" game to get from one place to the other. "alice" was written on the ground floor of this northwest angle, and it was in this sunny room that lewis carroll and the real alice held many a consultation about the new book. all true fame is to a certain extent due to accident; an act of heroism is generally performed on the spur of the moment; a great poem is an inspiration; a great invention, though preceded possibly by years of study, is born of a single moment's inspiration; so "alice" came to lewis carroll on the wings of inspiration. his study of girls and their varying moods has left its impress on a world of little girls, and there is scarcely a home to-day, in england or america, where there is not a special niche reserved for "alice in wonderland," while this interesting young lady has been served up in french, german, italian, and dutch, and the famous poem of _father william_ has even been translated into arabic. whether the chinese or the japanese have discovered this funny little dream-child we cannot tell, but perhaps in time she may journey there and amuse the little maids with the jet-black hair, the creamy skin, and the slanting eyes. perhaps she may even stir them to laughter. surely all must agree that the _gryphon_ himself bears a strong resemblance to the chinese dragons, and it _might_ be, such are the wonders of wonderland, that the _mock turtle_ can be found in japan. who knows! at any rate the little english alice never thought of the consequences of that "golden afternoon"; it was good to be in the boat, to pull through the rippling waters and stir a faint breeze as the oars "with little skill- by little arms are plied"; then to gather under the friendly shade of the hayrick and listen to the wonder tale "with lots of nonsense in it." dear little alice of long ago! to you we owe a debt of gratitude. all the little alices of the past and all the little alices of the future will have their wonderland because, while floating up and down the river with the real alice, lewis carroll found the golden key. chapter vii. alice in wonderland and what she did there. a certain little girl who had been poring over "through the looking-glass and what alice found there" with eager interest, when asked which of the "alices" she preferred, answered at once that she thought "through the looking-glass" was "stupider" than "alice in wonderland," and when people laughed she was surprised, for she had enjoyed both books. _stupid_ was certainly not the word she meant to use, nor yet _silly_, which might have suggested itself if she had stopped to think. _nonsense_ is really what she meant, and only very poor nonsense can be stupid or silly. good nonsense is exceedingly clever; it takes clever people to write it and only clever people can understand and appreciate it, so when the real alice hoped "there would be nonsense in it" she was only looking for what she was sure to find: something odd, bright, and funny, with a laugh tucked away in unexpected places. nonsense is very ancient and respectable, tracing its origin back to the days of the court fool, whose office it was to make merry for the king and courtiers. an undersized man was usually selected, one with some deformity being preferred, whereat the courtiers might laugh; one with sharp tongue and ready wit, to make the time fly. he was clothed in "motley"--that is, his dress, cut in the fashion of the times, was of many ill-assorted hues, while the fool's cap with its bells, and the bauble or rattle which he held in his hand, completed his grotesque appearance. to the fool was allowed the freedom of the court and a close intimacy with his royal master, to whom he could say what he pleased without fear of offense; his duty was to amuse, and the sharper his wit the better. it was called nonsense, though a sword could not thrust with keener malice, and historic moments have often hung upon a fool's jest. the history of the court fool is the history of mediã¦val england, france, spain, and italy, of a time when a quick figure of speech might turn the tide of war, and the fool could reel off his "nonsense" when others dared not speak. no one was spared; the king himself was often the victim of the fool's tongue, and under the guise of nonsense much wisdom lurked. so it has been ever since; the court jester has passed away with other old court customs, but the nonsense that was "writ in books" lived after them, so good, so wholesome that we laugh at it with its old-time swing and sting. the nonsense that we find in books to-day is of a higher order than that of the poor little court fool who, swaggering outwardly, trembled inwardly, as he sent his barbed shaft of wit against some lordly breast. the wisdom hides in the simple fun of everyday that makes life a thing of sunshine and holds the shadows back. lewis carroll had this gift of nonsense more than any other writer of his time. dickens and thackeray possessed wit and humor of a high quality, but they could not command so large an audience, for children turn to healthy nonsense as sunflowers to the sun, and lewis carroll gave them all they wanted. "grown-ups," too, began to listen, detecting behind the fun much, perhaps, which had escaped even the author himself, until he put on his "grown-up" glasses and began to ponder. where the real charm lies in "alice in wonderland" would be very difficult to say. if a thousand children were asked to pick out their favorite parts, it is probable that not ten of them would think alike. a great many would say "i like _any_ part," and really with such a fascinating book how can one choose? the very opening is enough to cure any little girl of drowsiness on a summer day, and the picture of the pompous little _white rabbit_ with his bulging waistcoat and his imposing watch chain, for all the world like an everyday englishman, is a type no doubt that the lively little girls and the grave young "don" knew pretty well. every page gives one something to think about. to begin with, the fact that _alice_ is dreaming, is plain from the beginning, and that very odd sensation of falling through space often comes during the first few moments of sleep. a busy dreamer can accomplish a great deal in a very short time, as we all know, and the most remarkable things happen in the simplest way. there is a story, for instance, of one little girl, who, after a nice warm bath, was carried to bed and tucked in up to her rosy chin. her heavy eyes shut immediately and lo! in half a minute she was back in the big porcelain tub, splashing about like a little mermaid; then nurse pulled the stopper out, and through the waste-pipe went water, small girl, and all. when she opened her eyes with a start, she found she had been dreaming _not quite two minutes_. so suppose the real alice had been dreaming a half an hour; it was quite long enough to skip through "wonderland," and to have delightful and curious things constantly happening. it was the _white rabbit_ talking to himself that first attracted her, but a short stay in "wonderland" got her quite used to all sorts of animals and their funny talk, and the way _she_ had of growing larger or smaller on the shortest notice was very puzzling and amusing. how like real people was this dream-child; how many everyday folks find themselves too small for great places, and too great for the small ones, and how many experiments they try to make themselves larger or smaller! you see lewis carroll thought of all this, though he did not spoil his story by stopping to explain. it is, indeed, poor nonsense that has to be explained every step of the way. the dream "alice" just at first was apt to cry if anything unusual or unpleasant happened; a bad habit with some children, the _real_ alice was given to understand. at any rate, when she drank out of the bottle that tasted of "cherry tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffy, and hot buttered toast," and found herself growing smaller and smaller, she cried, because she was only ten inches high and could not possibly reach the golden key on the glass table. then she took herself to task very sharply, saying: "come, there's no use in crying like that! i advise you to leave off this minute!" "she generally gave herself very good advice (though she seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes, and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. 'but it's no use now,' thought poor alice, 'to pretend to be two people, when there's hardly enough left of me to make _one_ respectable person.'" then when she found the little glass box with a cake in it marked "_eat me_" in currants, she decided that if she ate it something different might happen, for otherwise she would go out like a candle if she grew any smaller. of course, as soon as she swallowed the whole cake, she took a start and soon stood nine feet high in her slippers. "'curiouser and curiouser!' cried alice (she was so surprised that for the moment she quite forgot to speak good english), 'now i'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was. good-bye, feet!' (for when she looked down at her feet they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off.) 'oh, my poor little feet! i wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? i'm sure _i_ shan't be able! i shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you; you must manage the best way you can; but i must be kind to them,' thought alice, 'or perhaps they won't walk the way i want to go! let me see: i'll give them a new pair of boots every christmas.'" "and she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. 'they must go by the carrier,' she thought; 'and how funny it'll seem, sending presents to one's own feet, and how odd the directions will look! _alice's right foot, esq., hearthrug, near the fender, (with alice's love)._ oh, dear, what nonsense i'm talking.'" perhaps it was just here that the children's merriment broke forth; the idea of _alice_ being nine feet high was _too_ ridiculous, but the poor dream "alice" didn't think so, for she sat down and began to cry again. "'you ought to be ashamed of yourself,' said alice, 'a great girl like you' (she might well say this) 'to go on crying in this way! stop this moment i tell you!' but she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears until there was a large pool all around her about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall." this change she found more puzzling still: everything seemed mixed up, the multiplication table, geography, even the verses which had been familiar to her from babyhood. she tried to say "_how doth the little busy bee_," but the words would not come right; instead she began repeating, in a hoarse, strange voice, the following noble lines: "how doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail, and pour the waters of the nile on every golden scale! "how cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws, and welcomes little fishes in, with gently smiling jaws!" naturally this produced a sensation, for where is the child who speaks english who does not know that the busy bee "improves the shining hours!" when the book was translated into french, however, this odd little rhyme not being known to the french children, the translator, m. henri buã©, had to substitute something else which they could understand--one of their own french rhymes made into a parody of la fontaine's "maã®tre corbeau" (master raven). when _alice_ began to shrink again, she went suddenly _splash_ into that immense pool of tears she had shed when she was nine feet high. _now_ she was only two feet high and the water was up to her chin. it was so salty, being tear-water, that she thought she had fallen into the sea, and in this sly fashion lewis carroll managed to smuggle in a timely word about the sad way some little girls have of shedding "oceans of tears" on the most trifling occasion. it was on this briny trip that she fell in with the numbers of queer animals who had also taken refuge in the "pool of tears," from the _mouse_ to the _lory_, who had all fallen into the water and were eagerly swimming toward the shore. they gained it at last and sat there, "the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable," including _alice_ herself, whose long hair hung wet and straggling on her shoulders. the _lory_, of all the odd animals, was probably the oddest. _alice_ found herself talking familiarly with them all, and entering into quite a lengthy argument with the _lory_ in particular about how to get dry. but the _lory_ "turned sulky and would only say: 'i am older than you and must know better,' and this 'alice' would not allow without knowing how old it was, and as the 'lory' positively refused to tell its age, there was nothing more to be said." lewis carroll himself made some interesting notes on the life history of this remarkable animal, which were first produced in _the rectory umbrella_ long before he thought of popping it into "wonderland." "this creature," he writes, "is, we believe, a species of parrot. southey informs us that it is a bird of gorgeous plumery [plumage], and it is our private opinion that there never existed more than one, whose history, as far as practicable, we will now lay before our readers." "the time and place of the lory's birth is uncertain; the egg from which it was hatched was most probably, to judge from the color of the bird, one of those magnificent easter eggs which our readers have doubtless seen. the experiment of hatching an easter egg is at any rate worth trying." after a lengthy and confusing description he winds up as follows: "having thus stated all we know and a great deal we don't know on this interesting subject, we must conclude." _alice_ looked upon this domineering old bird of uncertain age quite as a matter of course, as, indeed, she looked upon everything that happened in wonderland. there is fun bubbling over in every situation. sir john tenniel has given us a clever picture of the wet, woe-begone animals, all clustering around the _mouse_, who had undertaken to make them dry. "ahem!" said the mouse, with an important air, "are you all ready? this is the driest thing i know," and off he rambled into some dull corner of english history, most probably taken out of _alice's_ own lesson book, not unknown to lewis carroll. the caucas race was suggested by the _dodo_ as an excellent method for getting dry, and as it was a race in which everyone came in ahead, everyone of course was satisfied, and in the distribution of prizes no one was forgotten. _alice_ herself received her own thimble, which she fished out of her pocket, and which the _dodo_ solemnly handed back to her, "saying: 'we beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble,' and when it had finished this short speech they all cheered." dinah, the real alice's real cat, plays an important part in the drama of wonderland, although she was left at home dozing in the sun; _alice_ mortally offended the _mouse_, and frightened many of her bird friends almost to death, simply by bringing her into the conversation. it is certainly delightful to follow in the footsteps of this dream-child of lewis carroll's; we lose ourselves in the mazes of wonderland, and even as we grow older we do not feel that we have to stoop in the least to pass through the portals. there was a certain air of sociability in wonderland that pleased _alice_ immensely, for her visiting-list was quite astonishing, and she was continually meeting new--well, not exactly people, but experiences. her talk with a caterpillar during one of those periods when she was barely tall enough to peep over the mushroom on which he was sitting is "highly amusing and instructive." "'who are you?' said the caterpillar. "this was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. alice replied rather shyly: 'i--i hardly know, sir, just at present: at least i know who i was when i got up this morning, but i think i must have changed several times since then.' "'what do you mean by that?' said the caterpillar sternly. 'explain yourself!' "'i can't explain _myself_, i'm afraid, sir,' said alice, 'because i'm not myself, you see.' "'i don't see,' said the caterpillar. "'i'm afraid i can't put it more clearly,' alice replied, very politely, 'for i can't understand it myself to begin with, and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.' "'it isn't,' said the caterpillar. "'well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said alice, 'but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, i should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?' "'not a bit,' said the caterpillar. "'well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said alice; 'all i know is, it would feel very queer to _me_.' "'you!' said the caterpillar, contemptuously, 'who are _you_?' which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation." it was the _caterpillar_ who asked her to recite "you are old, father william," and _alice_ began in this fashion: "you are old, father william," the young man said, "and your hair has become very white; and yet you incessantly stand on your head- do you think at your age it is right?" "in my youth," father william replied to his son, "i feared it might injure the brain; but now that i'm perfectly sure i have none, why, i do it again and again." "you are old," said the youth, "as i mentioned before, and have grown most uncommonly fat; yet you turned a back somersault in at the door- pray, what is the reason of that?" "in my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, "i kept all my limbs very supple by the use of this ointment--one shilling the box- allow me to sell you a couple." "you are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak for anything tougher than suet; yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak- pray, how did you manage to do it?" "in my youth," said his father, "i took to the law, and argued each case with my wife; and the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw has lasted the rest of my life." "you are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose that your eye was as steady as ever; yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose- what made you so awfully clever?" "i have answered three questions, and that is enough," said his father; "don't give yourself airs! do you think i can listen all day to such stuff? be off, or i'll kick you downstairs!" now _alice_ knew well enough that she had given an awful twist to a pretty and old-fashioned piece of poetry, but for the life of her the old words refused to come. it seemed that with her power to grow large or small on short notice, her memory performed queer antics; she was never sure of it for two minutes together. one odd thing about her change of size was that she never grew up or dwindled away unless she ate something or drank something. now every little girl has had similar experience when it came to eating and drinking. "eat so and so," says a "grown-up," "and you will be tall and strong," and "if you _don't_ eat this thing or that, you will be little all your life," so _alice_ was only going through the same trials in wonderland. her meeting with the _duchess_ and the peppery _cook_, and the screaming _baby_, and the grinning _cheshire cat_, occupied some thrilling moments. she found the _duchess_ conversational but cross, and the _cook_ sprinkling pepper lavishly into _the_ soup she was stirring, and _out_ of it for the matter of that, so that everybody was sneezing. the _cat_ was the sole exception; it sat on the hearth and grinned from ear to ear. _alice_ opened the conversation by asking the _duchess_, who was holding the _baby_ and jumping it up and down so roughly that it howled dismally, why the _cat_ grinned in that absurd way. "'it's a cheshire cat,' said the duchess, and that's why. 'pig!' she said the last word with such sudden violence that alice quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby and not to her, so she took courage and went on again: "'i didn't know that cheshire cats always grinned--in fact i didn't know that cats _could_ grin.' "'they all can,' said the duchess, 'and most of 'em do.' "'i don't know of any that do,' said alice, very politely, feeling quite pleased to have got into a conversation. "'you don't know much,' said the duchess; 'and that's a fact.' "alice did not like the tone of this remark and thought it would be well to introduce some other subject of conversation." then the _cook_ began throwing things about, and the _duchess_, to quiet the howling _baby_, sang the following beautiful lullaby, which she emphasized by a violent shake at the end of every line. considering lewis carroll's rather strong feeling on the boy question, they were most appropriate lines, indeed. speak roughly to your little boy, and beat him when he sneezes; he only does it to annoy, because he know it teases. _chorus._ (in which the cook and the baby joined.) wow! wow! wow! i speak severely to my boy, i beat him when he sneezes, for he can thoroughly enjoy the pepper when he pleases! _chorus._ wow! wow! wow! imagine the quiet "don" beating time to this beautiful measure, his blue eyes gleaming with fun, his expressive voice shaded to just the right tones to give color to the chorus, while the little girls chimed in at the proper moment. it was no trouble for him to make rhymes, being endowed with this wonderful gift of nonsense, and in conversation he was equally clever. he gave the _duchess_ quite the air of a learned lady, even though she did not know that mustard was a vegetable. when _alice_ suggested that it was a mineral, she was quite ready to agree. "'there's a large mustard mine near here,' she observed, 'and the moral of that is' [the duchess had a moral for everything], 'the more there is of mine--the less there is of yours.' 'oh, i know!' exclaimed alice, who had not attended to this last remark, 'it's a vegetable. it doesn't look like one but it is.' "'i quite agree with you,' said the duchess, 'and the moral of that is, "be what you would seem to be," or if you'd like to put it more simply, "never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise."' "'i think i should understand that better,' said alice, very politely, 'if i had it written down, but i can't quite follow it as you say it.' "'that's nothing to what i could say if i chose,'" the duchess replied in a pleasant tone. _alice's_ talk with the _cheshire cat_, which had the remarkable power of appearing and vanishing in portions, the table gossip at the mad tea party, to which she was an uninvited guest, are too well-known to quote. many a time the mad tea party has been the theme of some nursery play or school entertainment. the _mad hatter_ and the _march hare_ were certainly the maddest things that ever were. when the _hatter_ complained of his watch being two days wrong, he turned angrily to the _march hare_, saying: "'i told you butter wouldn't suit the works.' "'it was the _best_ butter,' the march hare meekly replied. "'yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,' the hatter grumbled; 'you shouldn't have put it in with the bread knife.' "the march hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily; then he dipped it into his cup of tea and looked at it again; but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, 'it was the _best_ butter you know.'" surely nothing could be more amusing that this party of mad ones, and the sleepy _dormouse_, who sat between the _march hare_ and the _hatter_, contributed his share to the fun, while the _hatter's_ songs, which he sang at the concert given by the _queen of hearts_, was certainly very familiar to _alice_. it began: twinkle, twinkle, little bat- how i wonder what you're at! up above the world you fly, like a tea tray in the sky. twinkle, twinkle. who but lewis carroll could invent such a scene? who could better plan the little sparkling sentences which gave the nonsense just the glitter which children found so fascinating and so laughable. yet what did they laugh at after all? what do we laugh at even to-day in glancing over the familiar pages? what is it in the mysterious depths of childhood which lewis carroll has caught in his golden web? perhaps, it is not all mere childhood; we are ourselves but "children of a larger growth," and deep down within us at some time or other fancy runs riot and imagination does the rest. so it was with lewis carroll, only _his_ fancy soared into genius, carrying with it, as someone has said, "a suggestion of clear and yet soft laughing sunshine. he never made us laugh _at_ anything, but always _with_ him and his knights and queens and heroes of the nursery rhymes." behind much of the world's laughter tears may be hiding, but not so in the case of lewis carroll; all is pure mirth that flows from him to us, and above all he possesses that indescribable thing called charm. it lurks in the quaint conversations, in the fluent measure of the songs, in the fantastic scenes so full of ideas that seem to vanish before we quite grasp them--like the _cheshire cat_--leaving only the smile behind. to those of us--the world in short--who were denied the privilege of hearing lewis carroll tell his own story, the tenniel pictures bring wonderland very close. our natural history alone would not help us in the least when it came to classifying the many strange animals _alice_ met on her journey. the _mock turtle_, the _gryphon_, the _lory_, the _dodo_, the _cheshire cat_, the _fish_ and _frog_ footmen--how could we imagine them without the tenniel "guidebook"? the numberless transformations of _alice_ could hardly be understood without photographs of her in the various stages. and certainly at the croquet party, given by the _queen of hearts_, how could anyone imagine a game played with bent-over soldiers for wickets, hedgehogs for croquet balls, and flamingoes for mallets, unless there were accompanying illustrations? one specially interesting picture shows the _gryphon_ in the foreground; he and _alice_ paid a visit to the _mock turtle_, who, by way of entertaining his guests, gave the following description of the lobster quadrille. with tears running down his cheeks he began: "'you have never lived much under the sea' ('i haven't,' said alice) 'and perhaps you were never introduced to a lobster--' (alice began to say 'i once tasted--' but she checked herself hastily, and said, 'no, never'), 'so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a lobster quadrille is!' "'no, indeed,' said alice. 'what sort of a dance is it?' "'why,' said the gryphon, 'you first form into a line along the seashore.' "'two lines!' cried the mock turtle. 'seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then when you've cleared all the jellyfish out of the way--' "'_that_ generally takes some time,' interrupted the gryphon. "'you advance twice.' "'each with a lobster as a partner!' cried the gryphon. "'of course,' the mock turtle said; 'advance twice, set to partners--' "'change lobsters and retire in same order,' continued the gryphon. "'then, you know,' the mock turtle went on, 'you throw the--' "'the lobsters!' shouted the gryphon with a bound into the air. "'as far out to sea as you can--' "'swim after them!' screamed the gryphon. "'turn a somersault in the sea!' cried the mock turtle, capering wildly about. "'change lobsters again!' yelled the gryphon at the top of its voice. "'back to land again, and--that's all the first figure,' said the mock turtle, suddenly dropping his voice, and the two creatures who had been jumping about like mad things all this time sat down again, very sadly and quietly, and looked at alice." who could read this without laughing, with no reason for the laugh but sheer delight and sympathy with the story-teller, and with dancing and motion and all the rest of it. if anyone begins to hunt for the reasons why we like "alice in wonderland" that person is either very, very sleepy, or she has left her youth so far behind her that, like the _lory_, she absolutely refuses to tell her age, in which case she must be as old as the hills. then the dance, which the two gravely performed for the little girl, and who can forget the song of the _mock turtle_? "will you walk a little faster!" said a whiting to a snail, "there's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. see how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! they are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? "you can really have no notion how delightful it will be when they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" but the snail replied, "too far, too far!" and gave a look askance- said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. "what matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied, "there is another shore, you know, upon the other side, the farther off from england the nearer is to france; then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" then _alice_ tried to repeat "'tis the voice of the sluggard," but she was so full of the lobster quadrille that the words came like this: 'tis the voice of the lobster, i heard him declare, "you have baked me too brown, i must sugar my hair." as a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. the whole time she was in wonderland she never by any chance recited anything correctly, and through all of her wanderings she never met anything in the shape of a little boy, except the infant son of the _duchess_, who after all turned out to be a pig and vanished in the woods. the "roundabouts" played no parts in "alice in wonderland," and yet--to a man--they love it to this day. when at last _alice_ bade farewell to the _mock turtle_, she left it sobbing of course, and singing with much emotion the following song, entitled: turtle soup. beautiful soup, so rich and green, waiting in a hot tureen! who for such dainties would not stoop? soup of the evening, beautiful soup! soup of the evening, beautiful soup! beau--ootiful soo--oop! beau--ootiful soo--oop! soo--oop of the e--e--evening, beautiful, beautiful soup! beautiful soup! who cares for fish, game, or any other dish who would not give all else for two pennyworth only of beautiful soup? beau--ootiful soo--oop! beau--ootiful soo--oop! soo--oop of the e--e--evening, beautiful, beauti--ful soup! we might spend a whole chapter over the great trial scene of the _knave of hearts_. we all know that the wretched fellow stole some tarts upon a summer's day, and that he was brought in chains before the _king_ and _queen_, to face the charges. what we did not know was that it was the fourth of july, and that _alice_ was one of the witnesses. this, in a certain way, is the cleverest chapter in the book, for all the characters in wonderland take part in the proceedings, which are so like, and yet so comically unlike, a real court. we forget, as _alice_ did, that all these royalties are but a pack of cards, and follow all the evidence with the greatest interest, including the piece of paper which the _white rabbit_ had just found and presented to the court. it contained the following verses: they told me you had been to her, and mentioned me to him: she gave me a good character, but said i could not swim. he sent them word i had not gone (we know it to be true): if she should push the matter on, what would become of you? i gave her one, they gave him two, you gave us three or more: they all returned from him to you, though they were mine before. if i or she should chance to be involved in this affair, he trusts to you to set them free, exactly as we were. my notion was that you had been (before she had this fit) an obstacle that came between him, and ourselves, and it. don't let him know she liked them best, for this must ever be a secret, kept from all the rest, between yourself and me. this truly clear explanation touches the _queen of hearts_ so closely that the outsider is led to believe that she is indirectly responsible for the theft, that the poor knave is but the tool of her majesty, whose fondness for tarts led her into temptation. lewis carroll had a keen eye for the dramatic climax--the packed court room, the rambling evidence, the mystifying scrap of paper, and _alice's_ defiance of the _king_ and _queen_. "'off with her head!' the queen shouted at the top of her voice. nobody moved. 'who cares for you?' said alice (she had grown to her full size by this time), 'you're nothing but a pack of cards.' "at this, the whole pack rose up in the air and came flying down upon her; she gave a little scream, half of fright, half of anger, and tried to beat them off and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees on to her face...." and so alice woke up, shook back the elf-locks, and laughed as she rubbed her eyes. "such a curious dream!" she said, as the wonder of it all came back to her, and she told her sister of the queer things she had seen and heard, and long after she had run away, this big sister sat with closed eyes, dreaming and wondering. "the long grass rustled at her feet as the white rabbit hurried by; the frightened mouse splashed his way through the neighboring pool; she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the march hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution. once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it; once more the shriek of the gryphon, the squeaking of the lizard's slate pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea pigs filled the air, mixed up with the distant sob of the miserable mock turtle." yet when she opened her eyes she knew that wonderland must go. in reality "the grass would only be rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds, the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep bells and the queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy, and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the gryphon, and all the other queer noises would change ... to the confused clamor of the busy farmyard, while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the mock turtle's heavy sobs." so _we_ have dreamed of wonderland from that time till now, when lewis carroll looks out from the pages of his book and says: "that's all--for to-night--there may be more to-morrow." chapter viii. lewis carroll at home and abroad. the popularity of "alice in wonderland" was a never-ending source of surprise to the author, who had only to stand quietly by and rake in his profits, as edition after edition was swallowed up by a public incessantly clamoring for more, and lewis carroll was not too modest to enjoy the sensation he was creating in the literary world. his success came to him unsought, and was all the more lasting because the seeds of it were planted in love and laughter. let us see what he says in the preface to "alice underground," the forerunner, as we know, of "alice in wonderland." "the 'why' of this book cannot and need not be put into words. those for whom a child's mind is a sealed book, and who see no divinity in a child's smile, would read such words in vain; while for any one who has ever loved one true child, no words are needed. for he will have known the awe that falls on one in the presence of a spirit, fresh from god's hands, on whom no shadow of sin, and but the outermost fringe of the shadow of sorrow, has yet fallen; he will have felt the bitter contrast between the haunting selfishness that spoils his best deeds and the life that is but an overflowing love--for i think a child's first attitude to the world is a simple love for all living things--and he will have learned that the best work a man can do is when he works for love's sake only, with no thought of name or gain or earthly reward. no deed of ours, i suppose, on this side of the grave is really unselfish, yet if one can put forth all one's powers in a task where nothing of reward is hoped for but a little child's whispered thanks, and the airy touch of a little child's pure lips, one seems to have come somewhere near to this." in the appendix to the same book he writes regarding laughter: "i do not believe god means us to divide life into two halves--to wear a grave face on sunday, and to think it out of place even so much as to mention him on a week-day.... surely the children's innocent laughter is as sweet in his ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from 'the dim religious light' of some solemn cathedral; and if i have written anything to add to those stores of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the children i love so well, it is surely something i may hope to look back upon without shame or sorrow ... when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows." such was the man who filled the world with laughter, and wrote "nonsense" books; a man of such deeply religious feeling that a jest that touched upon sacred things, however innocent in itself, was sure to bring down his wrath upon the head of the offender. there is a certain strain of sadness in those quoted words of his, which surely never belonged to those "golden summer days" when he made merry with the three little liddells. we must remember that twenty-one years had passed between the telling of the story and the reprint of the original manuscript, and lewis carroll was just a little graver and considerably older than on that eventful day when the _white rabbit_ looked at his watch as if to say: "oh--my ears and whiskers! what will the duchess think!" as he popped down the hole with _alice_ at his heels. but we are going a little too far ahead. after the writing of "alice," with the accompanying excitement of seeing his first-born win favor, lewis carroll went quietly forward in his daily routine. he had already become quite a famous lecturer, being, indeed, the only mathematical lecturer in christ church college, so charles lutwidge dodgson was not completely overshadowed by the glory of lewis carroll. from the beginning he was careful to separate these two sides of his life, and the numbers of letters which soon began to pour in upon the latter were never recognized by the grave, precise "don," whose thoughts flowed in numbers, and so it was all through his life. when anyone wrote to him, addressing him by his real name, and praising him for the "alice" books, he sent a printed reply which he kept "handy," saying that as c. l. dodgson was so often approached as the author of books bearing another name, it must be understood that mr. dodgson never acknowledged the authorship of a book which did not bear his name. he was most careful in the wording of this printed form, that it should bear no shadow of untruth. it was only his shy way of avoiding the notice of strangers, and it succeeded so well that very few people knew that the rev. charles dodgson and lewis carroll were one and the same person. it was also hinted, and very broadly, too, that many of the queer characters _alice_ met on her journey through wonderland were very dignified and stately figures in the university itself, who posed unconsciously as models. the _hatter_ is an acknowledged portrait, and no doubt there were many other sly caricatures, for lewis carroll was a born humorist. "alice" has been given to the public in many ways besides translations. there have been lectures, plays, magic lantern slides of tenniel's wonderful pictures, tableaux; and many scenes find their way, even at this day, in the nursery wall-paper covered over with gryphons and mock turtles and the whole court of cards--a most imposing array. it has been truly stated that, with the exception of shakespeare's plays, no books have been so often quoted as the two "alices." after the publication of "alice in wonderland," lewis carroll contributed short stories to the various periodicals which were eager for his work. as early as 1867, he sent to _aunt judy's magazine_ a short story called "bruno's revenge," the foundation of "sylvie and bruno," which was never published in book form until 1889, twenty-two years after. the editor of the magazine, mrs. gatty, in accepting the story, gave the author some wholesome advice wrapped up in a bundle of praise for the dainty little idyll. she reminded him that mathematical ability such as he possessed was also the gift of hundreds of others, but his story-telling talent, so full of exquisite touches, was peculiarly his own, and whatever of fame might come to him would be on the wings of the fairies, and not from the lecture room. in "bruno's revenge" we have, for the first time in any of his stories, a little boy. it was a sort of unwilling tribute lewis carroll paid to the poor despised "roundabouts," and for all the winsome fairy ways and merry little touches, _bruno_ was never _quite_ the real thing; at any rate the story was put away to simmer, and as the long years passed, it was added to bit by bit until--but _that_ is another story. between the publication of "alice" and the summer vacation of 1867 he wrote several very learned mathematical works that earned him much distinction among the christ church undergraduates, who found it hard to believe that mr. dodgson and lewis carroll were so closely connected. it was during this summer (1867) that he and dr. liddon took a short tour on the continent. the two men had much in common and were firm friends. both had the true oxford spirit, both were churchmen, dr. liddon being quite a famous preacher, and both were men of high intelligence with a good supply of humor; consequently the prospect of a trip to russia together was a very delightful one. lewis carroll kept a journal which was such a complete record of his experiences that at one time he thought of publishing it, though it was never done. he went up to london on july 12th, remarking in his characteristic way that he and the sultan of turkey arrived on the same day, _his_ entrance being at paddington station--the sultan's at charing cross, where, he was forced to admit, the crowd was much greater. he met dr. liddon at dover and they crossed to calais, finding the passage unusually smooth and uneventful, feeling in some way that they had paid their money in vain, for the trip across the channel is generally one of storm and stress. all such tours have practically the same object--to see and to enjoy--and the young "don" came out of his den for this express purpose. it had been impossible in the busy years since his graduation to take his holidays far away from home, but at the age of thirty-five he felt that he had earned the right, and proceeded to use it in his own way. their route lay through germany, stopping at cologne, danzig, berlin and kã¶nigsberg, among other places, and he feasted on the beauties which these various cities had to offer him; the architecture and paintings, the pageantry of strange religions, the music in the great cathedrals, and last, but not least, the foreign drama interested him greatly. the german acting was easy enough to follow, as he knew a little of the language; but the russian tongue was beyond him, and he could only rely upon the gestures and expression. their special object in going to russia was to see the great fair at nijni-novgorod. this fair brought all the corners of the earth together; chinese, persians, tartars, native russians, mingled in the busy, surging life about them, and lent color and variety to every step. the two friends spent their time pleasantly, for the fame of dr. liddon's preaching had reached russia, and the clergy opened their doors to the travelers and took them over many churches and monasteries, which otherwise they might never have seen. they stopped in moscow, st. petersburg, kronstadt, warsaw, taking in leipzig, giessen, ems, and many smaller places on the homeward road. they visited a famous monastery while in moscow, and were even shown the subterranean cells of the hermits. at kronstadt they had a most amusing experience. they went to call upon a friend, and dr. liddon, forgetting his scanty knowledge of the russian language, rashly handed his overcoat to one of the servants. when they were ready to leave there was a waiting-maid in attendance--but no overcoat. the damsel spoke no english, the gentleman spoke no russian, so dr. liddon asked for his overcoat with what he considered the most appropriate gesture. intelligence beamed upon the maiden's face; she ran from the room, returning with a clothes brush. no, dr. liddon did not want his coat brushed; he tried other gestures, succeeding so beautifully that the girl was convinced that he wanted to take a nap on the sofa, and brought a cushion and a pillow for that purpose. still no overcoat, and dr. liddon was in despair until lewis carroll made a sketch of his friend with one coat on, in the act of putting on another, in the hands of an obliging russian peasant. the drawing was so expressive that the maid understood at once; the mystery was solved--and the coat recovered. with this gift of drawing a situation, it is remarkable that lewis carroll never became an artist. with all his artistic ideas, and with his real knowledge of art, it seems a pity that he could not have gratified his ambition, but after serious consultation with john ruskin, who as critic and friend examined his work, he decided that his natural gift was not great enough to push, and sensibly resolved not to waste so much precious time. still, to the end of his life, he drew for amusement's sake and for the pleasure it gave his small friends. altogether their tour was a very pleasant one, and their return was through germany, that most interesting country of hills and valleys and pretty white villages nestling among the trees. what lewis carroll specially liked was the way the old castles seemed to spring out of the rock on which they had been built, as if they had grown there without the aid of bricks and mortar. he admired the spirit of the old architects, which guided them to plan buildings naturally suited to their surroundings, and was never tired of the beautiful hills, so densely covered with small trees as to look moss-grown in the distance. on his return to oxford, he plunged at once into very active work. the new term was beginning--there were lectures to prepare and courses to plan, and undergraduates to interview, all of which kept him quite busy for a while, though it did not interfere with certain cozy afternoon teas, when he related his summer adventures to his numerous girl friends, and kept them in a gale of laughter over his many queer experiences. but these same little girls were clamoring for another book, and a hundred thousand others were alike eager for it, to judge by the heavy budgets of mail he received, so he cast about in that original mind of his for a worthy sequel to "alice in wonderland." he was willing to write a sequel then, for "alice" was still fresh and amusing to a host of children, and its luster had been undimmed as yet by countless imitations. to be sure "alice in blunderland" had appeared in _punch_, the well-known english paper of wit and humor, but then _punch_ was _punch_, and spared nothing which might yield a ripple of laughter. when it was known that he had finally determined to write the book, a leading magazine offered him two guineas a page (a sum equal to about ten dollars in our money) for the privilege of printing it as a serial. this story as we know was called "through the looking-glass and what alice found there," though few people take time to use the full title. it is usually read by youngsters right "on top" of "alice in wonderland." they speak of the two books as the "alices," and some of the best editions are even bound together, so closely are the stories connected. with lewis carroll's aptness for doing things backward, is it any wonder that he pushed alice through the looking-glass? and so full of grace and beauty and absurd situations is the story he has given us, we quite forget that it was written for the public, and not entirely for three little girls "all on a summer's day." no doubt they heard the chapters for they were right there across "tom quad" and could be summoned by a whistle, if need be, along with some other little girls who had sprung up within the walls of christ church. at any rate the story turned out far beyond his expectations and he was again fortunate in securing tenniel as his illustrator. it was no easy task to illustrate for lewis carroll, who criticised every stroke, and being quite enough of an artist to know exactly what he wanted, he was never satisfied until he had it. this often tried the patience of those who worked with him, but his own good humor and unfailing courtesy generally won in the end. in the midst of this pleasant work came the greatest sorrow of his life, the death of his father, archdeacon dodgson, on june 21, 1868. seventeen years had passed since his mother's death, which had left him stunned on the very threshold of his college life; but he was only a boy in spite of his unusual gravity, and his youth somehow fought for him when he battled with his grief. in those intervening years, he and his father had grown very close together. one never took a step without consulting the other. christ church and all it meant to one of them was alike dear to the other. the archdeacon took the keenest interest in his son's outside work, and we may be quite sure that "alice" was as much read and as thoroughly enjoyed by this grave scholar as by any other member of his household. it was the suddenness of his death which left its lasting mark on lewis carroll, and the fact that he was summoned too late to see his father alive. it was a terrible shock, and a grief of which he could never _speak_. he wrote some beautiful letters about it, but those who knew him well respected the wall of silence he erected. in truth, our quiet, self-contained "don" was a man of deep emotions; the quiet, the poise, had come through years of inward struggle, and he maintained it at the cost of being considered a little cold by people who never could know the trouble it had been to smother the fire. he put away his sorrow with other sacred things, and on his return to oxford went to work in his characteristic way on a pamphlet concerning the fifth book of euclid, written principally to aid the students during examinations, and which was considered an excellent bit of work. in november, 1868, he moved into new quarters in christ church and, as he occupied these rooms for the rest of his life, a little description of them just here would not be out of place. "tom quad," we must not forget, was the great quadrangle of christ church, where all the masters and heads of the college lived with their families. this was called being _in residence_, and a pretty sight it was to see the great stretch of green, and its well-kept paths gay with the life that poured from the doors and peeped through the windows of this wonderful place; a sunny day brought out all the young ones, and just here lewis carroll's closest ties were formed. the angles of "tom quad" were the choice spots for a lodging, and lewis carroll lived in the west angle, first on the ground floor, where, as we know, "alice in wonderland" was written; then, when he made his final move, it was to the floor above, which was brighter and sunnier, giving him more rooms and more space. this upper floor looked out upon the flat roof of the college, an excellent place for photography, to which he was still devoted, and he asked permission of those in charge to erect a studio there. this was easily obtained, and could the walls tell tales they would hum with the voices of the celebrated "flies" this clever young "spider" lured into his den. for he took beautiful photographs at a time when photography was not the perfect system that it is now, and nothing pleased him better than posing well-known people. all the big lights of oxford sat before his camera, including lord salisbury, who was chancellor at that time. artists, sculptors, writers, actors of note had their pleasant hour in lewis carroll's studio. our "don" was very partial to great people, that is, the truly great, the men and women who truly counted in the world, whether by birth and breeding or by some accomplished deed or high aim. being a cultured gentleman himself, he had a vast respect for culture in other people--not a bad trait when all is told, and setting very naturally upon an englishman born of gentle stock, with generations of ladies and gentlemen at his back. one glance into the sensitive, refined face of charles dodgson would convince us at once that no friendship he ever formed had anything but the highest aim for him. he might have chosen for his motto- "only what thou art in thyself, not what thou hast, determines thy value." even among his girl friends, the "little lady," no matter how poor or plain, was his first object; that was a strong enough foundation. the rest was easy. but here we have been outside in the studio soaring a bit in the sky, when our real destination is that suite of beautiful big rooms where lewis carroll lived and wrote and entertained his many friends, for hospitality was one of his greatest pleasures, and his dining-room and dinner parties are well remembered by every child friend he knew, to say nothing of those privileged elders who were sometimes allowed to join them. he was very particular about his dinners and luncheons, taking care to have upon the table only what his young guests could eat. he had four sitting rooms and quite as many bedrooms, to say nothing of store-rooms, closets and so forth. his study was a great room, full of comfortable sofas and chairs, and stools and tables, and cubby-holes and cupboards, where many wonderfully interesting things were hidden from view, to be brought forth at just the right moment for special entertainment. lewis carroll had english ideas about comfortable surroundings. he loved books, and his shelves were well filled with volumes of his own choosing; a rare and valuable library, where each book was a tried friend. a man with so many sitting rooms must certainly have had use for them all, and knowing how methodical he was we may feel quite sure that the room where he wrote "through the looking-glass" was not the sanctum where he prepared his lectures and wrote his books on logic and higher mathematics; it _might_ have served for an afternoon frolic or a tea party of little girls; _that_ would have been in keeping, as probably he received the undergraduates in his sanctum. as for the other two sitting rooms, "let's pretend," as alice herself says, that one was dedicated to the writing of poetry, and the other to the invention of games and puzzles; he had quite enough work of all kinds on hand to keep every room thoroughly aired. we shall hear about these rooms again from little girls whose greatest delight it was to visit them. what we want to do now is to picture lewis carroll in his new quarters, energetically pushing alice through the looking-glass, while at the same time he was busily writing "phantasmagoria," a queer ghost poem which attracted much attention. it was published with a great many shorter poems in the early part of 1869, preceding the publication of the new "alice," on which he was working chapter by chapter with sir john tenniel. it was wonderful how closely the artist followed the queer mazes of lewis carroll's thought. he was able to draw the strange animals and stranger situations just as the author wished to have them, but there came a point at which the artist halted and shook his head. "i don't like the 'wasp chapter,'" was the substance of a letter from artist to author, and he could not see his way to illustrating it. indeed, even with his skill, a wasp in a wig was rather a difficult subject and, as lewis carroll wouldn't take off the wig, they were at a standstill. rather than sacrifice the wig it was determined to cut out the chapter, and as it was really not so good as the other chapters, it was not much loss to the book, which rounded out very easily to just the dozen, full of the cleverest illustrations tenniel ever drew. it was his last attempt at illustrating: the gift deserted him suddenly and never returned. his original cartoon work was always excellent, but the "alices" had brought him a peculiar fame which would never have come to him through the columns of _punch_, and lewis carroll, always generous in praising others, was quick to recognize the master hand which followed his thought. there was something in every stroke which appealed to the laughter of children, and the power of producing unthinkable animals amounted almost to inspiration. no doubt there may be illustrators of the present day quite as clever in their line, but lewis carroll stood alone in a new world which he created; there were none before him and none followed him, and his knight of the brush was faithful and true. "through the looking-glass" was published in 1871, and at once took its place as another "alice" classic. there is much to be said about this book--so much, indeed, that it requires a chapter of its own, for many agree in considering it even more of a masterpiece than "alice in wonderland," and though more carefully planned out than its predecessor, there is no hint of hard labor in the brilliant nonsense. those who have known and loved the man recognize in the "alices" the best and most attractive part of him. in spite of his persistent stammering, he was a ready and natural talker, and when in the mood he could be as irresistibly funny as any of the characters in his book. his knowledge of english was so great that he could take the most ordinary expression and draw from it a new and unexpected meaning; his habit of "playing upon words" is one of his very funniest traits. when the _mock turtle_ said in that memorable conversation with _alice_ which we all know by heart: "no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise," he meant, of course, without a _purpose_, and having made the joke he refused explanations and seemed offended that _alice_ needed any. another humorous idea was that the whitings always held their tails in their mouths. "the reason is," said the gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. so they were thrown out to sea. so they had to fall a long way. so they got their tails fast in their mouths. so they couldn't get them out again. that's all." this is not the natural position of the whiting, as we all know, but the device of the fishmonger to make his windows attractive, and _alice_ herself came perilously near saying that she had eaten them for dinner cooked in that fashion and sprinkled over with bread crumbs. it was just lewis carroll's funny way of viewing things, in much the same fashion that one of his child-friends would look at them. his was a real child's mind, full of wonder depths where all sorts of impossible things existed, two-sided triangles, parallel lines that met in a point, whitings who had their tails in their mouths, and many other delightful contradictions, some of which he gave to the world. others he stored away for the benefit of the numberless little girls who had permission to rummage in the store-house. "alice through the looking-glass" made its bow with a flourish of trumpets. all the "nonsense" world was waiting for it, and for once expectation was not disappointed and the author found himself almost hidden beneath his mantle of glory. people praised him so much that it is quite a wonder his head was not completely turned. henry kingsley, the novelist, thought it "perfectly splendid," and indeed many others fully agreed with him. as for the children--and after all they were his _real_ critics--the little girl who thought "through the looking-glass" "stupider" than wonderland, voiced the popular sentiment. those who were old enough to read the book themselves soon knew by heart all the fascinating poetry, and if the story had no other merit, "the jabberwocky" alone would have been enough to recommend it. of all the queer fancies of a queer mind, this poem was the most remarkable, and even to-day, with all our clever verse-makers and nonsense-rhymers, no one has succeeded in getting out of apparently meaningless words so much real meaning and genuine fun as are to be found in this one little classic. many people have tried in vain to trace its origin; one enterprising lady insisted on calling it a translation from the german. someone else decided there was a scandinavian flavor about it, so he called it a "saga." mr. a. a. vansittart, of trinity college, cambridge, made an excellent latin translation of it, and hundreds of others have puzzled over the many "wrapped up" meanings in the strange words. we shall meet the poem later on and discuss its many wonders. at present we must follow charles dodgson back into his sanctum where he was eagerly pursuing a new course--the study of anatomy and physiology. he was presented with a skeleton, and laying in the proper supply of books, he set to work in earnest. he bought a little book called "what to do in emergencies" and perfected himself in what we know to-day as "first aid to the injured." he accumulated in this way some very fine medical and surgical books, and had more than one occasion to use his newly acquired knowledge. most men labor all their lives to gain fame. lewis carroll was a hard worker, but fame came to him without an effort. along his line of work he took his "vorpal" sword in hand and severed all the knots and twists of the mathematical jabberwocky. it was when he played that he reached the heights; when he touched the realm of childhood he was all conquering, for he was in truth a child among them, and every child felt the youthfulness in his glance, in the wave of his hand, in the fitting of his mood to theirs, and his entire sympathy in all their small joys sorrows--such great important things in their child-world. he often declared that children were three fourths of his life, and it seems indeed a pity that none of his own could join the band of his ardent admirers. here he was, a young man still in spite of his forty years, holding as his highest delight the power he possessed of giving happiness to other people's children. yet had anyone ventured to voice this regret, he would have replied like many another in his position: "children--bless them! of course i love them. i prefer other people's children. all delight and no bother. one runs a fearful risk with one's own." and he might have added with his whimsical smile, "and supposing they _might_ have been boys!" chapter ix. more of "alice through the looking-glass." six years had passed since _alice_ took her trip through wonderland, and, strange to say, she had not grown very much older, for time has the trick of standing still in fairyland, and when lewis carroll pushed her through the looking-glass she told everyone she met on the other side that she was seven years and six months old, not very much older, you see, than the alice of long ago, with the elf-locks and the dreamy eyes. the real alice was in truth six years older now, but real people never count in fairyland, and surely no girl of a dozen years or more would have been able to squeeze through the other side of a looking-glass. still, though so very young, _alice_ was quite used to travel, and knew better how to deal with all the queer people she met after her experiences in wonderland. mirrors are strange things. _alice_ had often wondered what lay behind the big one over the parlor mantel, and _wondering_ with _alice_ meant _doing_, for presto! up she climbed to the mantelshelf. it was easy enough to push through, for she did not have to use the slightest force, and the glass melted at her touch into a sheet of mist and there she was on the other side! in the interval between the two "alices," a certain poetic streak had become strongly marked in lewis carroll. to him a child's soul was like the mirror behind which little _alice_ peeped out from its "other side," and gave us the reflection of her child-thoughts. "only a dream," we may say, but then child-life is dream-life. so much is "make-believe" that "every day" is dipped in its golden light. it was a dainty fancy to hold us spellbound at the mirror, and many a little girl, quite "unbeknownst" to the "grown-ups," has tried her small best to squeeze through the looking-glass just as _alice_ did. in the days of our grandmothers, when the cheval glass swung in a frame, the "make believe" came easier, for one could creep under it or behind it, instead of through it, with much the same result. but nowadays, with looking-glasses built in the walls, how _can_ one pretend properly! if fairies only knew what examples they were to the average small girl and small boy, they would be very careful about the things they did. fortunately they are old-fashioned fairies, and have not yet learned to ride in automobiles or flying-machines, else there's no telling what might happen. _alice_ was always lucky in finding herself in the very best society--nothing more or less than royalty itself. but the royal court of cards was not to be compared with the royal court of chessmen, which she found behind the fireplace when she jumped down on the other side of the mantel. of course, it was only "pretending" from the beginning; a romp with the kittens toward the close of a short winter's day, a little girl curled up in an armchair beside the fire with the kitten in her lap, while dinah, the mother cat, sat near by washing little snowdrop's face, the snow falling softly without, _alice_ was just the least bit drowsy, and so she talked to keep awake. "do you hear the snow against the window panes, kitty? how nice and soft it sounds! just as if some one was kissing the window all over outside. i wonder if the snow _loves_ the trees and fields that it kisses them so gently? and then it covers them up snug you know with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, 'go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again,' and when they wake up in the summer, kitty, they dress themselves all in green, and dance about whenever the wind blows. 'oh, that's very pretty!' cried alice, dropping the ball of worsted to clap her hands. 'i do so _wish_ it was true. i'm sure the woods look sleepy in the autumn when the leaves are getting brown.'" we are sure, too, _alice_ was getting sleepy in the glow of the firelight with the black kitten purring a lullaby on her lap. she had probably been playing with the chessmen and pretending as usual, so it is small wonder that the heavy eyes closed, and the black kitten grew into the shape of the _red queen_--and so the story began. it was the work of a few minutes to be on speaking terms with the whole chess court which _alice_ found assembled. the back of the clock on the mantelshelf looked down upon the scene with the grinning face of an old man, and even the vase wore a smiling visage. there was a good fire burning in this looking-glass grate, but the flames went the other way of course, and down among the ashes, back of the grate, the chessmen were walking about in pairs. sir john tenniel's picture of the assembled chessmen is very clever. the _red king_ and the _red queen_ are in the foreground. the _white bishop_ is taking his ease on a lump of coal, with a smaller lump for a footstool, while the two _castles_ are enjoying a little promenade near by. in the background are the _red_ and _white knights_ and _bishops_ and all the _pawns_. he has put so much life and expression into the faces of the little chessmen that we cannot help regarding them as real people, and we cannot blame _alice_ for taking them very much in earnest. she naturally found difficulty in accustoming herself to looking-glass land, and the first thing she had to learn was how to read looking-glass fashion. she happened to pick up a book that she found on a table in the looking-glass room, but when she tried to read it, it seemed to be written in an unknown language. here is what she saw: [illustration] then a bright thought occurred to her, and holding the book up before a looking-glass, this is what she read in quite clear english, no matter how it looks, for there is certainly no intelligent child who could fail to understand it. jabberwocky. 'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. "beware the jabberwock, my son! the jaws that bite, the claws that catch! beware the jubjub bird, and shun the frumious bandersnatch!" he took his vorpal sword in hand: long time the manxome foe he sought- so rested he by the tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought. and, as in uffish thought he stood, the jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiffling through the tulgey wood, and burbled as it came! one, two! one, two! and through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack! he left it dead, and with its head he went galumphing back. "and hast thou slain the jabberwock? come to my arms, my beamish boy! o frabjous day! callooh! callay!" he chortled in his joy. 'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. _alice_ of course puzzled over this for a long time. "'it seems very pretty,' she said when she had finished it, 'but it's rather hard to understand!' (you see she didn't like to confess, even to herself, that she couldn't make it out at all.) 'somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas, only i don't exactly know what they are! however, _somebody_ killed _something_--that's clear at any rate.'" for pure cleverness the poem has no equal, we will not say in the english language, but in any language whatsoever, for it seems to be a medley of all languages. lewis carroll composed it on the spur of the moment during an evening spent with his cousins, the misses wilcox, and with his natural gift of word-making the result is most surprising. the only verse that really needs explanation is the first, which is also the last of the poem. out of the twenty-three words the verse contains, there are but twelve which are pure, honest english. in mr. collingwood's article in the _strand magazine_ we have lewis carroll's explanation of the remaining eleven, written down in learned fashion, brimful of his own quaint humor. for a real guide it cannot be excelled, and, though we laugh at the absurdities, we learn the lesson. here it is: _brillig_ (derived from the verb to _bryl_ or _broil_), "the time of broiling dinner--i. e., the close of the afternoon." _slithy_ (compounded of slimy and lithe), "smooth and active." _tove_ (a species of badger). "they had smooth, white hair, long hind legs, and short horns like a stag; lived chiefly on cheese." _gyre_ (derived from gayour or giaour, a dog), "to scratch like a dog." _gymble_ (whence gimblet), "to screw out holes in anything." _wabe_ (derived from the verb to swab or soak), "the side of a hill" (from its being _soaked_ by the rain). _mimsy_ (whence mimserable and miserable), "unhappy." _borogove_, "an extinct kind of parrot. they had no wings, beaks turned up, and made their nests under sun-dials; lived on veal." _mome_ (hence solemome, solemne, and solemn), "grave." _raths._ "a species of land turtle, head erect, mouth like a shark; the forelegs curved out so that the animal walked on his knees; smooth green body; lived on swallows and oysters." _outgrabe_ (past tense of the verb to outgribe; it is connected with the old verb to grike or shrike, from which are derived "shriek" and "creak"), "squeaked." "hence the literal english of the passage is--'it was evening, and the smooth active badgers were scratching and boring holes in the hillside; all unhappy were the parrots, and the green turtles squeaked out.' there were probably sun-dials on the top of the hill, and the borogoves were afraid that their nests would be undermined. the hill was probably full of the nests of 'raths' which ran out squeaking with fear on hearing the 'toves' scratching outside. this is an obscure yet deeply affecting relic of ancient poetry." (croft--1855. ed.) this lucid explanation was evidently one of the editor's contributions to _misch-masch_ during his college days, so this classic poem must have "simmered" for many years before lewis carroll put it "through the looking-glass." but when _alice_ questioned the all-wise _humpty-dumpty_ on the subject he gave some simpler definitions. when asked the meaning of "mome raths," he replied: "well, _rath_ is a sort of green pig; but _mome_ i'm not certain about. i think it's short for 'from home,' meaning they'd lost their way, you know." lewis carroll called such words "portmanteaus" because there were two meanings wrapped up in one word, and all through "jabberwocky" these queer "portmanteau" words give us the key to the real meaning of the poem. in the preface to a collection of his poems, he gives us the rule for the building of these "portmanteau" words. he says: "take the two words 'fuming' and 'furious.' make up your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. now open your mouth and speak. if your thoughts incline ever so little toward 'fuming' you will say 'fuming-furious'; if they turn by even a hair's breadth toward 'furious' you will say 'furious-fuming'; but if you have that rarest of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say 'frumious.'" it is hard to tell what he had in mind when he wrote of this deed of daring--for such it was. possibly, st. george and the dragon inspired him, and like the best of preachers he turned his sermon into wholesome nonsense. the jabberwock itself was a most awe-inspiring creature, and tenniel's drawing is most deliciously blood-curdling; half-snake, half-dragon, with "jaws that bite and claws that scratch," it is yet saved from being utterly terrible by having some nice homely looking buttons on his waistcoat and upon his three-clawed feet, something very near akin to shoes. the anxious father bids his brave son good-bye, little dreaming that he will see him again. "beware the jubjub bird--and shun the frumious bandersnatch" are his last warning words, mostly "portmanteau" words, if one takes the time to puzzle them out. then the brave boy goes forth into the "tulgey wood" and stands in "uffish thought" until with a "whiffling" sound the "burbling" jabberwock is upon him. oh, the excitement of that moment when the "vorpal" sword went "snicker-snack" through the writhing neck of the monster! then one can properly imagine the youth galloping in triumph (hence the "portmanteau" word "galumphing," the first syllable of gallop and the last syllable of triumph) back to the proud papa, who says: "come to my arms, my 'beamish boy' ... and 'chortles in his joy,'" but all the time these wonderful things are happening, just around the corner, as it were, the "toves" and the "borogoves" and the "mome raths" were pursuing their never-ending warfare on the hillside, saying, with tennyson's _brook_: "men may come and men may go- but _we_ go on forever," no matter how many "jabberwocks" are slain nor how many "beamish boys" take their "vorpal swords in hand." in preparing the second "alice" book for publication, lewis carroll's first idea was to use the "jabberwocky" illustration as a frontispiece, but, in spite of the reassuring buttons and shoes, he was afraid younger children might be "scared off" from the real enjoyment of the book. so he wrote to about thirty mothers of small children asking their advice on the matter; they evidently voted against it, for, as we all know, the _white knight_ on his horse with its many trappings, with _alice_ walking beside him through the woods, was the final selection, and the smallest child has grown to love the silly old fellow who tumbled off his steed every two minutes, and did many other dear, ridiculous things that only children could appreciate. looking-glass walking puzzled _alice_ at first quite as much as looking-glass writing or reading. if she tried to walk downstairs in the looking-glass house "she just kept the tips of her fingers on the hand rail and floated gently down, without even touching the stairs with her feet." then when she tried to climb to the top of the hill to get a peep into the garden, she found that she was always going backwards and in at the front door again. finally, after many attempts, she reached the wished-for spot, and found herself among a talkative cluster of flowers, who all began to criticise her in the most impertinent way. "oh, tiger-lily!" said alice, addressing herself to one that was waving gracefully about in the wind, "i _wish_ you could talk!" "we can talk," said the tiger-lily, "when there's anybody worth talking to" ... at length, as the tiger-lily went on waving about, she spoke again in a timid voice, almost in a whisper: "and can _all_ the flowers talk?" "as well as _you_ can," said the tiger-lily, "and a great deal louder." "it isn't manners for us to begin, you know," said the rose, "and i really was wondering when you'd speak! said i to myself, 'her face has got _some_ sense in it though it's not a clever one!' still you've the right color and that goes a long way." "i don't care about the color," the tiger-lily remarked. "if only her petals curled up a little more, she'd be all right." alice didn't like being criticised, so she began asking questions: "aren't you sometimes frightened at being planted out here with nobody to take care of you?" "there's the tree in the middle," said the rose. "what else is it good for?" "but what could it do if any danger came?" alice asked. "it could bark," said the rose. "it says 'bough-wough'," cried a daisy. "that's why its branches are called boughs." "didn't you know that?" cried another daisy. and here they all began shouting together. lewis carroll loved this play upon words, and children, strange to say, loved it too, and were quick to see the point of his puns. the _red queen_, whom _alice_ met shortly after this, was a most dictatorial person. "where do you come from?" she asked, "and where are you going? look up, speak nicely, and don't twiddle your fingers all the time." alice attended to all these directions, and explained as well as she could that she had lost her way. "i don't know what you mean by _your_ way," said the queen. "all the ways about here belong to _me_, but why did you come out here at all?" she added in a kinder tone. "curtsey while you're thinking what to say. it saves time." alice wondered a little at this, but she was too much in awe of the queen to disbelieve it. "i'll try it when i go home," she thought to herself, "the next time i'm a little late for dinner." evidently some little girls were often late for dinner. "it's time for you to answer now," the queen said, looking at her watch; "open your mouth a _little_ wider when you speak and always say 'your majesty.'" "i only wanted to see what your garden was like, your majesty." "that's right," said the queen, patting her on the head, which alice didn't like at all, "though when you say 'garden,' _i've_ seen gardens compared with which this would be a wilderness." alice didn't dare to argue the point, but went on: "and i thought i'd try and find my way to the top of that hill--" "when you say 'hill,'" the queen interrupted, "_i_ could show you hills in comparison with which you'd call this a valley." "no, i shouldn't," said alice, surprised into contradicting her at last. "a hill _can't_ be a valley you know. that would be nonsense--" the _red queen_ shook her head. "you may call it 'nonsense' if you like," she said, "but _i've_ heard nonsense compared with which that would be as sensible as a dictionary!" which last remark seemed to settle the matter, for _alice_ had nothing further to say on the subject. nonsense, indeed; and what delightful nonsense it is! is it any wonder that the little girls for whom lewis carroll labored so lovingly should reward him with their laughter? _alice_ entered checker-board land in the _red queen's_ company; she was apprenticed as a pawn, with the promise that when she entered the eighth square she would become a queen [she probably was confusing chess with checkers], and the _red queen_ explained how she would travel. "a pawn goes two squares in its first move, you know, so you'll go very quickly through the third square, by railway, i should think, and you'll find yourself in the fourth square in no time. well, _that_ square belongs to tweedledum and tweedledee, and the fifth is mostly water, the sixth belongs to humpty dumpty, ... the seventh square is all forest. however, one of the knights will show you the way, and in the eighth square we shall be queens together, and its all feasting and fun." the rest of her adventures occurred on those eight squares--sometimes in company with the _red queen_ or the _white queen_ or both. things went more rapidly than in wonderland, the people were brisker and smarter. when the _red queen_ left her on the border of checker-board land, she gave her this parting advice: "speak in french when you can't think of the english for a thing, turn out your toes as you walk, and remember who you are!" how many little girls have had the same advice from their governesses or their mamma--"turn out your toes when you walk, and remember who you are!" this is what made lewis carroll so irresistibly funny--the way he had of bringing in the most common everyday expressions in the most uncommon, unexpected places. only in _alice's_ case it took her quite a long time to remember who she was, just because the _red queen_ told her not to forget. children are very queer about that--little girls in particular--at least those that lewis carroll knew, and he certainly was acquainted with a great many who did remarkably queer things. _alice's_ meeting with the two fat little men named _tweedledum_ and _tweedledee_ recalled to her memory the old rhyme: tweedledum and tweedledee agreed to have a battle; for tweedledum said tweedledee had spoiled his nice new rattle. just then flew down a monstrous crow, as black as a tar barrel; which frightened both the heroes so, they quite forgot their quarrel. fierce little men they were, one with _dum_ embroidered on his collar, the other showing _dee_ on his. they were not accustomed to good society nor fine grammar. they were exactly alike as they stood motionless before her, their arms about each other. "i know what you're thinking about," said tweedledum, "but it isn't so--nohow." [behold the _beautiful_ grammar.] "contrariwise," continued tweedledee, "if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. that's logic." now, _alice_ particularly wanted to know which road to take out of the woods, but somehow or other her polite question was never answered by either of the funny little brothers. they were very sociable and seemed most anxious to keep her with them, so for her entertainment _tweedledum_ repeated that beautiful and pathetic poem called: the walrus and the carpenter. the sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might; he did his very best to make the billows smooth and bright- and this was odd, because it was the middle of the night. the moon was shining sulkily, because she thought the sun had got no business to be there after the day was done- "it's very rude of him," she said, "to come and spoil the fun!" the sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry, you could not see a cloud, because no cloud was in the sky; no birds were flying overhead- there were no birds to fly. the walrus and the carpenter were walking close at hand; they wept like anything to see such quantities of sand; "if this were only cleared away," they said, "it _would_ be grand!" "if seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year, do you suppose," the walrus said, "that they would get it clear?" "i doubt it," said the carpenter, and shed a bitter tear. then comes the sad and sober part of the tale, when the _oysters_ were tempted to stroll along the beach, in company with these wily two, who lured them far away from their snug ocean beds. the walrus and the carpenter walked on a mile or so, and then they rested on a rock conveniently low; and all the little oysters stood and waited in a row. "the time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things; of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax- of cabbages and kings; and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings." "but wait a bit," the oysters cried, "before we have our chat; for some of us are out of breath, and all of us are fat!" "no hurry!" said the carpenter. they thanked him much for that. "a loaf of bread," the walrus said, "is what we chiefly need; pepper and vinegar besides are very good, indeed; now, if you're ready, oysters, dear, we can begin to feed." then the _oysters_ became terrified, as they saw all these grewsome preparations, and their fate loomed up before them. so the two old weeping hypocrites sat on the rocks and calmly devoured their late companions. "it seems a shame," the walrus said, "to play them such a trick, after we've brought them out so far, and made them trot so quick!" the carpenter said nothing but, "the butter's spread too thick!" "i weep for you," the walrus said, "i deeply sympathize." with sobs and tears he sorted out those of the largest size, holding his pocket-handkerchief before his streaming eyes. "o oysters," said the carpenter, "you've had a pleasant run! shall we be trotting home again?" but answer came there none. and this was scarcely odd, because they'd eaten every one. the poor dear little _oysters_! how any little girl, with a heart under her pinafore, could read these lines unmoved it is hard to say. think of those innocent young dears, standing before these dreadful ogres. all eager for the treat; their coats were brushed, their faces washed, their shoes were clean and neat; and this was odd, because, you know, they hadn't any feet. all the same, tenniel has made most attractive pictures of them, feet and all. and think--oh, horror! of _their_ supplying the treat! it was indeed an awful tragedy. yet behind it all there lurks some fun, though lewis carroll was too clever to let us _quite_ into his secret. all the young ones want is the story, but those who are old enough to love their dickens and to look for his special characters outside of his books will certainly recognize in the _walrus_ the hypocritical _mr. pecksniff_, whose tears flowed on every occasion when he was not otherwise employed in robbing his victims, and other little pleasantries. and as for the _carpenter_, there is something very scholarly in the set of his cap and the combing of his scant locks; possibly a caricature of some shining light of oxford, for we know there were many in his books. indeed, the whole poem may be something of an allegory, representing examination; the _oysters_, the undergraduate victims before the college faculty (the _walrus_ and the _carpenter_) who are just ready to "eat 'em alive"--poor innocent undergraduates! but whatever the hidden meaning, _tweedledum_ and _tweedledee_ were not the sort of people to look deep into things, and _alice_, being a little girl and very partial to oysters, thought the _walrus_ and the _carpenter_ were _very_ unpleasant characters and had no sympathy with them at all. dreaming by a ruddy blaze in a big armchair keeps one much busier than if one fell asleep in a rocking boat or on the river bank on a golden summer day. the scenes and all the company changed so often in looking-glass land that _alice_ had all she could do to keep pace with her adventures. for you see all this time she was only a pawn, moving over an immense chess-board from square to square, until in the end she should be made queen. the _white queen_ whom _alice_ met shortly was a very lopsided person, quite unlike the _red queen_, who was neat enough no matter how sharp her tongue. _alice_ had to fix her hair, and straighten her shawl, and set her right and tidy. "really, you should have a lady's maid," she remarked. "i'm sure i'll take _you_ with pleasure," the queen said. "twopence a week, and jam every other day." alice couldn't help laughing as she said: "i don't want you to hire _me_, and i don't care for jam." "it's very good jam," said the queen. "well, i don't want any _to-day_ at any rate." "you couldn't have it if you _did_ want it," the queen said. "the rule is--jam to-morrow and jam yesterday, but never jam _to-day_." "it _must_ come sometimes to 'jam to-day,'" alice objected. "no, it can't," said the queen. "it's jam every other day; to-day isn't any _other_ day, you know." "i don't understand you," said alice. "it's dreadfully confusing!" "that's the effect of living backwards," the queen said, kindly. "it always makes one a little giddy at first--" "living backwards!" alice remarked in great astonishment. "i never heard of such a thing!" "but there's one great advantage in it, that one's memory works both ways." "i'm sure _mine_ only works one way," alice remarked. "i can't remember things before they happen." "it's a poor memory that only works backwards," the queen remarked. "what sort of things do _you_ remember best?" alice ventured to ask. "oh, the things that happened the week after next," the queen replied in a careless tone. "for instance, now," she went on, sticking a large piece of plaster on her finger as she spoke, "there's the king's messenger. he's in prison now, being punished, and the trial doesn't begin till next wednesday; and of course the crime comes last of all." then the _queen_ for further illustration began to scream-"oh, oh, oh!" shouted the queen.... "my finger's bleeding! oh, oh, oh, oh!" her screams were so exactly like the whistle of a steam engine that alice had to hold both her hands over her ears. "what _is_ the matter?" she said.... "have you pricked your finger?" "i haven't pricked it yet," the queen said, "but i soon shall--oh, oh, oh!" "when do you expect to do it?" alice asked, feeling very much inclined to laugh. "when i fasten my shawl again," the poor queen groaned out, "the brooch will come undone directly. oh, oh!" as she said the words the brooch flew open, and the queen clutched wildly at it and tried to clasp it again. "take care!" cried alice, "you're holding it all crooked!" and she caught at the brooch; but it was too late; the pin had slipped, and the queen had pricked her finger. "that accounts for the bleeding, you see," she said to alice, with a smile. "now you understand the way things happen here." _alice's_ meeting with _humpty-dumpty_ in the sixth square has gone down in history. it has been played in nurseries and in private theatricals, and many ingenious humpty-dumptys have been fashioned by clever people. possibly the dear old rhyme which generations of childhood have handed about as a riddle is responsible for our great interest in _humpty-dumpty_. humpty-dumpty sat on the wall, humpty-dumpty had a great fall, all the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put humpty-dumpty in his place again. this is an old version, but modern children have made a better ending, thus: couldn't put humpty-dumpty up again. then there's a mysterious pause, and some eager small boy or girl asks, "now _what_ is it?" and before one has time to answer, someone calls out-"it's an egg; it's an egg!" and the riddle is a riddle no longer. one clever mechanical humpty was made of barrel hoops covered with stiff paper and muslin. the eyes, nose, and mouth were connected with various tapes, which the inventor had in charge behind the scenes, and so well did he work them that humpty in his hands turned out a fine imitation of the _humpty-dumpty_ sir john tenniel has made us remember; the same _humpty-dumpty_ who asked _alice_ her name and her business, and who informed her proudly that if he did tumble off the wall, "_the king has promised me with his very own mouth--to--to--_" "to send all his horses and all his men--" alice interrupted rather unwisely. "now i declare that's too bad!" humpty-dumpty cried, breaking into a sudden passion. "you've been listening at doors, and behind trees, and down chimneys, or you wouldn't have known it." "i haven't, indeed!" alice said, very gently. "it's in a book." "ah, well! they may write such things in a _book_," humpty-dumpty said in a calmer tone. "that's what you call a history of england, that is. now take a good look at me. i'm one that has spoken to a king, _i_ am; mayhap you'll never see such another; and to show you i'm not proud you may shake hands with me...." "yes, all his horses and all his men," _humpty-dumpty_ went on. "they'd pick me up in a minute, _they_ would. however, this conversation is going on a little too fast; let's go back to the last remark but one." such a nice, common old chap is _humpty-dumpty_, so "stuck-up" because he has spoken to a king; and argue! well, _alice_ never heard anything like it before, and found difficulty in keeping up a conversation that was disputed every step of the way. she found him worse than the _cheshire cat_ or even the _duchess_ for that matter, and not half so well-bred. he too favored _alice_ with the following poem, which he assured her was written entirely for her amusement, and here it is, with enough of lewis carroll's "nonsense" in it to let us know where it came from: in winter, when the fields are white, i sing this song for your delight:- in spring, when woods are getting green, i'll try and tell you what i mean: in summer, when the days are long, perhaps you'll understand the song: in autumn, when the leaves are brown, take pen and ink, and write it down. i sent a message to the fish: i told them: "this is what i wish." the little fishes of the sea, they sent an answer back to me. the little fishes' answer was: "we cannot do it, sir, because----" i sent to them again to say: "it will be better to obey." the fishes answered, with a grin: "why, what a temper you are in!" i told them once, i told them twice: they would not listen to advice. i took a kettle large and new, fit for the deed i had to do. my heart went hop, my heart went thump: i filled the kettle at the pump. then someone came to me and said: "the little fishes are in bed." i said to him, i said it plain: "then you must wake them up again." i said it very loud and clear: i went and shouted in his ear. but he was very stiff and proud: he said: "you needn't shout so loud!" and he was very proud and stiff: he said: "i'd go and wake them, if----" i took a corkscrew from the shelf; i went to wake them up myself. and when i found the door was locked, i pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked. and when i found the door was shut, i tried to turn the handle, but---with which highly satisfactory ending _humpty_ remarked: "that's all. good-bye." alice got up and held out her hand. "good-bye till we meet again," she said, as cheerfully as she could. "i shouldn't know you if we _did_ meet," humpty-dumpty replied in a discontented tone, giving her one of his fingers to shake. "you're so exactly like other people." the next square--the seventh--took _alice_ through the woods. here she met some old friends: the _mad hatter_ and the _white rabbit_ of wonderland fame, mixed in with a great many new beings, including the _lion_ and the _unicorn_, who, as the old ballad tells us, "were fighting for the crown"; and then as the _red queen_ had promised from the beginning, the _white knight_--after a battle with the _red knight_ who held _alice_ prisoner--took her in charge to guide her through the woods. whoever has read the humorous and yet pathetic story of "don quixote" will see at once where lewis carroll found his gentle, valiant old _white knight_ and his horse, so like yet so unlike the famous steed _rosenante_. he, too, had a song for _alice_, which he called "the aged, aged man," and which he sang to her, set to very mechancholy music. it is doubtful if _alice_ understood it for she wasn't thinking of age, you see. she was only seven years and six months old, and probably paid no attention. she was thinking instead of the strange kindly smile of the knight, "the setting sun gleaming through his hair and shining on his armor in a blaze of light that quite dazzled her; the horse quietly moving about with the reins hanging loose on his neck, cropping the grass at her feet, and the black shadows of the forest behind." certainly lewis carroll could paint a picture to remain with us always. the poem is rather too long to quote here, but the experiences of this "aged, aged man" are well worth reading. _alice_ was now hastening toward the end of her journey and events were tumbling over each other. she had reached the eighth square, where, oh, joy! a golden crown awaited her, also the _red queen_ and the _white queen_ in whose company she traveled through the very stirring episodes of that very famous dinner party, when the candles on the table all grew up to the ceiling, and the glass bottles each took a pair of plates for wings, and forks for legs, and went fluttering in all directions. everything was in the greatest confusion, and when the _white queen_ disappeared in the soup tureen, and the soup ladle began walking up the table toward _alice's_ chair, she could stand it no longer. she jumped up "and seized the tablecloth with both hands; one good pull, and plates, dishes, guests, and candles came crashing down together in a heap on the floor." and then _alice_ began to shake the _red queen_ as the cause of all the mischief. "the red queen made no resistance whatever; only her face grew very small, and her eyes got large and green; and still, as alice went on shaking her, she kept on growing shorter, and fatter, and softer, and rounder, and--and it really _was_ a kitten after all." and _alice_, opening her eyes in the red glow of the fire, lay snug in the armchair, while the looking-glass on the mantel caught the reflection of a very puzzled little face. the "dream-child" had come back to everyday, and was trying to retrace her journey as she lay there blinking at the firelight, and wondering if, back of the blaze, the chessmen were still walking to and fro. and lewis carroll, as he penned the last words of "alice's adventures through the looking-glass," remembered once more the little girl who had been his inspiration, and wrote a loving tribute to her at the very end of the book, an acrostic on her name--alice pleasance liddell. a boat, beneath a sunny sky lingering onward dreamily in an evening of july. children three that nestle near, eager eye and willing ear, pleased a simple tale to hear. long has paled that sunny sky; echoes fade and memories die: autumn frosts have slain july. still she haunts me, phantomwise, alice moving under skies, never seen by waking eyes. children yet, the tale to hear, eager eye and willing ear, lovingly shall nestle near. in a wonderland they lie, dreaming as the days go by, dreaming as the summers die: ever drifting down the stream, lingering in the golden gleam, life, what is it but a dream? chapter x. "hunting the snark" and other poems. there is no doubt that the second "alice" book was quite as successful as the first, but regarding its merit there is much difference of opinion. as a rule the "grown-ups" prefer it. they like the clever situations and the quaint logic, no less than the very evident good writing; but this of course did not influence the children in the least. they liked "alice" and the pretty idea of her trip through the looking-glass, but for real delight "wonderland" was big enough for them, and to whisk down into a rabbit-hole on a summer's day was a much easier process than squeezing through a looking-glass at the close of a short winter's afternoon, not being _quite_ sure that one would not fall into the fire on the other side. the very care that lewis carroll took in the writing of this book deprived it of a certain charm of originality which always clings to the pages of "wonderland." each chapter is so methodically planned and so well carried out that, while we never lose sight of the author and his cleverness, fairyland does not seem quite so real as in the book which was written with no plan at all, but the earnest desire to please three children. then again there was a certain staidness in the prim little girl who pushed her way through the looking-glass. and there were no wonderful cakes marked "eat me," and bottles marked "drink me," which kept the wonderland _alice_ in a perpetual state of growing or shrinking; so the fact that nothing happened to _alice_ at all during this second journey lessened its interest somewhat for the young ones to whom constant change is the spice of life. a very little girl, while she might enjoy the flower chapter, and might be tempted to build her own fanciful tales about the rest of the garden, would not be so attracted toward the insect chapter, which may possibly have been written with the praiseworthy idea of teaching children not to be afraid of these harmless buzzing things that are too busy with their own concerns to bother them. there are, in truth, little "cut and dried" speeches in the looking-glass "alice," which we do not find in "wonderland." a real hand is moving the chessman over the giant board, and the _red_ and the _white queen_ often speak like automatic toys. we miss the savage "off with his head" of the _queen of hearts_, who, for all her cardboard stiffness, seemed a thing of flesh and blood. but the poetry in the two "alices" is of very much the same quality. in his prose "nonsense" anyone might notice the difference of years between the two books, but lewis carroll's poetry never loses its youthful tone. it was as easy for him to write verses as to teach mathematics, and that was saying a good deal. it was as easy for him to write verses at sixty as at thirty, and that is saying even more. from the time he could hold a pencil he could make a rhyme, and his earlier editorial ventures, as we know, were full of his own work which in after years made its way to the public, either through the magazines or in collection of poems, such as "rhyme and reason," "phantasmagoria," and "the three sunsets." in _the train_, that early english magazine before mentioned, are several poems written by him and signed by his newly borrowed name of lewis carroll, but they are very sentimental and high-flown, utterly unlike anything he wrote either before or after. between the publication of "through the looking-glass" and "the hunting of the snark" was a period of five years, during which, according to his usual custom, charles lutwidge dodgson, in the seclusion of christ church, calmly pursued his scholarly way, smiling sedately over the literary antics of lewis carroll, for the rev. charles was a sober, over-serious bachelor, whose one aim and object at that time was the proper treatment of euclid, for during those five years he wrote the following pamphlets: "symbols, etc., to be used in euclid--books i and ii," "number of propositions in euclid," "enunciations--euclid i-vi," "euclid--book v. proved algebraically," "preliminary algebra and euclid--book v," "examples in arithmetic," "euclid--books i and ii." he also wrote many other valuable pamphlets concerning the government of oxford and of christ church in particular, for the retiring "don" took a keen interest in the university life, and his influence was felt in many spicy articles and apt rhymes, usually brought forth as timely skits. _notes by an oxford chiel_, published at oxford in 1874, included much of this material, where his clever verses, mostly satirical, generally hit the mark. and all this while, lewis carroll was gathering in the harvest yielded by the two "alices," and planning more books for his child-friends, who, we may be sure, were growing in numbers. we find him at the christmas celebration of 1874, at hatfield, the home of lord salisbury, as usual, the central figure of a crowd of happy children. on this occasion he told them the story of _prince uggug_, which was afterwards a part of "sylvie and bruno." many of the chapters of this book had been published as separate stories in _aunt judy's magazine_ and other periodicals, and, as such, they were very sweet and dainty as well as amusing. it was lewis carroll's own special charm in telling these stories which really lent them color and drew the children; they lost much in print, for they lacked the sturdy foundations of nonsense on which the "alices" were built. on march 29, 1876, "the hunting of the snark" was published, a new effort in "nonsense" verse-making, which stands side by side with "jabberwocky" in point of cleverness and interest. the beauty of lewis carroll's "nonsense" was that he never tried to be funny or "smart." the queer words and the still queerer ideas popped into his head in the simplest way. his command of language, including that important knowledge of how to make "portmanteau" words, was his greatest aid, and the poem which he called "an agony in eight fits" depends entirely upon the person who reads it for the cleverness of its meaning. to children it is one big fairy tale where the more ridiculous the situations, the more true to the rules of fairyland. the snark, being a "portmanteau" word, is a cross between a _snake_ and a _shark_, hence _snark_, and the fact that he dedicated this wonderful bit of word-making to a little girl, goes far to prove that the poem was intended as much for children as for "grown-ups." the little girl in this instance was gertrude chataway, and the verses are an acrostic on her name: girt with a boyish garb for boyish task, eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask the tale he loves to tell. rude spirit of the seething outer strife, unmeet to read her pure and simple spright, deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life, empty of all delight! chat on, sweet maid, and rescue from annoy, hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled; ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy, the heart-love of a child! away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more! work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days, albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore yet haunt my dreaming gaze! there was scarcely a little girl who claimed friendship with lewis carroll who was not the proud possessor of an acrostic poem written by him--either on the title-page of some book that he had given her, or as the dedication of some published book of his own. "the hunting of the snark" owed its existence to a country walk, when the last verse came suddenly into the mind of our poet: "in the midst of the word he was trying to say, in the midst of his laughter and glee, he had softly and suddenly vanished away- for the snark _was_ a boojum, you see." in a very humorous preface to the book, lewis carroll attempted some sort of an explanation, which leaves us as much in the dark as ever. he writes: "if--and the thing is wildly possible--the charge of writing nonsense was ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, i feel convinced, on the line: "'then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes.' "in view of this painful possibility, i will not (as i might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that i am incapable of such a deed; i will not (as i might) point to the strong moral purpose of the poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in natural history. i will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened. "the bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished; and more than once it happened, when the time came for replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged to. they knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the bellman about it--he would only refer to his naval code and read out in pathetic tones admiralty instructions which none of them had ever been able to understand, so it generally ended in its being fastened on anyhow across the rudder. the helmsman used to stand by with tears in his eyes; _he_ knew it was all wrong, but, alas! rule 4, of the code, '_no one shall speak to the man at the helm_,' had been completed by the bellman himself with the words, '_and the man at the helm shall speak to no one_,' so remonstrance was impossible and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. during these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backward." is it any wonder that a poem, based upon such an explanation, should be a perfect bundle of nonsense? but we know from experience that lewis carroll's nonsense was not stupidity, and that not one verse in all that delightful bundle missed its own special meaning and purpose. we do not propose to find the key to this remarkable work--for two reasons: first, because there are different keys for different minds; and second, because the unexplainable things in many cases come nearer the "mind's eye," as shakespeare calls it, without words. we cannot tell _why_ we understand such and such a thing, but we _do_ understand it, and that is enough--quite according to lewis carroll's ideas, for he always appeals to our imagination and that is never guided by rules. the higher it soars, the more fantastic the region over which it hovers, the nearer it gets to the land of "make believe," "let's pretend" and "supposing," the better pleased is lewis carroll. in a delightful letter to some american children, published in _the critic_ shortly after his death, he gives his own ideas as to the meaning of the _snark_. "i'm very much afraid i didn't mean anything but nonsense," he wrote; "still you know words mean more than we mean to express when we use them, so a whole book ought to mean a great deal more than the writer means. so whatever good meanings are in the book, i shall be glad to accept as the meaning of the book. the best that i've seen is by a lady (she published it in a letter to a newspaper) that the whole book is an allegory on the search after happiness. i think this fits beautifully in many ways, particularly about the bathing machines; when people get weary of life, and can't find happiness in towns or in books, then they rush off to the seaside to see what bathing machines will do for them." taking this idea for the foundation of the poem, it is easy to explain _fit the first_, better named _the landing_, though where they landed it is almost impossible to say. "just the place for a snark," the bellman cried, and, as he stated this fact three distinct times, it was undoubtedly true. that was the _bellman's_ rule--once was uncertain, twice was possible, three times was "dead sure." and the _bellman_ being a person of some authority, ought to have known. the crew consisted of a _boots_, a _maker of bonnets and hoods_, a _barrister_, a _broker_, a _billiard-marker_, a _banker_, a _beaver_, a _butcher_, and a nameless being who passed for the _baker_, and who, in the end, turned out to be the luckless victim of the snark. he is thus beautifully described: "there was one who was famed for a number of things he forgot when he entered the ship: his umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings, and the clothes he had brought for the trip. "he had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed, with his name painted clearly on each: but, since he omitted to mention the fact, they were all left behind on the beach. "the loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because he had seven coats on when he came, with three pair of boots--but the worst of it was, he had wholly forgotten his name. "he would answer to 'hi!' or to any loud cry, such as 'fry me!' or 'fritter my wig!' to 'what-you-may-call-um!' or 'what-was-his-name!' but especially 'thing-um-a-jig!' "while, for those who preferred a more forcible word, he had different names from these: his intimate friends called him 'candle-ends,' and his enemies 'toasted-cheese.' "'his form is ungainly, his intellect small' (so the bellman would often remark); 'but his courage is perfect! and that, after all, is the thing that one needs with a snark.' "he would joke with hyenas, returning their stare with an impudent wag of the head: and he once went a walk, paw-in-paw with a bear, 'just to keep up its spirits,' he said. "he came as a baker: but owned when too late- and it drove the poor bellman half-mad- he could only bake bride-cake, for which i may state, no materials were to be had." notice how ingeniously the actors in this drama are introduced; all the "b's," as it were, buzzing after the phantom of happiness, which eludes them, no matter how hard they struggle to find it. notice, too, that all these beings are unmarried, a fact shown by the _baker_ not being able to make a bride-cake as there are no materials on hand. all these creatures, while hunting for happiness, came to prey upon each other. the _butcher_ only killed _beavers_, the _barrister_ was hunting among his fellow sailors for a good legal case. the _banker_ took charge of all their cash, for it certainly takes money to hunt properly for a _snark_, and it is a well-known fact that bankers need all the money they can get. _fit the second_ describes the _bellman_ and why he had such influence with his crew: the bellman himself they all praised to the skies: such a carriage, such ease, and such grace! such solemnity, too! one could see he was wise, the moment one looked in his face! he had bought a large map representing the sea, without the least vestige of land: and the crew were much pleased when they found it to be a map they could all understand. "what's the good of mercator's north poles and equators, tropics, zones, and meridian lines?" so the bellman would cry: and the crew would reply, "they are merely conventional signs!" "other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes! but we've got our brave captain to thank" (so the crew would protest), "that he's bought _us_ the best- a perfect and absolute blank!" and true enough, the _bellman's_ idea of the ocean was a big square basin, with the latitude and longitude carefully written out on the margin. they found, however, that their "brave captain" knew very little about navigation, he- "had only one notion for crossing the ocean, and that was to tingle his bell." he thought nothing of telling his crew to steer starboard and larboard at the same time, and then we know how- the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes. "a thing," as the bellman remarked, "that frequently happens in tropical climes, when a vessel is, so to speak, 'snarked.'" the _bellman_ had hoped, when the wind blew toward the east, that the ship would not travel toward the west, but it seems that with all his nautical knowledge he could not prevent it; ships are perverse animals! "but the danger was past--they had landed at last, with their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags: yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view, which consisted of chasms and crags." now that they had reached the land of the snark, the _bellman_ proceeded to air his knowledge on that subject. "a snark," he said, "had five unmistakable traits--its taste, 'meager and mellow and crisp,' its habit of getting up late, its slowness in taking a jest, its fondness for bathing machines, and, fifth and lastly, its ambition." he further informed the crew that "the snarks that had feathers could bite, and those that had whiskers could scratch," adding as an afterthought: "'for although common snarks do no manner of harm, yet i feel it my duty to say, some are boojums--' the bellman broke off in alarm, for the baker had fainted away." _fit the third_ was the _baker's_ tale. "they roused him with muffins, they roused him with ice, they roused him with mustard and cress, they roused him with jam and judicious advice, they set him conundrums to guess." then he explained why it was that the name "boojum" made him faint. it seems that a dear uncle, after whom he was named, gave him some wholesome advice about the way to hunt a snark, and this uncle seemed to be a man of much influence: "'you may seek it with thimbles, and seek it with care; you may hunt it with forks and hope; you may threaten its life with a railway-share; you may charm it with smiles and soap----'" "'that's exactly the method,' the bellman bold in a hasty parenthesis cried, 'that's exactly the way i have always been told that the capture of snarks should be tried!'" "'but, oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, if your snark be a boojum! for then you will softly and suddenly vanish away, and never be met with again!'" this of course was a very sad thing to think of, for the man with no name, who was named after his uncle, and called in courtesy the _baker_, had grown to be a great favorite with the crew; but they had no time to waste in sentiment--they were in the snark's own land, they had the _bellman's_ orders in _fit the fourth_--the hunting: "to seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care; to pursue it with forks and hope; to threaten its life with a railway share; to charm it with smiles and soap! "for the snark's a peculiar creature, that won't be caught in a commonplace way. do all that you know, and try all that you don't: not a chance must be wasted to-day!" then they all went to work according to their own special way, just as we would do now in our hunt for happiness through the chasms and crags of every day. _fit the fifth_ is the _beaver's_ lesson, when the _butcher_ discourses wisely on arithmetic and natural history, two subjects a butcher should know pretty thoroughly, and this is proved: "while the beaver confessed, with affectionate looks more eloquent even than tears, it had learned in ten minutes far more than all books would have taught it in seventy years." the _barrister's_ dream occupied _fit the sixth_, and here our poet's keen wit gave many a slap at the law and the lawyers. the _banker's_ fate in _fit the seventh_ was sad enough; he was grabbed by the bandersnatch (that "frumious" "portmanteau" creature that we met before in the _lay of the jabberwocky_) and worried and tossed about until he completely lost his senses. some bankers are that way in the pursuit of fortune, which means happiness to them; but fortune may turn, like the bandersnatch, and shake their minds out of their bodies, and so they left this _banker_ to his fate. that is the way of people when bankers are in trouble, because they were reckless and not always careful to "beware the jubjub bird, and shun the frumious bandersnatch." _fit the eighth_ treats of the vanishing of the baker according to the prediction of his prophetic uncle. all day long the eager searchers had hunted in vain, but just at the close of the day they heard a shout in the distance and beheld their _baker_ "erect and sublime" on top of a crag, waving his arms and shouting wildly; then before their startled and horrified gaze, he plunged into a chasm and disappeared forever. "'it's a snark!' was the sound that first came to their ears. and seemed almost too good to be true. then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers, then the ominous words, 'it's a boo----' "then, silence. some fancied they heard in the air a weary and wandering sigh that sounded like 'jum!' but the others declare it was only a breeze that went by. "they hunted till darkness came on, but they found not a button, or feather, or mark by which they could tell that they stood on the ground where the baker had met with the snark. "in the midst of the word he was trying to say, in the midst of his laughter and glee, he had softly and suddenly vanished away- for the snark _was_ a boojum, you see." what became of the _bellman_ and his crew is left to our imagination. perhaps the _baker's_ fate was a warning, or perhaps they are still hunting--not _too_ close to the chasm. lewis carroll, always so particular about proper endings, refuses any explanation. the fact that this special snark was a "boojum" altered all the rules of the hunt. nobody knows what it is, but all the same nobody wishes to meet a "boojum." that's all there is about it. "now how absurd to talk such nonsense!" some learned school girl may exclaim; undoubtedly one who has high ideals about life and literature. but is it nonsense we are talking, and does the quaint poem really teach us nothing? anything which brings a picture to the mind must surely have some merit, and there is much homely common sense wrapped up in the queer verses if we have but the wit to find it, and no one is too young nor too old to join in this hunt for happiness. read the poem over and over, put expression and feeling into it, treat the _bellman_ and his strange crew as if they were real human beings--there's a lot of the human in them after all--and see if new ideas and new meanings do not pop into your head with each reading, while the verses, all unconsciously, will stick in your memory, where tennyson or wordsworth or even shakespeare fails to hold a place there. of course, lewis carroll's own especial girlfriends understood "the hunting of the snark" better than the less favored "outsiders." first of all there was lewis carroll himself to read it to them in his own expressive way, his pleasant voice sinking impressively at exciting moments, and his clear explanation of each "portmanteau" word helping along wonderfully. we can fancy the gleam of fun in the blue eyes, the sweep of his hand across his hair, the sudden sweet smile with which he pointed his jests or clothed his moral, as the case might be. indeed, one little girl was so fascinated with the poem which he sent her as a gift that she learned the whole of it by heart, and insisted on repeating it during a long country drive. "the hunting of the snark" created quite a sensation among his friends. the first edition was finely illustrated by henry holiday, whose clever drawings show how well he understood the poem, and what sympathy existed between himself and the author. "phantasmagoria," his ghost poem, deals with the friendly relations always existing between ghosts and the people they are supposed to haunt; a whimsical idea, carried out in lewis carroll's whimsical way, with lots of fun and a good deal of simple philosophy worked out in the verses. one canto is particularly amusing. here are some of the verses: oh, when i was a little ghost, a merry time had we! each seated on his favorite post, we chumped and chawed the buttered toast they gave us for our tea. "that story is in print!" i cried. "don't say it's not, because it's known as well as bradshaw's guide!" (the ghost uneasily replied he hardly thought it was.) it's not in nursery rhymes? and yet i almost think it is- "three little ghostesses" were set "on postesses," you know, and ate their "buttered toastesses." "the three voices," his next ambitious poem, is rather out of the realm of childhood. a weak-minded man and a strong-minded lady met on the seashore, she having rescued his hat from the antics of a playful breeze by pinning it down on the sands with her umbrella, right through the center of the soft crown. when she handed it to him in its battered state, he was scarcely as grateful as he might have been--he was rude, in fact, for it had lost its shape and shine, and it had cost him four-and-nine, and he was going out to dine. "to dine!" she sneered in acid tone. "to bend thy being to a bone clothed in a radiance not its own!" "term it not 'radiance,'" said he: "'tis solid nutriment to me. dinner is dinner: tea is tea." and she "yea so? yet wherefore cease? let thy scant knowledge find increase. say 'men are men, and geese are geese.'" the gentleman wanted to get away from this severe lady, but he could see no escape, for she was getting excited. "to dine!" she shrieked, in dragon-wrath. "to swallow wines all foam and froth! to simper at a tablecloth! "canst thou desire or pie or puff? thy well-bred manners were enough, without such gross material stuff." "yet well-bred men," he faintly said, "are not unwilling to be fed: nor are they well without the bread." her visage scorched him ere she spoke; "there are," she said, "a kind of folk who have no horror of a joke. "such wretches live: they take their share of common earth and common air: we come across them here and there." "we grant them--there is no escape- a sort of semihuman shape suggestive of the manlike ape." so the arguing went on--her voice, his voice, and the voice of the sea. he tried to joke away her solemn mood with a pun. "the world is but a thought," said he: "the vast, unfathomable sea is but a notion--unto me." and darkly fell her answer dread upon his unresisting head, like half a hundredweight of lead. "the good and great must ever shun that reckless and abandoned one who stoops to perpetrate a pun. "the man that smokes--that reads the _times_- that goes to christmas pantomimes- is capable of _any_ crimes!" anyone can understand these verses, but it is very plain that the poem is a satire on the rise of the learned lady, who takes no interest in the lighter, pleasanter side of life; a being much detested by lewis carroll, who above all things loved a "womanly woman." as he grew older he became somewhat precise and old-fashioned in his opinions--that is perhaps the reason why he was so lovable. his ideals of womanhood and little girlhood were fixed and beautiful dreams, untouched by the rush of the times. the "new woman" puzzled and pained him quite as much as the pert, precocious, up-to-date girl. would there were more lewis carrolls in the world; quiet, simple, old-fashioned, courteous gentlemen with ideals! here is a clever little poem dedicated to girls, which he calls a game of fives. five little girls, of five, four, three, two, one: rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun. five rosy girls, in years from ten to six: sitting down to lessons--no more time for tricks. five growing girls, from fifteen to eleven: music, drawing, languages, and food enough for seven! five winsome girls, from twenty to sixteen: each young man that calls i say, "now tell me which you _mean_!" five dashing girls, the youngest twenty-one: but if nobody proposes, what is there to be done? five showy girls--but thirty is an age when girls may be _engaging_, but they somehow don't _engage_. five dressy girls, of thirty-one or more: so gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before! five _passã©_ girls. their age? well, never mind! we jog along together, like the rest of human kind: but the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows the answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes!" there was no theme, in short, that lewis carroll did not fit into a rhyme or a poem. some of them were full of real feeling, others were sparkling with nonsense, but all had their charm. no style nor meter daunted him; no poet was too great for his clever pen to parody; no ode was too heroic for a little earthly fun; and when the measure was rollicking the rhymer was at his best. of this last, _alice's_ invitation to the looking-glass world is a fair example: to the looking-glass world it was alice that said, "i've a scepter in hand, i've a crown on my head. let the looking-glass creatures, whatever they be, come and dine with the red queen, the white queen, and me!" then fill up the glasses as quick as you can, and sprinkle the table with buttons and bran; put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea, and welcome queen alice with thirty-times-three! "o looking-glass creatures," quoth alice, "draw near! 'tis an honor to see me, a favor to hear; 'tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea along with the red queen, the white queen, and me!" then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink, or anything else that is pleasant to drink; mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine, and welcome queen alice with ninety-times-nine! the real sentiment always cropped out in his verses to little girls; from youth to age he was their "good knight and true" and all his fairest thoughts were kept for them. many a grown woman has carefully hoarded among her treasures some bit of verse from lewis carroll, which her happy childhood inspired him to write; but the dedication of "alice through the looking-glass" was to the unknown child, whom his book went forth to please: child of the pure, unclouded brow and dreaming eyes of wonder! though time be fleet, and i and thou are half a life asunder, thy loving smile will surely hail the love-gift of a fairy tale. i have not seen thy sunny face, nor heard thy silver laughter: no thought of me shall find a place in thy young life's hereafter, enough that now thou wilt not fail to listen to my fairy tale. a tale begun in other days, when summer suns were glowing, a simple chime, that served to time the rhythm of our rowing, whose echoes live in memory yet, though envious years would say "forget." come, hearken then, ere voice of dread, with bitter tidings laden, shall summon to unwelcome bed a melancholy maiden! we are but older children, dear, who fret to find our bedtime near. without, the frost, the blinding snow, the storm-wind's moody madness; within, the firelight's ruddy glow, and childhood's nest of gladness. the magic words shall hold thee fast; thou shalt not heed the raving blast. and though the shadow of a sigh may tremble through the story, for "happy summer days" gone by and vanished summer glory, it shall not touch, with breath of bale, the pleasance of our fairy tale. these are only a meager handful of his many poems. through his life this gift stayed with him, with all its early spirit and freshness; the added years but added grace and lightness to his touch, for in the "story of sylvie and bruno" there are some gems: but that is another chapter and we shall hear them later. and so the years passed, and the writer of the "alices" and the "jabberwocky" and "the hunting of the snark" and other poems fastened himself slowly but surely into the loyal hearts of his many readers, and the grave mathematical lecturer of christ church seemed just a trifle older and graver than of yore. he was very reserved, very shy, and kept somewhat aloof from his fellow "dons"; but let a little girl tap _ever_ so faintly at his study door, the knock was heard, the door flung wide, charles lutwidge dodgson vanished into some inner sanctum, and lewis carroll stood smiling on the threshold to welcome her with open arms. chapter xi. games, riddles, and problems. lewis carroll had a mind which never rested in waking hours, and as is the case with all such active thinkers, his hours of sleeping were often broken by long stretches of wakefulness, during which time the thinking machinery set itself in motion and spun out problems and riddles and odd games and puzzles. "puzzles and problems of all sorts were a delight to mr. dodgson," writes miss beatrice hatch in the _strand magazine_. "many a sleepless night was occupied by what he called a 'pillow problem'; in fact his mathematical mind seemed always at work on something of the kind, and he loved to discuss and argue a point connected with his logic, if he could but find a willing listener. sometimes, while paying an afternoon call, he would borrow scraps of paper and leave neat little diagrams or word puzzles to be worked out by his friends." logic was a study of which he was very fond. after he gave up in 1881 the lectureship of mathematics which he had held for twenty-five years he determined to make literature a profession; to devote part of his time to more serious study, and a fair portion to the equally fascinating work for children. "in his estimation," says miss hatch, "logic was a most important study for every one; no pains were spared to make it clear and interesting to those who would consent to learn of him, either in a class that he begged to be allowed to hold in a school or college, or to a single individual girl who showed the smallest inclination to profit by his instructions." he took the greatest delight in his subject and wisely argued that all girls should learn, not only to reason, but to reason properly--that is, logically. with this end in view he wrote for their use a little book which he called "the game of logic," and the girls, whose footsteps he had guided in childish days through realms of nonsense, were willing in many instances to journey with him into the byways of learning, feeling sure he would not lead them into depths where they could not follow. the little volume contains four chapters, and the whimsical headings show us at once that lewis carroll was the author, and not charles lutwidge dodgson. chapter i.......new lamps for old. chapter ii......cross questions. chapter iii.....crooked answers. chapter iv......hit or miss. to be sure this is not a "play" book, and even as a "game" it is one which requires a great deal of systematic thinking and reasoning. the girl who has reached thinking and reasoning years and does not care to do either, had better not even peep into the book; but if she is built on sturdier lines and wishes to peep, she must do more--she must read it step by step and study the carefully drawn diagrams, if she would follow intelligently the clear, precise arguments. the book is dedicated-to my child-friend. i charm in vain: for never again, all keenly as my glance i bend, will memory, goddess coy, embody for my joy departed days, nor let me gaze on thee, my fairy friend! yet could thy face, in mystic grace, a moment smile on me, 'twould send far-darting rays of light from heaven athwart the night, by which to read in very deed thy spirit, sweetest friend! so may the stream of life's long dream flow gently onward to its end, with many a floweret gay, adown its billowy way: may no sigh vex nor care perplex my loving little friend! his preface is most enticing. he says: "this game requires nine counters--four of one color and five of another; say four red and five gray. besides the nine counters, it also requires one player _at least_. i am not aware of any game that can be played with _less_ than this number; while there are several that require more; take cricket, for instance, which requires twenty-two. how much easier it is, when you want to play a game, to find _one_ player than twenty-two! at the same time, though one player is enough, a good deal more amusement may be got by two working at it together, and correcting each other's mistakes. "a second advantage possessed by this game is that, besides being an endless source of amusement (the number of arguments that may be worked by it being infinite), it will give the players a little instruction as well. but is there any great harm in that, so long as you get plenty of amusement?" to explain the book thoroughly would take the wit and clever handling of lewis carroll himself, but to the beginner of logic a few of these unfinished syllogisms may prove interesting: a syllogism in logical language consists of what is known as two _premisses_ and one _conclusion_, and is a very simple form of argument when you get used to it. for instance, supposing someone says: "all my friends have colds"; someone else may add: "no one can sing who has a cold"; then the third person draws the conclusion, which is: "none of my friends can sing," and the perfect logical argument would read as follows: 1. premise--"all my friends have colds." 2. premise--"no one can sing who has a cold." 3. conclusion--"none of my friends can sing." that is what is called a perfect syllogism, and in chapter iv, which he calls _hit or miss_, lewis carroll has collected a hundred examples containing the two _premisses_ which need the _conclusion_. here are some of them. anyone can draw her own conclusions: pain is wearisome; no pain is eagerly wished for. in each case the student is required to fill up the third space. no bald person needs a hairbrush; no lizards have hair. no unhappy people chuckle; no happy people groan. all ducks waddle; nothing that waddles is graceful. some oysters are silent; no silent creatures are amusing. umbrellas are useful on a journey; what is useless on a journey should be left behind. no quadrupeds can whistle; some cats are quadrupeds. some bald people wear wigs; all your children have hair. the whole book is brimful of humor and simple everyday reasoning that the smallest child could understand. another "puzzle" book of even an earlier date is "a tangled tale"; this is dedicated-to my pupil. belovã©d pupil! tamed by thee, addish, subtrac-, multiplica-tion, division, fractions, rule of three, attest the deft manipulation! then onward! let the voice of fame, from age to age repeat the story, till thou hast won thyself a name, exceeding even euclid's glory! in the preface he says: "this tale originally appeared as a serial in _the monthly packet_, beginning in april, 1880. the writer's intention was to embody in each knot (like the medicine so deftly but ineffectually concealed in the jam of our childhood) one or more mathematical questions, in arithmetic, algebra, or geometry, as the case might be, for the amusement and possible edification of the fair readers of that magazine. "october, 1885. l. c." these are regular mathematical problems and "posers," most of them, and it seems that the readers, being more or less ambitious, set to work in right good earnest to answer them, and sent in the solutions to the author under assumed names, and then he produced the real problem, the real answer, and all the best answers of the contestants. these problems were all called _knots_ and were told in the form of stories. knot i was called _excelsior_. it was written as a tale of adventure, and ran as follows: "the ruddy glow of sunset was already fading into the somber shadows of night, when two travelers might have been observed swiftly--at a pace of six miles in the hour--descending the rugged side of a mountain; the younger bounding from crag to crag with the agility of a fawn, while his companion, whose aged limbs seemed ill at ease in the heavy chain armor habitually worn by tourists in that district, toiled on painfully at his side." lewis carroll is evidently imitating the style of some celebrated writer--henry james, most likely, who is rather fond of opening his story with "two travelers," or perhaps sir walter scott. he goes on: "as is always the case under such circumstances, the younger knight was the first to break the silence. "'a goodly pace, i trow!' he exclaimed. 'we sped not thus in the ascent!' "'goodly, indeed!' the other echoed with a groan. 'we clomb it but at three miles in the hour.' "'and on the dead level our pace is--?' the younger suggested; for he was weak in statistics, and left all such details to his aged companion. "'four miles in the hour,' the other wearily replied. 'not an ounce more,' he added, with that love of metaphor so common in old age, 'and not a farthing less!' "''twas three hours past high noon when we left our hostelry,' the young man said, musingly. 'we shall scarce be back by supper-time. perchance mine host will roundly deny us all food!' "'he will chide our tardy return,' was the grave reply, 'and such a rebuke will be meet.' "'a brave conceit!' cried the other, with a merry laugh. 'and should we bid him bring us yet another course, i trow his answer will be tart!' "'we shall but get our deserts,' sighed the older knight, who had never seen a joke in his life, and was somewhat displeased at his companion's untimely levity. ''twill be nine of the clock,' he added in an undertone, 'by the time we regain our hostelry. full many a mile have we plodded this day!' "'how many? how many?' cried the eager youth, ever athirst for knowledge. "the old man was silent. "'tell me,' he answered after a moment's thought, 'what time it was when we stood together on yonder peak. not exact to the minute!' he added, hastily, reading a protest in the young man's face. 'an' thy guess be within one poor half hour of the mark, 'tis all i ask of thy mother's son! then will i tell thee, true to the last inch, how far we shall have trudged betwixt three and nine of the clock.' "a groan was the young man's only reply, while his convulsed features and the deep wrinkles that chased each other across his manly brow revealed the abyss of arithmetical agony into which one chance question had plunged him." the problem in plain english is this: "two travelers spend from three o'clock till nine in walking along a level road, up a hill, and home again, their pace on the level being four miles an hour, up hill three, and down hill six. find distance walked: also (within half an hour) the time of reaching top of hill." _answer._ "twenty-four miles: half-past six." the explanation is very clear and very simple, but we will not give it here. this first knot of "a tangled tale" offers attractions of its own, for like the dream _alice_ someone may exclaim, "a knot! oh, do let me help to undo it!" the second problem or "tale" is called _eligible apartments_, and deals with the adventures of one _balbus_ and his pupils, and contains two "knots." one is: "the governor of ---wants to give a _very_ small dinner party, and he means to ask his father's brother-in-law, his brother's father-in-law, and his brother-in-law's father, and we're to guess how many guests there will be." the answer is _one_. perhaps some ambitious person will go over the ground and prove it. the second knot deals with the _eligible apartments_ which _balbus_ and his pupils were hunting. at the end of their walk they found themselves in a square. "'it _is_ a square!' was balbus's first cry of delight as he gazed around him. 'beautiful! beau-ti-ful! _and_ rectangular!' and as he plunged into geometry he also plunged into funny conversations with the average english landlady, which we can better follow: "'which there is _one_ room, gentlemen,' said the smiling landlady, 'and a sweet room, too. as snug a little back room----' "'we will see it,' said balbus gloomily as they followed her in. 'i knew how it would be! one room in each house! no view i suppose.' "'which indeed there _is_, gentlemen!' the landlady indignantly protested as she drew up the blind, and indicated the back garden. "'cabbages, i perceive,' said balbus. 'well, they're green at any rate.' "'which the greens at the shops,' their hostess explained, 'are by no means dependable upon. here you has them on the premises, _and_ of the best.' "'does the window open?' was always balbus's first question in testing a lodging; and 'does the chimney smoke?' his second. satisfied on all points, he secured the refusal of the room, and moved on to the next house where they repeated the same performance, adding as an afterthought: 'does the cat scratch?' "the landlady looked around suspiciously as if to make sure the cat was not listening. 'i will not deceive you, gentlemen,' she said, 'it _do_ scratch, but not without you pulls its whiskers. it'll never do it,' she repeated slowly, with a visible effort to recall the exact words between herself and the cat, 'without you pulls its whiskers!' "'much may be excused in a cat so treated,' said balbus as they left the house, ... leaving the landlady curtseying on the doorstep and still murmuring to herself her parting words, as if they were a form of blessing, 'not without you pulls its whiskers!'" he has given us a real dickens atmosphere in the dialogue, but the medicinal problem tucked into it all is too much like hard work. there were ten of these "knots," each one harder than its predecessor, and lewis carroll found much interest in receiving and criticising the answers, all sent under fictitious names. this clever mathematician delighted in "puzzlers," and sometimes he found a kindred soul among the guessers, which always pleased him. one of his favorite problems was one that as early as the days of the _rectory umbrella_ he brought before his limited public. he called it _difficulty no. 1_. "where in its passage round the earth does the day change its name?" this question pursued him all through his mathematical career, and the difficulty of answering it has never lessened. even in "a tangled tale" neither balbus nor his ambitious young pupils could do much with the problem. _difficulty no. 2_ is very humorous, and somewhat of a "catch" question. "which is the best--a clock that is right only once a year, or a clock that is right twice every day?" in march, 1897, _vanity fair_, a current english magazine, had the following article entitled: _"a new puzzle."_ "the readers of _vanity fair_ have, during the last ten years, shown so much interest in acrostics and hard cases, which were at first made the object of sustained competition for prizes in the journal, that it has been sought to invent for them an entirely new kind of puzzle, such as would interest them equally with those that have already been so successful. the subjoined letter from mr. lewis carroll will explain itself, and will introduce a puzzle so entirely novel and withal so interesting that the transmutation [changing] of the original into the final word of the doublets may be expected to become an occupation, to the full as amusing as the guessing of the double acrostics has already proved." "dear vanity," lewis carroll writes:--"just a year ago last christmas two young ladies, smarting under that sorest scourge of feminine humanity, the having "nothing to do," besought me to send them "some riddles." but riddles i had none at hand and therefore set myself to devise some other form of verbal torture which should serve the same purpose. the result of my meditations was a new kind of puzzle, new at least to me, which now that it has been fairly tested by a year's experience, and commended by many friends, i offer to you as a newly gathered nut to be cracked by the omnivorous teeth that have already masticated so many of your double acrostics. "the rules of the puzzle are simple enough. two words are proposed, of the same length; and the puzzle consists in linking these together by interposing other words, each of which shall differ from the next word _in one letter only_. that is to say, one letter may be changed in one of the given words, then one letter in the word so obtained, and so on, till we arrive at the other given word. the letters must not be interchanged among themselves, but each must keep to its own place. as an example, the word 'head' may be changed into 'tail' by interposing the words 'heal, teal, tell, tall.' i call the two given words 'a doublet,' the interposed words 'links,' and the entire series 'a chain,' of which i here append an example: head heal teal tell tall tail "it is perhaps needless to state that the links should be english words, such as might be used in good society. "the easiest 'doublets' are those in which the consonants in one word answer to the consonants in the other, and the vowels to vowels; 'head' and 'tail' constitute a doublet of this kind. where this is not the case, as in 'head' and 'hare,' the first thing to be done is to transform one member of the doublet into a word whose consonants and vowels shall answer to those in the other member ('head, herd, here'), after which there is seldom much difficulty in completing the 'chain.'... "lewis carroll." "doublets" was brought out in book form in 1880, and proved a very attractive little volume. "the game of logic" and "a tangled tale" are also in book form, the latter cleverly illustrated by arthur b. frost. it would take too long to name all the games and puzzles lewis carroll invented. some were carefully thought out, some were produced on the spur of the moment, generally for the amusement of some special child friend. indeed, the puzzles and riddles and games had accumulated to such an extent that he was arranging to publish a book of them with illustrations by miss e. gertrude thomson, but after his death the plans fell through, and many literary projects were abandoned. acrostic writing was one of his favorite pastimes, and he wrote enough of these to have filled a good fat little volume. his wonderland stamp-case, one of his own ingenious inventions, might come under the head of "puzzles and problems," and, oddly enough, an interesting description of this stamp-case was published only a short time ago in _the nation_. the writer describes his own copy which he bought when it was new, some twenty years ago. there is first an envelope of red paper, on which is printed: the "wonderland" postage stamp-case, invented by louis carroll, oct. 29, 1888. this case contains 12 separate packets for stamps of different values, and 2 coloured pictorial surprises, taken from "alice in wonderland." it is accompanied with 8 or 9 wise words about letter-writing. 1st, post-free, 13d. on the flap of the envelope is: published by emberlin & son, 4 magdalen street, oxford. "the stamp-case," the writer tells us, "consists of a stiff paper folded with the pockets on the inner leaves and a picture on each outer leaf. this case is inclosed in a sliding cover, and in this way the pictorial surprise becomes possible. a picture of _alice_ holding the _baby_ is on the front cover, and when this is drawn off, there is underneath a picture of _alice_ nursing a pig. on the back cover is the famous _cat_, which vanishes to a shadowy grin on the pictures beneath." the booklet which accompanied this little stamp-case found its way to many of his girl friends. now, whether they bought it, or whether, under guise of giving a present, this clever friend of theirs sent them the stamp-case with the "eight or nine words of advice" slyly tucked in, we cannot say, but in the case of isa bowman and of beatrice hatch the booklet evidently made a deep impression, for both quote from it very freely, and some of the "wise words" are certainly worth heeding, for instance: "_address and stamp the envelope._" "what! before writing the letter?" "most certainly; and i'll tell you what will happen if you don't. you will go on writing till the last moment, and just in the middle of the last sentence you will become aware that 'time's up!' then comes the hurried wind-up--the wildly scrawled signature--the hastily fastened envelope which comes open in the post--the address--a mere hieroglyphic--the horrible discovery that you've forgotten to replenish your stamp-case--the frantic appeal to everyone in the house to lend you a stamp--the headlong rush to the post office, arriving hot and gasping, just after the box has been closed--and finally, a week afterwards, the return of the letter from the dead letter office, marked, 'address illegible.'" "_write legibly._ "the average temper of the human race would be perceptibly sweetened if everybody obeyed this rule. a great deal of bad writing in the world comes simply from writing _too quickly_. of course you reply, 'i do it to save time.' a very good object no doubt; but what right have you to do it at your friend's expense? isn't his time as valuable as yours? years ago i used to receive letters from a friend--and very interesting letters too--written in one of the most atrocious hands ever invented. it generally took me about a week to read one of his letters! i used to carry it about in my pocket and take it out at leisure times to puzzle over the riddles which composed it--holding it in different positions, till at last the meaning of some hopeless scrawl would flash upon me, when i at once wrote down the english under it; and when several had thus been guessed, the context would help me with the others till at last the whole series of hieroglyphics was deciphered. if all one's friends wrote like that, life would be entirely spent in reading their letters!" _"my ninth rule._--when you get to the end of a note-sheet, and find you have more to say, take another piece of paper--a whole sheet or a scrap, as the case may demand, but whatever you do, _don't cross_! remember the old proverb 'cross-writing makes cross-reading.' 'the _old_ proverb?' you say inquiringly. 'how old?' why, not so _very_ ancient, i must confess. in fact--i'm afraid i invented it while writing this paragraph. still, you know 'old' is a _comparative_ term; i think you would be quite justified in addressing a chicken just out of the shell as 'old boy!' _when compared_ with another chicken that was only half out!" "don't try to have the last word," he tells us--and again, "_don't_ fill more than a page and a half with apologies for not having written sooner." "_on how to end a letter_," he advises the writer to "refer to your correspondent's last letter, and make your winding up _at least as friendly as his_; in fact, even if a shade more friendly, it will do no harm." "when you take your letters to the post, _carry them in your hand_. if you put them in your pocket, you will take a long country walk (i speak from experience), passing the post office twice, going and returning, and when you get home you will find them still in your pocket." letter-writing was as much a part of lewis carroll as games, and puzzles, and problems, and mathematics, and nonsense, and little girls. indeed, as we view him through the stretch of years, we find him so many-sided that he himself would have done well to draw a new geometrical figure to represent a nature so full of strange angles and surprising shapes. if one is fond of looking into a kaleidoscope, and watching the ever-changing facets and colors and designs, one would be pretty apt to understand the constant shifting of that active mind, always on the alert for new ideas, but steady and fixed in many good old ones, which had become firm habits. he was fond of giving his child-friends "nuts to crack," and nothing pleased him more than to be the center of some group of little girls, firing his conundrums and puzzles into their minds, and watching the bright young faces catching the glow of his thoughts. he knew just how far to go, and when to turn some dawning idea into quaint nonsense, so that the young mind could grasp and hold it. dear maker of nonsense, dear teacher and friend, dear lover of children, can they ever forget you! chapter xii. a fairy ring of girls. in a little poem called "a sea dirge," which lewis carroll wrote about this time, we find some very strange, uncomplimentary remarks, considering the fact that most of his vacations was spent at the seashore. eastbourne, in the summer time, was as much his home--during the last fifteen years of his life--as christ church during the oxford term. his pretty house in a shady, quiet street was a familiar spot to every girl friend of his acquaintance, and many of his closest and most interesting friendships were begun by the sea, yet he says: there are certain things, as a spider, a ghost, the income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three- that i hate, but the thing that i hate the most is a thing they call the sea. pour some salt water over the floor- ugly i'm sure you'll allow it to be; suppose it extended a mile or more, _that's_ very like the sea. * * * * i had a vision of nursery maids; tens of thousands passed by me- all leading children with wooden spades, and this way by the sea. who invented those spades of wood? who was it cut them out of the tree? none, i think, but an idiot could- or one that loved the sea. * * * * if you like your coffee with sand for dregs, a decided hint of salt in your tea, and a fishy taste in the very eggs- by all means choose the sea. and if, with these dainties to drink and eat, you prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, and a chronic state of wet in your feet, then--i recommend the sea. did he mean all this, we wonder, this genial gentleman, who haunted the seashore in search of little girls, his pockets bulging with games and puzzles? he had also a good supply of safety-pins, in case he saw someone who wanted to wade in the sea, but whose skirts were in her way and who had no pin handy. then he would go gravely up to her and present her with one of his stock. in the earlier days he used to go to sandown, in the isle of wight, and there he met little gertrude chataway, who must have been a very charming child, for he promptly fell in love with her. this was in 1875, and, from her description of him, he must have been a _very, very_ old gentleman--forty-three at least. he happened to live next door to gertrude, and during those summer days she used to watch him with much interest, for he had a way of throwing back his head and sniffing in the salt air that fascinated gertrude, whose joy bubbled over when at last he spoke to her. the two became great friends. they used to sit for hours on the steps of their house which led to the beach, and he would delight the little girl with his wonderful stories, often illustrating them with a pencil as he talked. the great charm of these stories lay in the fact that some chance remark of gertrude's would wind him up; some question she asked would suggest a story, and as it spread out into "lovely nonsense" she always felt in some way that she had helped to make it grow. this little girl was one of the child-friends who clung to the sweet association all her life, just as the little liddell girls never grew quite away from his love and interest. it was to gertrude that he dedicated "the hunting of the snark," and she was the proud possessor not only of his friendship, but of many interesting letters, covering a period of at least ten years, during which time gertrude passed from little girlhood, though he never seemed to realize the change. two of his prime favorites in the earlier days were ellen terry, the well-known english actress, and her sister kate, who was also an actress of some note. lewis carroll, being always very fond of the drama, found it through life his keenest delight, and it was his good fortune to see little ellen terry in the first prominent part she ever took. this was in 1856, when mr. and mrs. charles kean played in "the winter's tale," and ellen took the child's character of _mamillius_, the little son of the king. lewis carroll was carried away with the tiny actress, and it did not take him long after that to make her acquaintance. this no doubt began in the usual way, a chat with the child behind the scenes, a call upon her father and mother, and, finally, an introduction to the whole family which, being nearly as large as his own, could not fail to interest him deeply. there were two other little terry girls, who attracted him and to whom he was very kind, florence and marion. the boys, and there were five of them, he never noticed of course, but the four little girls came in for a good share of the most substantial petting. many a day at the seaside he gave them--these busy little actresses--many a feast in his own rooms, many a daytime frolic, for night was their working time--not that they minded in the least, for they loved their work. there was much talk in those days about the harm in allowing children to act at night, when they should be snug in their beds dreaming of fairies. but lewis carroll thought nothing of the kind; he delighted in the children's acting, and he knew, being half a child himself, that the youngsters took as much delight in their work as he did in seeing them. he always contended that acting comes naturally to children; from babyhood they "pretend," and if they happen, as in ellen terry's case and the case of other little stage people he knew, to be born in the profession, why, this "pretending" is the finest kind of _play_ not _work_. so he was always on the side of the little actors and actresses who did not want to be taken away from the theater and put to bed. ellen terry proved also to be one of his lifelong friends; the talented actress found his praise a most precious thing, and his criticism, always so honest, and usually so keen and true, she accepted with the grace of the great artist. often, too, he asked her aid for some other girl friend with dramatic talent, and she never failed to lend a helping hand when she could. from first to last her acting charmed him. often he would take a little girl to some shakespearean treat at the theater, and would raise her to the "seventh heaven" of delight by penciling a note to miss terry asking for an interview or perhaps a photograph for his small companion, and these requests were never refused. every christmas the rev. charles dodgson spent with his sisters, who since their father's death had lived at guildford, in a pretty house called _the chestnuts_. his coming at christmas was always a great event, for of course some very youthful ladies in the neighborhood were in a state of suppressed excitement over his yearly arrival, which meant christmas jollity--with charades and tableaux and all sorts of odd and interesting games, and, _of course_, stories. one of his special guildford favorites was gaynor simpson, to whom he wrote several of his clever letters. in one, evidently an answer to hers, he begged her never again to leave out the g in the name dodgson, asking in a very plaintive manner what _she_ would think if he left out the g in _her_ name and called her "aynor" instead of gaynor. in this same letter he confessed that he never danced except in his own peculiar way, that the last house he danced in, the floors broke through, but as the beams were only six inches thick, it was a very poor sort of floor, when one came to think--that stone arches were much better for _his_ sort of dancing. indeed, the poem he wrote about the sea must have been just a bit of a joke, for it was at margate, another seaside resort, that he met adelaide paine, another of his favorites, and to her he presented a copy of "the hunting of the snark," with an acrostic on her name written on the fly leaf. this little maid was further honored by receiving a photograph, not of lewis carroll, but of mr. dodgson, and in a note to her mother he begged in his usual odd way that she would never let any but her intimate friends know anything about the name of "lewis carroll," as he did not wish people who had heard of him to recognize him in the street. the friendships that were not cemented at the seaside or under the shelter of old "tom quad" were very often begun in the railway train. english trains are not like ours in america. in lewis carroll's time the "first-class" accommodations were called _carriages_, in which four or five people, often total strangers, were shut up for hours together, actually locked in by the guard; and if one of these people chanced to be lewis carroll, and another a restless, active little girl, why, in the twinkling of an eye the sign of fellowship had flashed between them, and they were friends. one special friend made in this fashion was a dear little maid named kathleen eschwege, who stayed a child to him always during their eighteen years of friendship, in spite of all the changes the years brought in their train; her marriage among the rest, on which occasion he wrote her that as he never gave wedding presents, he hoped the inclosed he sent in his letter she would accept as an _unwedding_ present. this letter bore the date of january 20, 1892; five years later he wrote to acknowledge a photograph she had sent him in january, 1892, also her wedding-card in august of the same year. but he salved his conscience by reminding her that a certain biscuit-box--decorated with "looking-glass" pictures--which he had sent her in december, 1892, had never been acknowledged by _her_. our "don's" memory sometimes played him tricks we see, especially in later years. on one occasion, failing to recognize someone who passed him on the street, he was much chagrined to find out that he had been the gentleman's guest at dinner only the night before. another pleasant railway friendship was established with three little drury girls, as early as 1869. they did not know who he was until he sent them a copy of "alice in wonderland"--with the following verse on the fly leaf: to three puzzled little girls. (_from the author._) three little maidens weary of the rail, three pairs of little ears listening to a tale, three little hands held out in readiness for three little puzzles very hard to guess. three pairs of little eyes and open wonder-wide at three little scissors lying side by side, three little mouths that thanked an unknown friend for one little book he undertook to send. though whether they'll remember a friend or book or day- in three little weeks is very hard to say. edith rix was another favorite but apparently beyond the usual age, for his letters to her have quite a grown-up tone, and he helped her through many girlish quandaries with his wholesome advice. there are scores of others--so many that their very names would mean nothing to us unless we knew the circumstances which began the acquaintance, and the numerous incidents which could only occur in the company of lewis carroll. as we know, there were three great influences in his life: his reverence for holy things, his fondness for mathematics, and his love of little girls. it is this last trait which colors our picture of him and makes him stand forth in our minds apart from other men of his time. there have been many great preachers and eminent mathematicians, and these brilliant men may have loved childhood in a certain way, but to step aside from their high places to mingle with the children would never have occurred to them. the small girls who were "seen and not heard" dropped their eyes bashfully when the great ones passed, and bobbed a little old-fashioned curtsy in return for a stately preoccupied nod. but not so lewis carroll. no childish eyes ever sought his in vain. his own blue ones always smiled back, and there was something so glowing in this smile which lit up his whole face, that children, all unconsciously, drew near the warmth of it. his love for girls speaks well for the home-life and surroundings of his earlier years, when in the company of his seven sisters he learned to know girls pretty thoroughly. these girls of whom we have such scant knowledge possessed, we are sure, some potent charm to make this "big brother" forever afterwards the champion of little girls, and being a thoughtful fellow, he must have watched with pleasure the way they bloomed from childhood to girlhood and from girlhood to womanhood, in the sweet seclusion of croft rectory. it was this intimacy and comradeship with his sisters which made him so easily the intimate and comrade of so many little girls, understanding all their traits and peculiarities and their "girl nature" better sometimes than they did themselves. some of his friends moved in royal circles. princess beatrice, who received the second presentation copy of "alice in wonderland," was one of them; but in later years the two children of the duchess of albany (queen victoria's daughter-in-law), alice and the young duke, claimed his friendship, and despite his preference for girls, lewis carroll could not help liking the lad, whose gentle disposition and studious habits set him somewhat apart from other boys. near home, that is to say in oxford, or more properly, within a stone's throw of christ church itself, dwelt the rev. e. hatch and his bright and interesting family of children, with all of whom lewis carroll was on the most intimate terms, though his special favorite was beatrice, better known as bee. this little girl came so close upon the liddell children in his long list of friends that she almost caught the echo of those happy days of "wonderland," and she has much to say about this association in an interesting article published in the _strand magazine_ some years ago. "my earliest recollections of mr. dodgson," she writes, "are connected with photography. he was very fond of this art at one time, though he had entirely given it up for many years latterly. he kept various costumes and 'properties' with which to dress us up, and of course that added to the fun. what child would not thoroughly enjoy personating a japanese or a beggar child or a gypsy or an indian? sometimes there were excursions to the roof of the college, which was easily accessible from the windows of the studio. or you might stand by your tall friend's side in the tiny dark room, and watch him while he poured the contents of several little strong-smelling bottles on the glass picture of yourself that looked so funny with its black face; and when you grew tired of this there were many delights to be found in the cupboards in the big room downstairs. musical boxes of different colors and different tunes, the dear old woolly bear that walked when he was wound up, toys, picture-books, and packets of photographs of other children, who had also enjoyed these mornings of bliss. "the following letter written to me in 1873, about a large wax doll that mr. dodgson had presented to me, and which i left behind when i went on a visit from home, is an interesting specimen. emily and mabel [referred to in the letter] were other dolls of mine and known also by him, but though they have long since departed this life, i need hardly say i still possess _the_ doll 'alice.' "'my dear birdie: i met her just outside tom gate, walking very stiffly and i think she was trying to find her way to my rooms. so i said, "why have you come here without birdie?" so she said, "birdie's gone! and emily's gone! and mabel isn't kind to me!"' and two little waxy tears came running down her cheeks. "why, how stupid of me! i've never told who it was all the time! it was your own doll. i was very glad to see her, and took her to my room, and gave her some vesta matches to eat, and a cup of nice melted wax to drink, for the poor little thing was very hungry and thirsty after her long walk. so i said, 'come and sit by the fire and let's have a comfortable chat?' 'oh, no! no!' she said, 'i'd _much_ rather not; you know i do melt so _very_ easily!' and she made me take her quite to the other side of the room, where it was _very_ cold; and then she sat on my knee and fanned herself with a pen-wiper, because she said she was afraid the end of her nose was beginning to melt. "'you have no _idea_ how careful we have to be--we dolls,' she said. 'why, there was a sister of mine--would you believe it?--she went up to the fire to warm her hands, and one of her hands dropped right off! there now!' 'of course it dropped _right_ off,' i said, 'because it was the _right_ hand.' 'and how do you know it was the _right_ hand, mister carroll?' the doll said. so i said, 'i think it must have been the _right_ hand because the other hand was _left_.' "the doll said, 'i shan't laugh. it's a very bad joke. why, even a common wooden doll could make a better joke than that. and besides they've made my mouth so stiff and hard that i _can't_ laugh if i try ever so much.' 'don't be cross about it,' i said, 'but tell me this: i'm going to give birdie and the other children one photograph each, whichever they choose; which do you think birdie will choose?' 'i don't know,' said the doll; 'you'd better ask her!' so i took her home in a hansom cab. which would you like, do you think? arthur as cupid? or arthur and wilfred together? or you and ethel as beggar children? or ethel standing on a box? or, one of yourself? "'your affectionate friend, "'lewis carroll.'" there were, as you see, special occasions when boys were accepted, or rather tolerated, and special boys with whom he exchanged courtesies from time to time. the little hatch boys were favored, we cannot say for their own small sakes, but because there were two little sisters and _their_ feelings had to be considered. lewis carroll even took their pictures, and went so far as to write a little prologue for beatrice and her brother wilfred. the "grown-ups" were to give some private theatricals which the children were to introduce in the following dialogue: (enter beatrice leading wilfred. she leaves him at center [front], and after going round on tiptoe to make sure they are not overheard, returns and takes his arm.) b. wiffie! i'm _sure_ that something is the matter! all day there's been-oh, such a fuss and clatter! mamma's been trying on a funny dress- i never saw the house in such a mess! (_puts her arms around his neck._) _is_ there a secret, wiffie? w. (_shaking her off._) yes, of course! b. and you won't tell it? (_whimpers._) then you're very cross! (_turns away from him and clasps her hands ecstatically._) i'm sure of this! it's something _quite_ uncommon! w. (stretching up his arms with a mock heroic air.) oh, curiosity! thy name is woman! (_puts his arm round her coaxingly._) well, birdie, then i'll tell! (_mysteriously._) what should you say if they were going to act--a little play? b. (_jumping up and clapping her hands._) i'd say, "how nice!" w. (_pointing to audience._) but will it please the rest? b. oh, yes! because, you know, they'll do their best! (_turns to audience._) you'll praise them, won't you, when you've seen the play? just say, "how nice!" before you go away! (_they run away hand in hand._) of course the little girl had the last word, but then, as lewis carroll himself would say, "little girls usually had." this prologue, miss hatch tells us, was lewis carroll's only attempt in the dramatic line, and the two tots made a pretty picture as they ran off the stage. "mr. dodgson's chief form of entertaining," writes miss hatch, "was giving dinner parties. do not misunderstand me, nor picture to yourself a long row of guests on either side of a gayly-decorated table. mr. dodgson's theory was that it was much more enjoyable to have your friends singly, consequently these 'dinner parties,' as he liked to call them, consisted almost always of one guest only, and that one a child friend. one of his charming and characteristic little notes, written in his clear writing, often on a half sheet of note paper and signed with the c.l.d. monogram [monogram: cld] would arrive, containing an invitation, of which the following is a specimen." [though written when beatrice was no longer a little girl.] ch. ch. nov. 21, '96. "'my dear bee:--the reason i have for so long a time not visited the hive is a _logical_ one," (he was busy on his symbolic _logic_), "'but is not (as you might imagine) that i think there is no more honey in it! will you come and dine with me? any day would suit me, and i would fetch you at 6:30. "'ever your affectionate "'c.l.d.' "let us suppose this invitation has been accepted.... after turning in at the door of no. 7 staircase, and mounting a rather steep and winding stair, we find ourselves outside a heavy black door, of somewhat prisonlike appearance, over which is painted 'the rev. c. l. dodgson.' then a passage, then a door with glass panels, and at last we reach the familiar room that we love so well. it is large and lofty and extremely cheerful-looking. all around the walls are bookcases and under them the cupboards of which i have spoken, and which even now we long to see opened that they may pour out their treasures. "opposite to the big window with its cushioned seat is the fireplace; and this is worthy of some notice on account of the lovely red tiles which represent the story of 'the hunting of the snark.' over the mantelpiece hang three painted portraits of child friends, the one in the middle being the picture of a little girl in a blue cap and coat who is carrying a pair of skates." this picture is a fine likeness of xie (alexandra) kitchin, the little daughter of the dean of durham, another of his oxford favorites. "mr. dodgson," continues miss hatch, "seats his guest in a corner of the red sofa, in front of the fireplace, and the few minutes before dinner are occupied with anecdotes about other child friends, small or grown up, or anything in particular that has happened to himself.... dinner is served in the smaller room, which is also filled with bookcases and books.... those who have had the privilege of enjoying a college dinner need not be told how excellent it is.... the rest of the evening slips away very quickly, there is so much to be shown. you may play a game--one of mr. dodgson's own invention-... or you may see pictures, lovely drawings of fairies, whom your host tells you 'you can't be sure don't really exist.' or you may have music if you wish it." this was of course before the days of the phonograph, but lewis carroll had the next best thing, which miss hatch describes as an organette, in a large square box, through the side of which a handle is affixed. "another box holds the tunes, circular perforated cards, all carefully catalogued by their owner. the picture of the author of 'alice' keenly enjoying every note as he solemnly turns the handle, and raises or closes the lid of the box to vary the sound, is more worthy of your delight than the music itself. never was there a more delightful host for a 'dinner-party' or one who took such pains for your entertainment, fresh and interesting to the last." one of the first things a little girl learned in her intercourse with lewis carroll was to be methodical and orderly, as he was himself, in the arrangement of papers, photographs, and books; he kept lists and registers of everything. miss hatch tells of a wonderful letter register of his own invention "that not only recorded the names of his correspondents and the dates of their letters, but also noted the contents of each communication, so that in a few seconds he could tell you what you had written to him about on a certain day in years gone by. "another register contained a list of every menu supplied to every guest who dined at mr. dodgson's table. yet," she explains, "his dinners were simple enough, never more than two courses. but everything that he did must be done in the most perfect manner possible, and the same care and attention would be given to other people's affairs, if in any way he could assist or give them pleasure. "if he took you up to london to see a play, you were no sooner seated in the railway carriage than a game was produced from his bag and all the occupants were invited to join in playing a kind of 'halma' or 'draughts' of his own invention, on the little wooden board that had been specially made at his design for railway use, with 'men' warranted not to tumble down, because they fitted into little holes in the board." children, little girls especially, remember through life the numberless small kindnesses that are shown to them. is it any wonder, then, that the name of lewis carroll is held in such loving memory by the scores of little girls he drew about him? beatrice hatch was only one among many to feel the warmth of his love. this quiet, almost solitary, man whose home was in the shadow of a great college, whose daily life was such a long walk of dull routine, could yet find time to make his own sunshine and to draw others into the light of it. but the children did _their_ part too. he grew dependent on them as the years rolled on; a fairy circle of girls was always drawing him to them, and he was made one of them. they told him their childish secrets feeling sure of a ready sympathy and a quick appreciation. he seemed to know his way instinctively to a girl's heart; she felt for him an affection, half of comradeship, half of reverence, for there was something inspiring in the fearless carriage of the head, the clear, serene look in the eyes, that seemed to pierce far ahead upon the path over which their own young feet were stumbling, perhaps. with the passing of the years, some of the seven sisters married, and a fair crop of nieces and nephews shot up around him, also some small cousins in whom he took a deep interest. it is to one of these that he dedicated his poem called "matilda jane," in honor of the doll who bore the name, which meant nothing in the world to such an unresponsive bit of doll-dom. matilda jane, you never look at any toy or picture book; i show you pretty things in vain, you must be blind, matilda jane! i ask you riddles, tell you tales, but all our conversation fails; you never answer me again, i fear you're dumb, matilda jane! matilda, darling, when i call, you never seem to hear at all; i shout with all my might and main, but you're _so_ deaf, matilda jane! matilda jane, you needn't mind, for though you're deaf and dumb and blind, there's some one loves you, it is plain, and that is _me_, matilda jane! a little tender-hearted, ungrammatical, motherly "_me_"--how well the writer knew the small "bessie" whose affection for this doll inspired the verses! in after years when more serious work held him close to his study, and he made a point of declining all invitations, he took care that no small girl should be put on his black list. "if," says miss hatch, "you were very anxious to get him to come to your house on any particular day, the only chance was _not_ to _invite_ him, but only to inform him that you would be at home; otherwise he would say 'as you have _invited_ me, i cannot come, for i have made a rule to decline all _invitations_, but i will come the next day,'" and in answer to an invitation to tea, he wrote her in his whimsical way: "what an awful proposition! to drink tea from four to six would tax the constitution even of a hardened tea-drinker. for me, who hardly ever touches it, it would probably be fatal." if only we could read half the clever letters which passed between lewis carroll and his girl friends, what a volume of wit and humor, of sound common sense, of clever nonsense we should find! yet behind it all, that underlying seriousness which made his friendship so precious to those who were so fortunate as to possess it. the "little girl" whose loving picture of him tells us so much lived near him all her life; she felt his influence in all the little things that go to make up a child's day, long after the real childhood had passed her by. and so with all the girls who knew and loved him, and even those to whom his name was but a suggestion of what he really was. surely this fairy ring of girls encircles the english-speaking world, the girls whom lewis carroll loved, the hundreds he knew, the millions he had never seen. chapter xiii. "alice" on the stage and off. when the question of dramatizing the "alice" books was placed before the author, by mr. savile clarke, who was to undertake the work, he consented gladly enough. it was to be an operetta of two acts; the libretto, or story part, by mr. clarke himself, the music by mr. walter slaughter, and the only condition lewis carroll made was that nothing should be written or acted which should in any way be unsuitable for children. of course, everything was done under his eye, and he wrote an extra song for the ghosts of the _oysters_, who had been eaten by the _walrus_ and the _carpenter_; he also finished that poetic gem, "'tis the voice of the lobster." "'tis the voice of the lobster," i heard him declare, "you baked me too brown, i must sugar my hair." as a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose, trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. when the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark and talks with the utmost contempt of a shark; but when the tide rises and sharks are around, his words have a timid and tremulous sound. i passed by his garden, and marked with one eye how the owl and the panther were sharing a pie: the panther took pie, crust and gravy and meat, while the owl had the dish, for his share of the treat. when the pie was all finished, the owl--as a boon was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon; while the panther received knife and fork with a growl, and concluded the banquet---that is how the poem originally ended, but musically that would never do, so the last two lines were altered in this fashion: "but the panther obtained both the fork and the knife, so when _he_ lost his temper, the owl lost his life," and a rousing little song it made. the play was produced at the prince of wales' theater, during christmas week of 1886, where it was a great success. lewis carroll himself specially praises the wonderland act, notably the mad tea party. the _hatter_ was finely done by mr. sidney harcourt, the _dormouse_ by little dorothy d'alcourt, aged six-and-a-half, and phoebe carlo, he tells us, was a "splendid _alice_." he went many times to see his "dream child" on the stage, and was always very kind to the little actresses, whose dainty work made _his_ work such a success. phoebe carlo became a very privileged young person and enjoyed many treats of his giving, to say nothing of a personal gift of a copy of "alice" from the delighted author. after the london season, the play was taken through the english provinces and was much appreciated wherever it went. on one occasion a company gave a week's performance at brighton, and lewis carroll happening to be there one afternoon, came across three of the small actresses down on the beach and spent several hours with them. "happy, healthy little girls" he called them, and no doubt that beautiful afternoon they had the time of their lives. these children, he found--and he had made the subject quite a study--had been acting every day in the week, and twice on the day before he met them, and yet were energetic enough to get up each morning at seven for a sea bath, to run races on the pier, and to be quite ready for another performance that night. on december 26, 1888, there was an elaborate revival of "alice" at the royal globe theater. in the _london times_ the next morning appeared this notice: "'alice in wonderland,' having failed to exhaust its popularity at the prince of wales' theater, has been revived at the globe for a series of matinã©es during the holiday season. many members of the old cast remain in the bill, but a new 'alice' is presented in miss isa bowman, who is not only a wonderful actress for her years, but also a nimble dancer. "in its new surroundings the fantastic scenes of the story--so cleverly transferred from the book to the stage by mr. savile clarke--lose nothing of their original brightness and humor. 'alice's adventures in wonderland and through the looking-glass' have the rare charm of freshness for children and for their elders, and the many strange personages concerned--the white rabbit, the caterpillar, the cheshire cat, the hatter, the dormouse, the gryphon, the mock turtle, the red and white kings and queens, the walrus, humpty-dumpty, tweedledum and tweedledee, and all the rest of them--being seen at home, so to speak, and not on parade as in an ordinary pantomime. even the dreaded jabberwock pays an unconventional visit to the company from the 'flies,' and his appearance will not be readily forgotten. as before, mr. walter slaughter's music is an agreeable element to the performance...." the programme of this performance certainly spreads a feast before the children's eyes. first of all, think of a forest in autumn! (they had to change the season a little to get the bright colors of red and yellow.) here it is that _alice_ falls asleep and the elves sing to her. then there is the awakening in wonderland--such a wonderland as few children dreamed of. and then all our favorites appear and do just the things we always thought they would do if they had the chance. the _cheshire cat_ grins and vanishes, and then the grin appears without the cat, and then the cat grows behind the grin, and everything is so impossible and wonderful that one shivers with delight. there is a good old fairy tale that every child knows; it is called "oh! if i could but shiver!" and everyone who really enjoys a fairy tale understands the feeling--the delight of shivering--to see the jabberwock pass before you in all his terrifying, delicious ugliness, flapping his huge wings, rolling his bulging eyes, and opening and shutting those dreadful jaws of his; and yet to know he isn't "_really, real_" any more than sir john tenniel's picture of him in the dear old "alice" book at home, that you can actually go with _alice_ straight into wonderland and back again, safe and sound, and really see what happened just as she did, and actually squeeze through into looking-glass land, all made so delightfully possible by clever scenery and acting. a more charming, dainty little "alice" never danced herself into the heart of anyone as isa bowman did into the heart of lewis carroll. she came into his life when all of his best-beloved children had passed forever beyond the portals of childhood, never to return; loved more in these later days for the memory of what they had been. but here was a child who aroused all the associations of earlier years, who had made "alice" real again, whose clever acting gave just that dreamlike, elfin touch which the real alice of long ago had suggested; a sweet-natured, lovable, most attractive child, the child perhaps who won his deepest affections because she came to him when the others had vanished, and clung to him in the twilight. there must have been several little bowmans. we know of four little sisters--isa, emsie, nellie, and maggie, and master charles bowman was the _cheshire cat_ in the revival of "alice in wonderland," and to all of these--we are considering the girls of course, the boy never counted--lewis carroll showed his sweetest, most lovable side. they called him "uncle," and a more devoted uncle they could not possibly have found. as for isa herself, there was a special niche all her own; she was, as he often told her, "_his_ little girl," and in a loving memoir of him she has given to the world of children a beautiful picture of what he really was. there was something in the grip of his firm white hands, in his glance so deeply sympathetic, so tender and kind, that always stirred the little girl just as her sharp eyes noted a certain peculiarity in his walk. his stammer also impressed her, for it generally came when he least expected it, and though he tried all his life to cure it, he never succeeded. his shyness, too, was very noticeable, not so much with children, except just at first until he knew them well, but with grown people he was, as she put it, "almost old-maidishly prim in his manner." this shyness was shown in many ways, particularly in a morbid horror of having his picture taken. as fond as he was of taking other people, he dreaded seeing his own photograph among strangers, and once when isa herself made a caricature of him, he suddenly got up from his seat, took the drawing out of her hands, tore it in small pieces and threw it into the fire without a word; then he caught the frightened little girl in his strong arms and kissed her passionately, his face, at first so flushed and angry, softening with a tender light. many and many a happy time she spent with him at oxford. he found rooms for her just outside the college gates, and a nice comfortable dame to take charge of her. the long happy days were spent in his rooms, and every night at nine she was taken over to the little house in st. aldates ("st. olds") and put to bed by the landlady. in the morning the deep notes of "great tom" woke her and then began another lovely day with her "uncle." she speaks of two tiny turret rooms, one on each side of his staircase in christ church. "he used to tell me," she writes, "that when i grew up and became married, he would give me the two little rooms, so that if i ever disagreed with my husband, we could each of us retire to a turret until we had made up our quarrel." she, too, was fascinated by his collection of music-boxes, the finest, she thought, to be found anywhere in the world. "there were big black ebony boxes with glass tops, through which you could see all the works. there was a big box with a handle, which it was quite hard exercise for a little girl to turn, and there must have been twenty or thirty little ones which could only play one tune. sometimes one of the musical boxes would not play properly and then i always got tremendously excited. uncle used to go to a drawer in the table and produce a box of little screw-drivers and punches, and while i sat on his knee, he would unscrew the lid and take out the wheels to see what was the matter. he must have been a clever mechanist, for the result was always the same--after a longer or shorter period, the music began again. sometimes, when the musical boxes had played all their tunes, he used to put them in the box backwards, and was as pleased as i was at the comic effect of the music 'standing on its head,' as he phrased it. "there was another and very wonderful toy which he sometimes produced for me, and this was known as 'the bat.' the ceilings of the rooms in which he lived were very high, indeed, and admirably suited for the purposes of 'the bat.' it was an ingeniously constructed toy of gauze and wire, which actually flew about the room like a bat. it was worked by a piece of twisted elastic, and it could fly for about half a minute. i was always a little afraid of this toy because it was too lifelike, but there was a fearful joy in it. when the music boxes began to pall, he would get up from his chair and look at me with a knowing smile. i always knew what was coming, even before he began to speak, and i used to dance up and down in tremendous anticipation. "'isa, my darling,' he would say, 'once upon a time there was someone called bob, the bat! and he lived in the top left-hand drawer of the writing table. what could he do when uncle wound him up?'" "and then i would squeak out breathlessly: 'he could really _fly_!'" and bob the bat had many wonderful adventures. she tells us how, on a hot summer morning when the window was wide open, bob flew out into the garden and landed in a bowl of salad that one of the servants was carrying to someone's room. the poor fellow was so frightened by this sudden apparition that he promptly dropped the bowl, breaking it into countless pieces. lewis carroll never liked "his little girl" to exaggerate. "i remember," she tells us, "how annoyed he once was when, after a morning's sea bathing at eastbourne, i exclaimed: 'oh, this salt water, it always makes my hair as stiff as a poker!' "he impressed upon me quite irritably that no little girl's hair could ever possibly get as _stiff as a poker_. 'if you had said "as stiff as wires" it would have been more like it, but even that would have been an exaggeration.' and then seeing i was a little frightened, he drew for me a picture of 'the little girl called isa, whose hair turned into pokers because she was always exaggerating things.' "'i nearly died of laughing' was another expression that he particularly disliked; in fact, any form of exaggeration generally called from him a reproof, though he was sometimes content to make fun. for instance, my sisters and i had sent him 'millions of kisses' in a letter.' here is his answer: "'ch. ch. oxford. ap. 14, 1890. "'my own darling: "'it's all very well for you and nellie and emsie to write in millions of hugs and kisses, but please consider the _time_ it would occupy your poor old very busy uncle! try hugging and kissing emsie for a minute by the watch and i don't think you'll manage it more than 20 times a minute. "millions" must mean two millions at least.'" then follows a characteristic example in arithmetic: 20)2,000,000 hugs and kisses. ----------- 60)100,000 minutes. --------- 12)1,666 hours. ------- 6)138 days (at twelve hours a day). ---- 23 weeks. "i couldn't go on hugging and kissing more than 12 hours a day; and i wouldn't like to spend _sundays_ that way. so you see it would take _23_ weeks of hard work. really, my dear child, i cannot spare the time. "why haven't i written since my last letter? why, how could i have written _since the last time i did_ write? now you just try it with kissing. go and kiss nellie, from me, several times, and take care to manage it so as to have kissed her _since the last time you did_ kiss her. now go back to your place and i'll question you. "'have you kissed her several times?' "'yes, darling uncle.' "'what o'clock was it when you gave her the _last_ kiss?' "'five minutes past 10, uncle.' "'very well, now, have you kissed her _since_?' "'well--i--ahem! ahem! ahem! (excuse me, uncle, i've got a bad cough) i--think--that--i--that is, you know, i--' "'yes, i see! "isa" begins with "i," and it seems to me as if she was going to _end_ with "i" _this_ time!'" the rest of the letter refers to isa's visit to america, when she went to play the little _duke of york_ in "richard iii." "mind you don't write me from there," he warns her. "please, _please_, no more horrid letters from you! i _do_ hate them so! and as for kissing them when i get them, why, i'd just as soon kiss--kiss--kiss--_you_, you tiresome thing! so there now! "thank you very much for those 2 photographs--i liked them--hum--_pretty_ well. i can't honestly say i thought them the very best i had ever seen. "please give my kindest regards to your mother, and 1/2 of a kiss to nellie, and 1/200 of a kiss to emsie, 1/2000000 of a kiss to yourself. so with fondest love, i am, my darling, "your loving uncle, "c. l. dodgson." and at the end of this letter, teeming with fun and laughter, could anything be sweeter than this postscript? "i've thought about that little prayer you asked me to write for nellie and emsie. but i would like first to have the words of the one i wrote for _you_, and the words of what they say _now_, if they say any. and then i will pray to our heavenly father to help me to write a prayer that will be really fit for them to use." in letter-writing, and even in his story-telling, lewis carroll made frequent use of italics. his own speech was so emphatic that his writing would have looked odd without them, and many of his cleverest bits of nonsense would have been lost but for their aid. another time isa ended a letter to him with "all join me in lufs and kisses." now miss isa was away on a visit and had no one near to join her in such a message, but that is what she would have put had she been at home, and this is the letter he wrote in reply: "7 lushington road, eastbourne, "aug. 30, '90. "oh, you naughty, naughty, bad, wicked little girl! you forgot to put a stamp on your letter, and your poor old uncle had to pay _twopence_! his _last_ twopence! think of that. i shall punish you severely for this, once i get you here. so tremble! do you hear? be good enough to tremble! "i've only time for one question to-day. who in the world are the 'all' that join you in 'lufs and kisses'? weren't you fancying you were at home and sending messages (as people constantly do) from nellie and emsie, without their having given any? it isn't a good plan--that sending messages people haven't given. i don't mean it's in the least _untruthful_, because everybody knows how commonly they are sent without having been given; but it lessens the pleasure of receiving messages. my sisters write to me 'with best love from all.' i know it isn't true, so don't value it much. the other day the husband of one of my 'child-friends' (who always writes 'your loving') wrote to me and ended with 'ethel joins me in kindest regards.' in my answer i said (of course in fun)--'i am not going to send ethel kindest regards, so i won't send her any message _at all_.' then she wrote to say she didn't even know he was writing. 'of course i would have sent best love,' and she added that she had given her husband a piece of her mind. poor husband! "your always loving uncle, "c.l.d." these initials were always joined as a monogram and written backward, thus, [monogram: cld], which no doubt, after the years of practice he had, he dashed off with an easy flourish. his general writing was not very legible, but when he was writing for the press he was very careful. "why should the printers have to work overtime because my letters are ill-formed and my words run into each other?" he once said, and miss bowman has put in her little volume the facsimile of a diary he once wrote for her, where every letter was carefully formed so that isa could read every word herself. "they were happy days," she writes, "those days in oxford, spent with the most fascinating companion that a child could have. in our walks about the old town, in our visits to the cathedral or chapel hall, in our visits to his friends, he was an ideal companion, but i think i was always happiest when we came back to his rooms and had tea alone; when the fire glow (it was always winter when i stayed in oxford) threw fantastic shadows about the quaint room, and the thoughts of the prosiest people must have wandered a little into fairyland. the shifting firelight seemed almost to etherealize that kindly face, and as the wonderful stories fell from his lips, and his eyes lighted on me with the sweetest smile that ever a man wore, i was conscious of a love and reverence for charles dodgson that became nearly an adoration." "he was very particular," she tells us, "about his tea, which he always made himself, and in order that it should draw properly he would walk about the room, swinging the teapot from side to side, for exactly ten minutes. the idea of the grave professor promenading his book-lined study and carefully waving a teapot to and fro may seem ridiculous, but all the minutiã¦ of life received an extreme attention at his hands." the diary referred to, which he so carefully printed for isa, covered several days' visit to oxford in 1888, which oddly enough happened to be in midsummer, and being her first, was never forgotten. it was written in six "chapters" and jotted down faithfully the happenings of each day. what little girl could resist the feast of fun and frolic he had planned for those happy days! first, he met her at paddington station; then he took her to see a panorama of the falls of niagara, after which they had dinner with a mrs. dymes, and two of her children, helen and maud, went with them to terry's theater to see "little lord fauntleroy" played by vera beringer, another little actress friend of lewis carroll. after this they all took the metropolitan railway; the little dymes girls got off at their station, but isa and the aged aged man, as he called himself, went on to oxford. there they saw everything to be seen, beginning with christ church, where the "a.a.m." lived, and here and there lewis carroll managed to throw bits of history into the funny little diary. they saw all the colleges, and christ church meadow, and the barges which the oxford crews used as boathouses, and took long walks, and went to st. mary's church on sunday, and lots of other interesting things. every year she stayed a while with him at eastbourne, where she tells us she was even happier if possible. her day at eastbourne began very early. her room faced his, and after she was dressed in the morning she would steal into the little passage quiet as a mouse, and sit on the top stair, her eye on his closed door, watching for the signal of admission into his room; this was a newspaper pushed under his door. the moment she saw that, she was at liberty to rush in and fling herself upon him, after which excitement they went down to breakfast. then he read a chapter from the bible and made her tell it to him afterwards as a story of her own, beginning always with, "once upon a time." after which there was a daily visit to the swimming-bath followed by one to the dentist--he always insisted on this, going himself quite as regularly. after lunch, which with him consisted of a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while little miss isa ate a good substantial dinner, there was a game of backgammon, of which he was very fond, and then a long, long walk to the top of beachy head, which isa hated. she says: "lewis carroll believed very much in a great amount of exercise, and said one should always go to bed physically wearied with the exercise of the day. accordingly, there was no way out of it, and every afternoon i had to walk to the top of beachy head. he was very good and kind. he would invent all sorts of new games to beguile the tedium of the way. one very curious and strange trait in his character was shown in these walks. i used to be very fond of flowers and animals also. a pretty dog or a hedge of honeysuckle was always a pleasant event upon our walk to me. and yet he himself cared for neither flowers nor animals. tender and kind as he was, simple and unassuming in all his tastes, yet he did not like flowers.... he knew children so thoroughly and well, that it is all the stranger that he did not care for things that generally attract them so much.... when i was in raptures over a poppy or a dog-rose, he would try hard to be as interested as i was, but even to my childish eyes it was an effort, and he would always rather invent some new game for us to play at. once, and once only, i remember him to have taken an interest in a flower, and that was because of the folklore that was attached to it, and not because of the beauty of the flower itself. "... one day while we sat under a great tree, and the hum of the myriad insect life rivaled the murmur of the far-away waves, he took a foxglove from the heap that lay in my lap, and told me the story of how it came by its name; how in the old days, when all over england there were great forests, like the forest of arden that shakespeare loved, the pixies, the 'little folks,' used to wander at night in the glades, like titania and oberon and puck, and because they took great pride in their dainty hands they made themselves gloves out of the flowers. so the particular flower that the 'little folks' used came to be called 'folks' gloves.' then, because the country people were rough and clumsy in their talk, the name was shortened into 'foxgloves,' the name that everyone uses now." this special walk always ended in the coastguard's house, where they partook of tea and rock cake, and here most of his prettiest stories were told. the most thrilling part occurred when "the children came to a deep dark wood," always described with a solemn dropping of the voice; by that isa knew that the exciting part was coming, then she crept nearer to him, and he held her close while he finished the tale. isa, as was quite natural, was a most dramatic little person, so she always knew what emotions would suit the occasion, and used them like the clever little actress that she was. we find something very beautiful in this intimacy between the grave scholar and the light-hearted, innocent little girl, who used to love to watch him in some of those deep silences which neither cared to break. this small maid understood his every mood. a beautiful sunset, she tells us, touched him deeply. he would take off his hat and let the wind toss his hair, and look seaward with a very grave face. once she saw tears in his eyes, and he gripped her hand very hard as they turned away. perhaps, what caught her childish fancy more than anything else, was his observance of sunday. he always took isa twice to church, and she went because she wanted to go; he did not believe in forcing children in such matters, but he made a point of slipping some interesting little book in his pocket, so in case she got tired, or the sermon was beyond her, she would have something pleasant to do instead of staring idly about the church or falling asleep, which was just as bad. another peculiarity, she tells us, was his habit of keeping seated at the entrance of the choir. he contended that the rising of the congregation made the choir-boys conceited. one could go on telling anecdotes of lewis carroll and this well-beloved child, but of a truth his own letters will show far better than any description how he regarded this "star" child of his. so far as her acting went, he never spared either praise or criticism where he thought it just. here is a letter criticising her acting as the little _duke of york_: "ch. ch. oxford. ap. 4, '89. "my lord duke:--the photographs your grace did me the honor of sending arrived safely; and i can assure your royal highness that i am very glad to have them, and like them _very_ much, particularly the large head of your late royal uncle's little, little son. i do not wonder that your excellent uncle richard should say 'off with his head' as a hint to the photographer to print it off. would your highness like me to go on calling you the duke of york, or shall i say 'my own darling isa'? which do you like best? "now, i'm gong to find fault with my pet about her acting. what's the good of an old uncle like me except to find fault?" then follows some excellent criticism on the proper emphasis of words, explained so that the smallest child could understand; he also notes some mispronounced words, and then he adds: "one thing more. (what an impertinent uncle! always finding fault!) you're not as _natural_ when acting the duke as you were when you acted alice. you seemed to me not to forget _yourself_ enough. it was not so much a real prince talking to his brother and uncle; it was isa bowman talking to people she didn't care much about, for an audience to listen to. i don't mean it was that all _through_, but _sometimes_ you were _artificial_. now, don't be jealous of miss hatton when i say she was _sweetly_ natural. she looked and spoke like a real prince of wales. and she didn't seem to know there was any audience. if you ever get to be a _good_ actress (as i hope you will) you must learn to forget 'isa' altogether, and _be_ the character you are playing. try to think 'this is _really_ the prince of wales. i'm his little brother and i'm _very_ glad to meet him, and i love him _very_ much, and this is _really_ my uncle; he is very kind and lets me say saucy things to him,' and _do_ forget that there's anybody else listening! "my sweet pet, i _hope_ you won't be offended with me for saying what i fancy might make your acting better. "your loving old uncle, "charles. "x for nellie. "x for maggie. "x for emsie. "x for isa." the crosses were unmistakably kisses. he was certainly a most affectionate "uncle." he rarely signed his name "charles." it was only on special occasions and to very "special" people. here is another letter written to isa's sister nellie, thanking her for a "tidy" she made him. (he called it an antimacassar.) "the only ordinary thing about it," isa tells us, "is the date." the letter reads backward. one has to begin at the very bottom and read up, instead of reading from the top downward: "nov. 1, 1891. "c.l.d., uncle loving your! instead grandson his to it give to had you that so, years 80 or 70 for it forgot you that was it pity a what and; him of fond so were you wonder don't i and, gentleman old nice very a was he. for it made you that _him_ been have _must_ it see you so: _grandfather_ my was, _then_ alive was that, 'dodgson uncle' only the, born was _i_ before long was that see you then but. 'dodgson uncle for pretty thing some make i'll now,' it began you when yourself to said you that, me telling her without, knew i course of and: ago years many great a it made had you said she. me told isa what from was it? for meant was it who out made i how know you do! lasted has it well how and grandfather my for made had you antimacassar pretty that me give to you of nice so was it, nellie dear my." he had often written a looking-glass letter which could only be read by holding it up to a mirror, but this sort of writing was a new departure. in one of her letters isa sent "sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses." "how badly you _do_ spell your words!" he answered her. "i _was_ so puzzled about the 'sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses.' but at last i made out that, of course, you meant a 'sack full of _gloves_ and a basket full of _kittens_.'" then he composed a regular nonsense story on the subject. isa and her sisters called it the "glove and kitten letter" and read it over and over with much delight, for it was full of quaint fancies, such as lewis carroll loved to shower upon the children. when "bootle's baby" was put upon the stage, maggie bowman, though but a tiny child, played the part of _mignon_, the little lost girl, who walked into the hearts of the soldiers, and especially one young fellow, to whom she clung most of all. lewis carroll, besides taking a personal interest in maggie herself, was charmed with the play, which appealed to him strongly, so when little maggie came to oxford with the company she was treated like a queen. she stayed four days, during which time her "uncle" took her to see everything worth looking at, and made a rhyming diary for her which he called-maggie's visit to oxford. when maggie once to oxford came on tour as "bootle's baby," she said: "i'll see this place of fame, however dull the day be!" so with her friend she visited the sights that it was rich in, and first of all she poked her head inside the christ church kitchen. the cooks around that little child stood waiting in a ring; and every time that maggie smiled, those cooks began to sing- shouting the battle-cry of freedom! "roast, boil, and bake, for maggie's sake! bring cutlets fine for _her_ to dine; meringues so sweet for _her_ to eat- for maggie may be bootle's baby." there are a great many verses describing her walks and what she saw, among other wonders "a lovely pussy cat." and everywhere that maggie went that cat was sure to go- shouting the battle-cry of freedom! "miaow! miaow! come make your bow! take off your hats, ye pussy cats! and purr and purr to welcome _her_- for maggie may be bootle's baby!" so back to christ church-not too late for them to go and see a christ church undergraduate, who gave them cakes and tea. * * * * in magdalen park the deer are wild with joy that maggie brings some bread, a friend had given the child, to feed the pretty things. they flock round maggie without fear, they breakfast and they lunch, they dine, they sup, those happy deer- still as they munch and munch, shouting the battle-cry of freedom! "yes, deer are we, and dear is she. we love this child so sweet and mild: we all are fed with maggie's bread- for maggie may be bootle's baby!" * * * * they met a bishop on their way- a bishop large as life- with loving smile that seemed to say "will maggie be my wife?" maggie thought _not_, because you see she was so _very_ young, and he was old as old could be- so maggie held her tongue. "my lord, she's bootle's baby; we are going up and down," her friend explained, "that she may see the sights of oxford-town." "now, say what kind of place it is!" the bishop gayly cried, "the best place in the provinces!" the little maid replied. * * * * away next morning maggie went from oxford-town; but yet the happy hours she there had spent she could not soon forget. * * * * "oxford, good-bye! she seemed to sigh, you dear old city with gardens pretty, and lawns and flowers and college towers, and tom's great bell, farewell! farewell! for maggie may be bootle's baby!" here is just a piece of a letter which shows that lewis carroll could tease when he liked. it is evident that isa washed to buy the "alice" book in french, to give to a friend, so she naã¯vely wrote to headquarters to ask the price. this is the reply: "eastbourne. "my own darling isa,--the value of a copy of the french 'alice' is â£45: but, as you want the 'cheapest' kind, and as you are a great friend of mine, and as i am of a very noble, generous disposition, i have made up my mind to a _great_ sacrifice, and have taken â£3, 10s, 0d, off the price, so that you do not owe me more than â£41, 10s, 0d, and this you can pay me, in gold or bank notes, _as soon as you ever like_. oh, dear! i wonder why i write such nonsense! can you explain to me, my pet, how it happens that when i take up my pen to write a letter to _you_, it won't write sense. do you think the rule is that when the pen finds it has to write to a nonsensical, good-for-nothing child it sets to work to write a nonsensical, good-for-nothing letter? well, now i'll tell you the real truth. as miss kitty wilson is a dear friend of yours, of course she's a _sort_ of a friend of mine. so i thought (in my vanity) 'perhaps she would like to have a copy "from the author" with her name written in it.' so i sent her one--but i hope she'll understand that i do it because she's _your_ friend, for you see i had never _heard_ of her before; so i wouldn't have any other reason." when he published his last long story, "sylvie and bruno," the dedication was to her, an acrostic on her name; but as "sylvie and bruno" will be spoken of later on, perhaps it will be more interesting to give the dainty little verses where they belong. he sent his pet a specially bound copy of the new book, with the following letter: "christ church, may 16, '90. "dearest isa:--i had this bound for you when the book first came out, and it's been waiting here ever since dec. 17, for i really didn't dare to send it across the atlantic--the whales are _so_ inconsiderate. they'd have been sure to want to borrow it to show to the little whales, quite forgetting that the salt water would be sure to spoil it. "also i've been waiting for you to get back to send emsie the 'nursery alice.' i give it to the youngest in a family generally, but i've given one to maggie as well, because she travels about so much, and i thought she would like to have one to take with her. i hope nellie's eyes won't get _quite_ green with jealousy at two (indeed three) of her sisters getting presents, and nothing for her! i've nothing but my love to send her to-day, but she shall have _something some_ day.--ever your loving "uncle charles." the "nursery alice" he refers to was arranged by himself for children "from naught to five" as he quaintly puts it. it contained twenty beautiful colored drawings from the tenniel illustrations, with a cover designed by e. gertrude thomson, of whose work he was very fond. the words were simplified for nursery readers. in another letter to isa he talks very seriously about "social position." "ladies," he writes, "have to be _much_ more particular in observing the distinctions of what is called 'social position,' and the _lower_ their own position is (in the scale of 'lady' ship) the more jealous they seem to be in guarding it.... not long ago i was staying in a house with a young lady (about twenty years old i should think) with a title of her own, as she was an earl's daughter. i happened to sit next to her at dinner, and every time i spoke to her she looked at me more as if she was looking down on me from about a mile up in the air, and as if she was saying to herself, 'how _dare_ you speak to _me_! why you're not good enough to black my shoes!' it was so unpleasant that next day at luncheon i got as far from her as i could. "of course we are all _quite_ equal in god's sight, but we _do_ make a lot of distinctions (some of them quite unmeaning) among ourselves!" however, he was not always so unfortunate among great people, the "truly great" that is. in lord salisbury's house he was always a welcome and honored guest, for in a letter to "his little girl" from hatfield house he tells her of the duchess of albany and her two children. "she is the widow of prince leopold (the queen's youngest son), so her children are a prince and a princess; the girl is alice, but i don't know the boy's christian name; they call him 'albany' because he is the duke of albany. "now that i have made friends with a real live little princess, i don't intend ever to _speak_ to children who haven't any titles. in fact, i'm so proud, and i hold my chin so high, that i shouldn't even _see_ you if we met! no, darlings, you mustn't believe _that_. if i made friends with a _dozen_ princesses, i would love you better than all of them together, even if i had them all rolled up into a sort of child-roly-poly. "love to nellie and emsie.--your loving uncle, "c.l.d. "xxxxxxx "[kisses]." nothing could give us a better glimpse of the wholesome nature of this quiet "don" of ours than these letters to a little child; a wholesome child like himself, whose every emotion was to him like the page of some fairy book, to be read and read again. isa bowman could not know, child as she was, _what_ she was to this man, who with all his busy life, and all his gifts and talents, and all his many friendships, was so curiously lonely. but later, when she was grown, and wrote the little book of memories from which we have drawn so many sweet lessons, she doubtless realized, as she rolled back the years, what they had been to her--and what to lewis carroll. chapter xiv. a trip with sylvie and bruno. is all our life, then, but a dream, seen faintly in the golden gleam athwart time's dark resistless stream? bowed to the earth with bitter woe, or laughing at some raree-show, we flitter idly to and fro. man's little day in haste we spend, and from its merry noontide send no glance to meet the silent end. this beautiful dedication to little isa bowman, on the front page of "sylvie and bruno," was much prized by her on account of the double acrostic cleverly woven in the lines. the first letter of each line read downward was one way she could see her name, and the first three letters in the first line of each verse was another, but naturally the light-hearted child missed the note of deep sadness underlying the tuneful words. lewis carroll had reached that milestone in a man's life, _not_ when he pauses to look backward, but when his one desire is to press forward to the heights--to the goal. his thoughts were not so much colored by memories of earlier years as by anticipation, even dreams of what the future might hold. therefore, in our trip with _sylvie_ and _bruno_ into the realms of dreamland, we must bear in mind in reading the story that the _man_ is the dreamer, and not the _children_, nor does he see _quite_ through their eyes in his views of men and things. children, as a rule, live in the present; neither the past nor the future perplexes them, and "mister sir," as little _bruno_ called their friend, the dreamer, looked on these fairy children, dainty _sylvie_ and graceful _bruno_, as gleams of light in his shadowy way, little passing gleams, as elusive as they were brilliant. the day of the irresponsible, bubbling nonsense is over; we catch flashes of it now and then, but the fun is forced, and however much of a dear _sylvie_ may be, and however much of a darling _bruno_ may be, they are not _quite_ natural. in a very long and very serious preface, wholly unlike his usual style, the author tells us something of the history of the book. as early as 1867 the idea of "sylvie and bruno" first came to him in the shape of a little fairy tale which he wrote for _aunt judy's magazine_, but it was not until long after the publication of "alice through the looking-glass" that he determined to turn the adventures of these fairy children into something more than stray stories. the public, at least, the insatiable children, wanted something more from him, and as the second "alice" had been so satisfactory, he decided to venture again into the dream-world; he would not hurry about it; he would take his time; he would pluck a flower here and there as the years passed, and press it for safe-keeping; he would create something poetic and beautiful in the way of children, culled from the best of all the children he ever knew. this work should be a gem, cut and polished until its luster eclipsed all other work of his. and so from 1874 to 1889, a period of fifteen years, he jotted down quaint fancies and bits of dialogue which he thought would work well into the story. during this interval he passed from the prime of life into serious middle age, though there was so little change in his outward living and in his general appearance (he was always very boyish-looking) that even he himself failed to recognize the gulf of time between forty-two and fifty-seven. in this interval he had become deeply interested in the study of logic and when he began to gather together the mass of material he had collected for his book, he found so much matter which stepped outside of childish realms that he decided to please both the "grown-ups" and the youngsters by weaving it all into a story, which he accordingly did, with the result that he pleased no one. the children would not take the trouble to wade through the interwoven love story, while their elders, who from experience had expected something fresh and breezy from the pen of lewis carroll, who longed to get away from the world of facts and logic and deep discussions which buzzed about them, were even more sorely disappointed. all flights of genius are short and quick. had our author sat down when the idea of a long story first came to him, and written it off in his natural style, "sylvie and bruno" might have been another of the world's classics; but he put too much thought upon it, and the chapters show most plainly where the pen was laid down and where taken up again. but for all that the book sold well, chiefly, indeed, because it was lewis carroll who wrote it; though its popularity died down in a short time. about six years ago, however (1904), the enterprising publishers brought forth a new edition of the book, leaving out all the grown-up part, and bringing the fairy children right before us in all their simple loveliness. the experiment, so far as the story went, was most successful, and to those who have not a previous acquaintance with "sylvie and bruno" this little volume would give much more pleasure than the big two-volume original. one of lewis carroll's special objects in writing this story was a sort of tardy appreciation of the much-despised boy. in the character of _bruno_ he has given us a sweet little fellow, but we cannot get over the feeling that he is a girl in boy's clothes, his bits of mischief are all so dainty and alluring; but we would like to beat him with, say, a spray of goldenrod for such a fairy child, every time he says politely and priggishly "mister sir" to his invisible companion. what boy was _ever_ guilty of using such a term! the street urchin would naturally say "mister," but the well-bred home boy would say "sir," so the combination sounds absurd. _sylvie_ and _bruno_ were supposed to be the fairies that teach children to be good, and to do this they wandered pretty well over the earth in their fairy way. somehow we miss the real children through all their dainty play and laughter, but the pictures of the two children, by harry furniss, are beautiful enough to make us really believe in fairies. there is a question lewis carroll asks quite gravely in his book--"what is the best time for seeing fairies?" and he answers it in truly lewis carroll style: "the first rule is, that it must be a _very_ hot day--that we may consider as settled: and you must be a _little_ sleepy--but not too sleepy to keep your eyes open, mind. well, and you ought to feel a little what one may call 'fairyish' the scotch call it 'eerie,' and perhaps that's a prettier word; if you don't know what it means, i'm afraid i can hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a fairy and then you'll know. "and the last rule is, that the crickets should not be chirping. i can't stop to explain that; you must take it on trust for the present. "so, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance of seeing a fairy, or at least a much better chance than if they didn't." later on he tells us the rule about the crickets. "they always leave off chirping when a fairy goes by, ... so whenever you're walking out and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping you may be sure that they see a fairy." another dainty description is _bruno's_ singing to the accompaniment of tuneful harebells, and the song was a regular serenade: rise, oh, rise! the daylight dies, the owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting! wake, oh, wake! beside the lake the elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting! welcoming our fairy king, we sing, sing, sing. hear, oh, hear! from far and near the music stealing, ting, ting, ting! fairy bells adorn the dells are merrily pealing, ting, ting, ting! welcoming our fairy king, we ring, ring, ring. see, oh, see! on every tree what lamps are shining, ting, ting, ting! they are eyes of fiery flies to light our dining, ting, ting, ting! welcoming our fairy king, they swing, swing, swing. haste, oh, haste, to take and taste the dainties waiting, ting, ting, ting! honey-dew is stored---but here _bruno's_ song came to a sudden end and was never finished. fairies have the oddest ways of doing things, but then _sylvie_ was coming through the long grass, that charming woodland child that little _bruno_ loved and teased. the artist put all his skill into the drawing of this tiny maiden, skill assisted by lewis carroll's own ideas of what a fairy-girl should look like, and the fact that mr. furniss took _seven years_ to illustrate this book to the author's satisfaction and his own, shows how very particular both were to get at the spirit of the story. indeed, the great trouble with the story is that it is all spirit; there is no _real_ story to it, and this the keen scent of everyday children soon discovered. but in one thing it excels: the verses are every bit as charming as either the wonderland or looking-glass verses, with all the old-time delicious nonsense. take, for instance-the gardener's song. he thought he saw an albatross that fluttered round the lamp; he looked again, and found it was a penny-postage-stamp. "you'd best be getting home," he said: "the nights are very damp!" he thought he saw an argument that proved he was the pope; he looked again, and found it was a bar-of-mottled-soap. "a fact so dread," he faintly said, "extinguishes all hope!" he thought he saw a banker's-clerk descending from the bus; he looked again, and found it was a hippopotamus. "if this should stay to dine," he said, "there won't be much for us!" he thought he saw a buffalo upon the chimney-piece; he looked again, and found it was his sister's-husband's-niece. "unless you leave this house," he said, "i'll send for the police!" he thought he saw a coach-and-four that stood beside his bed; he looked again, and found it was a bear without a head. "poor thing!" he said, "poor, silly thing! it's waiting to be fed!" he thought he saw a garden-door that opened with a key; he looked again, and found it was a double-rule-of-three. "and all its mystery," he said, "is clear as day to me!" he thought he saw a kangaroo that worked a coffee-mill; he looked again, and found it was a vegetable-pill. "were i to swallow this," he said, "i should be very ill!" he thought he saw a rattlesnake that questioned him in greek; he looked again, and found it was the middle-of-next-week. "the one thing i regret," he said, "is that it cannot speak!" the gardener was a very remarkable person, whose time was spent raking the beds and making up extra verses to this beautiful poem; the last one ran: he thought he saw an elephant that practiced on a fife; he looked again, and found it was a letter from his wife. "at length i realize," he said, "the bitterness of life!" "what a wild being it was who sung these wild words! a gardener he seemed to be, yet surely a mad one by the way he brandished his rake, madder by the way he broke ever and anon into a frantic jig, maddest of all by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza. "it was so far a description of himself that he had the _feet_ of an elephant, but the rest of him was skin and bone; and the wisps of loose straw that bristled all about him suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out." in "sylvie and bruno," probably to a greater extent than in all his other books, are some clever caricatures of well-known people. the two professors are certainly taken from life, probably from oxford. one is called "the professor" and one "the other professor." the _baron_, the _vice-warden_ and _my lady_ were all too real, and as for the fat _prince uggug_, well, any kind feeling lewis carroll may have had toward boys when he fashioned _bruno_ had entirely vanished when _prince uggug_ came upon the scene. all the ugly, rough, ill-mannered, bad boys lewis carroll had ever heard of were rolled into this wretched, fat, pig of a prince; but the story of this prince proved fascinating to the _real_ little royalties to whom he told it during one christmas week at lord salisbury's. most likely he selected this story with an object, in order to show how necessary it was that those of royal blood should behave like true princes and princesses if they would be truly loved. our good "don" was fond of pointing a moral now and then. _uggug_, with all his badness, somehow appeals to the human child, far more than _bruno_, with his baby talk and his old-man wisdom and his odd little "fay" ways. _sylvie_ was much more natural. _bruno_, however, was a sweet little songster; it needed no urging to set him to music, and he always sang quite plainly when he had real rhymes to tackle. one of his favorites was called: the badgers and the herrings. there be three badgers on a mossy stone, beside a dark and covered way. each dreams himself a monarch on his throne, and so they stay and stay- though their old father languishes alone, they stay, and stay, and stay. there be three herrings loitering around, longing to share that mossy seat. each herring tries to sing what she has found that makes life seem so sweet thus, with a grating and uncertain sound, they bleat, and bleat, and bleat. the mother-herring, on the salt sea-wave, sought vainly for her absent ones; the father-badger, writhing in a cave, shrieked out, "return, my sons! you shall have buns," he shrieked, "if you'll behave! yea buns, and buns, and buns!" "i fear," said she, "your sons have gone astray. my daughters left me while i slept." "yes'm," the badger said, "it's as you say. they should be better kept." thus the poor parents talked the time away, and wept, and wept, and wept. but the thoughtless young ones, who had wandered from home, are having a good time, a rollicking good time, for the _herrings_ sing: oh, dear, beyond our dearest dreams, fairer than all that fairest seems! to feast the rosy hours away, to revel in a roundelay! how blest would be a life so free- ipwergis pudding to consume and drink the subtle azzigoom! and if in other days and hours, 'mid other fluffs and other flowers, the choice were given me how to dine- "name what thou wilt: it shall be thine!" oh, then i see the life for me- ipwergis pudding to consume and drink the subtle azzigoom! the badgers did not care to talk to fish; they did not dote on herrings' songs; they never had experienced the dish to which that name belongs. "and, oh, to pinch their tails" (this was their wish) "with tongs, yea, tongs, and tongs!" "and are not these the fish," the eldest sighed, "whose mother dwells beneath the foam?" "they _are_ the fish!" the second one replied, "and they have left their home!" "oh, wicked fish," the youngest badger cried, "to roam, yea, roam, and roam!" gently the badgers trotted to the shore- the sandy shore that fringed the bay. each in his mouth a living herring bore- those aged ones waxed gay. clear rang their voices through the ocean's roar. "hooray, hooray, hooray!'" most of lewis carroll's best nonsense rhymes abounded with all sorts of queer animals. in earlier years he had made quite a study of natural history, so that he knew enough about the habits of the animals who figured in his verses to make humorous portraits of them. yet we know, apart from the earth-worms and snails of "little boy" days, he never cared to cultivate their acquaintance except in a casual way. he was never unkind to them, and fought with all his might against vivisection (which in plain english means cutting up live animals for scientific purposes), as well as against the cruel pastime of english cross-country hunting, where one poor little fox is run to earth and torn in pieces by the savage hounds. big hunting, where the object was a man-eating lion or some other animal which menaced human life, he heartily approved of, but wanton cruelty he could not abide. yet the dog he might use every effort to save from the knife of science did not appeal to him as a pet; he preferred a nice, plump, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, ringleted little girl--if _she_ liked dogs, why, very well, only none of them in _his_ rooms, thank you! these fairy children, _sylvie_ and _bruno_, travel many leagues in the story, for good fairies must be able to go from place to place very quickly. we find them in elfland, and outland, and even dogland. a quaint episode in this book is the loss of queen titania's baby. "we put it in a flower," sylvie explained, with her eyes full of tears. "only we can't remember _which_!" and there's a real fairy hunt for the missing baby, which must have been found somewhere, for fairies are never completely lost. all through this fairy tale move real people doing real things, acting real parts, coming often in contact with their good fairies, but parting always on the borderland, bearing with them but a memory of the beautiful children, and an echo of _sylvie's_ song as it dies away in the distance. say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, that lures the bird home to her nest? or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, to cuddle and croon it to rest? what's the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, till it cooes with the voice of the dove? 'tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low- and the name of the secret is love! for i think it is love, for i feel it is love, for i'm sure it is nothing but love! say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning, bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? that stirs the vexed soul with an aching--a yearning for the brotherly hand-grip of peace? whence the music that fills all our being--that thrills around us, beneath, and above? 'tis a secret; none knows how it comes, how it goes; but the name of the secret is love! for i think it is love, for i feel it is love, for i'm sure it is nothing but love! say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, like a picture so fair to the sight? that decks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, till the little lambs leap with delight? 'tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, though 'tis sung by the angels above, in notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear- and the name of the secret is love! for i think it is love, for i feel it is love, for i'm sure it is nothing but love! chapter xv. lewis carroll--man and child. love was indeed the keynote of lewis carroll's life. it was his rule, which governed everything he did, whether it was a lecture on mathematics or a "nonsense" story to a group of little girls. it was, above all, his religion, and meant much more to him than mere church forms, though the beautiful services at oxford always impressed him deeply. living as he did, apart from the stir and bustle of a great city, in a beautiful old town, full of historic associations, the heart and center of english learning, where men had time for high thoughts and high deeds, it is no wonder that his ideals should soar beyond the limits of an everyday world, and no one who watched the daily routine of this quiet, self-contained, precise "don" could imagine how the great heart beneath the student's clerical coat craved the love of those for whom he truly cared. outsiders saw only a busy scholar, absorbed in his work, to all appearances somewhat of a recluse. it is true, however, that his last busy years, devoted to a book on "symbolic logic," kept him tied to his study during most of the oxford term, and that in consequence he had little time for sociability, if he wished to complete his work. the first part of "symbolic logic" was published in 1896, and although sixty-four years old at the time, his writing and his reasoning were quite as clear as in the earlier days. he never reached the point of "going down hill." everything that he undertook showed the vigorous strain in him, and though the end of his life was not far off, those who loved him were never tortured by a long and painful illness. as he said of himself, his life had been so singularly free from the cares and worries that assail most people, the current flowed so evenly that his mental and physical health endured till the last. in later years the tall, slim figure, the clean-shaven, delicate, refined face, the quiet, courteous, rather distant manner, were much commented upon alike by friends and strangers. with "grown-ups" he had always the air of the absent-minded scholar, but no matter how occupied, the presence of a little girl broke down the crust of his reserve and he became immediately the sunny companion, the fascinating weaver of tales, the old, enticing lewis carroll. but he was above all things what we would call "a settled old bachelor." he had little "ways" essentially his own, little peculiarities in which no doubt he took a secret and childish pride. with children these were always more or less amusing. if he was going on a railway journey, for instance, he mapped out every minute of his time; then he would calculate the amount of money to be spent, and he always carried two purses, arranging methodically the sums for cabs, porters, newspapers, refreshments, and so forth, in different partitions, so he always had the correct change and always secured the best of service. in packing he was also very particular; everything in his trunk had to be separately wrapped up in a piece of paper, and his luggage (he probably traveled with several trunks) always preceded him by a day or so, while his only encumbrance was a well-known little black bag which he always carried himself. in dress, he was also a trifle "odd." he was scrupulously neat and very scholarly in appearance, with frock coat and immaculate linen, but he never wore an overcoat no matter how cold the weather, and in all seasons he wore a pair of gray and black cotton gloves and a tall hat. he had a horror of staring colors, especially in little girls' dresses. he loved pink and gray, but any child visiting him, who dared to bring with her a dress of startling hue, such as red or green or yellow, was forbidden to wear it in his company. his appetite was unusually small, and he used to marvel at the good solid food his girl friends managed to consume. once, when he took a special favorite out to dine, he warned his hostess to be careful in helping her as she ate far too much. in writing, he seldom sat down; how he managed we are not told, but most likely his desk was a high one. he was a great walker in all winds and weather. sometimes he overdid it, and came home with blistered feet and aching joints, sometimes soaked to the skin when overtaken by an unexpected rain; but always elated over the distance he had traveled. he forgot, in the sheer delight of active exercise, that he was not absolutely proof against illness, and that added years needed added care; and as we find that the many severe colds which now constantly attacked him came usually in the winter, there is every reason to believe that human imprudence weakened a very strong constitution, and that lewis carroll minus an overcoat meant lewis carroll plus a very bad cold. on one occasion (february, 1895) he was laid up with a ten days' attack of influenza, with very high and alarming fever. yet as late as december, 1897, a few weeks before his death, he boasted of sitting in his large room with no fire, an open window, and a temperature of 54â°. another time he had a severe attack of illness which prevented him from spending his usual christmas with his sisters at guildford. he was a prisoner in his room for over six weeks, but in writing to one of his beloved child friends he joked over it all, his only regret being the loss of the christmas plum pudding. from the time of the publication of "alice in wonderland" lewis carroll was a man of independent means; had he wished, he might have lived in great style and luxury, but being simple and unassuming in his tastes, he was content with his spacious book-lined rooms, with their air of solid, old-fashioned comfort. the things around him, which he cared for most, were things endeared by association, from the pictures of his girl friends upon the walls to that delightful and mysterious cupboard in which generations of children had loved to rummage. he was fond, too, of practicing little economies where one would least expect them. in giving those enjoyable dinners of his, he kept neatly cut pieces of cardboard to slip under the plates and dishes; table mats he considered a needless luxury and a mere waste of money, while the cardboard could be renewed from time to time, with little trouble or expense. but if he wished to buy books for himself or take some little girl pet off for a treat, he never seemed to count the cost, and he gave so generously that many a child of the old days has cause to remember. on one occasion he found a crowd of ragamuffins surrounding the window of a shop where they were cooking cakes. something in the wistful glances of the little street urchins stirred him strangely as he was passing by, a little girl on either side of him. suddenly he darted into the shop, and before long came out, his arms piled with the freshly made cakes, which he passed around to the hungry, big-eyed little fellows, leaving the small girls inside the shop, where they could enjoy the pretty scene which stamped itself forever in their memories. his charities were never known, save that he gave freely in many directions. he was opposed to _lending_ money, but if the case was worthy he was willing to _give_ whatever was necessary, and this he did with a kindliness and grace peculiarly his own. he was interested in hospitals, especially the children's wards, and many a donation of books and pictures and games and puzzles found their way to these pathetic little sufferers, whose heavy hours were lightened by his thoughtfulness. hundreds of the "alice" books were given in this fashion and many a generous check anonymously sent eased the pain of a great big sorrowful world of sick children. after his death his old friends, wishing that something special should be done to honor his memory, subscribed a sum of money to endow a cot in the children's hospital in great ormond street. this was called the "alice in wonderland" cot, and is devoted to little patients connected with the stage, in which he had always shown such an interest. much has been said of lewis carroll's reverence for sacred things; from the days of his solemn little boyhood this was a most noticeable trait of his character. he had, as we have seen, no "cut and dried" notions regarding religion, but he was old-fashioned in many of his ideas, and while he did not believe in making the sabbath a day of dull, monotonous ordeal, he set it apart from other days, and made of it a beautiful day of rest. he put from him the weekly cares and worries, brushing aside all work, and requiring others connected with him to do likewise. he wrote to miss e. gertrude thomson, who was illustrating "the three sunsets"--his last collection of poems--(published in 1898), that she would oblige him greatly by making no drawings or photographs for him on a sunday. when he could, especially during the last years of his life, he gave a sermon, either at guildford, eastbourne, or at oxford. it was through his influence that the sunday dinner hour at the university was changed from seven to six o'clock, in order that the servants might be able to attend services. these he often conducted himself, and sometimes, in his direct and earnest talks, appealed to many who were hard to reach. above all, however, a flock of children inspired his best efforts, and the simple fact that he always practiced what he preached made his words all the more impressive. in short, but for the impediment in his speech, he would have made a great preacher. it was this simple, childlike faith of his that kept him always young--in touch with the youth about him. old age was never associated with him, and constant exercise made him as lithe and active as a boy. there is an amusing tale of some distinguished personage who went to call on the rev. mr. hatch, and while waiting for his host, he heard a great commotion under the dining table. stooping down he saw children's legs waving frantically below, and, diving down himself to join the fun, he came face to face with lewis carroll, who had been the foundation of this animated, wriggling mass. on another occasion lewis carroll went to call upon a friend, and finding her out, was about to turn away, when the maid, who had come from the front door to answer the bell at the gate, gave a startled cry--for the door had blown shut, and she was locked out of the house. lewis carroll was, as usual, equal to the occasion; he borrowed a ladder from some kind neighbor, climbed in at the drawing-room window, and after performing numerous acrobatic feats of the "small boy" type, managed to open the front door for the anxious maid. his constant association with children made his activity in many ways equal to theirs. he certainly could outwalk them, for eighteen to twenty miles could not daunt him, and many a small girl who was brave enough to accompany him on what he called "a short walk" had tired feet and aching joints when the walk was over. on december 23, 1897, he made ready for his yearly visit to guildford, where he spent the usual happy christmas, but in the early part of the new year a slight hoarseness heralded the return of his old enemy--influenza. at first there seemed to be nothing alarming in his illness, but the disease spread very rapidly. the labored breathing, the short, painful gasps, quickly sapped his strength. on january 14, 1898, before his anxious family could quite realize it, the blow had fallen; the life which had meant so much to them, to everyone, went out, as lewis carroll folded his hands, closed his eyes, and said with that unquestioning faith, which had been his mainstay through the years: "father, thy will be done!" through the land there was mourning. countless children bowed their sunny heads as the storm of grief passed over them, and it seemed as if, during the quiet funeral, a hush had come upon the world. they laid him to rest beneath the shadow of a tall pine, and a pure white cross bearing his own name and the name of "lewis carroll" rose to mark the spot, that the children who passed by might never forget their friend. it seems, indeed, now that the years have passed, that the angel of death was very gentle with this fair soul. after all, does he not live in the happy fun and laughter he has left behind him, and will not the coming generations of children find in the wonder tales the same fascination that held the children of long ago? while childhood lasts on earth, while the memory of him lives in millions of childish hearts, lewis carroll can never die. the end. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. the illustration noted on page 150 is the title and first stanza of the poem "jabberwocky" printed as a mirror image. punctuation has been corrected without note. the following misprints have been corrected: "remakable" corrected to "remarkable" (page 16) "heartrug" corrected to "hearthrug" (page 197) "cupil" corrected to "cupid" (page 233) "childen" corrected to "children" (page 242) "perfomance" corrected to "performance" (page 244) "ememy" corrected to "enemy" (page 295) proofreaders the life and letters of lewis carroll (rev. c. l. dodgson) by stuart dodgson collingwood b.a. christ church, oxford 1898 to the child friends of lewis carroll and to all who love his writings this book is dedicated preface it is with no undue confidence that i have accepted the invitation of the brothers and sisters of lewis carroll to write this memoir. i am well aware that the path of the biographer is beset with pitfalls, and that, for him, _suppressio veri_ is almost necessarily _suggestio falsi_--the least omission may distort the whole picture. to write the life of lewis carroll as it should be written would tax the powers of a man of far greater experience and insight than i have any pretension to possess, and even he would probably fail to represent adequately such a complex personality. at least i have done my best to justify their choice, and if in any way i have wronged my uncle's memory, unintentionally, i trust that my readers will pardon me. my task has been a delightful one. intimately as i thought i knew mr. dodgson during his life, i seem since his death to have become still better acquainted with him. if this memoir helps others of his admirers to a fuller knowledge of a man whom to know was to love, i shall not have written in vain. i take this opportunity of thanking those who have so kindly assisted me in my work, and first i must mention my old schoolmaster, the rev. watson hagger, m.a., to whom my readers are indebted for the portions of this book dealing with mr. dodgson's mathematical works. i am greatly indebted to mr. dodgson's relatives, and to all those kind friends of his and others who have aided me, in so many ways, in my difficult task. in particular, i may mention the names of h.r.h. the duchess of albany; miss dora abdy; mrs. egerton allen; rev. f. h. atkinson; sir g. baden-powell, m.p.; mr. a. ball; rev. t. vere bayne; mrs. bennie; miss blakemore; the misses bowman; mrs. boyes; mrs. bremer; mrs. brine; miss mary brown; mrs. calverley; miss gertrude chataway; mrs. chester; mr. j. c. cropper; mr. robert davies; miss decima dodgson; the misses dymes; mrs. eschwege; mrs. fuller; mr. harry furniss; rev. c. a. goodhart; mrs. hargreaves; miss rose harrison; mr. henry holiday; rev. h. hopley; miss florence jackson; rev. a. kingston; mrs. kitchin; mrs. freiligrath kroeker; mr. f. madan; mrs. maitland; miss m. e. manners; miss adelaide paine; mrs. porter; miss edith rix; rev. c. j. robinson, d.d.; mr. s. rogers; mrs. round; miss isabel standen; mr. l. sergeant; miss gaynor simpson; mrs. southwall; sir john tenniel; miss e. gertrude thomson; mrs. woodhouse; and mrs. wyper. for their help in the work of compiling the bibliographical chapter and some other parts of the book, my thanks are due to mr. e. baxter, oxford; the controller of the university press, oxford; mr. a. j. lawrence, rugby; messrs. macmillan and co., london; mr. james parker, oxford; and messrs. ward, lock and co., london. in the extracts which i have given from mr. dodgson's journal and correspondence it will be noticed that italics have been somewhat freely employed to represent the words which he underlined. the use of italics was so marked a feature of his literary style, as any one who has read his books must have observed, that without their aid the rhetorical effect, which he always strove to produce, would have been seriously marred. s. dodgson collingwood guildford, _september_, 1898. contents preface list of illustrations chapter i (1832-1850) lewis carroll's forebears--the bishop of elphin--murder of captain dodgson--daresbury--living in "wonderland"--croft--boyish amusements--his first school--latin verses--a good report--he goes to rugby--_the rectory umbrella_--"a lay of sorrow" chapter ii (1850-1860) matriculation at christ church--death of mrs. dodgson--the great exhibition--university and college honours--a wonderful year--a theatrical treat--_misch-masch_--_the train_--_college rhymes_--his _nom de plume_--"dotheboys hall"--alfred tennyson--ordination--sermons--a visit to farringford--"where does the day begin?"--the queen visits oxford chapter iii (1861-1867) jowett--index to "in memoriam"--the tennysons--the beginning of "alice"--tenniel--artistic friends--"alice's adventures in wonderland"--"bruno's revenge"--tour with dr. liddon--cologne--berlin architecture--the "majesty of justice"--peterhof--moscow--a russian wedding--nijni--the troitska monastery--"hieroglyphic" writing--giessen chapter iv (1868-1876) death of archdeacon dodgson--lewis carroll's rooms at christ church--"phantasmagoria"--translations of "alice"--"through the looking-glass"--"jabberwocky" in latin--c.s. calverley--"notes by an oxford chiel"--hatfield--vivisection--"the hunting of the snark" chapter v (1877-1883) dramatic tastes--miss ellen terry--"natural science at oxford"--mr. dodgson as an artist--miss e.g. thomson--the drawing of children--a curious dream--"the deserted parks"--"syzygies"--circus children--row-loving undergraduates--a letter to _the observer_--resignation of the lectureship--he is elected curator of the common room--dream-music. chapter vi (1883-1887) "the profits of authorship"--"rhyme? and reason?"--the common room cat--visit to jersey--purity of elections--parliamentary representation--various literary projects--letters to miss e. rix--being happy--"a tangled tale"--religious arguments--the "alice" operetta--"alice's adventures underground"--"the game of logic"--mr. harry furniss. chapter vii (1888-1891) a systematic life--"memoria technica"--mr. dodgson's shyness--"a lesson in latin"--the "wonderland" stamp-case--"wise words about letter-writing"--princess alice--"sylvie and bruno"--"the night cometh"--"the nursery 'alice'"--coventry patmore--telepathy--resignation of dr. liddell--a letter about logic. chapter viii (1892-1896) mr. dodgson resigns the curatorship--bazaars--he lectures to children--a mechanical "humpty dumpty"--a logical controversy--albert chevalier--"sylvie and bruno concluded"--"pillow problems"--mr. dodgson's generosity--college services--religious difficulties--a village sermon--plans for the future--reverence--"symbolic logic" chapter ix (1897-1898) logic-lectures--irreverent anecdotes--tolerance of his religious views--a mathematical discovery--"the little minister"--sir george baden-powell--last illness--"thy will be done"--"wonderland" at last!--letters from friends--"three sunsets"--"of such is the kingdom of heaven" chapter x child friends mr. dodgson's fondness for children--miss isabel standen--puzzles--"me and myself"--a double acrostic--"father william"--of drinking healths--kisses by post--tired in the face--the unripe plum--eccentricities--"sylvie and bruno"--"mr. dodgson is going on _well_" chapter xi the same--_continued._ books for children--"the lost plum-cake"--"an unexpected guest"--miss isa bowman--interviews--"matilda jane"--miss edith rix--miss kathleen eschwege bibliography index footnotes * * * * * list of illustrations lewis carroll--frontispiece _from a photograph_. archdeacon dodgson as a young man _from a miniature, painted about_ 1826. daresbury parsonage, lewis carroll's birthplace _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. lewis carroll, aged 8 _from a silhouette_. mrs. dodgson, lewis carroll's mother _from a silhouette_. croft rectory; archdeacon dodgson and family in foreground _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1856. toy station in garden at croft _from a photograph_. archbishop tait _from a photograph by elliott and fry_. "the only sister who _would_ write to her brother" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. "the age of innocence". _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. "the scanty meal" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. "the first earring" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. illustrations to "lays of sorrow," no. 2 _from drawings by lewis carroll_. exterior of christ church _from a photograph_. grave of archdeacon and mrs. dodgson in croft churchyard _from a photograph_. lewis carroll, aged 23 _from a photograph_. archdeacon dodgson _from a photograph_. archbishop longley _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. "alas! what boots--" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. alfred tennyson _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1857. the bishop of lincoln _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1875. bishop wilberforce _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1860. alice liddell as "the beggar-child" _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1858. sketch from st. leonard's concert-room _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. george macdonald and his daughter lily _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1863. mrs. rossetti and her children, dante gabriel, christina, and william _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1863. lorina, alice, and edith liddell _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. george macdonald _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1870. j. sant, r.a. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1866. holman hunt _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1860. sir john millais _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1865. charlotte m. yonge _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1866. canon liddon _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1867. "instance of hieroglyphic writing of the date 1867" _from a sketch by lewis carroll_. sir john tenniel _from a photograph by bassano_. lewis carroll's study at christ church, oxford _from a photograph_. professor faraday _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1860. justice denman _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1873. lord salisbury and his two sons _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1870. facsimile of a letter from sir john tenniel to lewis carroll, dated june 1, 1870 john ruskin _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1875. henry holiday in his studio _from a photograph_. lewis carroll _from a photograph_. ellen terry _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. tom taylor _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1863. kate terry _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1865. miss e. gertrude thomson _from a photograph_. dr. liddell _from a photograph by hill & saunders_. "responsions" _from a photograph by a.t. shrimpton_. h. furniss _from a photograph_. "balbus and the dragon" _from a crayon drawing by the rev. h.c. gaye_. medley of tenniel's illustrations in "alice" _from an etching by miss whitehead_. facsimile of a letter from h. furniss to lewis carroll, dated august 23, 1886 sylvie and bruno _from a drawing by henry holiday_. facsimile of programme of "alice in wonderland" produced at the royal globe theatre, december 26, 1888. "the mad tea party" _from a photograph by elliott and fry_. the late duke of albany _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1875. the dean of christ church _from a photograph by hill & saunders_. the mechanical "humpty dumpty" _from a photograph_. lewis carroll _from a photograph_. the chestnuts, guildford _from a photograph_. lewis carroll's grave _from a photograph_. lorina and alice liddell _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. alice liddell _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. xie kitchin _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. xie kitchin as a chinaman _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. alice and the dormouse _from a photograph by elliott and fry_. facsimile of a "looking-glass" letter from lewis carroll to miss edith ball arthur hughes and his daughter agnes _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, 1863. "what i look like when i'm lecturing" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. * * * * * chapter i (1832-1850.) lewis carroll's forebears--the bishop of elphin--murder of captain dodgson--daresbury--living in "wonderland"--croft--boyish amusements--his first school--latin verses--a good report--he goes to rugby--_the rectory umbrella_--"a lay of sorrow." the dodgsons appear to have been for a long time connected with the north of england, and until quite recently a branch of the family resided at stubb hall, near barnard castle. in the early part of the last century a certain rev. christopher dodgson held a living in yorkshire. his son, charles, also took holy orders, and was for some time tutor to a son of the then duke of northumberland. in 1762 his patron presented him to the living of elsdon, in northumberland, by no means a desirable cure, as mr. dodgson discovered. the following extracts from his letters to various members of the percy family are interesting as giving some idea of the life of a rural clergyman a hundred years ago: i am obliged to you for promising to write to me, but don't give yourself the trouble of writing to this place, for 'tis almost impossible to receive 'em, without sending a messenger 16 miles to fetch 'em. 'tis impossible to describe the oddity of my situation at present, which, however, is not void of some pleasant circumstances. a clogmaker combs out my wig upon my curate's head, by way of a block, and his wife powders it with a dredging-box. the vestibule of the castle (used as a temporary parsonage) is a low stable; above it the kitchen, in which are two little beds joining to each other. the curate and his wife lay in one, and margery the maid in the other. i lay in the parlour between two beds to keep me from being frozen to death, for as we keep open house the winds enter from every quarter, and are apt to sweep into bed to me. elsdon was once a market town as some say, and a city according to others; but as the annals of the parish were lost several centuries ago, it is impossible to determine what age it was either the one or the other. there are not the least traces of the former grandeur to be found, whence some antiquaries are apt to believe that it lost both its trade and charter at the deluge. ... there is a very good understanding between the parties [he is speaking of the churchmen and presbyterians who lived in the parish], for they not only intermarry with one another, but frequently do penance together in a white sheet, with a white wand, barefoot, and in the coldest season of the year. i have not finished the description for fear of bringing on a fit of the ague. indeed, the ideas of sensation are sufficient to starve a man to death, without having recourse to those of reflection. if i was not assured by the best authority on earth that the world is to be destroyed by fire, i should conclude that the day of destruction is at hand, but brought on by means of an agent very opposite to that of heat. i have lost the use of everything but my reason, though my head is entrenched in three night-caps, and my throat, which is very bad, is fortified by a pair of stockings twisted in the form of a cravat. as washing is very cheap, i wear _two_ shirts at a time, and, for want of a wardrobe, i hang my great coat upon my own back, and generally keep on my boots in imitation of my namesake of sweden. indeed, since the snow became two feet deep (as i wanted a 'chaappin of yale' from the public-house), i made an offer of them to margery the maid, but her legs are too thick to make use of them, and i am told that the greater part of my parishioners are not less substantial, and notwithstanding this they are remarkable for agility. in course of time this mr. dodgson became bishop of ossory and ferns, and he was subsequently translated to the see of elphin. he was warmly congratulated on this change in his fortunes by george iii., who said that he ought indeed to be thankful to have got away from a palace where the stabling was so bad. the bishop had four children, the eldest of whom, elizabeth anne, married charles lutwidge, of holmrook, in cumberland. two of the others died almost before they had attained manhood. charles, the eldest son, entered the army, and rose to the rank of captain in the 4th dragoon guards. he met with a sad fate while serving his king and country in ireland. one of the irish rebels who were supposed to have been concerned in the murder of lord kilwarden offered to give himself up to justice if captain dodgson would come alone and at night to take him. though he fully realised the risk, the brave captain decided to trust himself to the honour of this outlaw, as he felt that no chance should be missed of effecting so important a capture. having first written a letter of farewell to his wife, he set out on the night of december 16, 1803, accompanied by a few troopers, for the meeting-place--an old hut that stood a mile or so from phillipstown, in king's county. in accordance with the terms of the agreement, he left his men a few hundred yards from the hut to await his return, and advanced alone through the night. a cowardly shot from one of the windows of the cottage ended his noble life, and alarmed the troopers, who, coming up in haste, were confronted with the dead body of their leader. the story is told that on the same night his wife heard two shots fired, and made inquiry about it, but could find out nothing. shortly afterwards the news came that her husband had been killed just at that time. captain dodgson left two sons behind him--hassard, who, after a brilliant career as a special pleader, became a master of the court of common pleas, and charles, the father of the subject of this memoir. charles, who was the elder of the two, was born in the year 1800, at hamilton, in lanarkshire. he adopted the clerical profession, in which he rose to high honours. he was a distinguished scholar, and took a double first at christ church, oxford. although in after life mathematics were his favourite pursuit, yet the fact that he translated tertullian for the "library of the fathers" is sufficient evidence that he made good use of his classical education. in the controversy about baptismal regeneration he took a prominent part, siding on the question with the tractarians, though his views on some other points of church doctrine were less advanced than those of the leaders of the oxford movement. he was a man of deep piety and of a somewhat reserved and grave disposition, which, however, was tempered by the most generous charity, so that he was universally loved by the poor. in moments of relaxation his wit and humour were the delight of his clerical friends, for he had the rare power of telling anecdotes effectively. his reverence for sacred things was so great that he was never known to relate a story which included a jest upon words from the bible. in 1830 he married his cousin, frances jane lutwidge, by whom he had eleven children, all of whom, except lewis carroll, survive. his wife, in the words of one who had the best possible opportunities for observing her character, was "one of the sweetest and gentlest women that ever lived, whom to know was to love. the earnestness of her simple faith and love shone forth in all she did and said; she seemed to live always in the conscious presence of god. it has been said by her children that they never in all their lives remember to have heard an impatient or harsh word from her lips." it is easy to trace in lewis carroll's character the influence of that most gentle of mothers; though dead she still speaks to us in some of the most beautiful and touching passages of his works. not so long ago i had a conversation with an old friend of his; one of the first things she said to me was, "tell me about his mother." i complied with her request as well as i was able, and, when i had finished my account of mrs. dodgson's beautiful character, she said, "ah, i knew it must have been so; i felt sure he must have had a good mother." on january 27, 1832, charles lutwidge dodgson was born at daresbury, of which parish his father was then incumbent. the village of daresbury is about seven miles from warrington; its name is supposed to be derived from a word meaning oak, and certainly oaks are very plentiful in the neighbourhood. a canal passes through an outlying part of the parish. the bargemen who frequented this canal were a special object of mr. dodgson's pastoral care. once, when walking with lord francis egerton, who was a large landowner in the district, he spoke of his desire to provide some sort of religious privileges for them. "if i only had â£100," he said, "i would turn one of those barges into a chapel," and, at his companion's request, he described exactly how he would have the chapel constructed and furnished. a few weeks later he received a letter from lord francis to tell him that his wish was fulfilled, and that the chapel was ready. in this strange church, which is believed to have been the first of its kind, mr. dodgson conducted service and preached every sunday evening! [illustration: daresbury parsonage] the parsonage is situated a mile and a half from the village, on the glebe-farm, having been erected by a former incumbent, who, it was said, cared more for the glebe than the parish. here it was that charles spent the first eleven years of his life--years of complete seclusion from the world, for even the passing of a cart was a matter of great interest to the children. [illustration: lewis carroll, aged 8.] in this quiet home the boy invented the strangest diversions for himself; he made pets of the most odd and unlikely animals, and numbered certain snails and toads among his intimate friends. he tried also to encourage civilised warfare among earthworms, by supplying them with small pieces of pipe, with which they might fight if so disposed. his notions of charity at this early age were somewhat rudimentary; he used to peel rushes with the idea that the pith would afterwards "be given to the poor," though what possible use they could put it to he never attempted to explain. indeed he seems at this time to have actually lived in that charming "wonderland" which he afterwards described so vividly; but for all that he was a thorough boy, and loved to climb the trees and to scramble about in the old marl-pits. one of the few breaks in this very uneventful life was a holiday spent with the other members of his family in beaumaris. the journey took three days each way, for railroads were then almost unknown; and whatever advantages coaching may have had over travelling in trains, speed was certainly not one of them. mr. dodgson from the first used to take an active part in his son's education, and the following anecdote will show that he had at least a pupil who was anxious to learn. one day, when charles was a very small boy, he came up to his father and showed him a book of logarithms, with the request, "please explain." mr. dodgson told him that he was much too young to understand anything about such a difficult subject. the child listened to what his father said, and appeared to think it irrelevant, for he still insisted, "_but_, please, explain!" [illustration: mrs. dodgson] on one occasion mr. and mrs. dodgson went to hull, to pay a visit to the latter's father, who had been seriously ill. from hull mrs. dodgson wrote to charles, and he set much store by this letter, which was probably one of the first he had received. he was afraid that some of his little sisters would mess it, or tear it up, so he wrote upon the back, "no one is to touch this note, for it belongs to c. l. d."; but, this warning appearing insufficient, he added, "covered with slimy pitch, so that they will wet their fingers." the precious letter ran as follows:- my dearest charlie, i have used you rather ill in not having written to you sooner, but i know you will forgive me, as your grandpapa has liked to have me with him so much, and i could not write and talk to him comfortably. all your notes have delighted me, my precious children, and show me that you have not quite forgotten me. i am always thinking of you, and longing to have you all round me again more than words can tell. god grant that we may find you all well and happy on friday evening. i am happy to say your dearest papa is quite well--his cough is rather _tickling_, but is of no consequence. it delights me, my darling charlie, to hear that you are getting on so well with your latin, and that you make so few mistakes in your exercises. you will be happy to hear that your dearest grandpapa is going on nicely--indeed i hope he will soon be quite well again. he talks a great deal and most kindly about you all. i hope my sweetest will says "mama" sometimes, and that precious tish has not forgotten. give them and all my other treasures, including yourself, 1,000,000,000 kisses from me, with my most affectionate love. i am sending you a shabby note, but i cannot help it. give my kindest love to aunt dar, and believe me, my own dearest charlie, to be your sincerely affectionate mama. among the few visitors who disturbed the repose of daresbury parsonage was mr. durnford, afterwards bishop of chichester, with whom mr. dodgson had formed a close friendship. another was mr. bayne, at that time head-master of warrington grammar school, who used occasionally to assist in the services at daresbury. his son, vere, was charles's playfellow; he is now a student of christ church, and the friendship between him and lewis carroll lasted without interruption till the death of the latter. the memory of his birthplace did not soon fade from charles's mind; long afterwards he retained pleasant recollections of its rustic beauty. for instance, his poem of "the three sunsets," which first appeared in 1860 in _all the year round,_ begins with the following stanzas, which have been slightly altered in later editions:- i watch the drowsy night expire, and fancy paints at my desire her magic pictures in the fire. an island farm, 'mid seas of corn, swayed by the wandering breath of morn, the happy spot where i was born. though nearly all mr. dodgson's parishioners at daresbury have passed away, yet there are still some few left who speak with loving reverence of him whose lips, now long silenced, used to speak so kindly to them; whose hands, long folded in sleep, were once so ready to alleviate their wants and sorrows. in 1843 sir robert peel presented him to the crown living of croft, a yorkshire village about three miles south of darlington. this preferment made a great change in the life of the family; it opened for them many more social opportunities, and put an end to that life of seclusion which, however beneficial it may be for a short time, is apt, if continued too long, to have a cramping and narrowing influence. the river tees is at croft the dividing line between yorkshire and durham, and on the middle of the bridge which there crosses it is a stone which shows where the one county ends and the other begins. "certain lands are held in this place," says lewis in his "topographical dictionary," "by the owner presenting on the bridge, at the coming of every new bishop of durham, an old sword, pronouncing a legendary address, and delivering the sword to the bishop, who returns it immediately." the tees is subject to extraordinary floods, and though croft church stands many feet above the ordinary level of the river, and is separated from it by the churchyard and a field, yet on one occasion the church itself was flooded, as was attested by water-marks on the old woodwork several feet from the floor, still to be seen when mr. dodgson was incumbent. this church, which is dedicated to st. peter, is a quaint old building with a norman porch, the rest of it being of more modern construction. it contains a raised pew, which is approached by a winding flight of stairs, and is covered in, so that it resembles nothing so much as a four-post bedstead. this pew used to belong to the milbanke family, with which lord byron was connected. mr. dodgson found the chancel-roof in so bad a state of repair that he was obliged to take it down, and replace it by an entirely new one. the only village school that existed when he came to the place was a sort of barn, which stood in a corner of the churchyard. during his incumbency a fine school-house was erected. several members of his family used regularly to help in teaching the children, and excellent reports were obtained. the rectory is close to the church, and stands in the middle of a beautiful garden. the former incumbent had been an enthusiastic horticulturist, and the walls of the kitchen garden were covered with luxuriant fruit-trees, while the greenhouses were well stocked with rare and beautiful exotics. among these was a specimen of that fantastic cactus, the night-blowing cereus, whose flowers, after an existence of but a few hours, fade with the waning sun. on the day when this occurred large numbers of people used to obtain mr. dodgson's leave to see the curiosity. [illustration: croft rectory] near the rectory is a fine hotel, built when croft was an important posting-station for the coaches between london and edinburgh, but in mr. dodgson's time chiefly used by gentlemen who stayed there during the hunting season. the village is renowned for its baths and medicinal waters. the parish of croft includes the outlying hamlets of halnaby, dalton, and stapleton, so that the rector's position is by no means a sinecure. within the village is croft hall, the old seat of the chaytors; but during mr. dodgson's incumbency the then sir william chaytor built and lived at clervaux castle, calling it by an old family name. shortly after accepting the living of croft, mr. dodgson was appointed examining chaplain to the bishop of ripon; subsequently he was made archdeacon of richmond and one of the canons of ripon cathedral. charles was at this time very fond of inventing games for the amusement of his brothers and sisters; he constructed a rude train out of a wheelbarrow, a barrel and a small truck, which used to convey passengers from one "station" in the rectory garden to another. at each of these stations there was a refreshment-room, and the passengers had to purchase tickets from him before they could enjoy their ride. the boy was also a clever conjuror, and, arrayed in a brown wig and a long white robe, used to cause no little wonder to his audience by his sleight-of-hand. with the assistance of various members of the family and the village carpenter, he made a troupe of marionettes and a small theatre for them to act in. he wrote all the plays himself the most popular being "the tragedy of king john"--and he was very clever at manipulating the innumerable strings by which the movements of his puppets were regulated. one winter, when the snow lay thick upon the lawn, he traced upon it a maze of such hopeless intricacy as almost to put its famous rival at hampton court in the shade. [illustration: toy station in garden at croft.] when he was twelve years old his father sent him to school at richmond, under mr. tate, a worthy son of that well-known dr. tate who had made richmond school so famous. i am able to give his earliest impressions of school-life in his own words, for one of his first letters home has been fortunately preserved. it is dated august 5th, and is addressed to his two eldest sisters. a boy who has _ten_ brothers and sisters can scarcely be expected to write separate letters to each of them. my dear fanny and memy,--i hope you are all getting on well, as also the sweet twins, the boys i think that i like the best, are harry austin, and all the tates of which there are 7 besides a little girl who came down to dinner the first day, but not since, and i also like edmund tremlet, and william and edward swire, tremlet is a sharp little fellow about 7 years old, the youngest in the school, i also like kemp and mawley. the rest of the boys that i know are bertram, harry and dick wilson, and two robinsons, i will tell you all about them when i return. the boys have played two tricks upon me which were these--they first proposed to play at "king of the cobblers" and asked if i would be king, to which i agreed. then they made me sit down and sat (on the ground) in a circle round me, and told me to say "go to work" which i said, and they immediately began kicking me and knocking me on all sides. the next game they proposed was "peter, the red lion," and they made a mark on a tombstone (for we were playing in the churchyard) and one of the boys walked with his eyes shut, holding out his finger, trying to touch the mark; then a little boy came forward to lead the rest and led a good many very near the mark; at last it was my turn; they told me to shut my eyes well, and the next minute i had my finger in the mouth of one of the boys, who had stood (i believe) before the tombstone with his mouth open. for 2 nights i slept alone, and for the rest of the time with ned swire. the boys play me no tricks now. the only fault (tell mama) that there has been was coming in one day to dinner just after grace. on sunday we went to church in the morning, and sat in a large pew with mr. fielding, the church we went to is close by mr. tate's house, we did not go in the afternoon but mr. tate read a discourse to the boys on the 5th commandment. we went to church again in the evening. papa wished me to tell him all the texts i had heard preached upon, please to tell him that i could not hear it in the morning nor hardly one sentence of the sermon, but the one in the evening was i cor. i. 23. i believe it was a farewell sermon, but i am not sure. mrs. tate has looked through my clothes and left in the trunk a great many that will not be wanted. i have had 3 misfortunes in my clothes etc. 1st, i cannot find my tooth-brush, so that i have not brushed my teeth for 3 or 4 days, 2nd, i cannot find my blotting paper, and 3rd, i have no shoe-horn. the chief games are, football, wrestling, leap frog, and fighting. excuse bad writing. yr affec' brother charles. _to_ skeff [_a younger brother, aged six_]. my dear skeff,--roar not lest thou be abolished. yours, etc.,--. the discomforts which he, as a "new boy," had to put up with from his school-mates affected him as they do not, unfortunately, affect most boys, for in later school days he was famous as a champion of the weak and small, while every bully had good reason to fear him. though it is hard for those who have only known him as the gentle and retiring don to believe it, it is nevertheless true that long after he left school his name was remembered as that of a boy who knew well how to use his fists in defence of a righteous cause. as was the custom at that time, charles began to compose latin verses at a very early age, his first copy being dated november 25, 1844. the subject was evening, and this is how he treated it:- phoebus aqua splendet descendens, ã¦quora tingens splendore aurato. pervenit umbra solo. mortales lectos quã¦runt, et membra relaxant fessa labore dies; cuncta per orbe silet. imperium placidum nunc sumit phoebe corusca. antris procedunt sanguine ore ferã¦. these lines the boy solemnly copied into his diary, apparently in the most blissful ignorance of the numerous mistakes they contained. the next year he wrote a story which appeared in the school magazine. it was called "the unknown one," so it was probably of the sensational type in which small boys usually revel. though richmond school, as it was in 1844, may not compare favourably in every respect with a modern preparatory school, where supervision has been so far "reduced to the absurd" that the unfortunate masters hardly get a minute to themselves from sunrise till long after sunset, yet no better or wiser men than those of the school of mr. tate are now to be found. nor, i venture to think, are the results of the modern system more successful than those of the old one. charles loved his "kind old schoolmaster," as he affectionately calls him, and surely to gain the love of the boys is the main battle in school-management. the impression he made upon his instructors may be gathered from the following extracts from mr. tate's first report upon him: sufficient opportunities having been allowed me to draw from actual observation an estimate of your son's character and abilities, i do not hesitate to express my opinion that he possesses, along with other and excellent natural endowments, a very uncommon share of genius. gentle and cheerful in his intercourse with others, playful and ready in conversation, he is capable of acquirements and knowledge far beyond his years, while his reason is so clear and so jealous of error, that he will not rest satisfied without a most exact solution of whatever appears to him obscure. he has passed an excellent examination just now in mathematics, exhibiting at times an illustration of that love of precise argument, which seems to him natural. i must not omit to set off against these great advantages one or two faults, of which the removal as soon as possible is desirable, tho' i am prepared to find it a work of time. as you are well aware, our young friend, while jealous of error, as i said above, where important faith or principles are concerned, is exceedingly lenient towards lesser frailties--and, whether in reading aloud or metrical composition, frequently sets at nought the notions of virgil or ovid as to syllabic quantity. he is moreover marvellously ingenious in replacing the ordinary inflexions of nouns and verbs, as detailed in our grammars, by more exact analogies, or convenient forms of his own devising. this source of fault will in due time exhaust itself, though flowing freely at present.... you may fairly anticipate for him a bright career. allow me, before i close, one suggestion which assumes for itself the wisdom of experience and the sincerity of the best intention. you must not entrust your son with a full knowledge of his superiority over other boys. let him discover this as he proceeds. the love of excellence is far beyond the love of excelling; and if he should once be bewitched into a mere ambition to surpass others i need not urge that the very quality of his knowledge would be materially injured, and that his character would receive a stain of a more serious description still.... and again, when charles was leaving richmond, he wrote: "be assured that i shall always feel a peculiar interest in the gentle, intelligent, and well-conducted boy who is now leaving us." although his father had been a westminster boy, charles was, for some reason or other, sent to rugby. the great arnold, who had, one might almost say, created rugby school, and who certainly had done more for it than all his predecessors put together, had gone to his rest, and for four years the reins of government had been in the firm hands of dr. tait, afterwards archbishop of canterbury. he was headmaster during the whole of the time charles was at rugby, except the last year, during which dr. goulburn held that office. charles went up in february, 1846, and he must have found his new life a great change from his quiet experiences at richmond. football was in full swing, and one can imagine that to a new boy "big-side" was not an unalloyed delight. whether he distinguished himself as a "dropper," or ever beat the record time in the "crick" run, i do not know. probably not; his abilities did not lie much in the field of athletics. but he got on capitally with his work, and seldom returned home without one or more prizes. moreover, he conducted himself so well that he never had to enter that dreaded chamber, well known to _some_ rugbeians, which is approached by a staircase that winds up a little turret, and wherein are enacted scenes better imagined than described. [illustration: archbishop tait. _from a photograph by messrs. elliott and fry_] a schoolboy's letter home is not, usually, remarkable for the intelligence displayed in it; as a rule it merely leads up with more or less ingenuity to the inevitable request for money contained in the postscript. some of charles's letters were of a different sort, as the following example shows: yesterday evening i was walking out with a friend of mine who attends as mathematical pupil mr. smythies the second mathematical master; we went up to mr. smythies' house, as he wanted to speak to him, and he asked us to stop and have a glass of wine and some figs. he seems as devoted to his duty as mr. mayor, and asked me with a smile of delight, "well dodgson i suppose you're getting well on with your mathematics?" he is very clever at them, though not equal to mr. mayor, as indeed few men are, papa excepted.... i have read the first number of dickens' new tale, "davy copperfield." it purports to be his life, and begins with his birth and childhood; it seems a poor plot, but some of the characters and scenes are good. one of the persons that amused me was a mrs. gummidge, a wretched melancholy person, who is always crying, happen what will, and whenever the fire smokes, or other trifling accident occurs, makes the remark with great bitterness, and many tears, that she is a "lone lorn creetur, and everything goes contrairy with her." i have not yet been able to get the second volume macaulay's "england" to read. i have seen it however and one passage struck me when seven bishops had signed the invitation to the pretender, and king james sent for bishop compton (who was one of the seven) and asked him "whether he or any of his ecclesiastical brethren had anything to do with it?" he replied, after a moment's thought "i am fully persuaded your majesty, that there is not one of my brethren who is not as innocent in the matter as myself." this was certainly no actual lie, but certainly, as macaulay says, it was very little different from one. the mr. mayor who is mentioned in this letter formed a very high opinion of his pupil's ability, for in 1848 he wrote to archdeacon dodgson: "i have not had a more promising boy at his age since i came to rugby." dr. tait speaks no less warmly:- my dear sir,--i must not allow your son to leave school without expressing to you the very high opinion i entertain of him. i fully coincide in mr. cotton's estimate both of his abilities and upright conduct. his mathematical knowledge is great for his age, and i doubt not he will do himself credit in classics. as i believe i mentioned to you before, his examination for the divinity prize was one of the most creditable exhibitions i have ever seen. during the whole time of his being in my house, his conduct has been excellent. believe me to be, my dear sir, yours very faithfully, a.c. tait. public school life then was not what it is now; the atrocious system then in vogue of setting hundreds of lines for the most trifling offences made every day a weariness and a hopeless waste of time, while the bad discipline which was maintained in the dormitories made even the nights intolerable--especially for the small boys, whose beds in winter were denuded of blankets that the bigger ones might not feel cold. charles kept no diary during his time at rugby; but, looking back upon it, he writes in 1855:- during my stay i made i suppose some progress in learning of various kinds, but none of it was done _con amore_, and i spent an incalculable time in writing out impositions--this last i consider one of the chief faults of rugby school. i made some friends there, the most intimate being henry leigh bennett (as college acquaintances we find fewer common sympathies, and are consequently less intimate)--but i cannot say that i look back upon my life at a public school with any sensations of pleasure, or that any earthly considerations would induce me to go through my three years again. when, some years afterwards, he visited radley school, he was much struck by the cubicle system which prevails in the dormitories there, and wrote in his diary, "i can say that if i had been thus secure from annoyance at night, the hardships of the daily life would have been comparative trifles to bear." the picture on page 32 was, i believe, drawn by charles rile he was at rugby in illustration of a letter received from one of his sisters. halnaby, as i have said before, was an outlying district of croft parish. during his holidays he used to amuse himself by editing local magazines. indeed, they might be called _very local_ magazines, as their circulation was confined to the inmates of croft rectory. the first of these, _useful and instructive poetry_, was written about 1845. it came to an untimely end after a six months' run, and was followed at varying intervals by several other periodicals, equally short-lived. in 1849 or 1850, _the rectory umbrella_ began to appear. as the editor was by this time seventeen or eighteen years old, it was naturally of a more ambitious character than any of its precursors. it contained a serial story of the most thrilling interest, entitled, "the walking-stick of destiny," some meritorious poetry, a few humorous essays, and several caricatures of pictures in the vernon gallery. three reproductions of these pictures follow, with extracts from the _umbrella_ descriptive of them. [illustration: the only sister who _would_ write to her brother, though the table had just "folded down"! the other sisters are depicted "sternly resolved to set off to halnaby & the castle," tho' it is yet "early, early morning"--rembrondt.] the vernon gallery. as our readers will have seen by the preceding page, we have commenced engraving the above series of pictures. "the age of innocence," by sir j. reynolds, representing a young hippopotamus seated under a shady tree, presents to the contemplative mind a charming union of youth and innocence. editor. [illustration: _"the scanty meal."_] we have been unusually[001] successful in our second engraving from the vernon gallery. the picture is intended, as our readers will perceive, to illustrate the evils of homoeopathy.[002] this idea is well carried out through the whole picture. the thin old lady at the head of the table is in the painter's best style; we almost fancy we can trace in the eye of the other lady a lurking suspicion that her glasses are not really in fault, and that the old gentleman has helped her to _nothing_ instead of a nonillionth.[003] her companion has evidently got an empty glass in his hand; the two children in front are admirably managed, and there is a sly smile on the footman's face, as if he thoroughly enjoyed either the bad news he is bringing or the wrath of his mistress. the carpet is executed with that elaborate care for which mr. herring is so famed, and the picture on the whole is one of his best. "_the first ear-ring_" the scene from which this excellent picture is painted is taken from a passage in the autobiography[004] of the celebrated sir william smith[005] of his life when a schoolboy: we transcribe the passage: "one day bill tomkins[006] and i were left alone in the house, the old doctor being out; after playing a number of pranks bill laid me a bet of sixpence that i wouldn't pour a bottle of ink over the doctor's cat. _i did it_, but at that moment old muggles came home, and caught me by the ear as i attempted to run away. my sensations at the moment i shall never forget; _on that occasion i received my first ear-ring_.[007] the only remark bill made to me, as he paid me the money afterwards was, 'i say, didn't you just howl jolly!'" the engraving is an excellent copy of the picture. [illustration: sir d. wilkie painter the first earring. w. greatbach engraver. _from the picture in the vernon gallery_] the best thing in the _rectory umbrella_ was a parody on lord macaulay's style in the "lays of ancient rome"; charles had a special aptitude for parody, as is evidenced by several of the best-known verses in his later books. lays of sorrow. no. 2. fair stands the ancient[008] rectory, the rectory of croft, the sun shines bright upon it, the breezes whisper soft. from all the house and garden its inhabitants come forth, and muster in the road without, and pace in twos and threes about, the children of the north. some are waiting in the garden, some are waiting at the door, and some are following behind, and some have gone before. but wherefore all this mustering? wherefore this vast array? a gallant feat of horsemanship will be performed to-day. to eastward and to westward, the crowd divides amain, two youths are leading on the steed, both tugging at the rein; and sorely do they labour, for the steed[009] is very strong, and backward moves its stubborn feet, and backward ever doth retreat, and drags its guides along. and now the knight hath mounted, before the admiring band, hath got the stirrups on his feet. the bridle in his hand. yet, oh! beware, sir horseman! and tempt thy fate no more, for such a steed as thou hast got, was never rid before! the rabbits[010] bow before thee. and cower in the straw; the chickens[011] are submissive, and own thy will for law; bullfinches and canary thy bidding do obey; and e'en the tortoise in its shell doth never say thee nay. but thy steed will hear no master, thy steed will bear no stick, and woe to those that beat her, and woe to those that kick![012] for though her rider smite her, as hard as he can hit, and strive to turn her from the yard, she stands in silence, pulling hard against the pulling bit. and now the road to dalton hath felt their coming tread, the crowd are speeding on before, and all have gone ahead. yet often look they backward, and cheer him on, and bawl, for slower still, and still more slow, that horseman and that charger go, and scarce advance at all. and now two roads to choose from are in that rider's sight: in front the road to dalton, and new croft upon the right. "i can't get by!" he bellows, "i really am not able! though i pull my shoulder out of joint, i cannot get him past this point, for it leads unto his stable!" then out spake ulfrid longbow,[013] a valiant youth was he, "lo! i will stand on thy right hand and guard the pass for thee!" and out spake fair flureeza,[014] his sister eke was she, "i will abide on thy other side, and turn thy steed for thee!" and now commenced a struggle between that steed and rider, for all the strength that he hath left doth not suffice to guide her. though ulfrid and his sister have kindly stopped the way, and all the crowd have cried aloud, "we can't wait here all day!" round turned he as not deigning their words to understand, but he slipped the stirrups from his feet the bridle from his hand, and grasped the mane full lightly, and vaulted from his seat, and gained the road in triumph,[015] and stood upon his feet. all firmly till that moment had ulfrid longbow stood, and faced the foe right valiantly, as every warrior should. but when safe on terra firma his brother he did spy, "what _did_ you do that for?" he cried, then unconcerned he stepped aside and let it canter by. they gave him bread and butter,[016] that was of public right, as much as four strong rabbits, could munch from morn to night, for he'd done a deed of daring, and faced that savage steed, and therefore cups of coffee sweet, and everything that was a treat, were but his right and meed. and often in the evenings, when the fire is blazing bright, when books bestrew the table and moths obscure the light, when crying children go to bed, a struggling, kicking load; we'll talk of ulfrid longbow's deed, how, in his brother's utmost need, back to his aid he flew with speed, and how he faced the fiery steed, and kept the new croft road. [illustration: exterior of christ church] * * * * * chapter ii (1850-1860.) matriculation at christ church--death of mrs. dodgson--the great exhibition--university and college honours--a wonderful year--a theatrical treat--_misch-masch--the train--college rhymes_--his _nom de plume_--"dotheboys hall"--alfred tennyson--ordination--sermons--a visit to farringford--"where does the day begin?"--the queen visits oxford. we have traced in the boyhood of lewis carroll the beginnings of those characteristic traits which afterwards, more fully developed, gave him so distinguished a position among his contemporaries. we now come to a period of his life which is in some respects necessarily less interesting. we all have to pass through that painful era of self-consciousness which prefaces manhood, that time when we feel so deeply, and are so utterly unable to express to others, or even to define clearly to ourselves, what it is we do feel. the natural freedom of childhood is dead within us; the conventional freedom of riper years is struggling to birth, and its efforts are sometimes ludicrous to an unsympathetic observer. in lewis carroll's mental attitude during this critical period there was always a calm dignity which saved him from these absurdities, an undercurrent of consciousness that what seemed so great to him was really very little. on may 23, 1850, he matriculated at christ church, the venerable college which had numbered his father's among other illustrious names. a letter from dr. jelf, one of the canons of christ church, to archdeacon dodgson, written when the former heard that his old friend's son was coming up to "the house," contains the following words: "i am sure i express the common feeling of all who remember you at christ church when i say that we shall rejoice to see a son of yours worthy to tread in your footsteps." lewis carroll came into residence on january 24, 1851. from that day to the hour of his death--a period of forty-seven years--he belonged to "the house," never leaving it for any length of time, becoming almost a part of it. i, for one, can hardly imagine it without him. though technically "in residence," he had not rooms of his own in college during his first term. the "house" was very full; and had it not been for one of the tutors, the rev. j. lew, kindly lending him one of his own rooms, he would have had to take lodgings in the town. the first set of rooms he occupied was in peckwater quadrangle, which is annually the scene of a great bonfire on guy fawkes' day, and, generally speaking, is not the best place for a reading man to live in. in those days the undergraduates dining in hall were divided into "messes." each mess consisted of about half a dozen men, who had a table to themselves. dinner was served at five, and very indifferently served, too; the dishes and plates were of pewter, and the joint was passed round, each man cutting off what he wanted for himself. in mr. dodgson's mess were philip pusey, the late rev. g. c. woodhouse, and, among others, one who still lives in "alice in wonderland" as the "hatter." only a few days after term began, mrs. dodgson died suddenly at croft. the shock was a terrible one to the whole family, and especially to her devoted husband. i have come across a delightful and most characteristic letter from dr. pusey--a letter full of the kindest and truest sympathy with the archdeacon in his bereavement. the part of it which bears upon mrs. dodgson's death i give in full:-[illustration: grave of archdeacon and mrs. dodgson in croft churchyard.] my dear friend, i hear and see so little and so few persons, that i had not heard of your sorrow until your to-day's letter; and now i but guess what it was: only your language is that of the very deepest. i have often thought, since i had to think of this, how, in all adversity, what god takes away he may give us back with increase. one cannot think that any holy earthly love will cease, when we shall "be like the angels of god in heaven." love here must shadow our love there, deeper because spiritual, without any alloy from our sinful nature, and in the fulness of the love of god. but as we grow here by god's grace will be our capacity for endless love. so, then, if by our very sufferings we are purified, and our hearts enlarged, we shall, in that endless bliss, love more those whom we loved here, than if we had never had that sorrow, never been parted.... lewis carroll was summoned home to attend the funeral--a sad interlude amidst the novel experiences of a first term at college. the oxford of 1851 was in many ways quite unlike the oxford of 1898. the position of the undergraduates was much more similar to that of schoolboys than is now the case; they were subject to the same penalties--corporal punishment, even, had only just gone out of vogue!--and were expected to work, and to work hard. early rising then was strictly enforced, as the following extract from one of his letters will show:- i am not so anxious as usual to begin my personal history, as the first thing i have to record is a very sad incident, namely, my missing morning chapel; before, however, you condemn me, you must hear how accidental it was. for some days now i have been in the habit of, i will not say getting up, but of being called at a quarter past six, and generally managing to be down soon after seven. in the present instance i had been up the night before till about half-past twelve, and consequently when i was called i fell asleep again, and was thunderstruck to find on waking that it was ten minutes past eight. i have had no imposition, nor heard anything about it. it is rather vexatious to have happened so soon, as i had intended never to be late. [illustration: lewis carroll, aged 23.] it was therefore obviously his custom to have his breakfast _before_ going to chapel. i wonder how many undergraduates of the present generation follow the same hardy rule! but then no "impositions" threaten the modern sluggard, even if he neglects chapel altogether. during the long vacation he visited the great exhibition, and wrote his sister elizabeth a long account of what he had seen:- i think the first impression produced on you when you get inside is one of bewilderment. it looks like a sort of fairyland. as far as you can look in any direction, you see nothing but pillars hung about with shawls, carpets, &c., with long avenues of statues, fountains, canopies, etc., etc., etc. the first thing to be seen on entering is the crystal fountain, a most elegant one about thirty feet high at a rough guess, composed entirely of glass and pouring down jets of water from basin to basin; this is in the middle of the centre nave, and from it you can look down to either end, and up both transepts. the centre of the nave mostly consists of a long line of colossal statues, some most magnificent. the one considered the finest, i believe, is the amazon and tiger. she is sitting on horseback, and a tiger has fastened on the neck of the horse in front. you have to go to one side to see her face, and the other to see the horse's. the horse's face is really wonderful, expressing terror and pain so exactly, that you almost expect to hear it scream.... there are some very ingenious pieces of mechanism. a tree (in the french compartment) with birds chirping and hopping from branch to branch exactly like life. the bird jumps across, turns round on the other branch, so as to face back again, settles its head and neck, and then in a few moments jumps back again. a bird standing at the foot of the tree trying to eat a beetle is rather a failure; it never succeeds in getting its head more than a quarter of an inch down, and that in uncomfortable little jerks, as if it was choking. i have to go to the royal academy, so must stop: as the subject is quite inexhaustible, there is no hope of ever coming to a regular finish. on november 1st he won a boulter scholarship, and at the end of the following year obtained first class honours in mathematics and a second in classical moderations. on christmas eve he was made a student on dr. pusey's nomination, for at that time the dean and canons nominated to studentships by turn. the only conditions on which these old studentships were held were that the student should remain unmarried, and should proceed to holy orders. no statute precisely defined what work was expected of them, that question being largely left to their own discretion. the eight students at the bottom of the list that is to say, the eight who had been nominated last--had to mark, by pricking on weekly papers called "the bills," the attendance at morning and evening chapel. they were allowed to arrange this duty among themselves, and, if it was neglected, they were all punished. this long-defunct custom explains an entry in lewis carroll's diary for october 15, 1853, "found i had got the prickbills two hundred lines apiece, by not pricking in in the morning," which, i must confess, mystified me exceedingly at first. another reference to college impositions occurs further on in his diary, at a time when he was a lecturer: "spoke to the dean about f--, who has brought an imposition which his tutor declares is not his own writing, after being expressly told to write it himself." the following is an extract from his father's letter of congratulation, on his being nominated for the studentship:- my dearest charles,--the feelings of thankfulness and delight with which i have read your letter just received, i must leave to _your conception_; for they are, i assure you, beyond _my expression_; and your affectionate heart will derive no small addition of joy from thinking of the joy which you have occasioned to me, and to all the circle of your home. i say "_you_ have occasioned," because, grateful as i am to my old friend dr. pusey for what he has done, i cannot desire stronger evidence than his own words of the fact that you have _won_, and well won, this honour for _yourself_, and that it is bestowed as a matter of _justice_ to _you_, and not of _kindness_ to _me_. you will be interested in reading extracts from his two letters to me--the first written three years ago in answer to one from me, in which i distinctly told him that i neither asked nor expected that he should serve me in this matter, unless my son should fairly reach the standard of merit by which these appointments were regulated. in reply he says- "i thank you for the way in which you put the application to me. i have now, for nearly twenty years, not given a studentship to any friend of my own, unless there was no very eligible person in the college. i have passed by or declined the sons of those to whom i was personally indebted for kindness. i can only say that i shall have _very great_ pleasure, if circumstances permit me to nominate your son." in his letter received this morning he says- "i have great pleasure in telling you that i have been enabled to recommend your son for a studentship this christmas. it must be so much more satisfactory to you that he should be nominated thus, in consequence of the recommendation of the college. one of the censors brought me to-day five names; but in their minds it was plain that they thought your son on the whole the most eligible for the college. it has been very satisfactory to hear of your son's uniform steady and good conduct." the last clause is a parallel to your own report, and i am glad that you should have had so soon an evidence so substantial of the truth of what i have so often inculcated, that it is the "steady, painstaking, likely-to-do-good" man, who in the long run wins the race against those who now and then give a brilliant flash and, as shakespeare says, "straight are cold again." [illustration: archdeacon dodgson.] in 1853 archdeacon dodgson was collated and installed as one of the canons of ripon cathedral. this appointment necessitated a residence of three months in every year at ripon, where dr. erskine was then dean. a certain miss anderson, who used to stay at the deanery, had very remarkable "clairvoyant" powers; she was able--it was averred--by merely holding in her hand a folded paper containing some words written by a person unknown to her, to describe his or her character. in this way, at what precise date is uncertain, she dictated the following description of lewis carroll: "very clever head; a great deal of number; a great deal of imitation; he would make a good actor; diffident; rather shy in general society; comes out in the home circle; rather obstinate; very clever; a great deal of concentration; very affectionate; a great deal of wit and humour; not much eventuality (or memory of events); fond of deep reading; imaginative, fond, of reading poetry; _may_ compose." those who knew him well will agree that this was, at any rate, a remarkable coincidence. longley, afterwards primate, was then bishop of ripon. his charming character endeared him to the archdeacon and his family, as to every one else who saw much of him. he was one of the few men whose faces can truly be called _beautiful_; it was a veil through which a soul, all gentleness and truth, shone brightly. in the early part of 1854 mr. dodgson was reading hard for "greats." for the last three weeks before the examination he worked thirteen hours a day, spending the whole night before the _viva voce_ over his books. but philosophy and history were not very congenial subjects to him, and when the list was published his name was only in the third class. [illustration: archbishop longley.] he spent the long vacation at whitby, reading mathematics with professor price. his work bore good fruit, for in october he obtained first class honours in the final mathematical school. "i am getting quite tired of being congratulated on various subjects," he writes; "there seems to be no end of it. if i had shot the dean i could hardly have had more said about it." in another letter dated december 13th, he says: enclosed you will find a list which i expect you to rejoice over considerably; it will take me more than a day to believe it, i expect--i feel at present very like a child with a new toy, but i daresay i shall be tired of it soon, and wish to be pope of rome next.... i have just been to mr. price to see how i did in the papers, and the result will i hope be gratifying to you. the following were the sums total for each in the first class, as nearly as i can remember:- dodgson ... ... ... 279 bosanquet ... ... ... 261 cookson ... ... ... 254 fowler ... ... ... 225 ranken ... ... ... 213 he also said he never remembered so good a set of men in. all this is very satisfactory. i must also add (this is a very boastful letter) that i ought to get the senior scholarship next term.... one thing more i will add, to crown all, and that is, i find i am the next first class mathematical student to faussett (with the exception of kitchin who has given up mathematics), so that i stand next (as bosanquet is going to leave) for the lectureship. on december 18th he took the degree of bachelor of arts, and on october 15, 1855, he was made a "master of the house," in honour of the appointment of the new dean (dr. liddell) who succeeded dean gaisford. to be made master of the house means that a man has all the privileges of a master of arts within the walls of christ church. but he must be of a certain number of terms' standing, and be admitted in due form by the vice-chancellor, before he is a master of arts of the university. in this wider sense mr. dodgson did not take his master's degree until 1857. this is anticipating events, and there is much to tell of the year 1855, which was a very eventful one for him. on february 15th he was made sub-librarian. "this will add â£35 to my income," he writes, "not much towards independence." for he was most anxious to have a sufficient income to make him his own master, that he might enter on the literary and artistic career of which he was already dreaming. on may 14th he wrote in his diary: "the dean and canons have been pleased to give me one of the bostock scholarships, said to be worth â£20 a year--this very nearly raises my income this year to independence. courage!" his college work, during 1855, was chiefly taking private pupils, but he had, in addition, about three and a half hours a day of lecturing during the last term of the year. he did not, however, work as one of the regular staff of lecturers until the next year. from that date his work rapidly increased, and he soon had to devote regularly as much as seven hours a day to delivering lectures, to say nothing of the time required for preparing them. the following extract from his journal, june 22, 1855, will serve to show his early love for the drama. the scene is laid at the princess' theatre, then at the height of its glory:- the evening began with a capital farce, "away with melancholy," and then came the great play, "henry viii.," the greatest theatrical treat i ever had or ever expect to have. i had no idea that anything so superb as the scenery and dresses was ever to be seen on the stage. kean was magnificent as cardinal wolsey, mrs. kean a worthy successor to mrs. siddons as queen catherine, and all the accessories without exception were good--but oh, that exquisite vision of queen catherine's! i almost held my breath to watch: the illusion is perfect, and i felt as if in a dream all the time it lasted. it was like a delicious reverie, or the most beautiful poetry. this is the true end and object of acting--to raise the mind above itself, and out of its petty cares. never shall i forget that wonderful evening, that exquisite vision--sunbeams broke in through the roof, and gradually revealed two angel forms, floating in front of the carved work on the ceiling: the column of sunbeams shone down upon the sleeping queen, and gradually down it floated, a troop of angelic forms, transparent, and carrying palm branches in their hands: they waved these over the sleeping queen, with oh! such a sad and solemn grace. so could i fancy (if the thought be not profane) would real angels seem to our mortal vision, though doubtless our conception is poor and mean to the reality. she in an ecstasy raises her arms towards them, and to sweet slow music, they vanish as marvellously as they came. then the profound silence of the audience burst at once into a rapture of applause; but even that scarcely marred the effect of the beautiful sad waking words of the queen, "spirits of peace, where are ye?" i never enjoyed anything so much in my life before; and never felt so inclined to shed tears at anything fictitious, save perhaps at that poetical gem of dickens, the death of little paul. on august 21st he received a long letter from his father, full of excellent advice on the importance to a young man of saving money:- i will just sketch for you [writes the archdeacon] a supposed case, applicable to your own circumstances, of a young man of twenty-three, making up his mind to work for ten years, and living to do it, on an income enabling him to save â£150 a year--supposing him to appropriate it thus:- â£ s. d. invested at 4 per cent. ... ... 100 0 0 life insurance of â£1,500 ... 29 15 0 books, besides those bought in ordinary course ... ... ... 20 5 0 _____________ â£150 0 0 suppose him at the end of the ten years to get a living enabling him to settle, what will be the result of his savings:- 1. a nest egg of â£1,220 ready money, for furnishing and other expenses. 2. a sum of â£1,500 secured at his death on payment of a _very much_ smaller annual premium than if he had then begun to insure it. 3. a useful library, worth more than â£200, besides the books bought out of his current income during the period.... the picture on the opposite page is one of mr. dodgson's illustrations in _misch-masch,_ a periodical of the nature of _the rectory umbrella_, except that it contained printed stories and poems by the editor, cut out of the various newspapers to which he had contributed them. of the comic papers of that day _punch,_ of course, held the foremost place, but it was not without rivals; there was a certain paper called _diogenes_, then very near its end, which imitated _punch's_ style, and in 1853 the proprietor of _the illustrated news_, at that time one of the most opulent publishers in london, started _the comic times._ a capable editor was found in edmund yates; "phiz" and other well-known artists and writers joined the staff, and 100,000 copies of the first number were printed. [illustration: studies from english poets ii "alas! what boots--" milton's lucidas.] among the contributors was frank smedley, author of "frank fairleigh." though a confirmed invalid, and condemned to spend most of his days on a sofa, mr. smedley managed to write several fine novels, full of the joy of life, and free from the least taint of discontent or morbid feeling. he was one of those men--one meets them here and there--whose minds rise high above their bodily infirmities; at moments of depression, which come to them as frequently, if not more frequently, than to other men, they no doubt feel their weakness, and think themselves despised, little knowing that we, the stronger ones in body, feel nothing but admiration as we watch the splendid victory of the soul over its earthly companion which their lives display. it was through frank smedley that mr. dodgson became one of the contributors to _the comic times_. several of his poems appeared in it, and mr. yates wrote to him in the kindest manner, expressing warm approval of them. when _the comic times_ changed hands in 1856, and was reduced to half its size, the whole staff left it and started a new venture, _the train_. they were joined by sala, whose stories in _household words_ were at that time usually ascribed by the uninitiated to charles dickens. mr. dodgson's contributions to _the train_ included the following: "solitude" (march, 1856); "novelty and romancement" (october, 1856); "the three voices" (november, 1856); "the sailor's wife" (may, 1857); and last, but by no means least, "hiawatha's photographing" (december, 1857). all of these, except "novelty and romancement," have since been republished in "rhyme? and reason?" and "three sunsets." the last entry in mr. dodgson's diary for this year reads as follows:- i am sitting alone in my bedroom this last night of the old year, waiting for midnight. it has been the most eventful year of my life: i began it a poor bachelor student, with no definite plans or expectations; i end it a master and tutor in ch. ch., with an income of more than â£300 a year, and the course of mathematical tuition marked out by god's providence for at least some years to come. great mercies, great failings, time lost, talents misapplied--such has been the past year. his diary is full of such modest depreciations of himself and his work, interspersed with earnest prayers (too sacred and private to be reproduced here) that god would forgive him the past, and help him to perform his holy will in the future. and all the time that he was thus speaking of himself as a sinner, and a man who was utterly falling short of his aim, he was living a life full of good deeds and innumerable charities, a life of incessant labour and unremitting fulfilment of duty. so, i suppose, it is always with those who have a really high ideal; the harder they try to approach it the more it seems to recede from them, or rather, perhaps, it is impossible to be both "the subject and spectator" of goodness. as coventry patmore wrote:- become whatever good you see; nor sigh if, forthwith, fades from view the grace of which you may not be the subject and spectator too. the reading of "alton locke" turned his mind towards social subjects. "if the book were but a little more definite," he writes, "it might stir up many fellow-workers in the same good field of social improvement. oh that god, in his good providence, may make me hereafter such a worker! but alas, what are the means? each one has his own _nostrum_ to propound, and in the babel of voices nothing is done. i would thankfully spend and be spent so long as i were sure of really effecting something by the sacrifice, and not merely lying down under the wheels of some irresistible juggernaut." he was for some time the editor of _college rhymes_, a christ church paper, in which his poem, "a sea dirge" (afterwards republished in "phantasmagoria," and again in "rhyme? and reason?"), first appeared. the following verses were among his contributions to the same magazine:- i painted her a gushing thing, with years perhaps a score i little thought to find they were at least a dozen more; my fancy gave her eyes of blue, a curly auburn head: i came to find the blue a green, the auburn turned to red. she boxed my ears this morning, they tingled very much; i own that i could wish her a somewhat lighter touch; and if you were to ask me how her charms might be improved, i would not have them _added to_, but just a few _removed_! she has the bear's ethereal grace, the bland hyena's laugh, the footstep of the elephant, the neck of the giraffe; i love her still, believe me, though my heart its passion hides; "she is all my fancy painted her," but oh! _how much besides_! it was when writing for _the train_ that he first felt the need of a pseudonym. he suggested "dares" (the first syllable of his birthplace) to edmund yates, but, as this did not meet with his editor's approval, he wrote again, giving a choice of four names, (1) edgar cuthwellis, (2) edgar u. c. westhall, (3) louis carroll, and (4) lewis carroll. the first two were formed from the letters of his two christian names, charles lutwidge; the others are merely variant forms of those names--lewis = ludovicus = lutwidge; carroll = carolus = charles. mr. yates chose the last, and thenceforward it became mr. dodgson's ordinary _nom de plume_. the first occasion on which he used it was, i believe, when he wrote "the path of roses," a poem which appeared in _the train_ in may, 1856. on june 16th he again visited the princess's theatre. this time the play was "a winter's tale," and he "especially admired the acting of the little mamillius, ellen terry, a beautiful little creature, who played with remarkable ease and spirit." during the long vacation he spent a few weeks in the english lake district. in spite of the rain, of which he had his full share, he managed to see a good deal of the best scenery, and made the ascent of gable in the face of an icy gale, which laid him up with neuralgia for some days. he and his companions returned to croft by way of barnard castle, as he narrates in his diary:- we set out by coach for barnard castle at about seven, and passed over about forty miles of the dreariest hill-country i ever saw; the climax of wretchedness was reached in bowes, where yet stands the original of "dotheboys hall"; it has long ceased to be used as a school, and is falling into ruin, in which the whole place seems to be following its example--the roofs are falling in, and the windows broken or barricaded--the whole town looks plague-stricken. the courtyard of the inn we stopped at was grown over with weeds, and a mouthing idiot lolled against the corner of the house, like the evil genius of the spot. next to a prison or a lunatic asylum, preserve me from living at bowes! although he was anything but a sportsman, he was interested in the subject of betting, from a mathematical standpoint solely, and in 1857 he sent a letter to _bell's life_, explaining a method by which a betting man might ensure winning over any race. the system was either to back _every_ horse, or to lay against _every_ horse, according to the way the odds added up. he showed his scheme to a sporting friend, who remarked, "an excellent system, and you're bound to win--_if only you can get people to take your bets_." in the same year he made the acquaintance of tennyson, whose writings he had long intensely admired. he thus describes the poet's appearance:- a strange shaggy-looking man; his hair, moustache, and beard looked wild and neglected; these very much hid the character of the face. he was dressed in a loosely fitting morning coat, common grey flannel waistcoat and trousers, and a carelessly tied black silk neckerchief. his hair is black; i think the eyes too; they are keen and restless--nose aquiline--forehead high and broad--both face and head are fine and manly. his manner was kind and friendly from the first; there is a dry lurking humour in his style of talking. i took the opportunity [he goes on to say] of asking the meaning of two passages in his poems, which have always puzzled me: one in "maud"- strange that i hear two men somewhere talking of me; well, if it prove a girl, my boy will have plenty; so let it be. he said it referred to maud, and to the two fathers arranging a match between himself and her. the other was of the poet- dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the love of love. he said that he was quite willing it should bear any meaning the words would fairly bear; to the best of his recollection his meaning when he wrote it was "the hate of the quality hate, &c.," but he thought the meaning of "the quintessence of hatred" finer. he said there had never been a poem so misunderstood by the "ninnies of critics" as "maud." [illustration: alfred tennyson. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] during an evening spent at tent lodge tennyson remarked, on the similarity of the monkey's skull to the human, that a young monkey's skull is quite human in shape, and gradually alters--the analogy being borne out by the human skull being at first more like the statues of the gods, and gradually degenerating into human; and then, turning to mrs. tennyson, "there, that's the second original remark i've made this evening!" mr. dodgson saw a great deal of the tennysons after this, and photographed the poet himself and various members of his family. in october he made the acquaintance of john ruskin, who in after years was always willing to assist him with his valuable advice on any point of artistic criticism. mr. dodgson was singularly fortunate in his friends; whenever he was in difficulties on any technical matters, whether of religion, law, medicine, art, or whatever it might be, he always had some one especially distinguished in that branch of study whose aid he could seek as a friend. in particular, the names of canon king (now bishop of lincoln), and sir james paget occur to me; to the latter mr. dodgson addressed many letters on questions of medicine and surgery--some of them intricate enough, but never too intricate to weary the unfailing patience of the great surgeon. a note in mr. dodgson's journal, may 9, 1857, describes his introduction to thackeray:- i breakfasted this morning with fowler of lincoln to meet thackeray (the author), who delivered his lecture on george iii. in oxford last night. i was much pleased with what i saw of him; his manner is simple and unaffected; he shows no anxiety to shine in conversation, though full of fun and anecdote when drawn out. he seemed delighted with the reception he had met with last night: the undergraduates seem to have behaved with most unusual moderation. the next few years of his life passed quietly, and without any unusual events to break the monotony of college routine. he spent his mornings in the lecture-rooms, his afternoons in the country or on the river--he was very fond of boating--and his evenings in his room, reading and preparing for the next day's work. but in spite of all this outward calm of life, his mind was very much exercised on the subject of taking holy orders. not only was this step necessary if he wished to retain his studentship, but also he felt that it would give him much more influence among the undergraduates, and thus increase his power of doing good. on the other hand, he was not prepared to live the life of almost puritanical strictness which was then considered essential for a clergyman, and he saw that the impediment of speech from which he suffered would greatly interfere with the proper performance of his clerical duties. [illustration: the bishop of lincoln. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_] the bishop of oxford, dr. wilberforce, had expressed the opinion that the "resolution to attend theatres or operas was an absolute disqualification for holy orders," which discouraged him very much, until it transpired that this statement was only meant to refer to the parochial clergy. he discussed the matter with dr. pusey, and with dr. liddon. the latter said that "he thought a deacon might lawfully, if he found himself unfit for the work, abstain from direct ministerial duty." and so, with many qualms about his own unworthiness, he at last decided to prepare definitely for ordination. on december 22, 1861, he was ordained deacon by the bishop of oxford. he never proceeded to priest's orders, partly, i think, because he felt that if he were to do so it would be his duty to undertake regular parochial work, and partly on account of his stammering. he used, however, to preach not unfrequently, and his sermons were always delightful to listen to, his extreme earnestness being evident in every word. [illustration: bishop wilberforce. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] "he knew exactly what he wished to say" (i am quoting from an article in _the guardian_), "and completely forgot his audience in his anxiety to explain his point clearly. he thought of the subject only, and the words came of themselves. looking straight in front of him he saw, as it were, his argument mapped out in the form of a diagram, and he set to work to prove it point by point, under its separate heads, and then summed up the whole." one sermon which he preached in the university church, on eternal punishment, is not likely to be soon forgotten by those who heard it. i, unfortunately, was not of that number, but i can well imagine how his clear-cut features would light up as he dwelt lovingly upon the mercy of that being whose charity far exceeds "the measure of man's mind." it is hardly necessary to say that he himself did not believe in eternal punishment, or any other scholastic doctrine that contravenes the love of god. he disliked being complimented on his sermons, but he liked to be told of any good effects that his words had had upon any member of the congregation. "thank you for telling me that fact about my sermon," he wrote to one of his sisters, who told him of some such good fruit that one of his addresses had borne. "i have once or twice had such information volunteered; and it is a _great_ comfort--and a kind of thing that is _really_ good for one to know. it is _not_ good to be told (and i never wish to be told), 'your sermon was so _beautiful_.' we shall not be concerned to know, in the great day, whether we have preached beautiful sermons, but whether they were preached with the one object of serving god." he was always ready and willing to preach at the special service for college servants, which used to be held at christ church every sunday evening; but best of all he loved to preach to children. some of his last sermons were delivered at christ church, eastbourne (the church he regularly attended during the long vacation), to a congregation of children. on those occasions he told them an allegory--_victor and arnion,_ which he intended to publish in course of time--putting all his heart into the work, and speaking with such deep feeling that at times he was almost unable to control his emotion as he told them of the love and compassion of the good shepherd. i have dwelt at some length on this side of his life, for it is, i am sure, almost ignored in the popular estimate of him. he was essentially a religious man in the best sense of the term, and without any of that morbid sentimentality which is too often associated with the word; and while his religion consecrated his talents, and raised him to a height which without it he could never have reached, the example of such a man as he was, so brilliant, so witty, so successful, and yet so full of faith, consecrates the very conception of religion, and makes it yet more beautiful. on april 13, 1859, he paid another visit to tennyson, this time at farringford. after dinner we retired for about an hour to the smoking-room, where i saw the proof-sheets of the "king's idylls," but he would not let me read them. he walked through the garden with me when i left, and made me remark an effect produced on the thin white clouds by the moon shining through, which i had not noticed--a ring of golden light at some distance off the moon, with an interval of white between--this, he says, he has alluded to in one of his early poems ("margaret," vol. i.), "the tender amber." i asked his opinion of sydney dobell--he agrees with me in liking "grass from the battlefield," and thinks him a writer of genius and imagination, but extravagant. on another occasion he showed the poet a photograph which he had taken of miss alice liddell as a beggar-child, and which tennyson said was the most beautiful photograph he had ever seen. [illustration: alice liddell as beggar-child. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] tennyson told us he had often dreamed long passages of poetry, and believed them to be good at the time, though he could never remember them after waking, except four lines which he dreamed at ten years old:- may a cock sparrow write to a barrow? i hope you'll excuse my infantile muse; --which, as an unpublished fragment of the poet laureate, may be thought interesting, but not affording much promise of his after powers. he also told us he once dreamed an enormously long poem about fairies, which began with very long lines that gradually got shorter, and ended with fifty or sixty lines of two syllables each! on october 17, 1859, the prince of wales came into residence at christ church. the dean met him at the station, and all the dons assembled in tom quadrangle to welcome him. mr. dodgson, as usual, had an eye to a photograph, in which hope, however, he was doomed to disappointment. his royal highness was tired of having his picture taken. during his early college life he used often to spend a few days at hastings, with his mother's sisters, the misses lutwidge. in a letter written from their house to his sister mary, and dated april 11, 1860, he gives an account of a lecture he had just heard:- i am just returned from a series of dissolving views on the arctic regions, and, while the information there received is still fresh in my mind, i will try to give you some of it. in the first place, you may not know that one of the objects of the arctic expeditions was to discover "the intensity of the magnetic needle." he [the lecturer] did not tell us, however, whether they had succeeded in discovering it, or whether that rather obscure question is still doubtful. one of the explorers, baffin, "_though_ he did not suffer all the hardships the others did, _yet_ he came to an untimely end (of course one would think in the arctic regions), _for instance_ (what follows being, i suppose, one of the untimely ends he came to), being engaged in a war of the portuguese against the prussians, while measuring the ground in front of a fortification, a cannon-ball came against him, with the force with which cannon-balls in that day _did_ come, and killed him dead on the spot." how many instances of this kind would you demand to prove that he did come to an untimely end? one of the ships was laid up three years in the ice, during which time, he told us, "summer came and went frequently." this, i think, was the most remarkable phenomenon he mentioned in the whole lecture, and gave _me_ quite a new idea of those regions. on tuesday i went to a concert at st. leonard's. on the front seat sat a youth about twelve years of age, of whom the enclosed is a tolerably accurate sketch. he really was, i think, the ugliest boy i ever saw. i wish i could get an opportunity of photographing him. [illustration: sketch from st. leonard's concert-room.] the following note occurs in his journal for may 6th:- a christ church man, named wilmot, who is just returned from the west indies, dined in hall. he told us some curious things about the insects in south america--one that he had himself seen was a spider charming a cockroach with flashes of light; they were both on the wall, the spider about a yard the highest, and the light was like a glow-worm, only that it came by flashes and did not shine continuously; the cockroach gradually crawled up to it, and allowed itself to be taken and killed. a few months afterwards, when in town and visiting mr. munroe's studio, he found there two of the children of mr. george macdonald, whose acquaintance he had already made: "they were a girl and boy, about seven and six years old--i claimed their acquaintance, and began at once proving to the boy, greville, that he had better take the opportunity of having his head changed for a marble one. the effect was that in about two minutes they had entirely forgotten that i was a total stranger, and were earnestly arguing the question as if we were old acquaintances." mr. dodgson urged that a marble head would not have to be brushed and combed. at this the boy turned to his sister with an air of great relief, saying, "do you hear _that_, mary? it needn't be combed!" and the narrator adds, "i have no doubt combing, with his great head of long hair, like hallam tennyson's, was _the_ misery of his life. his final argument was that a marble head couldn't speak, and as i couldn't convince either that he would be all the better for that, i gave in." [illustration: george macdonald and his daughter lily. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] in november he gave a lecture at a meeting of the ashmolean society on "where does the day begin?" the problem, which was one he was very fond of propounding, may be thus stated: if a man could travel round the world so fast that the sun would be always directly above his head, and if he were to start travelling at midday on tuesday, then in twenty-four hours he would return to his original point of departure, and would find that the day was now called wednesday--at what point of his journey would the day change its name? the difficulty of answering this apparently simple question has cast a gloom over many a pleasant party. on december 12th he wrote in his diary:- visit of the queen to oxford, to the great surprise of everybody, as it had been kept a secret up to the time. she arrived in christ church about twelve, and came into hall with the dean, where the collections were still going on, about a dozen men being in hall. the party consisted of the queen, prince albert, princess alice and her intended husband, the prince of hesse-darmstadt, the prince of wales, prince alfred, and suite. they remained a minute or two looking at the pictures, and the sub-dean was presented: they then visited the cathedral and library. evening entertainment at the deanery, _tableaux vivants_. i went a little after half-past eight, and found a great party assembled--the prince had not yet come. he arrived before nine, and i found an opportunity of reminding general bruce of his promise to introduce me to the prince, which he did at the next break in the conversation h.r.h. was holding with mrs. fellowes. he shook hands very graciously, and i began with a sort of apology for having been so importunate about the photograph. he said something of the weather being against it, and i asked if the americans had victimised him much as a sitter; he said they had, but he did not think they had succeeded well, and i told him of the new american process of taking twelve thousand photographs in an hour. edith liddell coming by at the moment, i remarked on the beautiful _tableau_ which the children might make: he assented, and also said, in answer to my question, that he had seen and admired my photographs of them. i then said that i hoped, as i had missed the photograph, he would at least give me his autograph in my album, which he promised to do. thinking i had better bring the talk to an end, i concluded by saying that, if he would like copies of any of my photographs, i should feel honoured by his accepting them; he thanked me for this, and i then drew back, as he did not seem inclined to pursue the conversation. a few days afterwards the prince gave him his autograph, and also chose a dozen or so of his photograph (sic). [illustration: mrs. rossetti and her children dante gabriel, christina, and william. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] * * * * * chapter iii (1861-1867) jowett--index to "in memoriam"--the tennysons--the beginning of "alice"--tenniel--artistic friends--"alice's adventures in wonderland"--"bruno's revenge"--tour with dr. liddon--cologne--berlin architecture--the "majesty of justice"--peterhof--moscow--a russian wedding--nijni--the troitska monastery--"hieroglyphic" writing--giessen. it is my aim in this memoir to let mr. dodgson tell his own story as much as possible. in order to effect this object i have drawn largely upon his diary and correspondence. very few men have left behind them such copious information about their lives as he has; unfortunately it is not equally copious throughout, and this fact must be my apology for the somewhat haphazard and disconnected way in which parts of this book are written. that it is the best which, under the circumstances, i have been able to do needs, i hope, no saying, but the circumstances have at times been too strong for me. though in later years mr. dodgson almost gave up the habit of dining out, at this time of his life he used to do it pretty frequently, and several of the notes in his diary refer to after-dinner and common room stories. the two following extracts will show the sort of facts he recorded:- _january 2, 1861._--mr. grey (canon) came to dine and stay the night. he told me a curious old custom of millers, that they place the sails of the mill as a saint andrew's cross when work is entirely suspended, thus x, but in an upright cross, thus +, if they are just going to resume work. he also mentioned that he was at school with dr. tennyson (father of the poet), and was a great favourite of his. he remembers that tennyson used to do his school-translations in rhyme. _may 9th._--met in common room rev. c.f. knight, and the hon'ble. f.j. parker, both of boston, u.s. the former gave an amusing account of having seen oliver wendell holmes in a fishmonger's, lecturing _extempore_ on the head of a freshly killed turtle, whose eyes and jaws still showed muscular action: the lecture of course being all "cram," but accepted as sober earnest by the mob outside. old oxford men will remember the controversies that raged from about 1860 onwards over the opinions of the late dr. jowett. in my time the name "jowett" only represented the brilliant translator of plato, and the deservedly loved master of balliol, whose sermons in the little college chapel were often attended by other than balliol men, and whose reputation for learning was expressed in the well-known verse of "the masque of balliol":- first come i, my name is jowett. there's no knowledge but i know it; i am master of this college; what i don't know isn't knowledge. but in 1861 he was anything but universally popular, and i am afraid that mr. dodgson, nothing if not a staunch conservative, sided with the majority against him. thus he wrote in his diary:- _november 20th._--promulgation, in congregation, of the new statute to endow jowett. the speaking took up the whole afternoon, and the two points at issue, the endowing a _regius_ professorship, and the countenancing jowett's theological opinions, got so inextricably mixed up that i rose to beg that they might be kept separate. once on my feet, i said more than i at first meant, and defied them ever to tire out the opposition by perpetually bringing the question on (_mem_.: if i ever speak again i will try to say no more than i had resolved before rising). this was my first speech in congregation. at the beginning of 1862 an "index to in memoriam," compiled by mr. dodgson and his sisters, was published by moxon. tennyson had given his consent, and the little book proved to be very useful to his admirers. on january 27th morning prayer was for the first time read in english at the christ church college service. on the same day mr. dodgson moved over into new rooms, as the part of the college where he had formerly lived (chaplain's quadrangle) was to be pulled down. during the easter vacation he paid another visit to the tennysons, which he describes as follows:- after luncheon i went to the tennysons, and got hallam and lionel to sign their names in my album. also i made a bargain with lionel, that he was to give me some ms. of his verses, and i was to send him some of mine. it was a very difficult bargain to make; i almost despaired of it at first, he put in so many conditions--first, i was to play a game of chess with him; this, with much difficulty, was reduced to twelve moves on each side; but this made little difference, as i check-mated him at the sixth move. second, he was to be allowed to give me one blow on the head with a mallet (this he at last consented to give up). i forget if there were others, but it ended in my getting the verses, for which i have written out "the lonely moor" for him. mr. dodgson took a great interest in occult phenomena, and was for some time an enthusiastic member of the "psychical society." it was his interest in ghosts that led to his meeting with the artist mr. heaphy, who had painted a picture of a ghost which he himself had seen. i quote the following from a letter to his sister mary:- during my last visit to town, i paid a very interesting visit to a new artist, mr. heaphy. do you remember that curious story of a ghost lady (in _household words_ or _all the year round_), who sat to an artist for her picture; it was called "mr. h.'s story," and he was the writer.... he received me most kindly, and we had a very interesting talk about the ghost, which certainly is one of the most curious and inexplicable stories i ever heard. he showed me her picture (life size), and she must have been very lovely, if it is like her (or like it, which ever is the correct pronoun).... mr. heaphy showed me a most interesting collection of drawings he has made abroad; he has been about, hunting up the earliest and most authentic pictures of our saviour, some merely outlines, some coloured pictures. they agree wonderfully in the character of the face, and one, he says, there is no doubt was done before the year 150.... i feel sure from his tone that he is doing this in a religious spirit, and not merely as an artist. on july 4, 1862, there is a very important entry: "i made an expedition _up_ the river to godstow with the three liddells; we had tea on the bank there, and did not reach christ church till half-past eight." [illustration: lorina, alice, and edith liddell. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] on the opposite page he added, somewhat later, "on which occasion i told them the fairy-tale of 'alice's adventures underground,' which i undertook to write out for alice." these words need to be supplemented by the verses with which he prefaced the "wonderland":- all in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide; for both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied, while little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide. ah, cruel three! in such an hour, beneath such dreamy weather, to beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather! yet what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together? imperious prima flashes forth her edict "to begin it"- in gentler tones secunda hopes "there will be nonsense in it!" while tertia interrupts the tale not _more_ than once a minute. anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they pursue the dream-child moving through a land of wonders wild and new, in friendly chat with bird or beast- and half believe it true. and ever, as the story drained the wells of fancy dry, and faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by, "the rest next time"--"it _is_ next time!" the happy voices cry. thus grew the tale of wonderland: thus slowly, one by one, its quaint events were hammered out- and now the tale is done, and home we steer, a merry crew, beneath the setting sun. "alice" herself (mrs. reginald hargreaves) has given an account of the scene, from which what follows is quoted:- most of mr. dodgson's stories were told to us on river expeditions to nuneham or godstow, near oxford. my eldest sister, now mrs. skene, was "prima," i was "secunda," and "tertia" was my sister edith. i believe the beginning of "alice" was told one summer afternoon when the sun was so burning that we had landed in the meadows down the river, deserting the boat to take refuge in the only bit of shade to be found, which was under a new-made hayrick. here from all three came the old petition of "tell us a story," and so began the ever-delightful tale. sometimes to tease us--and perhaps being really tired--mr. dodgson would stop suddenly and say, "and that's all till next time." "ah, but it is next time," would be the exclamation from all three; and after some persuasion the story would start afresh. another day, perhaps, the story would begin in the boat, and mr. dodgson, in the middle of telling a thrilling adventure, would pretend to go fast asleep, to our great dismay. "alice's adventures underground" was the original name of the story; later on it became "alice's hour in elfland." it was not until june 18, 1864, that he finally decided upon "alice's adventures in wonderland." the illustrating of the manuscript book gave him some trouble. he had to borrow a "natural history" from the deanery to learn the correct shapes of some of the strange animals with which alice conversed; the mock turtle he must have evolved out of his inner consciousness, for it is, i think, a species unknown to naturalists. he was lucky enough during the course of the year to see a ceremony which is denied to most oxford men. when degrees are given, any tradesman who has been unable to get his due from an undergraduate about to be made a bachelor of arts is allowed, by custom, to pluck the proctor's gown as he passes, and then to make his complaint. this law is more honoured in the breach than in the observance; but, on the occasion of this visit of mr. dodgson's to convocation, the proctor's gown was actually plucked--on account of an unfortunate man who had gone through the bankruptcy court. when he promised to write out "alice" for miss liddell he had no idea of publication; but his friend, mr. george macdonald, to whom he had shown the story, persuaded him to submit it to a publisher. messrs. macmillan agreed to produce it, and as mr. dodgson had not sufficient faith in his own artistic powers to venture to allow his illustrations to appear, it was necessary to find some artist who would undertake the work. by the advice of tom taylor he approached mr. tenniel, who was fortunately well disposed, and on april 5, 1864, the final arrangements were made. [illustration: george macdonald. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] the following interesting account of a meeting with mr. dodgson is from the pen of mrs. bennie, wife of the rector of glenfield, near leicester:- some little time after the publication of "alice's adventures" we went for our summer holiday to whitby. we were visiting friends, and my brother and sister went to the hotel. they soon after asked us to dine with them there at the _table d'hã´te._ i had on one side of me a gentleman whom i did not know, but as i had spent a good deal of time travelling in foreign countries, i always, at once, speak to any one i am placed next. i found on this occasion i had a very agreeable neighbour, and we seemed to be much interested in the same books, and politics also were touched on. after dinner my sister and brother rather took me to task for talking so much to a complete stranger. i said. "but it was quite a treat to talk to him and to hear him talk. of one thing i am quite sure, he is a genius." my brother and sister, who had not heard him speak, again laughed at me, and said, "you are far too easily pleased." i, however, maintained my point, and said what great delight his conversation had given me, and how remarkably clever it had been. next morning nurse took out our two little twin daughters in front of the sea. i went out a short time afterwards, looked for them, and found them seated with my friend of the _table d'hã´te_ between them, and they were listening to him, open-mouthed, and in the greatest state of enjoyment, with his knee covered with minute toys. i, seeing their great delight, motioned to him to go on; this he did for some time. a most charming story he told them about sea-urchins and ammonites. when it was over, i said, "you must be the author of 'alice's adventures.'" he laughed, but looked astonished, and said, "my dear madam, my name is dodgson, and 'alice's adventures' was written by lewis carroll." i replied, "then you must have borrowed the name, for only he could have told a story as you have just done." after a little sparring he admitted the fact, and i went home and proudly told my sister and brother how my genius had turned out a greater one than i expected. they assured me i must be mistaken, and that, as i had suggested it to him, he had taken advantage of the idea, and said he was what i wanted him to be. a few days after some friends came to whitby who knew his aunts, and confirmed the truth of his statement, and thus i made the acquaintance of one whose friendship has been the source of great pleasure for nearly thirty years. he has most generously sent us all his books, with kind inscriptions, to "minnie and doe," whom he photographed, but would not take canon bennie or me; he said he never took portraits of people of more than seventeen years of age until they were seventy. he visited us, and we often met him at eastbourne, and his death was indeed a great loss after so many happy years of friendship with one we so greatly admired and loved. he spent a part of the long vacation at freshwater, taking great interest in the children who, for him, were the chief attraction of the seaside. every morning four little children dressed in yellow go by from the front down to the beach: they go by in a state of great excitement, brandishing wooden spades, and making strange noises; from that moment they disappear entirely--they are never to be seen _on_ the beach. the only theory i can form is, that they all tumble into a hole somewhere, and continue excavating therein during the day: however that may be, i have once or twice come across them returning at night, in exactly the same state of excitement, and seemingly in quite as great a hurry to get home as they were before to get out. the evening noises they make sound to me very much like the morning noises, but i suppose they are different to them, and contain an account of the day's achievements. his enthusiasm for photography, and his keen appreciation of the beautiful, made him prefer the society of artists to that of any other class of people. he knew the rossettis intimately, and his diary shows him to have been acquainted with millais, holman hunt, sant, westmacott, val prinsep, watts, and a host of others. arthur hughes painted a charming picture to his order ("the lady with the lilacs") which used to hang in his rooms at christ church. the andersons were great friends of his, mrs. anderson being one of his favourite child-painters. those who have visited him at oxford will remember a beautiful girl's head, painted by her from a rough sketch she had once made in a railway carriage of a child who happened to be sitting opposite her. [illustration: j. sant. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] his own drawings were in no way remarkable. ruskin, whose advice he took on his artistic capabilities, told him that he had not enough talent to make it worth his while to devote much time to sketching, but every one who saw his photographs admired them. considering the difficulties of the "wet process," and the fact that he had a conscientious horror of "touching up" his negatives, the pictures he produced are quite wonderful. some of them were shown to the queen, who said that she admired them very much, and that they were "such as the prince would have appreciated very highly, and taken much pleasure in." [illustration: holman hunt. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] on july 4, 1865, exactly three years after the memorable row up the river, miss alice liddell received the first presentation copy of "alice's adventures in wonderland": the second was sent to princess beatrice. the first edition, which consisted of two thousand copies, was condemned by both author and illustrator, for the pictures did not come out well. all purchasers were accordingly asked to return their copies, and to send their names and addresses; a new edition was prepared, and distributed to those who had sent back their old copies, which the author gave away to various homes and hospitals. the substituted edition was a complete success, "a perfect piece of artistic printing," as mr. dodgson called it. he hardly dared to hope that more than two thousand copies would be sold, and anticipated a considerable loss over the book. his surprise was great when edition after edition was demanded, and when he found that "alice," far from being a monetary failure, was bringing him in a very considerable income every year. [illustration: sir john millais. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_] a rough comparison between "alice's adventures underground" and the book in its completed form, shows how slight were the alterations that lewis carroll thought it necessary to make. the "wonderland" is somewhat longer, but the general plan of the book, and the simplicity of diction, which is one of its principal charms, are unchanged. his memory was so good that i believe the story as he wrote it down was almost word for word the same that he had told in the boat. the whole idea came like an inspiration into his mind, and that sort of inspiration does not often come more than once in a lifetime. nothing which he wrote afterwards had anything like the same amount of freshness, of wit, of real genius. the "looking-glass" most closely approached it in these qualities, but then it was only the following out of the same idea. the most ingenuous comparison of the two books i have seen was the answer of a little girl whom lewis carroll had asked if she had read them: "oh yes, i've read both of them, and i think," (this more slowly and thoughtfully) "i think 'through the looking-glass' is more stupid than 'alice's adventures.' don't you think so?" the critics were loud in their praises of "alice"; there was hardly a dissentient voice among them, and the reception which the public gave the book justified their opinion. so recently as july, 1898, the _pall mall gazette_ conducted an inquiry into the popularity of children's books. "the verdict is so natural that it will surprise no normal person. the winner is 'alice in wonderland'; 'through the looking-glass' is in the twenty, but much lower down." "alice" has been translated into french, german, italian, and dutch, while one poem, "father william," has even been turned into arabic. several plays have been based upon it; lectures have been given, illustrated by magic-lantern slides of tenniel's pictures, which have also adorned wall-papers and biscuit-boxes. mr. dodgson himself designed a very ingenious "wonderland" stamp-case; there has been an "alice" birthday-book; at schools, children have been taught to read out of "alice," while the german edition, shortened and simplified for the purpose, has also been used as a lesson-book. with the exception of shakespeare's plays, very few, if any, books are so frequently quoted in the daily press as the two "alices." in 1866 mr. dodgson was introduced to miss charlotte m. yonge, whose novels had long delighted him. "it was a pleasure i had long hoped for," he says, "and i was very much pleased with her cheerful and easy manners--the sort of person one knows in a few minutes as well as many in many years." [illustration: c. m. yonge. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] in 1867 he contributed a story to _aunt judy's magazine_ called "bruno's revenge," the charming little idyll out of which "sylvie and bruno" grew. the creation of bruno was the only act of homage lewis carroll ever paid to boy-nature, for which, as a rule, he professed an aversion almost amounting to terror. nevertheless, on the few occasions on which i have seen him in the company of boys, he seemed to be thoroughly at his ease, telling them stories and showing them puzzles. i give an extract from mrs. gatty's letter, acknowledging the receipt of "bruno's revenge" for her magazine:- i need hardly tell you that the story is _delicious_. it is beautiful and fantastic and childlike, and i cannot sufficiently thank you. i am so _proud_ for _aunt judy_ that you have honoured _her_ by sending it here, rather than to the _cornhill_, or one of the grander magazines. to-morrow i shall send the manuscript to london probably; to-day i keep it to enjoy a little further, and that the young ladies may do so too. one word more. make this one of a series. you may have great mathematical abilities, but so have hundreds of others. this talent is peculiarly your own, and as an englishman you are almost unique in possessing it. if you covet fame, therefore, it will be (i think) gained by this. some of the touches are so exquisite, one would have thought nothing short of intercourse with fairies could have put them into your head. somewhere about this time he was invited to witness a rehearsal of a children's play at a london theatre. as he sat in the wings, chatting to the manager, a little four-year-old girl, one of the performers, climbed up on his knee, and began talking to him. she was very anxious to be allowed to play the principal part (mrs. mite), which had been assigned to some other child. "i wish i might act mrs. mite," she said; "i know all her part, and i'd get an _encore_ for every word." during the year he published his book on "determinants." to those accustomed to regard mathematics as the driest of dry subjects, and mathematicians as necessarily devoid of humour, it seems scarcely credible that "an elementary treatise on determinants," and "alice in wonderland" were written by the same author, and it came quite as a revelation to the undergraduate who heard for the first time that mr. dodgson of christ church and lewis carroll were identical. the book in question, admirable as it is in many ways, has not commanded a large sale. the nature of the subject would be against it, as most students whose aim is to get as good a place as possible in the class lists cannot afford the luxury of a separate work, and have to be content with the few chapters devoted to "determinants" in works on higher algebra or the theory of equations, supplemented by references to mr. dodgson's work which can be found in the college libraries. the general acceptance of the book would be rather restricted by the employment of new words and symbols, which, as the author himself felt, "are always a most unwelcome addition to a science already burdened with an enormous vocabulary." but the work itself is largely original, and its arrangement and style are, perhaps, as attractive as the nature of the subject will allow. such a book as this has little interest for the general reader, yet, amongst the leisured few who are able to read mathematics for their own sake, the treatise has found warm admirers. in the summer vacation of 1867 he went for a tour on the continent, accompanied by dr. liddon, whom i have already mentioned as having been one of his most intimate friends at this time. during the whole of this tour mr. dodgson kept a diary, more with the idea that it would help him afterwards to remember what he had seen than with any notion of publication. however, in later years it did occur to him that others might be interested in his impressions and experiences, though he never actually took any steps towards putting them before the public. perhaps he was wise, for a traveller's diary always contains much information that can be obtained just as well from any guide-book. in the extracts which i reproduce here, i hope that i have not retained anything which comes under that category. [illustration: dr. liddon. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] _july 12th_.--the sultan and i arrived in london almost at the same time, but in different quarters--_my_ point of entry being paddington, and _his_ charing cross. i must admit that the crowd was greatest at the latter place. mr. dodgson and dr. liddon met at dover, and passed the night at one of the hotels there:- _july 13th_.--we breakfasted, as agreed, at eight, or at least we then sat down and nibbled bread and butter till such time as the chops should be done, which great event took place about half past. we tried pathetic appeals to the wandering waiters, who told us, "they are coming, sir," in a soothing tone, and we tried stern remonstrance, and they then said, "they are coming, sir," in a more injured tone; and after all such appeals they retired into their dens, and hid themselves behind side-boards and dish-covers, and still the chops came not. we agreed that of all virtues a waiter can display, that of a retiring disposition is quite the least desirable.... the pen refuses to describe the sufferings of some of the passengers during our smooth trip of ninety minutes: my own sensations were those of extreme surprise, and a little indignation, at there being no other sensations--it was not for _that_ i paid my money.... we landed at calais in the usual swarm of friendly natives, offering services and advice of all kinds; to all such remarks i returned one simple answer, _non!_ it was probably not strictly applicable in all cases, but it answered the purpose of getting rid of them; one by one they left me, echoing the _non_! in various tones, but all expressive of disgust. at cologne began that feast of beautiful things which his artistic temperament fitted him so well to enjoy. though the churches he visited and the ceremonies he witnessed belonged to a religious system widely different from his own, the largeness and generosity of his mind always led him to insist upon that substratum of true devotion--to use a favourite word of his--which underlies all forms of christianity. we spent an hour in the cathedral, which i will not attempt to describe further than by saying it was the most beautiful of all churches i have ever seen or can imagine. if one could imagine the spirit of devotion embodied in any material form, it would be in such a building. in spite of all the wealth of words that has been expended upon german art, he found something new to say on this most fertile subject:- the amount of art lavished on the whole region of potsdam is marvellous; some of the tops of the palaces were like forests of statues, and they were all over the gardens, set on pedestals. in fact, the two principles of berlin architecture appear to me to be these. on the house-tops, wherever there is a convenient place, put up the figure of a man; he is best placed standing on one leg. wherever there is room on the ground, put either a circular group of busts on pedestals, in consultation, all looking inwards--or else the colossal figure of a man killing, about to kill, or having killed (the present tense is preferred) a beast; the more pricks the beast has, the better--in fact a dragon is the correct thing, but if that is beyond the artist, he may content himself with a lion or a pig. the beast-killing principle has been carried out everywhere with a relentless monotony, which makes some parts of berlin look like a fossil slaughter-house. he never missed an opportunity of studying the foreign drama, which was most praiseworthy, as he knew very little german and not a word of russ:- at the hotel [at danzig] was a green parrot on a stand; we addressed it as "pretty poll," and it put its head on one side and thought about it, but wouldn't commit itself to any statement. the waiter came up to inform us of the reason of its silence: "er spricht nicht englisch; er spricht nicht deutsch." it appeared that the unfortunate bird could speak nothing but mexican! not knowing a word of that language, we could only pity it. _july 23rd._--we strolled about and bought a few photographs, and at 11.39 left for kã¶nigsberg. on our way to the station we came across the grandest instance of the "majesty of justice" that i have ever witnessed. a little boy was being taken to the magistrate, or to prison (probably for picking a pocket). the achievement of this feat had been entrusted to two soldiers in full uniform, who were solemnly marching, one in front of the poor little urchin and one behind, with bayonets fixed, of course, to be ready to charge in case he should attempt an escape. _july 25th._--in the evening i visited the theatre at kã¶nigsberg, which was fairly good in every way, and very good in the singing and some of the acting. the play was "anno 66," but i could only catch a few words here and there, so have very little idea of the plot. one of the characters was a correspondent of an english newspaper. this singular being came on in the midst of a soldiers' bivouac before sadowa, dressed very nearly in white--a very long frock-coat, and a tall hat on the back of his head, both nearly white. he said "morning" as a general remark, when he first came on, but afterwards talked what i suppose was broken german. he appeared to be regarded as a butt by the soldiers, and ended his career by falling into a drum. from kã¶nigsberg the travellers went on to st. petersburg, where they stayed several days, exploring the wonderful city and its environs:- there is a fine equestrian statue of peter the great near the admiralty. the lower part is not a pedestal, but left shapeless and rough like a real rock. the horse is rearing, and has a serpent coiled about its hind feet, on which, i think, it is treading. if this had been put up in berlin, peter would no doubt have been actively engaged in killing the monster, but here he takes no notice of it; in fact, the killing theory is not recognised. we found two colossal figures of lions, which are so painfully mild that each of them is rolling a great ball about like a kitten. _aug. 1st_.--about half-past ten mr. merrilies called for us, and with really remarkable kindness gave up his day to taking us down to peterhof, a distance of about twenty miles, and showing us over the place. we went by steamer down the tideless, saltless gulf of finland; the first peculiarity extends through the baltic, and the second through a great part of it. the piece we crossed, some fifteen miles from shore to shore, is very shallow, in many parts only six or eight feet deep, and every winter it is entirely frozen over with ice two feet thick, and when this is covered with snow it forms a secure plain, which is regularly used for travelling on, though the immense distance, without means of food or shelter, is dangerous for poorly clad foot passengers. mr. merrilies told us of a friend of his who, in crossing last winter, passed the bodies of eight people who had been frozen. we had a good view, on our way, of the coast of finland, and of kronstadt. when we landed at peterhof, we found mr. muir's carriage waiting for us, and with its assistance, getting out every now and then to walk through portions where it could not go, we went over the grounds of two imperial palaces, including many little summer-houses, each of which would make a very good residence in itself, as, though small, they were fitted up and adorned in every way that taste could suggest or wealth achieve. for varied beauty and perfect combination of nature and art, i think the gardens eclipse those of sans souci. at every corner, or end of an avenue or path, where a piece of statuary could be introduced with effect, there one was sure to find one, in bronze or in white marble; many of the latter had a sort of circular niche built behind, with a blue background to throw the figure into relief. here we found a series of shelving ledges made of stone, with a sheet of water gliding down over them; here a long path, stretching down slopes and flights of steps, and arched over all the way with trellises and creepers; here a huge boulder, hewn, just as it lay, into the shape of a gigantic head and face, with mild, sphinx-like eyes, as if some buried titan were struggling to free himself; here a fountain, so artfully formed of pipes set in circles, each set shooting the water higher than those outside, as to form a solid pyramid of glittering spray; here a lawn, seen through a break in the woods below us, with threads of scarlet geraniums running over it, and looking in the distance like a huge branch of coral; and here and there long avenues of trees, lying in all directions, sometimes three or four together side by side, and sometimes radiating like a star, and stretching away into the distance till the eye was almost weary of following them. all this will rather serve to remind me, than to convey any idea, of what we saw. but the beauties of peterhof were quite eclipsed by the oriental splendours of moscow, which naturally made a great impression upon a mind accustomed to the cold sublimity of gothic architecture at oxford. we gave five or six hours to a stroll through this wonderful city, a city of white houses and green roofs, of conical towers that rise one out of another like a foreshortened telescope; of bulging gilded domes, in which you see, as in a looking-glass, distorted pictures of the city; of churches which look, outside, like bunches of variegated cactus (some branches crowned with green prickly buds, others with blue, and others with red and white) and which, inside, are hung all round with _eikons_ and lamps, and lined with illuminated pictures up to the very roof; and, finally, of pavement that goes up and down like a ploughed field, and _drojky_-drivers who insist on being paid thirty per cent. extra to-day, "because it is the empress's birthday."... _aug. 5th._--after dinner we went by arrangement to mr. penny, and accompanied him to see a russian wedding. it was a most interesting ceremony. there was a large choir, from the cathedral, who sang a long and beautiful anthem before the service began; and the deacon (from the church of the assumption) delivered several recitative portions of the service in the most magnificent bass voice i ever heard, rising gradually (i should say by less than half a note at a time if that is possible), and increasing in volume of sound as he rose in the scale, until his final note rang through the building like a chorus of many voices. i could not have conceived that one voice could have produced such an effect. one part of the ceremony, the crowning the married couple, was very nearly grotesque. two gorgeous golden crowns were brought in, which the officiating priest first waved before them, and then placed on their heads--or rather the unhappy bridegroom had to wear _his_, but the bride, having prudently arranged her hair in a rather complicated manner with a lace veil, could not have hers put on, but had it held above her by a friend. the bridegroom, in plain evening dress, crowned like a king, holding a candle, and with a face of resigned misery, would have been pitiable if he had not been so ludicrous. when the people had gone, we were invited by the priests to see the east end of the church, behind the golden gates, and were finally dismissed with a hearty shake of the hand and the "kiss of peace," of which even i, though in lay costume, came in for a share. one of the objects of the tour was to see the fair at nijni novgorod, and here the travellers arrived on august 6th, after a miserable railway journey. owing to the breaking down of a bridge, the unfortunate passengers had been compelled to walk a mile through drenching rain. we went to the smernovaya (or some such name) hotel, a truly villainous place, though no doubt the best in the town. the feeding was very good, and everything else very bad. it was some consolation to find that as we sat at dinner we furnished a subject of the liveliest interest to six or seven waiters, all dressed in white tunics, belted at the waist, and white trousers, who ranged themselves in a row and gazed in a quite absorbed way at the collection of strange animals that were feeding before them. now and then a twinge of conscience would seize them that they were, after all, not fulfilling the great object of life as waiters, and on these occasions they would all hurry to the end of the room, and refer to a great drawer which seemed to contain nothing but spoons and corks. when we asked for anything, they first looked at each other in an alarmed way; then, when they had ascertained which understood the order best, they all followed his example, which always was to refer to the big drawer. we spent most of the afternoon wandering through the fair, and buying _eikons_, &c. it was a wonderful place. besides there being distinct quarters for the persians, the chinese, and others, we were constantly meeting strange beings with unwholesome complexions and unheard-of costumes. the persians, with their gentle, intelligent faces, the long eyes set wide apart, the black hair, and yellow-brown skin, crowned with a black woollen fez something like a grenadier, were about the most picturesque we met. but all the novelties of the day were thrown into the shade by our adventure at sunset, when we came upon the tartar mosque (the only one in nijni) exactly as one of the officials came out on the roof to utter the muezzin cry, or call to prayers. even if it had been in no way singular in itself, it would have been deeply interesting from its novelty and uniqueness, but the cry itself was quite unlike anything i have ever heard before. the beginning of each sentence was uttered in a rapid monotone, and towards the end it rose gradually till it ended in a prolonged, shrill wail, which floated overhead through the still air with an indescribably sad and ghostlike effect; heard at night, it would have thrilled one like the cry of the banshee. this reminds one of the wonderful description in mr. kipling's "city of dreadful night." it is not generally known that mr. dodgson was a fervent admirer of mr. kipling's works; indeed during the last few years of his life i think he took more pleasure in his tales than in those of any other modern author. dr. liddon's fame as a preacher had reached the russian clergy, with the result that he and mr. dodgson found many doors open to them which are usually closed to travellers in russia. after their visit to nijni novgorod they returned to moscow, whence, escorted by bishop leonide, suffragan bishop of moscow, they made an expedition to the troitska monastery. _august 12th_.--a most interesting day. we breakfasted at half-past five, and soon after seven left by railway, in company with bishop leonide and mr. penny, for troitska monastery. we found the bishop, in spite of his limited knowledge of english, a very conversational and entertaining fellow-traveller. the service at the cathedral had already begun when we reached it, and the bishop took us in with him, through a great crowd which thronged the building, into a side room which opened into the chancel, where we remained during the service, and enjoyed the unusual privilege of seeing the clergy communicate--a ceremony for which the doors of the chancel are always shut, and the curtains drawn, so that the congregation never witness it. it was a most elaborate ceremony, full of crossings, and waving of incense before everything that was going to be used, but also clearly full of much deep devotion.... in the afternoon we went down to the archbishop's palace, and were presented to him by bishop leonide. the archbishop could only talk russian, so that the conversation between him and liddon (a most interesting one, which lasted more than an hour) was conducted in a very original fashion--the archbishop making a remark in russian, which was put into english by the bishop; liddon then answered the remark in french, and the bishop repeated his answer in russian to the archbishop. so that a conversation, entirely carried on between two people, required the use of three languages! the bishop had kindly got one of the theological students, who could talk french, to conduct us about, which he did most zealously, taking us, among other things, to see the subterranean cells of the hermits, in which some of them live for many years. we were shown the doors of two of the inhabited ones; it was a strange and not quite comfortable feeling, in a dark narrow passage where each had to carry a candle, to be shown the low narrow door of a little cellar, and to know that a human being was living within, with only a small lamp to give him light, in solitude and silence day and night. his experiences with an exorbitant _drojky_-driver at st. petersburg are worthy of record. they remind one of a story which he himself used to tell as having happened to a friend of his at oxford. the latter had driven up in a cab to tom gate, and offered the cabman the proper fare, which was, however, refused with scorn. after a long altercation he left the irate cabman to be brought to reason by the porter, a one-armed giant of prodigious strength. when he was leaving college, he stopped at the gate to ask the porter how he had managed to dispose of the cabman. "well, sir," replied that doughty champion, "i could not persuade him to go until i floored him." after a hearty breakfast i left liddon to rest and write letters, and went off shopping, &c., beginning with a call on mr. muir at no. 61, galerne ulitsa. i took a _drojky_ to the house, having first bargained with the driver for thirty _kopecks_; he wanted forty to begin with. when we got there we had a little scene, rather a novelty in my experience of _drojky_-driving. the driver began by saying "_sorok_" (forty) as i got out; this was a warning of the coming storm, but i took no notice of it, but quietly handed over the thirty. he received them with scorn and indignation, and holding them out in his open hand, delivered an eloquent discourse in russian, of which _sorok_ was the leading idea. a woman, who stood by with a look of amusement and curiosity, perhaps understood him. _i_ didn't, but simply held out my hand for the thirty, returned them to the purse and counted out twenty-five instead. in doing this i felt something like a man pulling the string of a shower-bath--and the effect was like it--his fury boiled over directly, and quite eclipsed all the former row. i told him in very bad russian that i had offered thirty once, but wouldn't again; but this, oddly enough, did not pacify him. mr. muir's servant told him the same thing at length, and finally mr. muir himself came out and gave him the substance of it sharply and shortly--but he failed to see it in a proper light. some people are very hard to please. when staying at a friend's house at kronstadt he wrote:- liddon had surrendered his overcoat early in the day, and when going we found it must be recovered from the waiting-maid, who only talked russian, and as i had left the dictionary behind, and the little vocabulary did not contain _coat_, we were in some difficulty. liddon began by exhibiting his coat, with much gesticulation, including the taking it half-off. to our delight, she appeared to understand at once--left the room, and returned in a minute with--a large clothes-brush. on this liddon tried a further and more energetic demonstration; he took off his coat, and laid it at her feet, pointed downwards (to intimate that in the lower regions was the object of his desire), smiled with an expression of the joy and gratitude with which he would receive it, and put the coat on again. once more a gleam of intelligence lighted up the plain but expressive features of the young person; she was absent much longer this time, and when she returned, she brought, to our dismay, a large cushion and a pillow, and began to prepare the sofa for the nap that she now saw clearly was the thing the dumb gentleman wanted. a happy thought occurred to me, and i hastily drew a sketch representing liddon, with one coat on, receiving a second and larger one from the hands of a benignant russian peasant. the language of hieroglyphics succeeded where all other means had failed, and we returned to st. petersburg with the humiliating knowledge that our standard of civilisation was now reduced to the level of ancient nineveh. [illustration: instance of hieroglyphic writing of the date mdccclxvii--interpretation. "there is a coat here, left in the care of a russian peasant, which i should be glad to receive from him."] at warsaw they made a short stay, putting up at the hotel d'angleterre:- our passage is inhabited by a tall and very friendly grey-hound, who walks in whenever the door is opened for a second or two, and who for some time threatened to make the labour of the servant, who was bringing water for a bath, of no effect, by drinking up the water as fast as it was brought. from warsaw they went on to leipzig, and thence to giessen, where they arrived on september 4th. we moved on to giessen, and put up at the "rappe hotel" for the night, and ordered an early breakfast of an obliging waiter who talked english. "coffee!" he exclaimed delightedly, catching at the word as if it were a really original idea, "ah, coffee--very nice--and eggs? ham with your eggs? very nice--" "if we can have it broiled," i said. "boiled?" the waiter repeated, with an incredulous smile. "no, not _boiled_," i explained--"_broiled_." the waiter put aside this distinction as trivial, "yes, yes, ham," he repeated, reverting to his favourite idea. "yes, ham," i said, "but how cooked?" "yes, yes, how cooked," the waiter replied, with the careless air of one who assents to a proposition more from good nature than from a real conviction of its truth. _sept. 5th_.--at midday we reached ems, after a journey eventless, but through a very interesting country--valleys winding away in all directions among hills clothed with trees to the very top, and white villages nestling away wherever there was a comfortable corner to hide in. the trees were so small, so uniform in colour, and so continuous, that they gave to the more distant hills something of the effect of banks covered with moss. the really unique feature of the scenery was the way in which the old castles seemed to grow, rather than to have been built, on the tops of the rocky promontories that showed their heads here and there among the trees. i have never seen architecture that seemed so entirely in harmony with the spirit of the place. by some subtle instinct the old architects seem to have chosen both form and colour, the grouping of the towers with their pointed spires, and the two neutral tints, light grey and brown, on the walls and roof, so as to produce buildings which look as naturally fitted to the spot as the heath or the harebells. and, like the flowers and the rocks, they seemed instinct with no other meaning than rest and silence. and with these beautiful words my extracts from the diary may well conclude. lewis carroll's mind was completely at one with nature, and in her pleasant places of calm and infinite repose he sought his rest--and has found it. [illustration: sir john tenniel. _from a photograph by bassano_.] * * * * * chapter iv (1868-1876) death of archdeacon dodgson--lewis carroll's rooms at christ church--"phantasmagoria"--translations of "alice"--"through the looking-glass"--"jabberwocky" in latin--c.s. calverley--"notes by an oxford chiel"--hatfield--vivisection--"the hunting of the snark." the success of "alice in wonderland" tempted mr. dodgson to make another essay in the same field of literature. his idea had not yet been plagiarised, as it was afterwards, though the book had of course been parodied, a notable instance being "alice in blunderland," which appeared in _punch_. it was very different when he came to write "sylvie and bruno"; the countless imitations of the two "alice" books which had been foisted upon the public forced him to strike out in a new line. long before the publication of his second tale, people had heard that lewis carroll was writing again, and the editor of a well-known magazine had offered him two guineas a page, which was a high rate of pay in those days, for the story, if he would allow it to appear in serial form. the central idea was, as every one knows, the adventures of a little girl who had somehow or other got through a looking-glass. the first difficulty, however, was to get her through, and this question exercised his ingenuity for some time, before it was satisfactorily solved. the next thing was to secure tenniel's services again. at first it seemed that he was to be disappointed in this matter; tenniel was so fully occupied with other work that there seemed little hope of his being able to undertake any more. he then applied to sir noel paton, with whose fairy-pictures he had fallen in love; but the artist was ill, and wrote in reply, "tenniel is _the_ man." in the end tenniel consented to undertake the work, and once more author and artist settled down to work together. mr. dodgson was no easy man to work with; no detail was too small for his exact criticism. "don't give alice so much crinoline," he would write, or "the white knight must not have whiskers; he must not be made to look old"--such were the directions he was constantly giving. on june 21st archdeacon dodgson died, after an illness of only a few days' duration. lewis carroll was not summoned until too late, for the illness took a sudden turn for the worse, and he was unable to reach his father's bedside before the end had come. this was a terrible shock to him; his father had been his ideal of what a christian gentleman should be, and it seemed to him at first as if a cloud had settled on his life which could never be dispelled. two letters of his, both of them written long after the sad event, give one some idea of the grief which his father's death, and all that it entailed, caused him. the first was written long afterwards, to one who had suffered a similar bereavement. in this letter he said:- we are sufficiently old friends, i feel sure, for me to have no fear that i shall seem intrusive in writing about your great sorrow. the greatest blow that has ever fallen on _my_ life was the death, nearly thirty years ago, of my own dear father; so, in offering you my sincere sympathy, i write as a fellow-sufferer. and i rejoice to know that we are not only fellow-sufferers, but also fellow-believers in the blessed hope of the resurrection from the dead, which makes such a parting holy and beautiful, instead of being merely a blank despair. the second was written to a young friend, miss edith rix, who had sent him an illuminated text: my dear edith,--i can now tell you (what i wanted to do when you sent me that text-card, but felt i could not say it to _two_ listeners, as it were) _why_ that special card is one i like to have. that text is consecrated for me by the memory of one of the greatest sorrows i have known--the death of my dear father. in those solemn days, when we used to steal, one by one, into the darkened room, to take yet another look at the dear calm face, and to pray for strength, the one feature in the room that i remember was a framed text, illuminated by one of my sisters, "then are they glad, because they are at rest; and so he bringeth them into the haven where they would be!" that text will always have, for me, a sadness and a sweetness of its own. thank you again for sending it me. please don't mention this when we meet. i can't _talk_ about it. always affectionately yours, c. l. dodgson. the object of his edition of euclid book v., published during the course of the year, was to meet the requirements of the ordinary pass examination, and to present the subject in as short and simple a form as possible. hence the theory of incommensurable magnitudes was omitted, though, as the author himself said in the preface, to do so rendered the work incomplete, and, from a logical point of view, valueless. he hinted pretty plainly his own preference for an equivalent amount of algebra, which would be complete in itself. it is easy to understand this preference in a mind so strictly logical as his. so far as the object of the book itself is concerned, he succeeded admirably; the propositions are clearly and beautifully worked out, and the hints on proving propositions in euclid book v., are most useful. in november he again moved into new rooms at christ church; the suite which he occupied from this date to the end of his life was one of the best in the college. situated at the north-west corner of tom quad, on the first floor of the staircase from the entrance to which the junior common room is now approached, they consist of four sitting-rooms and about an equal number of bedrooms, besides rooms for lumber, &c. from the upper floor one can easily reach the flat college roof. mr. dodgson saw at once that here was the very place for a photographic studio, and he lost no time in obtaining the consent of the authorities to erect one. here he took innumerable photographs of his friends and their children, as indeed he had been doing for some time under less favourable conditions. one of his earliest pictures is an excellent likeness of professor faraday. [illustration: prof. faraday. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] his study was characteristic of the man; oil paintings by a. hughes, mrs. anderson, and heaphy proclaimed his artistic tastes; nests of pigeon-holes, each neatly labelled, showed his love of order; shelves, filled with the best books on every subject that interested him, were evidence of his wide reading. his library has now been broken up and, except for a few books retained by his nearest relatives, scattered to the winds; such dispersions are inevitable, but they are none the less regrettable. it always seems to me that one of the saddest things about the death of a literary man is the fact that the breaking-up of his collection of books almost invariably follows; the building up of a good library, the work of a lifetime, has been so much labour lost, so far as future generations are concerned. talent, yes, and genius too, are displayed not only in writing books but also in buying them, and it is a pity that the ruthless hammer of the auctioneer should render so much energy and skill fruitless. [illustration: lewis carroll's study at christ church, oxford.] lewis carroll's dining-room has been the scene of many a pleasant little party, for he was very fond of entertaining. in his diary, each of the dinners and luncheons that he gave is recorded by a small diagram, which shows who his guests were, and their several positions at the table. he kept a _menu_ book as well, that the same people might not have the same dishes too frequently. he sometimes gave large parties, but his favourite form of social relaxation was a _dã®ner ã  deux_. at the beginning of 1869 his "phantasmagoria," a collection of poems grave and gay, was published by macmillan. upon the whole he was more successful in humorous poetry, but there is an undeniable dignity and pathos in his more serious verses. he gave a copy to mr. justice denman, with whom he afterwards came to be very well acquainted, and who appreciated the gift highly. "i did not lay down the book," he wrote, "until i had read them [the poems] through; and enjoyed many a hearty laugh, and something like a cry or two. moreover, i hope to read them through (as the _old man_ said) 'again and again.'" [illustration: justice denman. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] it had been lewis carroll's intention to have "phantasmagoria" illustrated, and he had asked george du maurier to undertake the work; but the plan fell through. in his letter to du maurier, mr. dodgson had made some inquiries about miss florence montgomery, the authoress of "misunderstood." in reply du maurier said, "miss florence montgomery is a very charming and sympathetic young lady, the daughter of the admiral of that ilk. i am, like you, a very great admirer of "misunderstood," and cried pints over it. when i was doing the last picture i had to put a long white pipe in the little boy's mouth until it was finished, so as to get rid of the horrible pathos of the situation while i was executing the work. in reading the book a second time (knowing the sad end of the dear little boy), the funny parts made me cry almost as much as the pathetic ones." a few days after the publication of "phantasmagoria," lewis carroll sent the first chapter of his new story to the press. "behind the looking-glass and what alice saw there" was his original idea for its title; it was dr. liddon who suggested the name finally adopted. during this year german and french translations of "alice in wonderland" were published by macmillan; the italian edition appeared in 1872. henri buã©, who was responsible for the french version, had no easy task to perform. in many cases the puns proved quite untranslatable; while the poems, being parodies on well-known english pieces, would have been pointless on the other side of the channel. for instance, the lines beginning, "how doth the little crocodile" are a parody on "how doth the little busy bee," a song which a french child has, of course, never heard of. in this case buã© gave up the idea of translation altogether, and, instead, parodied la fontaine's "maã®tre corbeau" as follows:- maã®tre corbeau sur un arbre perchã© faisait son nid entre des branches; il avait relevã© ses manches, car il ã©tait trã¨s affairã©. maã®tre renard par lã  passant, lui dit: "descendez donc, compã¨re; venez embrasser votre frã¨re!" le corbeau, le reconnaissant, lui rã©pondit en son ramage!- "fromage." the dialogue in which the joke occurs about "tortoise" and "taught us" ("wonderland," p. 142) is thus rendered:- "la maã®tresse ã©tait une vieille tortue; nous l'appelions chã©lonã©e." "et pourquoi l'appeliez-vous chã©lonã©e, si ce n'ã©tait pas son nom?" "parcequ'on ne pouvait s'empãªcher de s'ã©crier en la voyant: quel long nez!" dit la fausse-tortue d'un ton fã¢chã©; "vous ãªtes vraiment bien bornã©e!" at two points, however, both m. buã© and miss antonie zimmermann, who translated the tale into german, were fairly beaten: the reason for the whiting being so called, from its doing the boots and shoes, and for no wise fish going anywhere without a porpoise, were given up as untranslatable. at the beginning of 1870 lord salisbury came up to oxford to be installed as chancellor of the university. dr. liddon introduced mr. dodgson to him, and thus began a very pleasant acquaintance. of course he photographed the chancellor and his two sons, for he never missed an opportunity of getting distinguished people into his studio. [illustration: lord salisbury and his two sons. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] in december, seven "puzzles from wonderland" appeared in mrs. gatty's paper, _aunt judy's magazine_. they had originally been written for the cecil children, with whom lewis carroll was already on the best terms. meanwhile "through the looking-glass" was steadily progressing--not, however, without many little hitches. one question which exercised mr. dodgson very much was whether the picture of the jabberwock would do as a frontispiece, or whether it would be too frightening for little children. on this point he sought the advice of about thirty of his married lady friends, whose experiences with their own children would make them trustworthy advisers; and in the end he chose the picture of the white knight on horseback. in 1871 the book appeared, and was an instantaneous success. eight thousand of the first edition had been taken up by the booksellers before mr. dodgson had even received his own presentation copies. the compliments he received upon the "looking-glass" would have been enough to turn a lesser man's head, but he was, i think, proof against either praise or blame. i can say with a clear head and conscience [wrote henry kingsley] that your new book is the finest thing we have had since "martin chuzzlewit." ... i can only say, in comparing the new "alice" with the old, "this is a more excellent song than the other." it is perfectly splendid, but you have, doubtless, heard that from other quarters. i lunch with macmillan habitually, and he was in a terrible pickle about not having printed enough copies the other day. jabberwocky[017] was at once recognised as the best and most original thing in the book, though one fair correspondent of _the queen_ declared that it was a translation from the german! the late dean of rochester, dr. scott, writes about it to mr. dodgson as follows:- are we to suppose, after all, that the saga of jabberwocky is one of the universal heirlooms which the aryan race at its dispersion carried with it from the great cradle of the family? you must really consult max mã¼ller about this. it begins to be probable that the _origo originalissima_ may be discovered in sanscrit, and that we shall by and by have a _iabrivokaveda_. the hero will turn out to be the sun-god in one of his _avatars_; and the tumtum tree the great ash _ygdrasil_ of the scandinavian mythology. in march, 1872, the late mr. a.a. vansittart, of trinity college, cambridge, translated the poem into latin elegiacs. his rendering was printed, for private circulation only, i believe, several years later, but will probably be new to most of my readers. a careful comparison with the original shows the wonderful fidelity of this translation:- "mors iabrochii" coesper[018] erat: tunc lubriciles[019] ultravia circum urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi; moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu; et profugi gemitus exgrabuãªre rathae. o fuge iabrochium, sanguis meus![020] ille recurvis unguibus, estque avidis dentibus ille minax. ububae fuge cautus avis vim, gnate! neque unquam faedarpax contra te frumiosus eat! vorpali gladio juvenis succingitur: hostis manxumus ad medium quaeritur usque diem: jamque via fesso, sed plurima mente prementi, tumtumiae frondis suaserat umbra moram. consilia interdum stetit egnia[021] mente revolvens: at gravis in densa fronde susuffrus[022] erat, spiculaque[023] ex oculis jacientis flammea, tulscam per silvam venit burbur?[024] iabrochii! vorpali, semel atque iterum collectus in ictum, persnicuit gladio persnacuitque puer: deinde galumphatus, spernens informe cadaver, horrendum monstri rettulit ipse caput. victor iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis, rursus in amplexus, o radiose, meos! o frabiose dies! callo clamateque calla! vix potuit laetus chorticulare pater. coesper erat: tunc lubriciles ultravia circum urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi; moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu; et profugi gemitus exgrabuãªre rathae. a.a.v. jabberwocky. 'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe. "beware the jabberwock, my son! the jaws that bite, the claws that scratch! beware the jubjub bird, and shun the frumious bandersnatch!" he took his vorpal sword in hand: long time the manxome foe he sought- so rested he by the tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought. and as in uffish thought he stood, the jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiffling through the tulgey wood and burbled as it came! one, two! one, two! and through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack! he left it dead, and with its head he went galumphing back. "and hast thou slain the jabberwock? come to my arms, my beamish boy! o frabjous day! callooh! callay!" he chortled in his joy. 'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe. the story, as originally written, contained thirteen chapters, but the published book consisted of twelve only. the omitted chapter introduced a wasp, in the character of a judge or barrister, i suppose, since mr. tenniel wrote that "a _wasp_ in a _wig_ is altogether beyond the appliances of art." apart from difficulties of illustration, the "wasp" chapter was not considered to be up to the level of the rest of the book, and this was probably the principal reason of its being left out. "it is a curious fact," wrote mr. tenniel some years later, when replying to a request of lewis carroll's that he would illustrate another of his books, "that with 'through the looking-glass' the faculty of making drawings for book illustration departed from me, and, notwithstanding all sorts of tempting inducements, i have done nothing in that direction since." [illustration: _facsimile of a letter from sir john tenniel to lewis carroll, june_ 1, 1870.] "through the looking glass" has recently appeared in a solemn judgment of the house of lords. in _eastman photographic materials company v. comptroller general of patents, designs, and trademarks_ (1898), the question for decision was, what constitutes an invented word? a trademark that consists of or contains an invented word or words is capable of registration. "solio" was the word in issue in the case. lord macnaghten in his judgment said, when alluding to the distinguishing characteristics of an invented word: i do not think that it is necessary that it should be wholly meaningless. to give an illustration: your lordships may remember that in a book of striking humour and fancy, which was in everybody's hands when it was first published, there is a collection of strange words where "there are" (to use the language of the author) "two meanings packed up into one word." no one would say that those were not invented words. still they contain a meaning--a meaning is wrapped up in them if you can only find it out. before i leave the subject of the "looking-glass," i should like to mention one or two circumstances in connection with it which illustrate his reverence for sacred things. in his original manuscript the bad-tempered flower (pp. 28-33) was the passion-flower; the sacred origin of the name never struck him, until it was pointed out to him by a friend, when he at once changed it into the tiger-lily. another friend asked him if the final scene was based upon the triumphal conclusion of "pilgrim's progress." he repudiated the idea, saying that he would consider such trespassing on holy ground as highly irreverent. he seemed never to be satisfied with the amount of work he had on hand, and in 1872 he determined to add to his other labours by studying anatomy and physiology. professor barclay thompson supplied him with a set of bones, and, having purchased the needful books, he set to work in good earnest. his mind was first turned to acquiring medical knowledge by his happening to be at hand when a man was seized with an epileptic fit. he had prevented the poor creature from falling, but was utterly at a loss what to do next. to be better prepared on any future occasion, he bought a little manual called "what to do in emergencies." in later years he was constantly buying medical and surgical works, and by the end of his life he had a library of which no doctor need have been ashamed. there were only two special bequests in his will, one of some small keepsakes to his landlady at eastbourne, mrs. dyer, and the other of his medical books to my brother. whenever a new idea presented itself to his mind he used to make a note of it; he even invented a system by which he could take notes in the dark, if some happy thought or ingenious problem suggested itself to him during a sleepless night. like most men who systematically overtax their brains, he was a poor sleeper. he would sometimes go through a whole book of euclid in bed; he was so familiar with the bookwork that he could actually see the figures before him in the dark, and did not confuse the letters, which is perhaps even more remarkable. most of his ideas were ingenious, though many were entirely useless from a practical point of view. for instance, he has an entry in his diary on november 8, 1872: "i wrote to calverley, suggesting an idea (which i think occurred to me yesterday) of guessing well-known poems as acrostics, and making a collection of them to hoax the public." calverley's reply to this letter was as follows:- my dear sir,--i have been laid up (or laid down) for the last few days by acute lumbago, or i would have written before. it is rather absurd that i was on the point of propounding to you this identical idea. i realised, and i regret to add revealed to two girls, a fortnight ago, the truth that all existing poems were in fact acrostics; and i offered a small pecuniary reward to whichever would find out gray's "elegy" within half an hour! but it never occurred to me to utilise the discovery, as it did to you. i see that it might be utilised, now you mention it--and i shall instruct these two young women not to publish the notion among their friends. this is the way mr. calverley treated kirke white's poem "to an early primrose." "the title," writes c.s.c. "might either be ignored or omitted. possibly carpers might say that a primrose was not a rose." mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! whose modest form, so delicately fine, wild was nursed in whistling storms rose and cradled in the winds! thee, when young spring first questioned winter's sway, and dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, w a r thee on this bank he threw to mark his victory. in this low vale, the promise of the year, serene thou openest to the nipping gale, unnoticed and alone i ncognit o thy tender elegance. so virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms of chill adversity, in some lone walk of life she rears her head l owlines s obscure and unobserved. while every bleaching breeze that on her blows chastens her spotless purity of breast, and hardens her to bear d isciplin e serene the ills of life. in the course of their correspondence mr. calverley wrote a shakespearian sonnet, the initial letters of which form the name of william herbert; and a parody entitled "the new hat." i reproduce them both. when o'er the world night spreads her mantle dun, in dreams, my love, i see those stars, thine eyes, lighting the dark: but when the royal sun looks o'er the pines and fires the orient skies, i bask no longer in thy beauty's ray, and lo! my world is bankrupt of delight. murk night seemed lately fair-complexioned day; hope-bringing day now seems most doleful night. end, weary day, that art no day to me! return, fair night, to me the best of days! but o my rose, whom in my dreams i see, enkindle with like bliss my waking gaze! replete with thee, e'en hideous night grows fair: then what would sweet morn be, if thou wert there? the new hat. my boots had been wash'd, well wash'd, by a shower; but little i car'd about that: what i felt was the havoc a single half-hour had made with my beautiful hat. for the boot, tho' its lustre be dimm'd, shall assume new comeliness after a while; but no art may restore its original bloom, when once it hath fled, to the tile. i clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay and a brown) trotted off with a clatter; the driver look'd round in his humorous way, and said huskily, "who is your hatter?" i was pleased that he'd noticed its shape and its shine; and, as soon as we reached the "old druid," i begged him to drink to its welfare and mine in a glass of my favourite fluid. a gratified smile sat, i own, on my lips when the barmaid exclaimed to the master, (he was standing inside with his hands on his hips), "just look at that gentleman's castor." i laughed, when an organman paus'd in mid-air- ('twas an air that i happened to know, by a great foreign _maestro_)--expressly to stare at ze gent wiz _ze joli chapeau_. yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears! how rife with results is a day! that hat might, with care, have adorned me for years; but one show'r wash'd its beauty away. how i lov'd thee, my bright one! i pluck in remorse my hands from my pockets and wring 'em: oh, why did not i, dear, as a matter of course, ere i purchas'd thee purchase a gingham? c.s. calverley. mr. dodgson spent the last night of the old year (1872) at hatfield, where he was the guest of lord salisbury. there was a large party of children in the house, one of them being princess alice, to whom he told as much of the story of "sylvie and bruno" as he had then composed. while the tale was in progress lady salisbury entered the room, bringing in some new toy or game to amuse her little guests, who, with the usual thoughtlessness of children, all rushed off and left mr. dodgson. but the little princess, suddenly appearing to remember that to do so might perhaps hurt his feelings, sat down again by his side. he read the kind thought which prompted her action, and was much pleased by it. as mr. dodgson knew several members of the _punch_ staff, he used to send up any little incidents or remarks that particularly amused him to that paper. he even went so far as to suggest subjects for cartoons, though i do not know if his ideas were ever carried out. one of the anecdotes he sent to _punch_ was that of a little boy, aged four, who after having listened with much attention to the story of lot's wife, asked ingenuously, "where does salt come from that's _not_ made of ladies?" this appeared on january 3, 1874. the following is one of several such little anecdotes jotted down by lewis carroll for future use: dr. paget was conducting a school examination, and in the course of his questions he happened to ask a small child the meaning of "average." he was utterly bewildered by the reply, "the thing that hens lay on," until the child explained that he had read in a book that hens lay _on an average_ so many eggs a year. among the notable people whom he photographed was john ruskin, and, as several friends begged him for copies, he wrote to ask mr. ruskin's leave. the reply was, "buy number 5 of _fors clavigera_ for 1871, which will give you your answer." this was not what mr. dodgson wanted, so he wrote back, "can't afford ten-pence!" finally mr. ruskin gave his consent. [illustration: john ruskin. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] about this time came the anonymous publication of "notes by an oxford chiel," a collection of papers written on various occasions, and all of them dealing with oxford controversies. taking them in order, we have first "the new method of evaluation as applied to [_pi_]," first published by messrs. parker in 1865, which had for its subject the controversy about the regius professorship of greek. one extract will be sufficient to show the way in which the affair was treated: "let u = the university, g = greek, and p = professor. then g p = greek professor; let this be reduced to its lowest terms and call the result j [i.e., jowett]." the second paper is called "the dynamics of a parti-cle," and is quite the best of the series; it is a geometrical treatment of the contest between mr. gathorne hardy and mr. gladstone for the representation of the university. here are some of the "definitions" with which the subject was introduced:- _plain superficiality_ is the character of a speech, in which any two points being taken, the speaker is found to lie wholly with regard to those two points. _plain anger_ is the inclination of two voters to one another, who meet together, but whose views are not in the same direction. when two parties, coming together, feel a right anger, each is _said_ to be _complimentary_ to the other, though, strictly speaking, this is very seldom the case. _a surd_ is a radical whose meaning cannot be exactly ascertained. as the "notes of an oxford chiel" has been long out of print, i will give a few more extracts from this paper:- _on differentiation._ the effect of differentiation on a particle is very remarkable, the first differential being frequently of greater value than the original particle, and the second of less enlightenment. for example, let l = "leader", s = "saturday", and then ls = "leader in the saturday" (a particle of no assignable value). differentiating once, we get l.s.d., a function of great value. similarly it will be found that, by taking the second differential of an enlightened particle (_i.e.,_ raising it to the degree d.d.), the enlightenment becomes rapidly less. the effect is much increased by the addition of a c: in this case the enlightenment often vanishes altogether, and the particle becomes conservative. propositions. prop. i. pr. _to find the value of a given examiner_. _example_.--a takes in ten books in the final examination and gets a 3rd class; b takes in the examiners, and gets a 2nd. find the value of the examiners in terms of books. find also their value in terms in which no examination is held. prop. ii. pr. _to estimate profit and loss_. _example_.--given a derby prophet, who has sent three different winners to three different betting-men, and given that none of the three horses are placed. find the total loss incurred by the three men (_a_) in money, (_b_) in temper. find also the prophet. is this latter usually possible? prop. iv. th. _the end_ (i.e., "_the product of the extremes") justifies_ (i.e., "_is equal to_"--_see latin "aequus") the means_. no example is appended to this proposition, for obvious reasons. prop. v. pr. _to continue a given series._ _example_.--a and b, who are respectively addicted to fours and fives, occupy the same set of rooms, which is always at sixes and sevens. find the probable amount of reading done by a and b while the eights are on. the third paper was entitled "facts, figures, and fancies." the best thing in it was a parody on "the deserted village," from which an extract will be found in a later chapter. there was also a letter to the senior censor of christ church, in burlesque of a similar letter in which the professor of physics met an offer of the clarendon trustees by a detailed enumeration of the requirements in his own department of natural science. mr. dodgson's letter deals with the imaginary requirements of the mathematical school:- dear senior censor,--in a desultory conversation on a point connected with the dinner at our high table, you incidentally remarked to me that lobster-sauce, "though a necessary adjunct to turbot, was not entirely wholesome!" it is entirely unwholesome. i never ask for it without reluctance: i never take a second spoonful without a feeling of apprehension on the subject of a possible nightmare. this naturally brings me to the subject of mathematics, and of the accommodation provided by the university for carrying on the calculations necessary in that important branch of science. as members of convocation are called upon (whether personally, or, as is less exasperating, by letter) to consider the offer of the clarendon trustees, as well as every other subject of human, or inhuman, interest, capable of consideration, it has occurred to me to suggest for your consideration how desirable roofed buildings are for carrying on mathematical calculations: in fact, the variable character of the weather in oxford renders it highly inexpedient to attempt much occupation, of a sedentary nature, in the open air. again, it is often impossible for students to carry on accurate mathematical calculations in close contiguity to one another, owing to their mutual conversation; consequently these processes require different rooms in which irrepressible conversationalists, who are found to occur in every branch of society, might be carefully and permanently fixed. it may be sufficient for the present to enumerate the following requisites--others might be added as funds permit:- a. a very large room for calculating greatest common measure. to this a small one might be attached for least common multiple: this, however, might be dispensed with. b. a piece of open ground for keeping roots and practising their extraction: it would be advisable to keep square roots by themselves, as their corners are apt to damage others. c. a room for reducing fractions to their lowest terms. this should be provided with a cellar for keeping the lowest terms when found, which might also be available to the general body of undergraduates, for the purpose of "keeping terms." d. a large room, which might be darkened, and fitted up with a magic lantern, for the purpose of exhibiting circulating decimals in the act of circulation. this might also contain cupboards, fitted with glass doors, for keeping the various scales of notation. e. a narrow strip of ground, railed off and carefully levelled, for investigating the properties of asymptotes, and testing practically whether parallel lines meet or not: for this purpose it should reach, to use the expressive language of euclid, "ever so far." this last process of "continually producing the lines," may require centuries or more; but such a period, though long in the life of an individual, is as nothing in the life of the university. as photography is now very much employed in recording human expressions, and might possibly be adapted to algebraical expressions, a small photographic room would be desirable, both for general use and for representing the various phenomena of gravity, disturbance of equilibrium, resolution, &c., which affect the features during severe mathematical operations. may i trust that you will give your immediate attention to this most important subject? believe me, sincerely yours, mathematicus. next came "the new belfry of christ church, oxford; a monograph by d.c.l." on the title-page was a neatly drawn square--the figure of euclid i. 46--below which was written "east view of the new belfry, christ church, as seen from the meadow." the new belfry is fortunately a thing of the past, and its insolent hideousness no longer defaces christ church, but while it lasted it was no doubt an excellent target for lewis carroll's sarcasm. his article on it is divided into thirteen chapters. three of them are perhaps worth quoting:- â§1. _on the etymological significance of the new belfry, ch. ch_. the word "belfry" is derived from the french _bel_, "beautiful, becoming, meet," and from the german _frei_, "free unfettered, secure, safe." thus, the word is strictly equivalent to "meat-safe," to which the new belfry bears a resemblance so perfect as almost to amount to coincidence. â§4. _on the chief architectural merit of the new belfry, ch. ch_. its chief merit is its simplicity--a simplicity so pure, so profound, in a word, so _simple_, that no other word will fitly describe it. the meagre outline, and baldness of detail, of the present chapter, are adopted in humble imitation of this great feature. â§5. _on the other architectural merits of the new belfry, ch. ch_. the belfry has no other architectural merits. "the vision of the three t's" followed. it also was an attack on architectural changes in christ church; the general style was a parody of the "compleat angler." last of all came "the blank cheque, a fable," in reference to the building of the new schools, for the expenses of which it was actually proposed (in 1874), to sign a blank cheque before any estimate had been made, or any plan laid before the university, and even before a committee had been elected to appoint an architect for the work. at the end of 1874 mr. dodgson was again at hatfield, where he told the children the story of prince uggug, which was afterwards made a part of "sylvie and bruno," though at that time it seems to have been a separate tale. but "sylvie and bruno," in this respect entirely unlike "alice in wonderland," was the result of notes taken during many years; for while he was thinking out the book he never neglected any amusing scraps of childish conversation or funny anecdotes about children which came to his notice. it is this fact which gives such verisimilitude to the prattle of bruno; childish talk is a thing which a grown-up person cannot possibly _invent_. he can only listen to the actual things the children say, and then combine what he has heard into a connected narrative. during 1875 mr. dodgson wrote an article on "some popular fallacies about vivisection," which was refused by the _pall mall gazette_, the editor saying that he had never heard of most of them; on which mr. dodgson plaintively notes in his diary that seven out of the thirteen fallacies dealt with in his essay had appeared in the columns of the _pall mall gazette_. ultimately it was accepted by the editor of _the fortnightly review_. mr. dodgson had a peculiar horror of vivisection. i was once walking in oxford with him when a certain well-known professor passed us. "i am afraid that man vivisects," he said, in his gravest tone. every year he used to get a friend to recommend him a list of suitable charities to which he should subscribe. once the name of some lost dogs' home appeared in this list. before mr. dodgson sent his guinea he wrote to the secretary to ask whether the manager of the home was in the habit of sending dogs that had to be killed to physiological laboratories for vivisection. the answer was in the negative, so the institution got the cheque. he did not, however, advocate the total abolition of vivisection--what reasonable man could?--but he would have liked to see it much more carefully restricted by law. an earlier letter of his to the _pall mall gazette_ on the same subject is sufficiently characteristic to deserve a place here. be it noted that he signed it "lewis carroll," in order that whatever influence or power his writings had gained him might tell in the controversy. vivisection as a sign of the times. _to the editor of the "pall mall gazette."_ sir,--the letter which appeared in last week's _spectator_, and which must have saddened the heart of every one who read it, seems to suggest a question which has not yet been asked or answered with sufficient clearness, and that is, how far may vivisection be regarded as a sign of the times, and a fair specimen of that higher civilisation which a purely secular state education is to give us? in that much-vaunted panacea for all human ills we are promised not only increase of knowledge, but also a higher moral character; any momentary doubt on this point which we may feel is set at rest at once by quoting the great crucial instance of germany. the syllogism, if it deserves the name, is usually stated thus: germany has a higher scientific education than england; germany has a lower average of crime than england; _ergo_, a scientific education tends to improve moral conduct. some old-fashioned logician might perhaps whisper to himself, "praemissis particularibus nihil probatur," but such a remark, now that aldrich is out of date, would only excite a pitying smile. may we, then, regard the practice of vivisection as a legitimate fruit, or as an abnormal development, of this higher moral character? is the anatomist, who can contemplate unmoved the agonies he is inflicting for no higher purpose than to gratify a scientific curiosity, or to illustrate some well-established truth, a being higher or lower, in the scale of humanity, than the ignorant boor whose very soul would sicken at the horrid sight? for if ever there was an argument in favour of purely scientific education more cogent than another, it is surely this (a few years back it might have been put into the mouth of any advocate of science; now it reads like the merest mockery): "what can teach the noble quality of mercy, of sensitiveness to all forms of suffering, so powerfully as the knowledge of what suffering really is? can the man who has once realised by minute study what the nerves are, what the brain is, and what waves of agony the one can convey to the other, go forth and wantonly inflict pain on any sentient being?" a little while ago we should have confidently replied, "he cannot do it"; in the light of modern revelations we must sorrowfully confess "he can." and let it never be said that this is done with serious forethought of the balance of pain and gain; that the operator has pleaded with himself, "pain is indeed an evil, but so much suffering may fitly be endured to purchase so much knowledge." when i hear of one of these ardent searchers after truth giving, not a helpless dumb animal, to whom he says in effect, "_you_ shall suffer that _i_ may know," but his own person to the probe and to the scalpel, i will believe in him as recognising a principle of justice, and i will honour him as acting up to his principles. "but the thing cannot be!" cries some amiable reader, fresh from an interview with that most charming of men, a london physician. "what! is it possible that one so gentle in manner, so full of noble sentiments, can be hardhearted? the very idea is an outrage to common sense!" and thus we are duped every day of our lives. is it possible that that bank director, with his broad honest face, can be meditating a fraud? that the chairman of that meeting of shareholders, whose every tone has the ring of truth in it, can hold in his hand a "cooked" schedule of accounts? that my wine merchant, so outspoken, so confiding, can be supplying me with an adulterated article? that the schoolmaster, to whom i have entrusted my little boy, can starve or neglect him? how well i remember his words to the dear child when last we parted. "you are leaving your friends," he said, "but you will have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in mrs. squeers!" for all such rose-coloured dreams of the necessary immunity from human vices of educated men the facts in last week's _spectator_ have a terrible significance. "trust no man further than you can see him," they seem to say. "qui vult decipi, decipiatur." allow me to quote from a modern writer a few sentences bearing on this subject:- "we are at present, legislature and nation together, eagerly pushing forward schemes which proceed on the postulate that conduct is determined, not by feelings, but by cognitions. for what else is the assumption underlying this anxious urging-on of organisations for teaching? what is the root-notion common to secularists and denominationalists but the notion that spread of knowledge is the one thing needful for bettering behaviour? having both swallowed certain statistical fallacies, there has grown up in them the belief that state education will check ill-doing.... this belief in the moralising effects of intellectual culture, flatly contradicted by facts, is absurd _a priori_.... this faith in lesson-books and readings is one of the superstitions of the age.... not by precept, though heard daily; not by example, unless it is followed; but only by action, often caused by the related feeling, can a moral habit be formed. and yet this truth, which mental science clearly teaches, and which is in harmony with familiar sayings, is a truth wholly ignored in current educational fanaticisms." there need no praises of mine to commend to the consideration of all thoughtful readers these words of herbert spencer. they are to be found in "the study of sociology" (pp. 36l-367). let us, however, do justice to science. it is not so wholly wanting as mr. herbert spencer would have us believe in principles of action--principles by which we may regulate our conduct in life. i myself once heard an accomplished man of science declare that his labours had taught him one special personal lesson which, above all others, he had laid to heart. a minute study of the nervous system, and of the various forms of pain produced by wounds had inspired in him one profound resolution; and that was--what think you?--never, under any circumstances, to adventure his own person into the field of battle! i have somewhere read in a book--a rather antiquated book, i fear, and one much discredited by modern lights--the words, "the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now." truly we read these words with a new meaning in the present day! "groan and travail" it undoubtedly does still (more than ever, so far as the brute creation is concerned); but to what end? some higher and more glorious state? so one might have said a few years back. not so in these days. the _telos teleion_ of secular education, when divorced from religious or moral training, is--i say it deliberately--the purest and most unmitigated selfishness. the world has seen and tired of the worship of nature, of reason, of humanity; for this nineteenth century has been reserved the development of the most refined religion of all--the worship of self. for that, indeed, is the upshot of it all. the enslavement of his weaker brethren--"the labour of those who do not enjoy, for the enjoyment of those who do not labour"--the degradation of woman--the torture of the animal world--these are the steps of the ladder by which man is ascending to his higher civilisation. selfishness is the key-note of all purely secular education; and i take vivisection to be a glaring, a wholly unmistakable case in point. and let it not be thought that this is an evil that we can hope to see produce the good for which we are asked to tolerate it, and then pass away. it is one that tends continually to spread. and if it be tolerated or even ignored now, the age of universal education, when the sciences, and anatomy among them, shall be the heritage of all, will be heralded by a cry of anguish from the brute creation that will ring through the length and breadth of the land! this, then, is the glorious future to which the advocate of secular education may look forward: the dawn that gilds the horizon of his hopes! an age when all forms of religious thought shall be things of the past; when chemistry and biology shall be the abc of a state education enforced on all; when vivisection shall be practised in every college and school; and when the man of science, looking forth over a world which will then own no other sway than his, shall exult in the thought that he has made of this fair green earth, if not a heaven for man, at least a hell for animals. i am, sir, your obedient servant, lewis carroll. _february 10th_. on march 29, 1876, "the hunting of the snark" was published. mr. dodgson gives some interesting particulars of its evolution. the first idea for the poem was the line "for the snark _was_ a boojum, you see," which came into his mind, apparently without any cause, while he was taking a country walk. the first complete verse which he composed was the one which stands last in the poem:- in the midst of the word he was trying to say, in the midst of his laughter and glee, he had softly and suddenly vanished away- for the snark _was_ a boojum, you see. the illustrations were the work of mr. henry holiday, and they are thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of the poem. many people have tried to show that "the hunting of the snark" was an allegory; some regarding it as being a burlesque upon the tichborne case, and others taking the snark as a personification of popularity. lewis carroll always protested that the poem had no meaning at all. as to the meaning of the snark [he wrote to a friend in america], i'm very much afraid i didn't mean anything but nonsense. still, you know, words mean more than we mean to express when we use them; so a whole book ought to mean a great deal more than the writer means. so, whatever good meanings are in the book, i'm glad to accept as the meaning of the book. the best that i've seen is by a lady (she published it in a letter to a newspaper), that the whole book is an allegory on the search after happiness. i think this fits in beautifully in many ways--particularly about the bathing-machines: when the people get weary of life, and can't find happiness in towns or in books, then they rush off to the seaside, to see what bathing-machines will do for them. [illustration: henry holiday in his studio. _from a photograph_.] mr. h. holiday, in a very interesting article on "the snark's significance" (_academy,_ january 29, 1898), quoted the inscription which mr. dodgson had written in a vellum-bound, presentation-copy of the book. it is so characteristic that i take the liberty of reproducing it here:- presented to henry holiday, most patient of artists, by charles l. dodgson, most exacting, but not most ungrateful of authors, march 29, 1876. a little girl, to whom mr. dodgson had given a copy of the "snark," managed to get the whole poem off by heart, and insisted on reciting, it from beginning to end during a long carriage-drive. her friends, who, from the nature of the case, were unable to escape, no doubt wished that she, too, was a boojum. during the year, the first public dramatic representation of "alice in wonderland" was given at the polytechnic, the entertainment taking the form of a series of _tableaux_, interspersed with appropriate readings and songs. mr. dodgson exercised a rigid censorship over all the extraneous matter introduced into the performance, and put his veto upon a verse in one of the songs, in which the drowning of kittens was treated from the humorous point of view, lest the children in the audience might learn to think lightly of death in the case of the lower animals. [illustration: lewis carroll. _from a photograph_.] * * * * * chapter v (1877-1883) dramatic tastes--miss ellen terry--"natural science at oxford"--mr. dodgson as an artist--miss e. g. thomson--the drawing of children--a curious dream--"the deserted parks"--"syzygies"--circus children--row-loving undergraduates--a letter to _the observer_--resignation of the lectureship--he is elected curator of the common room--dream-music. mr. dodgson's love of the drama was not, as i have shown, a taste which he acquired in later years. from early college days he never missed anything which he considered worth seeing at the london theatres. i believe he used to reproach himself--unfairly, i think--with spending too much time on such recreations. for a man who worked so hard and so incessantly as he did; for a man to whom vacations meant rather a variation of mental employment than absolute rest of mind, the drama afforded just the sort of relief that was wanted. his vivid imagination, the very earnestness and intensity of his character enabled him to throw himself utterly into the spirit of what he saw upon the stage, and to forget in it all the petty worries and disappointments of life. the old adage says that a man cannot burn the candle at both ends; like most proverbs, it is only partially true, for often the hardest worker is the man who enters with most zest into his recreations, and this was emphatically the case with mr. dodgson. walter pater, in his book on the renaissance, says (i quote from rough notes only), "a counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated dramatic life. how may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? how shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy? to burn always with this hard gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life." here we have the truer philosophy, here we have the secret of lewis carroll's life. he never wasted time on social formalities; he refused to fulfil any of those (so called) duties which involve ineffable boredom, and so his mind was always fresh and ready. he said in one of his letters that he hoped that in the next world all knowledge would not be given to us suddenly, but that we should gradually grow wiser, for the _acquiring_ knowledge was to him the real pleasure. what is this but a paraphrase of another of pater's thoughts, "not the fruit of experience, but experience itself is the end." and so, times without number, he allowed himself to be carried away by emotion as he saw life in the mirror of the stage; but, best of all, he loved to see the acting of children, and he generally gave copies of his books to any of the little performers who specially pleased him. on january 13, 1877, he wrote in his diary:- went up to town for the day, and took e-with me to the afternoon pantomime at the adelphi, "goody two-shoes," acted entirely by children. it was a really charming performance. little bertie coote, aged ten, was clown--a wonderfully clever little fellow; and carrie coote, about eight, was columbine, a very pretty graceful little thing. in a few years' time she will be just _the_ child to act "alice," if it is ever dramatised. the harlequin was a little girl named gilchrist, one of the most beautiful children, in face and figure, that i have ever seen. i must get an opportunity of photographing her. little bertie coote, singing "hot codlings," was curiously like the pictures of grimaldi. it need hardly be said that the little girl was miss constance gilchrist. mr. dodgson sent her a copy of "alice in wonderland," with a set of verses on her name. many people object altogether to children appearing on the stage; it is said to be bad for their morals as well as for their health. a letter which mr. dodgson once wrote in the _st. james's gazette_ contains a sufficient refutation of the latter fancy:- i spent yesterday afternoon at brighton, where for five hours i enjoyed the society of three exceedingly happy and healthy little girls, aged twelve, ten, and seven. i think that any one who could have seen the vigour of life in those three children--the intensity with which they enjoyed everything, great or small, that came in their way--who could have watched the younger two running races on the pier, or have heard the fervent exclamation of the eldest at the end of the afternoon, "we _have_ enjoyed ourselves!" would have agreed with me that here, at least, there was no excessive "physical strain," nor any _imminent_ danger of "fatal results"! a drama, written by mr. savile clarke, is now being played at brighton, and in this (it is called "alice in wonderland") all three children have been engaged. they had been acting every night this week, and _twice_ on the day before i met them, the second performance lasting till half-past ten at night, after which they got up at seven next morning to bathe! that such (apparently) severe work should co-exist with blooming health and buoyant spirits seems at first sight a paradox; but i appeal to any one who has ever worked _con amore_ at any subject whatever to support me in the assertion that, when you really love the subject you are working at, the "physical strain" is absolutely _nil_; it is only when working "against the grain" that any strain is felt, and i believe the apparent paradox is to be explained by the fact that a taste for _acting_ is one of the strongest passions of human nature, that stage-children show it nearly from infancy, and that, instead of being miserable drudges who ought to be celebrated in a new "cry of the children," they simply _rejoice_ in their work "even as a giant rejoiceth to run his course." mr. dodgson's general views on the mission of the drama are well shown by an extract from a circular which he sent to many of his friends in 1882:- the stage (as every playgoer can testify) is an engine of incalculable power for influencing society; and every effort to purify and ennoble its aims seems to me to deserve all the countenance that the great, and all the material help that the wealthy, can give it; while even those who are neither great nor wealthy may yet do their part, and help to- "ring out the darkness of the land, ring in the christ that is to be." [illustration: ellen terry. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] i do not know if mr. dodgson's suggested amendment of some lines in the "merchant of venice" was ever carried out, but it further illustrates the serious view he took of this subject. the hint occurs in a letter to miss ellen terry, which runs as follows:- you gave me a treat on saturday such as i have very seldom had in my life. you must be weary by this time of hearing your own praises, so i will only say that portia was all i could have imagined, and more. and shylock is superb--especially in the trial-scene. now i am going to be very bold, and make a suggestion, which i do hope you will think well enough of to lay it before mr. irving. i want to see that clause omitted (in the sentence on shylock)- that, for this favour, he presently become a christian; it is a sentiment that is entirely horrible and revolting to the feelings of all who believe in the gospel of love. why should our ears be shocked by such words merely because they are shakespeare's? in his day, when it was held to be a christian's duty to force his belief on others by fire and sword--to burn man's body in order to save his soul--the words probably conveyed no shock. to all christians now (except perhaps extreme calvinists) the idea of forcing a man to abjure his religion, whatever that religion may be, is (as i have said) simply horrible. i have spoken of it as a needless outrage on religious feeling: but surely, being so, it is a great artistic mistake. its tendency is directly contrary to the spirit of the scene. we have despised shylock for his avarice, and we rejoice to see him lose his wealth: we have abhorred him for his bloodthirsty cruelty, and we rejoice to see him baffled. and now, in the very fulness of our joy at the triumph of right over wrong, we are suddenly called on to see in him the victim of a cruelty a thousand times worse than his own, and to honour him as a martyr. this, i am sure, shakespeare never meant. two touches only of sympathy does he allow us, that we may realise him as a man, and not as a demon incarnate. "i will not pray with you"; "i had it of leah, when i was a bachelor." but i am sure he never meant our sympathies to be roused in the supreme moment of his downfall, and, if he were alive now, i believe he would cut out those lines about becoming a christian. no interpolation is needed--(i should not like to suggest the putting in a single word that is not shakespeare's)--i would read the speech thus:- that lately stole his daughter: provided that he do record a gift, here in the court, &c. and i would omit gratiano's three lines at shylock's exit, and let the text stand:- _duke_: "get thee gone, but do it." (_exit shylock_.) the exit, in solemn silence, would be, if possible, even grander than it now is, and would lose nothing by the omission of gratiano's flippant jest.... on january 16th he saw "new men and old acres" at the court theatre. the two authors of the pieces, dubourg and tom taylor, were great friends of his. "it was a real treat," he writes, "being well acted in every detail. ellen terry was wonderful, and i should think unsurpassable in all but the lighter parts." mr. dodgson himself had a strong wish to become a dramatic author, but, after one or two unsuccessful attempts to get his plays produced, he wisely gave up the idea, realising that he had not the necessary constructive powers. the above reference to miss ellen terry's acting is only one out of a countless number; the great actress and he were excellent friends, and she did him many a kindness in helping on young friends of his who had taken up the stage as a profession. [illustration: tom taylor. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] she and her sister, miss kate terry, were among the distinguished people whom he photographed. the first time he saw the latter actress was, i think, in 1858, when she was playing in "the tempest" at the princess's. "the gem of the piece," he writes, "was the exquisitely graceful and beautiful ariel, miss kate terry. her appearance as a sea-nymph was one of the most beautiful living pictures i ever saw, but this, and every other one in my recollection (except queen katherine's dream), were all outdone by the concluding scene, where ariel is left alone, hovering over the wide ocean, watching the retreating ship. it is an innovation on shakespeare, but a worthy one, and the conception of a true poet." [illustration: kate terry. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] mr. dodgson was a frequent contributor to the daily press. as a rule his letters appeared in the _st. james's gazette_, for the editor, mr. greenwood, was a friend of his, but the following sarcastic epistle was an exception:- natural science at oxford. _to the editor of the "pall mall gazette."_ sir,--there is no one of the many ingenious appliances of mechanical science that is more appreciated or more successfully employed than the wedge; so subtle and imperceptible are the forces needed for the insertion of its "thin end," so astounding the results which its "thick end" may ultimately produce. of the former process we shall see a beautiful illustration in a congregation to be holden at oxford on the 24th inst., when it will be proposed to grant, to those who have taken the degrees of bachelor and master in natural science only, the same voting powers as in the case of the "m.a." degree. this means the omission of one of the two classical languages, latin and greek, from what has been hitherto understood as the curriculum of an oxford education. it is to this "thin end" of the wedge that i would call the attention of our non-residents, and of all interested in oxford education, while the "thick end" is still looming in the distance. but why fear a "thick end" at all? i shall be asked. has natural science shown any such tendency, or given any reason to fear that such a concession would lead to further demands? in answer to that question, let me sketch, in dramatic fashion, the history of her recent career in oxford. in the dark ages of our university (some five-and-twenty years ago), while we still believed in classics and mathematics as constituting a liberal education, natural science sat weeping at our gates. "ah, let me in!" she moaned; "why cram reluctant youth with your unsatisfying lore? are they not hungering for bones; yea, panting for sulphuretted hydrogen?" we heard and we pitied. we let her in and housed her royally; we adorned her palace with re-agents and retorts, and made it a very charnel-house of bones, and we cried to our undergraduates, "the feast of science is spread! eat, drink, and be happy!" but they would not. they fingered the bones, and thought them dry. they sniffed at the hydrogen, and turned away. yet for all that science ceased not to cry, "more gold, more gold!" and her three fair daughters, chemistry, biology, and physics (for the modern horse-leech is more prolific than in the days of solomon), ceased not to plead, "give, give!" and we gave; we poured forth our wealth like water (i beg her pardon, like h{_2}o), and we could not help thinking there was something weird and uncanny in the ghoul-like facility with which she absorbed it. the curtain rises on the second act of the drama. science is still weeping, but this time it is for lack of pupils, not of teachers or machinery. "we are unfairly handicapped!" she cries. "you have prizes and scholarships for classics and mathematics, and you bribe your best students to desert us. buy us some bright, clever boys to teach, and then see what we can do!" once more we heard and pitied. we had bought her bones; we bought her boys. and now at last her halls were filled--not only with teachers paid to teach, but also with learners paid to learn. and we have not much to complain of in results, except that perhaps she is a little too ready to return on our hands all but the "honour-men"--all, in fact, who really need the helping hand of an educator. "here, take back your stupid ones!" she cries. "except as subjects for the scalpel (and we have not yet got the human vivisection act through parliament) we can do nothing with them!" the third act of the drama is yet under rehearsal; the actors are still running in and out of the green-room, and hastily shuffling on their new and ill-fitting dresses; but its general scope is not far to seek. at no distant day our once timid and tearful guest will be turning up her nose at the fare provided for her. "give me no more youths to teach," she will say; "but pay me handsomely, and let me think. plato and aristotle were all very well in their way; diogenes and his tub for me!" the allusion is not inappropriate. there can be little doubt that some of the researches conducted by that retiring philosopher in the recesses of that humble edifice were strictly scientific, embracing several distinct branches of entomology. i do not mean, of course, that "research" is a new idea in oxford. from time immemorial we have had our own chosen band of researchers (here called "professors"), who have advanced the boundaries of human knowledge in many directions. true, they are not left so wholly to themselves as some of these modern thinkers would wish to be, but are expected to give some few lectures, as the outcome of their "research" and the evidence of its reality, but even that condition has not always been enforced--for instance, in the case of the late professor of greek, dr. gaisford, the university was too conscious of the really valuable work he was doing in philological research to complain that he ignored the usual duties of the chair and delivered no lectures. and, now, what is the "thick end" of the wedge? it is that latin and greek may _both_ vanish from our curriculum; that logic, philosophy, and history may follow; and that the destinies of oxford may some day be in the hands of those who have had no education other than "scientific." and why not? i shall be asked. is it not as high a form of education as any other? that is a matter to be settled by facts. i can but offer my own little item of evidence, and leave it to others to confirm or to refute. it used once to be thought indispensable for an educated man that he should be able to write his own language correctly, if not elegantly; it seems doubtful how much longer this will be taken as a criterion. not so many years ago i had the honour of assisting in correcting for the press some pages of the _anthropological review_, or some such periodical. i doubt not that the writers were eminent men in their own line; that each could triumphantly prove, to his own satisfaction, the unsoundness of what the others had advanced; and that all would unite in declaring that the theories of a year ago were entirely exploded by the latest german treatise; but they were not able to set forth these thoughts, however consoling in themselves, in anything resembling the language of educated society. in all my experience, i have never read, even in the "local news" of a country paper, such slipshod, such deplorable english. i shall be told that i am ungenerous in thus picking out a few unfavourable cases, and that some of the greatest minds of the day are to be found in the ranks of science. i freely admit that such may be found, but my contention is that _they_ made the science, not the science them; and that in any line of thought they would have been equally distinguished. as a general principle, i do not think that the exclusive study of any _one_ subject is really education; and my experience as a teacher has shown me that even a considerable proficiency in natural science, taken alone, is so far from proving a high degree of cultivation and great natural ability that it is fully compatible with general ignorance and an intellect quite below par. therefore it is that i seek to rouse an interest, beyond the limits of oxford, in preserving classics as an essential feature of a university education. nor is it as a classical tutor (who might be suspected of a bias in favour of his own subject) that i write this. on the contrary, it is as one who has taught science here for more than twenty years (for mathematics, though good-humouredly scorned by the biologists on account of the abnormal certainty of its conclusions, is still reckoned among the sciences) that i beg to sign myself,--your obedient servant, charles l. dodgson, _mathematical lecturer of christ church, oxford. may 17th._ i give the above letter because i think it amusing; it must not be supposed that the writer's views on the subject remained the same all through his life. he was a thorough conservative, and it took a long time to reconcile him to any new departure. in a political discussion with a friend he once said that he was "first an englishman, and then a conservative," but however much a man may try to put patriotism before party, the result will be but partially successful, if patriotism would lead him into opposition to the mental bias which has originally made him either a conservative or a radical. he took, of course, great pleasure in the success of his books, as every author must; but the greatest pleasure of all to him was to know that they had pleased others. notes like the following are frequent in his diary: "_june_ 25_th_.--spent the afternoon in sending off seventy circulars to hospitals, offering copies of 'alice' and the 'looking-glass' for sick children." he well deserved the name which one of his admirers gave him--"the man who loved little children." in april, 1878, he saw a performance of "olivia" at the court theatre. "the gem of the piece is olivia herself, acted by ellen terry with a sweetness and pathos that moved some of the audience (nearly including myself) to tears. her leave-taking was exquisite; and when, in her exile, she hears that her little brother had cried at the mention of her name, her exclamation 'pet!' was tenderness itself. altogether, i have not had a greater dramatic treat for a long time. _dies cretã¢ notandus_." i see that i have marked for quotation the following brief entries in the diary:- _aug. 4th_ (at eastbourne).--went, morning and evening, to the new chapel-of-ease belonging to s. saviour's. it has the immense advantage of _not_ being crowded; but this scarcely compensates for the vile gregorian chants, which vex and weary one's ear. _aug. 17th_.--a very inquisitive person, who had some children with her, found out my name, and then asked me to shake hands with her child, as an admirer of my books: this i did, unwisely perhaps, as i have no intention of continuing the acquaintance of a "mrs. leo hunter." _dec. 23rd_.--i have been making a plan for work next term, of this kind: choose a subject (_e.g._, "circulation," "journeys of s. paul," "english counties") for each week. on monday write what i know about it; during week get up subject; on saturday write again; put the two papers away, and six months afterwards write again and compare. as an artist, mr. dodgson possessed an intense natural appreciation of the beautiful, an abhorrence of all that is coarse and unseemly which might almost be called hyper-refinement, a wonderfully good eye for form, and last, but not least, the most scrupulous conscientiousness about detail. on the other hand his sense of colour was somewhat imperfect, and his hand was almost totally untrained, so that while he had all the enthusiasm of the true artist, his work always had the defects of an amateur. [illustration: miss e. gertrude thomson.] in 1878 some drawings of miss e. gertrude thomson's excited his keen admiration, and he exerted himself to make her acquaintance. their first meeting is described so well by miss thomson herself in _the gentlewoman_ for january 29, 1898, that i cannot do better than quote the description of the scene as given there:- it was at the end of december, 1878, that a letter, written in a singularly legible and rather boyish-looking hand, came to me from christ church, oxford, signed "c. l. dodgson." the writer said that he had come across some fairy designs of mine, and he should like to see some more of my work. by the same post came a letter from my london publisher (who had supplied my address) telling me that the "rev. c. l. dodgson" was "lewis carroll." "alice in wonderland" had long been one of my pet books, and as one regards a favourite author as almost a personal friend, i felt less restraint than one usually feels in writing to a stranger, though i carefully concealed my knowledge of his identity, as he had not chosen to reveal it. this was the beginning of a frequent and delightful correspondence, and as i confessed to a great love for fairy lore of every description, he asked me if i would accept a child's fairy-tale book he had written, called "alice in wonderland." i replied that i knew it nearly all off by heart, but that i should greatly prize a copy given to me by himself. by return came "alice," and "through the looking-glass," bound most luxuriously in white calf and gold. and this is the graceful and kindly note that came with them: "i am now sending you 'alice,' and the 'looking-glass' as well. there is an incompleteness about giving only one, and besides, the one you bought was probably in red and would not match these. if you are at all in doubt as to what to do with the (now) superfluous copy, let me suggest your giving it to some poor sick child. i have been distributing copies to all the hospitals and convalescent homes i can hear of, where there are sick children capable of reading them, and though, of course, one takes some pleasure in the popularity of the books elsewhere, it is not nearly so pleasant a thought to me as that they may be a comfort and relief to children in hours of pain and weariness. still, no recipient _can_ be more appropriate than one who seems to have been in fairyland herself, and to have seen, like the 'weary mariners' of old- 'between the green brink and the running foam white limbs unrobed in a crystal air, sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest to little harps of gold.'" "do you ever come to london?" he asked in another letter; "if so, will you allow me to call upon you?" early in the summer i came up to study, and i sent him word that i was in town. one night, coming into my room, after a long day spent at the british museum, in the half-light i saw a card lying on the table. "rev. c. l. dodgson." bitter, indeed, was my disappointment at having missed him, but just as i was laying it sadly down i spied a small t.o. in the corner. on the back i read that he couldn't get up to my rooms early or late enough to find me, so would i arrange to meet him at some museum or gallery the day but one following? i fixed on south kensington museum, by the "schliemann" collection, at twelve o'clock. a little before twelve i was at the rendezvous, and then the humour of the situation suddenly struck me, that _i_ had not the ghost of an idea what _he_ was like, nor would _he_ have any better chance of discovering _me!_ the room was fairly full of all sorts and conditions, as usual, and i glanced at each masculine figure in turn, only to reject it as a possibility of the one i sought. just as the big clock had clanged out twelve, i heard the high vivacious voices and laughter of children sounding down the corridor. at that moment a gentleman entered, two little girls clinging to his hands, and as i caught sight of the tall slim figure, with the clean-shaven, delicate, refined face, i said to myself, "_that's_ lewis carroll." he stood for a moment, head erect, glancing swiftly over the room, then, bending down, whispered something to one of the children; she, after a moment's pause, pointed straight at me. dropping their hands he came forward, and with that winning smile of his that utterly banished the oppressive sense of the oxford don, said simply, "i am mr. dodgson; i was to meet you, i think?" to which i as frankly smiled, and said, "how did you know me so soon?" "my little friend found you. i told her i had come to meet a young lady who knew fairies, and she fixed on you at once. but _i_ knew you before she spoke." this acquaintance ripened into a true, artistic friendship, which lasted till mr. dodgson's death. in his first letter to miss thomson he speaks of himself as one who for twenty years had found his one amusement in photographing from life--especially photographing children; he also said that he had made attempts ("most unsuccessfully") at drawing them. when he got to know her more intimately, he asked her to criticise his work, and when she wrote expressing her willingness to do so, he sent her a pile of sketch-books, through which she went most carefully, marking the mistakes, and criticising, wherever criticism seemed to be necessary. after this he might often have been seen in her studio, lying flat on his face, and drawing some child-model who had been engaged for his especial benefit. "i _love_ the effort to draw," he wrote in one of his letters to her, "but i utterly fail to please even my own eye--tho' now and then i seem to get somewhere _near_ a right line or two, when i have a live child to draw from. but i have no time left now for such things. in the next life, i do _hope_ we shall not only _see_ lovely forms, such as this world does not contain, but also be able to _draw_ them." but while he fully recognised the limits of his powers, he had great faith in his own critical judgment; and with good reason, for his perception of the beautiful in contour and attitude and grouping was almost unerring. all the drawings which miss thomson made for his "three sunsets" were submitted to his criticism, which descended to the smallest details. he concludes a letter to her, which contained the most elaborate and minute suggestions for the improvement of one of these pictures, with the following words: "i make all these suggestions with diffidence, feeling that i have _really no_ right at all, as an amateur, to criticise the work of a real artist." the following extract from another letter to miss thomson shows that seeking after perfection, that discontent with everything short of the best, which was so marked a feature of his character. she had sent him two drawings of the head of some child-friend of his:- your note is a puzzle--you say that "no. 2 would have been still more like if the paper had been exactly the same shade--but i'd no more at hand of the darker colour." had i given you the impression that i was in a _hurry_, and was willing to have no. 2 _less_ good than it _might_ be made, so long as i could have it _quick?_ if i did, i'm very sorry: i never _meant_ to say a word like it: and, if you had written "i could make it still more like, on darker paper; but i've no more at hand. how long can you wait for me to get some?" i should have replied, "six weeks, or six _months_, if you prefer it!" i have already spoken of his love of nature, as opposed to the admiration for the morbid and abnormal. "i want you," he writes to miss thomson, "to do my fairy drawings from _life_. they would be very pretty, no doubt, done out of your own head, but they will be ten times as valuable if done from life. mr. furniss drew the pictures of 'sylvie' from life. mr. tenniel is the only artist, who has drawn for me, who resolutely refused to use a model, and declared he no more needed one than i should need a multiplication-table to work a mathematical problem!" on another occasion he urges the importance of using models, in order to avoid the similarity of features which would otherwise spoil the pictures: "cruikshank's splendid illustrations were terribly spoiled by his having only _one_ pretty female face in them all. leech settled down into _two_ female faces. du maurier, i think, has only _one_, now. all the ladies, and all the little girls in his pictures look like twin sisters." it is interesting to know that sir noel paton and mr. walter crane were, in lewis carroll's opinion, the most successful drawers of children: "there are but few artists who seem to draw the forms of children _con amore_. walter crane is perhaps the best (always excepting sir noel paton): but the thick outlines, which he insists on using, seem to take off a good deal from the beauty of the result." he held that no artist can hope to effect a higher type of beauty than that which life itself exhibits, as the following words show:- i don't quite understand about fairies losing "grace," if too like human children. of course i grant that to be like some _actual_ child is to lose grace, because no living child is perfect in form: many causes have lowered the race from what god made it. but the _perfect_ human form, free from these faults, is surely equally applicable to men, and fairies, and angels? perhaps that is what you mean--that the artist can imagine, and design, more perfect forms than we ever find in life? i have already referred several times to miss ellen terry as having been one of mr. dodgson's friends, but he was intimate with the whole family, and used often to pay them a visit when he was in town. on may 15, 1879, he records a very curious dream which he had about miss marion ("polly") terry:- last night i had a dream which i record as a curiosity, so far as i know, in the literature of dreams. i was staying, with my sisters, in some suburb of london, and had heard that the terrys were staying near us, so went to call, and found mrs. terry at home, who told us that marion and florence were at the theatre, "the walter house," where they had a good engagement. "in that case," i said, "i'll go on there at once, and see the performance--and may i take polly with me?" "certainly," said mrs. terry. and there was polly, the child, seated in the room, and looking about nine or ten years old: and i was distinctly conscious of the fact, yet without any feeling of surprise at its incongruity, that i was going to take the _child_ polly with me to the theatre, to see the _grown-up_ polly act! both pictures--polly as a child, and polly as a woman, are, i suppose, equally clear in my ordinary waking memory: and it seems that in sleep i had contrived to give the two pictures separate individualities. of all the mathematical books which mr. dodgson wrote, by far the most elaborate, if not the most original, was "euclid and his modern rivals." the first edition was issued in 1879, and a supplement, afterwards incorporated into the second edition, appeared in 1885. this book, as the author says, has for its object to furnish evidence (1) that it is essential for the purposes of teaching or examining in elementary geometry to employ one text-book only; (2) that there are strong _a priori_ reasons for retaining in all its main features, and especially in its sequence and numbering of propositions, and in its treatment of parallels, the manual of euclid; and (3) that no sufficient reasons have yet been shown for abandoning it in favour of any one of the modern manuals which have been offered as substitutes. the book is written in dramatic form, and relieved throughout by many touches in the author's happiest vein, which make it delightful not only to the scientific reader, but also to any one of average intelligence with the slightest sense of humour. whether the conclusions are accepted in their entirety or not, it is certain that the arguments are far more effective than if the writer had presented them in the form of an essay. mr. dodgson had a wide experience as a teacher and examiner, so that he knew well what he was writing about, and undoubtedly the appearance of this book has done very much to stay the hand of the innovator. the scene opens in a college study--time, midnight. minos, an examiner, is discovered seated between two immense piles of manuscripts. he is driven almost to distraction in his efforts to mark fairly the papers sent up, by reason of the confusion caused through the candidates offering various substitutes for euclid. rhadamanthus, another equally distracted examiner, comes to his room. the two men consult together for a time, and then rhadamanthus retires, and minos falls asleep. hereupon the ghost of euclid appears, and discusses with minos the reasons for retaining his manual as a whole, in its present order and arrangement. as they are mainly concerned with the wants of beginners, their attention is confined to books i. and ii. we must be content with one short extract from the dialogue:- _euclid_.--it is, i think, a friend of yours who has amused himself by tabulating the various theorems which might be enunciated on the single subject of pairs of lines. how many did he make them out to be? _minos_.--about two hundred and fifty, i believe. _euclid_.--at that rate there would probably be within the limit of my first book--how many? _minos_.--a thousand at least. _euclid_.--what a popular school-book it will be! how boys will bless the name of the writer who first brings out the complete thousand! with a view to discussing and criticising his various modern rivals, euclid promises to send to minos the ghost of a german professor (herr niemand) who "has read all books, and is ready to defend any thesis, true or untrue." "a charming companion!" as minos drily remarks. this brings us to act ii., in which the manuals which reject euclid's treatment of parallels are dealt with one by one. those manuals which adopt it are reserved for act iii., scene i.; while in scene ii., "the syllabus of the association for the improvement of geometrical teaching," and wilson's "syllabus," come under review. only one or two extracts need be given, which, it is hoped, will suffice to illustrate the character and style of the book: act ii., scene v.--niemand and minos are arguing for and against henrici's "elementary geometry." _minos_.--i haven't quite done with points yet. i find an assertion that they never jump. do you think that arises from their having "position," which they feel might be compromised by such conduct? _niemand_.--i cannot tell without hearing the passage read. _minos_.--it is this: "a point, in changing its position on a curve, passes in moving from one position to another through all intermediate positions. it does not move by jumps." _niemand_.--that is quite true. _minos_.--tell me then--is every centre of gravity a point? _niemand_.--certainly. _minos_.--let us now consider the centre of gravity of a flea. does it- _niemand (indignantly)_.--another word, and i shall vanish! i cannot waste a night on such trivialities. _minos_.--i can't resist giving you just _one_ more tit-bit--the definition of a square at page 123: "a quadrilateral which is a kite, a symmetrical trapezium, and a parallelogram is a square!" and now, farewell, henrici: "euclid, with all thy faults, i love thee still!" again, from act ii., scene vi.:- _niemand_.--he (pierce, another "modern rival,") has a definition of direction which will, i think, be new to you. _(reads.)_ "the _direction of a line_ in any part is the direction of a point at that part from the next preceding point of the line!" _minos_.--that sounds mysterious. which way along a line are "preceding" points to be found? _niemand_.--_both ways._ he adds, directly afterwards, "a line has two different directions," &c. _minos_.--so your definition needs a postscript.... but there is yet another difficulty. how far from a point is the "next" point? _niemand_.--at an infinitely small distance, of course. you will find the matter fully discussed in my work on the infinitesimal calculus. _minos_.--a most satisfactory answer for a teacher to make to a pupil just beginning geometry! in act iv. euclid reappears to minos, "followed by the ghosts of archimedes, pythagoras, &c., who have come to see fair play." euclid thus sums up his case:- "'the cock doth craw, the day doth daw,' and all respectable ghosts ought to be going home. let me carry with me the hope that i have convinced you of the necessity of retaining my order and numbering, and my method of treating straight lines, angles, right angles, and (most especially) parallels. leave me these untouched, and i shall look on with great contentment while other changes are made--while my proofs are abridged and improved--while alternative proofs are appended to mine--and while new problems and theorems are interpolated. in all these matters my manual is capable of almost unlimited improvement." in appendices i. and ii. mr. dodgson quotes the opinions of two eminent mathematical teachers, mr. todhunter and professor de morgan, in support of his argument. before leaving this subject i should like to refer to a very novel use of mr. dodgson's book--its employment in a school. mr. g. hopkins, mathematical master in the high school at manchester, u.s., and himself the author of a "manual of plane geometry," has so employed it in a class of boys aged from fourteen or fifteen upwards. he first called their attention to some of the more prominent difficulties relating to the question of parallels, put a copy of euclid in their hands, and let them see his treatment of them, and after some discussion placed before them mr. dodgson's "euclid and his modern rivals" and "new theory of parallels." perhaps it is the fact that american boys are sharper than english, but at any rate the youngsters are reported to have read the two books with an earnestness and a persistency that were as gratifying to their instructor as they were complimentary to mr. dodgson. in june of the same year an entry in the diary refers to a proposal in convocation to allow the university club to have a cricket-ground in the parks. this had been proposed in 1867, and then rejected. mr. dodgson sent round to the common rooms copies of a poem on "the deserted parks," which had been published by messrs. parker in 1867, and which was afterwards included in "notes by an oxford chiel." i quote the first few lines:- museum! loveliest building of the plain where cherwell winds towards the distant main; how often have i loitered o'er thy green, where humble happiness endeared the scene! how often have i paused on every charm,- the rustic couple walking arm in arm, the groups of trees, with seats beneath the shade for prattling babes and whisp'ring lovers made, the never-failing brawl, the busy mill, where tiny urchins vied in fistic skill. (two phrases only have that dusky race caught from the learned influence of the place; phrases in their simplicity sublime, "scramble a copper!" "please, sir, what's the time?") these round thy walks their cheerful influence shed; these were thy charms--but all these charms are fled, amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, and rude pavilions sadden all thy green; one selfish pastime grasps the whole domain, and half a faction swallows up the plain; adown thy glades, all sacrificed to cricket, the hollow-sounding bat now guards the wicket; sunk are thy mounds in shapeless level all, lest aught impede the swiftly rolling ball; and trembling, shrinking from the fatal blow, far, far away thy hapless children go. ill fares the place, to luxury a prey, where wealth accumulates, and minds decay: athletic sports may flourish or may fade, fashion may make them, even as it has made; but the broad parks, the city's joy and pride, when once destroyed can never be supplied! readers of "sylvie and bruno" will remember the way in which the invisible fairy-children save the drunkard from his evil life, and i have always felt that mr. dodgson meant sylvie to be something more than a fairy--a sort of guardian angel. that such an idea would not have been inconsistent with his way of looking at things is shown by the following letter: ch. ch., _july_, 1879. my dear ethel,--i have been long intending to answer your letter of april 11th, chiefly as to your question in reference to mrs. n--'s letter about the little s--s [whose mother had recently died]. you say you don't see "how they can be guided aright by their dead mother, or how light can come from her." many people believe that our friends in the other world can and do influence us in some way, and perhaps even "guide" us and give us light to show us our duty. my own feeling is, it _may_ be so: but nothing has been revealed about it. that the angels do so _is_ revealed, and we may feel sure of _that_; and there is a beautiful fancy (for i don't think one can call it more) that "a mother who has died leaving a child behind her in this world, is allowed to be a sort of guardian angel to that child." perhaps mrs. n-believes that. here are two other entries in the diary:- _aug. 26th_.--worked from about 9.45 to 6.45, and again from 10.15 to 11.45 (making 101/2 hours altogether) at an idea which occurred to me of finding limits for _pi_ by elementary trigonometry, for the benefit of the circle-squarers. _dec. 12th_.--invented a new way of working one word into another. i think of calling the puzzle "syzygies." i give the first three specimens:- man } permanent } entice } send man on ice. ice. } acre } sacred } credentials } rely on acre. entirely } rely } prism } prismatic } dramatic } prove prism to be odious. melodrama } melodious } odious. } in february, 1880, mr. dodgson proposed to the christ church "staff-salaries board," that as his tutorial work was lighter he should have â£200 instead of â£300 a year. it is not often that a man proposes to cut down _his own_ salary, but the suggestion in this case was intended to help the college authorities in the policy of retrenchment which they were trying to carry out. _may 24th_.--percival, president of trin. coll., who has cardinal newman as his guest, wrote to say that the cardinal would sit for a photo, to me, at trinity. but i could not take my photography there and he couldn't come to me: so nothing came of it. _aug. 19th_. [at eastbourne].--took ruth and maud to the circus (hutchinson and tayleure's--from america). i made friends with mr. tayleure, who took me to the tents of horses, and the caravan he lived in. and i added to my theatrical experiences by a chat with a couple of circus children--ada costello, aged 9, and polly (evans, i think), aged 13. i found ada in the outer tent, with the pony on which she was to perform--practising vaulting on to it, varied with somersaults on the ground. i showed her my wire puzzle, and ultimately gave it her, promising a duplicate to polly. both children seemed bright and happy, and they had pleasant manners. _sept. 2nd_.--mrs. h-took me to dr. bell's (the old homoeopathic doctor) to hear lord radstock speak about "training children." it was a curious affair. first a very long hymn; then two very long extempore prayers (not by lord r--), which were strangely self-sufficient and wanting in reverence. lord r--'s remarks were commonplace enough, though some of his theories were new, but, i think, not true--_e.g.,_ that encouraging emulation in schoolboys, or desiring that they should make a good position in life, was un-christian. i escaped at the first opportunity after his speech, and went down on the beach, where i made acquaintance with a family who were banking up with sand the feet and legs of a pretty little girl perched on a sand-castle. i got her father to make her stand to be drawn. further along the beach a merry little mite began pelting me with sand; so i drew _her_ too. _nov. 16th_.--thought of a plan for simplifying money-orders, by making the sender fill up two duplicate papers, one of which he hands in to be transmitted by the postmaster--it containing a key-number which the receiver has to supply in _his_ copy to get the money. i think of suggesting this, and my plan for double postage on sunday, to the government. _dec. 19th_.--the idea occurred to me that a game might be made of letters, to be moved about on a chess-board till they form words. a little book, published during this year, "alice (a dramatic version of lewis carroll's 'alice'), and other fairy tales for children," by mrs. freiligrath-kroeker, was very successful, and, i understand, still has a regular sale. mr. dodgson most gladly gave his consent to the dramatisation of his story by so talented an authoress, and shortly afterwards mrs. kroeker brought out "through the looking-glass" in a similar form. _jan._ 17, 1881.--to the lyceum to see "the cup" and "the corsican brothers." the first is exquisitely put on, and ellen terry as camma is the perfection of grace, and irving as the villain, and mr. terriss as the husband, were very good. but the piece wants substance. _jan._ 19_th_.--tried to go to oxford, but the line is blocked near didcot, so stayed another night in town. the next afternoon the line was reported clear, but the journey took 5 hours! on the day before the dean of ch. ch. and his family were snowed up for 21 hours near radley. _march_ 27_th_.--went to s. mary's and stayed for holy communion, and, as ffoulkes was alone, i mustered up courage to help him. i read the exhortation, and was pleased to find i did not once hesitate. i think i must try preaching again soon, as he has often begged me to do. _april_ 16_th_.--mr. greenwood approves my theory about general elections, and wants me to write on it in the _st. james's gazette_. (the letter appeared on may 5, 1881.) _may_ 14_th_.--took the longest walk (i believe) i have ever done--round by dorchester, didcot and abingdon--27 miles--took 8 hours--no blisters, i rejoice to find, and i feel very little tired. _may_ 26_th_.--the row-loving men in college are beginning to be troublesome again, and last night some 30 or 40 of them, aided by out-college men, made a great disturbance, and regularly defied the censors. i have just been with the other tutors into hall, and heard the dean make an excellent speech to the house. some two or three will have to go down, and twelve or fifteen others will be punished in various ways. (a later note says): the punishments had to be modified--it turned out that the disturbers were nearly all out-college men. [illustration 229: dr. liddell. _from a photograph by hill & saunders._] mr. dodgson sent a letter to _the observer_ on this subject:- sir,--your paper of may 29th contains a leading article on christ church, resting on so many mis-statements of fact that i venture to appeal to your sense of justice to allow me, if no abler writer has addressed you on the subject, an opportunity of correcting them. it will, i think, be found that in so doing i shall have removed the whole foundation on which the writer has based his attack on the house, after which i may contentedly leave the superstructure to take care of itself. "christ church is always provoking the adverse criticism of the outer world." the writer justifies this rather broad generalisation by quoting three instances of such provocation, which i will take one by one. at one time we are told that "the dean ... neglects his functions, and spends the bulk of his time in madeira." the fact is that the dean's absence from england more than twenty years ago during two successive winters was a sad necessity, caused by the appearance of symptoms of grave disease, from which he has now, under god's blessing, perfectly recovered. the second instance occurred eleven years ago, when some of the undergraduates destroyed some valuable statuary in the library. here the writer states that the dean first announced that criminal proceedings would be taken, and then, on discovering that the offenders were "highly connected," found himself "converted to the opinion that mercy is preferable to stern justice, and charity to the strict letter of the law." the facts are that the punishment awarded to the offenders was deliberated on and determined on by the governing body, consisting of the dean, the canons, and some twenty senior students; that their deliberations were most assuredly in no way affected by any thoughts of the offenders being "highly connected"; and that, when all was over, we had the satisfaction of seeing ourselves roundly abused in the papers on both sides, and charged with having been too lenient, and also with having been too severe. the third instance occurred the other night. some undergraduates were making a disturbance, and the junior censor "made his appearance in person upon the scene of riot," and "was contumeliously handled." here the only statement of any real importance, the alleged assault by christ church men on the junior censor, is untrue. the fact is that nearly all the disturbers were out-college men, and, though it is true that the censor was struck by a stone thrown from a window, the unenviable distinction of having thrown it belongs to no member of the house. i doubt if we have one single man here who would be capable of so base and cowardly an act. the writer then gives us a curious account of the present constitution of the house. the dean, whom he calls "the right reverend gentleman," is, "in a kind of way, master of the college. the canons, in a vague kind of way, are supposed to control the college." the senior students "dare not call their souls their own," and yet somehow dare "to vent their wrath" on the junior students. his hazy, mental picture of the position of the canons may be cleared up by explaining to him that the "control" they exercise is neither more nor less than that of any other six members of the governing body. the description of the students i pass over as not admitting any appeal to actual facts. the truth is that christ church stands convicted of two unpardonable crimes--being great, and having a name. such a place must always expect to find itself "a wide mark for scorn and jeers"--a target where the little and the nameless may display their skill. only the other day an m.p., rising to ask a question about westminster school, went on to speak of christ church, and wound up with a fierce attack on the ancient house. shall we blame him? do we blame the wanton schoolboy, with a pebble in his hand, all powerless to resist the alluring vastness of a barndoor? the essence of the article seems to be summed up in the following sentence: "at christ church all attempts to preserve order by the usual means have hitherto proved uniformly unsuccessful, and apparently remain equally fruitless." it is hard for one who, like myself, has lived here most of his life, to believe that this is seriously intended as a description of the place. however, as general statements can only be met by general statements, permit me, as one who has lived here for thirty years and has taught for five-and-twenty, to say that in my experience order has been the rule, disorder the rare exception, and that, if the writer of your leading article has had an equal amount of experience in any similar place of education, and has found a set of young men more gentlemanly, more orderly, and more pleasant in every way to deal with, than i have found here, i cannot but think him an exceptionally favoured mortal.--yours, &c. charles l. dodgson, _student and mathematical lecturer of christ church_. in july began an amusing correspondence between mr. dodgson and a "circle-squarer," which lasted several months. mr. dodgson sent the infatuated person, whom we will call mr. b--, a proof that the area of a circle is less than 3.15 the square of the radius. mr. b--replied, "your proof is not in accordance with euclid, it assumes that a circle may be considered as a rectangle, and that two right lines can enclose a space." he returned the proof, saying that he could not accept any of it as elucidating the exact area of a circle, or as euclidean. as mr. dodgson's method involved a slight knowledge of trigonometry, and he had reason to suspect that mr. b--was entirely ignorant of that subject, he thought it worth while to put him to the test by asking him a few questions upon it, but the circle-squarer, with commendable prudence, declined to discuss anything not euclidean. mr. dodgson then wrote to him, "taking leave of the subject, until he should be willing to enlarge his field of knowledge to the elements of algebraical geometry." mr. b--replied, with unmixed contempt, "algebraical geometry is all moon-shine." _he_ preferred "weighing cardboard" as a means of ascertaining exact truth in mathematical research. finally he suggested that mr. dodgson might care to join in a prize-competition to be got up among the followers of euclid, and as he apparently wished him to understand that he (mr. b--) did not think much of his chances of getting a prize, mr. dodgson considered that the psychological moment for putting an end to the correspondence had arrived. meanwhile he was beginning to feel his regular college duties a terrible clog upon his literary work. the studentship which he held was not meant to tie him down to lectures and examinations. such work was very well for a younger man; he could best serve "the house" by his literary fame. _july_ 14_th._--came to a more definite decision than i have ever yet done--that it is about time to resign the mathematical lectureship. my chief motive for holding on has been to provide money for others (for myself, i have been many years able to retire), but even the â£300 a year i shall thus lose i may fairly hope to make by the additional time i shall have for book-writing. i think of asking the g.b. (governing body) next term to appoint my successor, so that i may retire at the end of the year, when i shall be close on fifty years old, and shall have held the lectureship for exactly 26 years. (i had the honourmen for the last two terms of 1855, but was not full lecturer till hilary, 1856.) _oct_. 18_th_.--i have just taken an important step in life, by sending to the dean a proposal to resign the mathematical lectureship at the end of this year. i shall now have my whole time at my own disposal, and, if god gives me life and continued health and strength, may hope, before my powers fail, to do some worthy work in writing--partly in the cause of mathematical education, partly in the cause of innocent recreation for children, and partly, i hope (though so utterly unworthy of being allowed to take up such work) in the cause of religious thought. may god bless the new form of life that lies before me, that i may use it according to his holy will! _oct. 21st_.--i had a note in the evening from the dean, to say that he had seen the censors on the subject of my proposed resignation at the end of the year, and that arrangements should be made, as far as could be done, to carry out my wishes; and kindly adding an expression of regret at losing my services, but allowing that i had "earned a right to retirement." so my lectureship seems to be near its end. _nov. 30th_.--i find by my journal that i gave my _first_ euclid lecture in the lecture-room on monday, january 28, 1856. it consisted of twelve men, of whom nine attended. this morning, i have given what is most probably my _last_: the lecture is now reduced to nine, of whom all attended on monday: this morning being a saint's day, the attendance was voluntary, and only two appeared--e.h. morris, and g. lavie. i was lecturer when the _father_ of the latter took his degree, viz., in 1858. there is a sadness in coming to the end of anything in life. man's instincts cling to the life that will never end. _may 30, 1882._--called on mrs. r--. during a good part of the evening i read _the times_, while the party played a round game of spelling words--a thing i will never join in. rational conversation and _good_ music are the only things which, to me, seem worth the meeting for, for grown-up people. _june 1st._--went out with charsley, and did four miles on one of his velocimans, very pleasantly. the velociman was an early and somewhat cumbrous form of tricycle; mr. dodgson made many suggestions for its improvement. he never attempted to ride a bicycle, however, but, in accordance with his own dictum, "in youth, try a bicycle, in age, buy a tricycle," confined himself to the three-wheeled variety. [illustration: xi oxford types from a photograph by a.t. shrimpton] _nov. 8th_.--whitehead, of trinity, told us a charming story in common room of a father and son. they came up together: the son got into a college--the father had to go to new inn hall: the son passed responsions, while his father had to put off: finally, the father failed in mods and has gone down: the son will probably take his degree, and may then be able to prepare his father for another try. among the coloured cartoons in shrimpton's window at oxford there used to be, when i was up, a picture which i think referred to this story. _nov. 23rd._--spent two hours "invigilating" in the rooms of w.j. grant (who has broken his collar-bone, and is allowed to do his greats papers in this way) while he dictated his answers to another undergraduate, pakenham, who acted as scribe. _nov. 24th_.--dined with fowler (now president of c.c.c.) in hall, to meet ranken. both men are now mostly bald, with quite grey hair: yet how short a time it seems since we were undergraduates together at whitby! (in 1854). _dec 8th._--a common room meeting. fresh powers were given to the wine committee, and then a new curator elected. i was proposed by holland, and seconded by harcourt, and accepted office with no light heart: there will be much trouble and thought needed to work it satisfactorily, but it will take me out of myself a little, and so may be a real good--my life was tending to become too much that of a selfish recluse. during this year he composed the words of a song, "dreamland." the air was _dreamed_ by his friend, the late rev. c. e. hutchinson, of chichester. the history of the dream is here given in the words of the dreamer:- i found myself seated, with many others, in darkness, in a large amphitheatre. deep stillness prevailed. a kind of hushed expectancy was upon us. we sat awaiting i know not what. before us hung a vast and dark curtain, and between it and us was a kind of stage. suddenly an intense wish seized me to look upon the forms of some of the heroes of past days. i cannot say whom in particular i longed to behold, but, even as i wished, a faint light flickered over the stage, and i was aware of a silent procession of figures moving from right to left across the platform in front of me. as each figure approached the left-hand corner it turned and gazed at me, and i knew (by what means i cannot say) its name. one only i recall--saint george; the light shone with a peculiar blueish lustre on his shield and helmet as he turned and slowly faced me. the figures were shadowy, and floated like mist before me; as each one disappeared an invisible choir behind the curtain sang the "dream music." i awoke with the melody ringing in my ears, and the words of the last line complete--"i see the shadows falling, and slowly pass away." the rest i could not recall. [illustration: dreamland--facsimile of words and music.] dreamland. words by lewis carroll. music by c.e. hutchinson. when midnight mists are creeping and all the land is sleeping around me tread the mighty dead, and slowly pass away. lo, warriors, saints, and sages, from out the vanished ages, with solemn pace and reverend face appear and pass away. the blaze of noonday splendour, the twilight soft and tender, may charm the eye: yet they shall die, shall die and pass away but here, in dreamland's centre, no spoiler's hand may enter, these visions fair, this radiance rare, shall never pass away i see the shadows falling, the forms of eld recalling; around me tread the mighty dead, and slowly pass away one of the best services to education which mr. dodgson performed was his edition of "euclid i. and ii.," which was published in 1882. in writing "euclid and his modern rivals," he had criticised somewhat severely the various substitutes proposed for euclid, so far as they concerned beginners; but at the same time he had admitted that within prescribed limits euclid's text is capable of amendment and improvement, and this is what he attempted to do in this book. that he was fully justified is shown by the fact that during the years 1882-1889 the book ran through eight editions. in the introduction he enumerates, under the three headings of "additions," "omissions," and "alterations," the chief points of difference between his own and the ordinary editions of euclid, with his reasons for adopting them. they are the outcome of long experience, and the most conservative of teachers would readily accept them. the proof of i. 24, for example, is decidedly better and more satisfactory than the ordinary proof, and the introduction of the definition of "projection" certainly simplifies the cumbrous enunciations of ii. 12 and 13. again, the alternative proof of ii. 8, suggested in the introduction, is valuable, and removes all excuse for omitting this proposition, as is commonly clone. the figures used are from the blocks prepared for the late mr. todhunter's well-known edition of euclid, to which mr. dodgson's manual forms an excellent stepping-stone. at the beginning of 1883 he went up to town to see the collection of d. g. rossetti's pictures in the burlington gallery. he was especially struck with "found," which he thus describes- a picture of a man finding, in the streets of london, a girl he had loved years before in the days of her innocence. she is huddled up against the wall, dressed in gaudy colours, and trying to turn away her agonised face, while he, holding her wrists, is looking down with an expression of pain and pity, condemnation and love, which is one of the most marvellous things i have ever seen done in painting. _jan_. 27, 1883 [his birthday].--i cannot say i feel much older at 51 than at 21! had my first "tasting-luncheon"; it seemed to give great satisfaction. [the object of the curator's "tasting-luncheon" was, of course, to give members of common room an opportunity of deciding what wines should be bought.] _march_ 15_th._--went up to town to fulfil my promise to lucy a.--: to take her for her _first_ visit to the theatre. we got to the lyceum in good time, and the play was capitally acted. i had hinted to beatrice (miss ellen terry) how much she could add to lucy's pleasure by sending round a "carte" of herself; she sent a cabinet. she is certainly an adept in giving gifts that gratify. _april_ 23_d_.--tried another long walk--22 miles, to besilsleigh, fyfield, kingston, bagpuize, frilford, marcham, and abingdon. the last half of the way was in the face of wind, rain, snow, and hail. was too lame to go into hall. * * * * * chapter vi (1883-1887) "the profits of authorship"--"rhyme? and reason?"--the common room cat--visit to jersey--purity of elections--parliamentary representation--various literary projects--letters to miss e. rix--being happy--"a tangled tale"--religious arguments--the "alice" operetta--"alice's adventures underground"--"the game of logic"--mr. harry furniss. in 1883 lewis carroll was advised to make a stand against the heavy discount allowed by publishers to booksellers, and by booksellers to the public. accordingly the following notice began to appear in all his books: "in selling mr. lewis carroll's books to the trade, messrs. macmillan and co. will abate 2d. in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per cent, discount within six months, and 10 per cent, for cash. in selling them to the public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent, discount." it was a bold step to take, and elicited some loud expressions of disapproval. "rather than buy on the terms mr. lewis carroll offers," "a firm of london booksellers" wrote in _the bookseller_ of august 4th, "the trade will do well to refuse to take copies of his books, new or old, so long as he adheres to the terms he has just announced to the trade for their delectation and delight." on the other hand, an editorial, which appeared in the same number of _the bookseller,_ expressed warm approval of the innovation. to avoid all possible misconceptions, the author fully explained his views in a little pamphlet on "the profits of authorship." he showed that the bookseller makes as much profit out of every volume he sells (assuming the buyer to pay the full published price, which he did in those days more readily than he does to-day) as author and publisher together, whereas his share in the work is very small. he does not say much about the author's part in the work--that it is a very heavy one goes without saying--but in considering the publisher's share he says:- the publisher contributes about as much as the bookseller in time and bodily labour, but in mental toil and trouble a great deal more. i speak with some personal knowledge of the matter, having myself, for some twenty years, inflicted on that most patient and painstaking firm, messrs. macmillan and co., about as much wear and worry as ever publishers have lived through. the day when they undertake a book for me is a _dies nefastus_ for them. from that day till the book is out--an interval of some two or three years on an average--there is no pause in "the pelting of the pitiless storm" of directions and questions on every conceivable detail. to say that every question gets a courteous and thoughtful reply--that they are still outside a lunatic asylum--and that they still regard me with some degree of charity--is to speak volumes in praise of their good temper and of their health, bodily and mental. i think the publisher's claim on the profits is on the whole stronger than the booksellers. "rhyme? and reason?" appeared at christmas; the dedicatory verses, inscribed "to a dear child: in memory of golden summer hours and whispers of a summer sea," were addressed to a little friend of the author's, miss gertrude chataway. one of the most popular poems in the book is "hiawatha's photographing," a delicious parody of longfellow's "hiawatha." "in an age of imitation," says lewis carroll, in a note at the head, "i can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy." it is not every one who has read this note who has observed that it is really in the same metre as the poem below it. another excellent parody, "atalanta in camden-town," exactly hit off the style of that poet who stands alone and unapproached among the poets of the day, and whom mr. dodgson used to call "the greatest living master of language." "fame's penny trumpet," affectionately dedicated to all "original researchers" who pant for "endowment," was an attack upon the vivisectionists, who preach of justice--plead with tears that love and mercy should abound- while marking with complacent ears the moaning of some tortured hound. lewis carroll thus addresses them:- fill all the air with hungry wails- "reward us, ere we think or write! without your gold mere knowledge fails to sate the swinish appetite!" and, where great plato paced serene, or newton paused with wistful eye, rush to the chase with hoofs unclean and babel-clamour of the stye! be yours the pay: be theirs the praise: we will not rob them of their due, nor vex the ghosts of other days by naming them along with you. they sought and found undying fame: they toiled not for reward nor thanks: their cheeks are hot with honest shame for you, the modern mountebanks! "for auld lang syne" the author sent a copy of his book to mrs. hargreaves (miss alice liddell), accompanied by a short note. christ church, _december_ 21, 1883. dear mrs. hargreaves,--perhaps the shortest day in the year is not _quite_ the most appropriate time for recalling the long dreamy summer afternoons of ancient times; but anyhow if this book gives you half as much pleasure to receive as it does me to send, it will be a success indeed. wishing you all happiness at this happy season, i am, sincerely yours, c. l. dodgson. the beginning of 1884 was chiefly occupied in common room business. the curatorship seems to have been anything but a sinecure. besides weightier responsibilities, it involved the care of the common room cat! in this case the "care" ultimately killed the cat--but not until it had passed the span of life usually allotted to those animals, and beyond which their further existence is equally a nuisance to themselves and to every one else. as to the best way of "terminating its sublunary existence," mr. dodgson consulted two surgeons, one of whom was sir james paget. i do not know what method was finally adopted, but i am sure it was one that gave no pain to pussy's nerves, and as little as possible to her feelings. on march 11th there was a debate in congregation on the proposed admission of women to some of the honour schools at oxford. this was one of the many subjects on which mr. dodgson wrote a pamphlet. during the debate he made one of his few speeches, and argued strongly against the proposal, on the score of the injury to health which it would inflict upon the girl-undergraduates. later in the month he and the rev. e.f. sampson, tutor of christ church, paid a visit to jersey, seeing various friends, notably the rev. f.h. atkinson, an old college friend of mr. dodgson's, who had helped him when he was editor of _college rhymes_. i quote a few lines from a letter of his to mr. atkinson, as showing his views on matrimony:- so you have been for twelve years a married man, while i am still a lonely old bachelor! and mean to keep so, for the matter of that. college life is by no means unmixed misery, though married life has no doubt many charms to which i am a stranger. a note in his diary on may 5th shows one of the changes in his way of life which advancing years forced him to make:- wrote to -(who had invited me to dine) to beg off, on the ground that, in my old age, i find dinner parties more and more fatiguing. this is quite a new departure. i much grudge giving an evening (even if it were not tiring) to bandying small-talk with dull people. the next extract i give does not look much like old age! i called on mrs. m--. she was out; and only one maid in, who, having come to the gate to answer the bell, found the door blown shut on her return. the poor thing seemed really alarmed and distressed. however, i got a man to come from a neighbouring yard with a ladder, and got in at the drawing-room window--a novel way of entering a friend's house! oddly enough, almost exactly the same thing happened to him in 1888: "the door blew shut, with the maid outside, and no one in the house. i got the cook of the next house to let me go through their premises, and with the help of a pair of steps got over the wall between the two back-yards." in july there appeared an article in the _st. james's gazette_ on the subject of "parliamentary elections," written by mr. dodgson. it was a subject in which he was much interested, and a few years before he had contributed a long letter on the "purity of elections" to the same newspaper. i wish i had space to give both in full; as things are, a summary and a few extracts are all i dare attempt. the writer held that there are a great number of voters, and _pari passu_ a great number of constituencies, that like to be on the winning side, and whose votes are chiefly influenced by that consideration. the ballot-box has made it practically impossible for the individual voter to know which is going to be the winning side, but after the first few days of a general election, one side or the other has generally got a more or less decided advantage, and a weak-kneed constituency is sorely tempted to swell the tide of victory. but this is not all. the evil extends further than to the single constituency; nay, it extends further than to a single general election; it constitutes a feature in our national history; it is darkly ominous for the future of england. so long as general elections are conducted as at present we shall be liable to oscillations of political power, like those of 1874 and 1880, but of ever-increasing violence--one parliament wholly at the mercy of one political party, the next wholly at the mercy of the other--while the government of the hour, joyfully hastening to undo all that its predecessors have done, will wield a majority so immense that the fate of every question will be foredoomed, and debate will be a farce; in one word, we shall be a nation living from hand to mouth, and with no settled principle--an army, whose only marching orders will be "right about face!" his remedy was that the result of each single election should be kept secret till the general election is over:- it surely would involve no practical difficulty to provide that the boxes of voting papers should be sealed up by a government official and placed in such custody as would make it impossible to tamper with them; and that when the last election had been held they should be opened, the votes counted, and the results announced. the article on "parliamentary elections" proposed much more sweeping alterations. the opening paragraph will show its general purport:- the question, how to arrange our constituencies and conduct our parliamentary elections so as to make the house of commons, as far as possible, a true index of the state of opinion in the nation it professes to represent, is surely equal in importance to any that the present generation has had to settle. and the leap in the dark, which we seem about to take in a sudden and vast extension of the franchise, would be robbed of half its terrors could we feel assured that each political party will be duly represented in the next parliament, so that every side of a question will get a fair hearing. the axioms on which his scheme was based were as follows:- (1) that each member of parliament should represent approximately the same number of electors. (2) that the minority of the two parties into which, broadly speaking, each district may be divided, should be adequately represented. (3) that the waste of votes, caused by accidentally giving one candidate more than he needs and leaving another of the same party with less than he needs, should be, if possible, avoided. (4) that the process of marking a ballot-paper should be reduced to the utmost possible simplicity, to meet the case of voters of the very narrowest mental calibre. (5) that the process of counting votes should be as simple as possible. then came a precise proposal. i do not pause to compare it in detail with the suggestions of mr. hare, mr. courtney, and others:- i proceed to give a summary of rules for the method i propose. form districts which shall return three, four, or more members, in proportion to their size. let each elector vote for one candidate only. when the poll is closed, divide the total number of votes by the number of members to be returned _plus_ one, and take the next greater integer as "quota." let the returning officer publish the list of candidates, with the votes given for each, and declare as "returned" each that has obtained the quota. if there are still members to return, let him name a time when all the candidates shall appear before him; and each returned member may then formally assign his surplus votes to whomsoever of the other candidates he will, while the other candidates may in like manner assign their votes to one another. this method would enable each of the two parties in a district to return as many members as it could muster "quotas," no matter how the votes were distributed. if, for example, 10,000 were the quota, and the "reds" mustered 30,000 votes, they could return three members; for, suppose they had four candidates, and that a had 22,000 votes, b 4,000, c 3,000, d 1,000, a would simply have to assign 6,000 votes to b and 6,000 to c; while d, being hopeless of success, would naturally let c have his 1,000 also. there would be no risk of a seat being left vacant through two candidates of the same party sharing a quota between them--an unwritten law would soon come to be recognised--that the one with fewest votes should give place to the other. and, with candidates of two opposite parties, this difficulty could not arise at all; one or the other could always be returned by the surplus votes of his party. some notes from the diary for march, 1885, are worth reproducing here:- _march_ 1_st_.--sent off two letters of literary importance, one to mrs. hargreaves, to ask her consent to my publishing the original ms. of "alice" in facsimile (the idea occurred to me the other day); the other to mr. h. furniss, a very clever illustrator in _punch_, asking if he is open to proposals to draw pictures for me. the letter to mrs. hargreaves, which, it will be noticed, was earlier in date than the short note already quoted in this chapter, ran as follows:- my dear mrs. hargreaves,--i fancy this will come to you almost like a voice from the dead, after so many years of silence, and yet those years have made no difference that i can perceive in _my_ clearness of memory of the days when we _did_ correspond. i am getting to feel what an old man's failing memory is as to recent events and new friends, (for instance, i made friends, only a few weeks ago, with a very nice little maid of about twelve, and had a walk with her--and now i can't recall either of her names!), but my mental picture is as vivid as ever of one who was, through so many years, my ideal child-friend. i have had scores of child-friends since your time, but they have been quite a different thing. however, i did not begin this letter to say all _that_. what i want to ask is, would you have any objection to the original ms. book of "alice's adventures" (which i suppose you still possess) being published in facsimile? the idea of doing so occurred to me only the other day. if, on consideration, you come to the conclusion that you would rather _not_ have it done, there is an end of the matter. if, however, you give a favourable reply, i would be much obliged if you would lend it me (registered post, i should think, would be safest) that i may consider the possibilities. i have not seen it for about twenty years, so am by no means sure that the illustrations may not prove to be so awfully bad that to reproduce them would be absurd. there can be no doubt that i should incur the charge of gross egoism in publishing it. but i don't care for that in the least, knowing that i have no such motive; only i think, considering the extraordinary popularity the books have had (we have sold more than 120,000 of the two), there must be many who would like to see the original form. always your friend, c.l. dodgson. the letter to harry furniss elicited a most satisfactory reply. mr. furniss said that he had long wished to illustrate one of lewis carroll's books, and that he was quite prepared to undertake the work ("sylvie and bruno"). [illustration: h. furniss. _from a photograph_.] two more notes from the diary, referring to the same month follow:- _march 10th_.--a great convocation assembled in the theatre, about a proposed grant for physiology, opposed by many (i was one) who wish restrictions to be enacted as to the practice of vivisection for research. liddon made an excellent speech against the grant, but it was carried by 412 to 244. _march 29th_.--never before have i had so many literary projects on hand at once. for curiosity, i will here make a list of them. (1) supplement to "euclid and modern rivals." (2) 2nd edition of "euc. and mod. rivals." (3) a book of math. curiosities, which i think of calling "pillow problems, and other math. trifles." this will contain problems worked out in the dark, logarithms without tables, sines and angles do., a paper i am now writing on "infinities and infinitesimals," condensed long multiplication, and perhaps others. (4) euclid v. (5) "plain facts for circle-squarers," which is nearly complete, and gives actual proof of limits 3.14158, 3.14160. (6) a symbolical logic, treated by my algebraic method. (7) "a tangled tale." (8) a collection of games and puzzles of my devising, with fairy pictures by miss e.g. thomson. this might also contain my "mem. tech." for dates; my "cipher-writing" scheme for letter-registration, &c., &c. (9) nursery alice. (10) serious poems in "phantasmagoria." (11) "alice's adventures underground." (12) "girl's own shakespeare." i have begun on "tempest." (13) new edition of "parliamentary representation." (14) new edition of euc. i., ii. (15) the new child's book, which mr. furniss is to illustrate. i have settled on no name as yet, but it will perhaps be "sylvie and bruno." i have other shadowy ideas, _e.g._, a geometry for boys, a vol. of essays on theological points freely and plainly treated, and a drama on "alice" (for which mr. mackenzie would write music): but the above is a fair example of "too many irons in the fire!" a letter written about this time to his friend, miss edith rix, gives some very good hints about how to work, all the more valuable because he had himself successfully carried them out. the first hint was as follows:- when you have made a thorough and reasonably long effort, to understand a thing, and still feel puzzled by it, _stop_, you will only hurt yourself by going on. put it aside till the next morning; and if _then_ you can't make it out, and have no one to explain it to you, put it aside entirely, and go back to that part of the subject which you _do_ understand. when i was reading mathematics for university honours, i would sometimes, after working a week or two at some new book, and mastering ten or twenty pages, get into a hopeless muddle, and find it just as bad the next morning. my rule was _to begin the book again_. and perhaps in another fortnight i had come to the old difficulty with impetus enough to get over it. or perhaps not. i have several books that i have begun over and over again. my second hint shall be--never leave an unsolved difficulty _behind_. i mean, don't go any further in that book till the difficulty is conquered. in this point, mathematics differs entirely from most other subjects. suppose you are reading an italian book, and come to a hopelessly obscure sentence--don't waste too much time on it, skip it, and go on; you will do very well without it. but if you skip a _mathematical_ difficulty, it is sure to crop up again: you will find some other proof depending on it, and you will only get deeper and deeper into the mud. my third hint is, only go on working so long as the brain is _quite_ clear. the moment you feel the ideas getting confused leave off and rest, or your penalty will be that you will never learn mathematics _at all_! two more letters to the same friend are, i think, deserving of a place here:- eastbourne, _sept_. 25, 1885. my dear edith,--one subject you touch on--"the resurrection of the body"--is very interesting to me, and i have given it much thought (i mean long ago). _my_ conclusion was to give up the _literal_ meaning of the _material_ body altogether. _identity_, in some mysterious way, there evidently is; but there is no resisting the scientific fact that the actual _material_ usable for _physical_ bodies has been used over and over again--so that each atom would have several owners. the mere solitary fact of the existence of _cannibalism_ is to my mind a sufficient _reductio ad absurdum_ of the theory that the particular set of atoms i shall happen to own at death (changed every seven years, they say) will be mine in the next life--and all the other insuperable difficulties (such as people born with bodily defects) are swept away at once if we accept s. paul's "spiritual body," and his simile of the grain of corn. i have read very little of "sartor resartus," and don't know the passage you quote: but i accept the idea of the material body being the "dress" of the spiritual--a dress needed for material life. ch. ch., _dec_. 13, 1885. dear edith,--i have been a severe sufferer from _logical_ puzzles of late. i got into a regular tangle about the "import of propositions," as the ordinary logical books declare that "all _x_ is _z_" doesn't even _hint_ that any _x_'s exist, but merely that the qualities are so inseparable that, if ever _x_ occurs, _z_ must occur also. as to "some _x_ is _z_" they are discreetly silent; and the living authorities i have appealed to, including our professor of logic, take opposite sides! some say it means that the qualities are so connected that, if any _x_'s _did_ exist, some _must_ be _z_--others that it only means compatibility, _i.e.,_ that some _might_ be _z_, and they would go on asserting, with perfect belief in their truthfulness, "some boots are made of brass," even if they had all the boots in the world before them, and knew that _none_ were so made, merely because there is no inherent impossibility in making boots of brass! isn't it bewildering? i shall have to mention all this in my great work on logic--but _i_ shall take the line "any writer may mean exactly what he pleases by a phrase so long as he explains it beforehand." but i shall not venture to assert "some boots are made of brass" till i have found a pair! the professor of logic came over one day to talk about it, and we had a long and exciting argument, the result of which was "_x -x_"--a magnitude which you will be able to evaluate for yourself. c. l. dodgson. as an example of the good advice mr. dodgson used to give his young friends, the following letter to miss isabel standen will serve excellently:- eastbourne, _aug_. 4, 1885. i can quite understand, and much sympathise with, what you say of your feeling lonely, and not what you can honestly call "happy." now i am going to give you a bit of philosophy about that--my own experience is, that _every_ new form of life we try is, just at first, irksome rather than pleasant. my first day or two at the sea is a little depressing; i miss the christ church interests, and haven't taken up the threads of interest here; and, just in the same way, my first day or two, when i get back to christ church, i miss the seaside pleasures, and feel with unusual clearness the bothers of business-routine. in all such cases, the true philosophy, i believe, is "_wait_ a bit." our mental nerves seem to be so adjusted that we feel _first_ and most keenly, the _dis_-comforts of any new form of life; but, after a bit, we get used to them, and cease to notice them; and _then_ we have time to realise the enjoyable features, which at first we were too much worried to be conscious of. suppose you hurt your arm, and had to wear it in a sling for a month. for the first two or three days the discomfort of the bandage, the pressure of the sling on the neck and shoulder, the being unable to use the arm, would be a constant worry. you would feel as if all comfort in life were gone; after a couple of days you would be used to the new sensations, after a week you perhaps wouldn't notice them at all; and life would seem just as comfortable as ever. so my advice is, don't think about loneliness, or happiness, or unhappiness, for a week or two. then "take stock" again, and compare your feelings with what they were two weeks previously. if they have changed, even a little, for the better you are on the right track; if not, we may begin to suspect the life does not suit you. but what i want _specially_ to urge is that there's no use in comparing one's feelings between one day and the next; you must allow a reasonable interval, for the _direction of_ change to show itself. sit on the beach, and watch the waves for a few seconds; you say "the tide is coming in "; watch half a dozen successive waves, and you may say "the last is the lowest; it is going out." wait a quarter of an hour, and compare its _average_ place with what it was at first, and you will say "no, it is coming in after all." ... with love, i am always affectionately yours, c. l. dodgson. the next event to chronicle in lewis carroll's life is the publication, by messrs. macmillan, of "a tangled tale," a series of mathematical problems which had originally appeared in the _monthly packet_. in addition to the problems themselves, the author added their correct solutions, with criticisms on the solutions, correct or otherwise, which the readers of the _monthly packet_ had sent in to him. with some people this is the most popular of all his books; it is certainly the most successful attempt he ever made to combine mathematics and humour. the book was illustrated by mr. a.b. frost, who entered most thoroughly into the spirit of the thing. one of his pictures, "balbus was assisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon," is irresistibly comic. a short quotation will better enable the reader to understand the point of the joke:- balbus was waiting for them at the hotel; the journey down had tried him, he said; so his two pupils had been the round of the place, in search of lodgings, without the old tutor who had been their inseparable companion from their childhood. they had named him after the hero of their latin exercise-book, which overflowed with anecdotes about that versatile genius--anecdotes whose vagueness in detail was more than compensated by their sensational brilliance. "balbus has overcome all his enemies" had been marked by their tutor, in the margin of the book, "successful bravery." in this way he had tried to extract a moral from every anecdote about balbus--sometimes one of warning, as in "balbus had borrowed a healthy dragon," against which he had written, "rashness in speculation "--sometimes of encouragement, as in the words, "influence of sympathy in united action," which stood opposite to the anecdote "balbus was assisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon"--and sometimes it dwindled down to a single word, such as "prudence," which was all he could extract from the touching record that "balbus, having scorched the tail of the dragon, went away." his pupils liked the short morals best, as it left them more room for marginal illustrations, and in this instance they required all the space they could get to exhibit the rapidity of the hero's departure. balbus and his pupils go in search of lodgings, which are only to be found in a certain square; at no. 52, one of the pupils supplements the usual questions by asking the landlady if the cat scratches:- the landlady looked round suspiciously, as if to make sure the cat was not listening. "i will not deceive you, gentlemen," she said. "it _do_ scratch, but not without you pulls its whiskers! it'll never do it," she repeated slowly, with a visible effort to recall the exact words of some written agreement between herself and the cat, "without you pulls its whiskers!" "much may be excused in a cat so treated," said balbus as they left the house and crossed to no. 70, leaving the landlady curtesying on the doorstep, and still murmuring to herself her parting words, as if they were a form of blessing--"not without you pulls its whiskers!" [illustration: _from a crayon drawing by the rev. h.c. gaye_.] they secure one room at each of the following numbers--the square contains 20 doors on each side--nine, twenty-five, fifty-two, and seventy-three. they require three bedrooms and one day-room, and decide to take as day-room the one that gives them the least walking to do to get to it. the problem, of course, is to discover which room they adopted as the day-room. there are ten such "knots" in the book, and few, if any of them, can be untied without a good deal of thought. owing, probably, to the strain of incessant work, mr. dodgson about this period began to be subject to a very peculiar, yet not very uncommon, optical delusion, which takes the form of seeing moving fortifications. considering the fact that he spent a good twelve hours out of every twenty-four in reading and writing, and that he was now well over fifty years old, it was not surprising that nature should begin to rebel at last, and warn him of the necessity of occasional rest. some verses on "wonderland" by "one who loves alice," appeared in the christmas number of _sylvia's home journal_, 1885. they were written by miss m.e. manners, and, as lewis carroll himself admired them, they will, i think, be read with interest:- wonderland. how sweet those happy days gone by, those days of sunny weather, when alice fair, with golden hair, and we--were young together;- when first with eager gaze we scann'd the page which told of wonderland. on hearthrug in the winter-time we lay and read it over; we read it in the summer's prime, amidst the hay and clover. the trees, by evening breezes fann'd, murmured sweet tales of wonderland. we climbed the mantelpiece, and broke the jars of dresden china; in jabberwocky tongue we spoke, we called the kitten "dinah!" and, oh! how earnestly we planned to go ourselves to wonderland. the path was fringed with flowers rare, with rainbow colours tinted; the way was "up a winding stair," our elders wisely hinted. we did not wish to understand _bed_ was the road to wonderland. we thought we'd wait till we should grow stronger as well as bolder, but now, alas! full well we know we're only growing older. the key held by a childish hand, fits best the door of wonderland. yet still the hatter drinks his tea, the duchess finds a moral, and tweedledum and tweedledee forget in fright their quarrel. the walrus still weeps on the sand, that strews the shores of wonderland. and other children feel the spell which once we felt before them, and while the well-known tale we tell, we watch it stealing o'er them: before their dazzled eyes expand the glorious realms of wonderland. yes, "time is fleet," and we have gained years more than twice eleven; alice, dear child, hast thou remained "exactually" seven? with "proper aid," "two" could command time to go back in wonderland. or have the years (untouched by charms), with joy and sorrow laden, rolled by, and brought unto thy arms a dainty little maiden? another alice, who shall stand by thee to hear of wonderland. carroll! accept the heartfelt thanks of children of all ages, of those who long have left their ranks, yet still must love the pages written by him whose magic wand called up the scenes of wonderland. long mayst thou live, the sound to hear which most thy heart rejoices, of children's laughter ringing clear, and children's merry voices, until for thee an angel-hand draws back the veil of wonderland. one who loves "alice." three letters, written at the beginning of 1886 to miss edith rix, to whom he had dedicated "a tangled tale," are interesting as showing the deeper side of his character:- guildford, _jan_. 15, 1886. my dear edith,--i have been meaning for some time to write to you about agnosticism, and other matters in your letter which i have left unnoticed. and yet i do not know, much as what you say interests me, and much as i should like to be of use to any wandering seeker after truth, that i am at all likely to say anything that will be new to you and of any practical use. the moral science student you describe must be a beautiful character, and if, as you say, she lives a noble life, then, even though she does not, as yet, see any god, for whose sake she can do things, i don't think you need be unhappy about her. "when thou wast under the fig tree, i saw thee," is often supposed to mean that nathanael had been _praying_, praying no doubt ignorantly and imperfectly, but yet using the light he had: and it seems to have been accepted as faith in the messiah. more and more it seems to me (i hope you won't be _very_ much shocked at me as an ultra "broad" churchman) that what a person _is_ is of more importance in god's sight than merely what propositions he affirms or denies. _you_, at any rate, can do more good among those new friends of yours by showing them what a christian _is_, than by telling them what a christian _believes_.... i have a deep dread of argument on religious topics: it has many risks, and little chance of doing good. you and i will never _argue_, i hope, on any controverted religious question: though i do hope we may see the day when we may freely _speak_ of such things, even where we happen to hold different views. but even then i should have no inclination, if we did differ, to conclude that my view was the right one, and to try to convert you to it.... now i come to your letter dated dec. 22nd, and must scold you for saying that my solution of the problem was "quite different _to_ all common ways of doing it": if _you_ think that's good english, well and good; but _i_ must beg to differ to you, and to hope you will _never_ write me a sentence similar from this again. however, "worse remains behind"; and if you deliberately intend in future, when writing to me about one of england's greatest poets, to call him "shelly," then all i can say is, that you and i will have to quarrel! be warned in time. c. l. dodgson. ch. ch., _jan_. 26, 1886. my dear edith,--i am interested by what you say of miss--. you will know, without my saying it, that if she, or any other friend of yours with any troubles, were to like to write to me, i would _very_ gladly try to help: with all my ignorance and weakness, god has, i think, blessed my efforts in that way: but then his strength is made perfect in weakness.... ch. ch., _feb_. 14, 1886. my dear edith,... i think i've already noticed, in a way, most of the rest of that letter--except what you say about learning more things "after we are dead." _i_ certainly like to think that may be so. but i have heard the other view strongly urged, a good deal based on "then shall we know even as we are known." but i can't believe that that means we shall have _all_ knowledge given us in a moment--nor can i fancy it would make me any happier: it is the _learning_ that is the chief joy, here, at any rate.... i find another remark anent "pupils"--a bold speculation that my 1,000 pupils may really "go on" in the future life, till they _have_ really outstripped euclid. and, please, what is _euclid_ to be doing all that time? ... one of the most dreadful things you have ever told me is your students' theory of going and speaking to any one they are interested in, without any introductions. this, joined with what you say of some of them being interested in "alice," suggests the horrid idea of their some day walking into this room and beginning a conversation. it is enough to make one shiver, even to think of it! never mind if people do say "good gracious!" when you help old women: it _is_ being, in some degree, both "good" _and_ "gracious," one may hope. so the remark wasn't so inappropriate. i fear i agree with your friend in not liking all sermons. some of them, one has to confess, are rubbish: but then i release my attention from the preacher, and go ahead in any line of thought he may have started: and his after-eloquence acts as a kind of accompaniment--like music while one is reading poetry, which often, to me, adds to the effect. c. l. dodgson. the "alice" operetta, which mr. dodgson had despaired of, was at last to become a reality. mr. savile clarke wrote on august 28th to ask his leave to dramatise the two books, and he gladly assented. he only made one condition, which was very characteristic of him, that there should be "no _suggestion_ even of coarseness in libretto or in stage business." the hint was hardly necessary, for mr. savile clarke was not the sort of man to spoil his work, or to allow others to spoil it, by vulgarity. several alterations were made in the books before they were suitable for a dramatic performance; mr. dodgson had to write a song for the ghosts of the oysters, which the walrus and the carpenter had devoured. he also completed "tis the voice of the lobster," so as to make it into a song. it ran as follows:- tis the voice of the lobster; i heard him declare "you have baked me too brown: i must sugar my hair." as a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. when the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, and talks with the utmost contempt of the shark; but when the tide rises, and sharks are around, his words have a timid and tremulous sound. i passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, how the owl and the panther were sharing a pie: the panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, and the owl had the dish for his share of the treat. when the plate was divided, the owl, as a boon, was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: but the panther obtained both the fork and the knife, so, when _he_ lost his temper, the owl lost its life. the play, for the first few weeks at least, was a great success. some notes in mr. dodgson's diary which relate to it, show how he appreciated mr. savile clarke's venture:- _dec. 30th._--to london with m--, and took her to "alice in wonderland," mr. savile clarke's play at the prince of wales's theatre. the first act (wonderland) goes well, specially the mad tea party. mr. sydney harcourt is a capital hatter, and little dorothy d'alcourt (ã¦t. 61/2) a delicious dormouse. phoebe carlo is a splendid alice. her song and dance with the cheshire cat (master c. adeson, who played the pirate king in "pirates of penzance") was a gem. as a whole the play seems a success. _feb_. 11, 1887.--went to the "alice" play, where we sat next a chatty old gentleman, who told me that the author of "alice" had sent phoebe carlo a book, and that she had written to him to say that she would do her very best, and further, that he is "an oxford man"--all which i hope i received with a sufficient expression of pleased interest. shortly before the production of the play, a miss whitehead had drawn a very clever medley-picture, in which nearly all tenniel's wonderful creations--the dormouse, the white knight, the mad hatter, &c.--appeared. this design was most useful as a "poster" to advertise the play. after the london run was over, the company made a tour of the provinces, where it met with a fair amount of success. [illustration: medley of tenniel's illustrations in "alice." _from an etching by miss whitehead; used as a theatrical advertisement_.] at the end of 1886, "alice's adventures underground," a facsimile of the original ms. book, afterwards developed into "alice's adventures in wonderland," with thirty-seven illustrations by the author, was published by macmillan & co. a postscript to the preface stated that any profits that might arise from the book would be given to children's hospitals and convalescent homes for sick children. shortly before the book came out, lewis carroll wrote to mrs. hargreaves, giving a description of the difficulties that he had encountered in producing it:- christ church, oxford, _november_ 11, 1886. my dear mrs. hargreaves,--many thanks for your permission to insert "hospitals" in the preface to your book. i have had almost as many adventures in getting that unfortunate facsimile finished, _above_ ground, as your namesake had _under_ it! first, the zincographer in london, recommended to me for photographing the book, page by page, and preparing the zinc-blocks, declined to undertake it unless i would entrust the book to _him_, which i entirely refused to do. i felt that it was only due to you, in return for your great kindness in lending so unique a book, to be scrupulous in not letting it be even _touched_ by the workmen's hands. in vain i offered to come and reside in london with the book, and to attend daily in the studio, to place it in position to be photographed, and turn over the pages as required. he said that could not be done because "other authors' works were being photographed there, which must on no account be seen by the public." i undertook not to look at _anything_ but my own book; but it was no use: we could not come to terms. then -recommended me a certain mr. x--, an excellent photographer, but in so small a way of business that i should have to _prepay_ him, bit by bit, for the zinc-blocks: and _he_ was willing to come to oxford, and do it here. so it was all done in my studio, i remaining in waiting all the time, to turn over the pages. but i daresay i have told you so much of the story already. mr. x-did a first-rate set of negatives, and took them away with him to get the zinc-blocks made. these he delivered pretty regularly at first, and there seemed to be every prospect of getting the book out by christmas, 1885. on october 18, 1885, i sent your book to mrs. liddell, who had told me your sisters were going to visit you and would take it with them. i trust it reached you safely? soon after this--i having prepaid for the whole of the zinc-blocks--the supply suddenly ceased, while twenty-two pages were still due, and mr. x-disappeared! my belief is that he was in hiding from his creditors. we sought him in vain. so things went on for months. at one time i thought of employing a detective to find him, but was assured that "all detectives are scoundrels." the alternative seemed to be to ask you to lend the book again, and get the missing pages re-photographed. but i was most unwilling to rob you of it again, and also afraid of the risk of loss of the book, if sent by post--for even "registered post" does not seem _absolutely_ safe. in april he called at macmillan's and left _eight_ blocks, and again vanished into obscurity. this left us with fourteen pages (dotted up and down the book) still missing. i waited awhile longer, and then put the thing into the hands of a solicitor, who soon found the man, but could get nothing but promises from him. "you will never get the blocks," said the solicitor, "unless you frighten him by a summons before a magistrate." to this at last i unwillingly consented: the summons had to be taken out at--(that is where this aggravating man is living), and this entailed two journeys from eastbourne--one to get the summons (my _personal_ presence being necessary), and the other to attend in court with the solicitor on the day fixed for hearing the case. the defendant didn't appear; so the magistrate said he would take the case in his absence. then i had the new and exciting experience of being put into the witness-box, and sworn, and cross-examined by a rather savage magistrate's clerk, who seemed to think that, if he only bullied me enough, he would soon catch me out in a falsehood! i had to give the magistrate a little lecture on photo-zincography, and the poor man declared the case was so complicated he must adjourn it for another week. but this time, in order to secure the presence of our slippery defendant, he issued a warrant for his apprehension, and the constable had orders to take him into custody and lodge him in prison, the night before the day when the case was to come on. the news of _this_ effectually frightened him, and he delivered up the fourteen negatives (he hadn't done the blocks) before the fatal day arrived. i was rejoiced to get them, even though it entailed the paying a second time for getting the fourteen blocks done, and withdrew the action. the fourteen blocks were quickly done and put into the printer's hands; and all is going on smoothly at last: and i quite hope to have the book completed, and to be able to send you a very special copy (bound in white vellum, unless you would prefer some other style of binding) by the end of the month. believe me always, sincerely yours, c. l. dodgson. "the game of logic" was lewis carroll's next book; it appeared about the end of february, 1887. as a method of teaching the first principles of logic to children it has proved most useful; the subject, usually considered very difficult to a beginner, is made extremely easy by simplification of method, and both interesting and amusing by the quaint syllogisms that the author devised, such as- no bald person needs a hair-brush; no lizards have hair; therefore[1] no lizard needs a hair brush. caterpillars are not eloquent; jones is eloquent; jones is not a caterpillar. meanwhile, with much interchange of correspondence between author and artist, the pictures for the new fairy tale, "sylvie and bruno," were being gradually evolved. each of them was subjected by lewis carroll to the most minute criticism--hyper-criticism, perhaps, occasionally. a few instances of the sort of criticisms he used to make upon mr. furniss's work may be interesting; i have extracted them from a letter dated september 1, 1887. it will be seen that when he really admired a sketch he did not stint his praise:- (1) "sylvie helping beetle" [p. 193]. a quite charming composition. (3) "the doctor" and "eric." (mr. furniss's idea of their appearance). no! the doctor won't do _at all!_ he is a smug london man, a great "ladies' man," who would hardly talk anything but medical "shop." he is forty at least, and can have had no love-affair for the last fifteen years. i want him to be about twenty-five, powerful in frame, poetical in face: capable of intelligent interest in any subject, and of being a passionate lover. how would you draw king arthur when he first met guinevere? try _that_ type. eric's attitude is capital: but his face is a little too near to the ordinary "masher." please avoid _that_ inane creature; and please don't cut his hair short. that fashion will be "out" directly. (4) "lady muriel" (head); ditto (full length); "earl." i don't like _either_ face of lady muriel. i don't think i could talk to her; and i'm quite sure i couldn't fall in love with her. her dress ("evening," of course) is very pretty, i think. i don't like the earl's face either. he is proud of his title, very formal, and one who would keep one "at arm's length" always. and he is too prodigiously tall. i want a gentle, genial old man; with whom one would feel at one's ease in a moment. (8) "uggug becoming porcupine" ("sylvie and bruno, concluded," page 388), is exactly my conception of it. i expect this will be one of the most effective pictures in the book. the faces of the people should express intense _terror_. (9) "the professor" is altogether _delightful_. when you get the text, you will see that you have hit the very centre of the bull's-eye. [a sketch of "bruno"]. no, no! please don't give us the (to my mind) very ugly, quite modern costume, which shows with such cruel distinctness a podgy, pot-bellied (excuse the vulgarism) boy, who couldn't run a mile to save his life. i want bruno to be _strong_, but at the same time light and active--with the figure of one of the little acrobats one sees at the circus--not "master tommy," who habitually gorges himself with pudding. also that dress i dislike very much. please give him a short tunic, and _real_ knickerbockers--not the tight knee-breeches they are rapidly shrinking to. very truly yours, c. l. dodgson. by mr. furniss's kind permission i am enabled to give an example of the other side of the correspondence, one of his letters to mr. dodgson, all the more interesting for the charming little sketch which it contains. with respect to the spider, mr. dodgson had written: "some writer says that the full face of a spider, as seen under a magnifying-glass, is very striking." [illustration: _facsimile of a letter from h. furniss to lewis carroll, august 23, 1886_.] [illustration: sylvie and bruno. _from a drawing by henry holiday_.] * * * * * chapter vii (1888-1891) a systematic life--"memoria technica"--mr. dodgson's shyness--"a lesson in latin"--the "wonderland" stamp-case--"wise words about letter-writing"--princess alice--"sylvie and bruno"--"the night cometh"--"the nursery 'alice'"--coventry patmore--telepathy--resignation of dr. liddell--a letter about logic. an old bachelor is generally very precise and exact in his habits. he has no one but himself to look after, nothing to distract his attention from his own affairs; and mr. dodgson was the most precise and exact of old bachelors. he made a prã©cis of every letter he wrote or received from the 1st of january, 1861, to the 8th of the same month, 1898. these prã©cis were all numbered and entered in reference-books, and by an ingenious system of cross-numbering he was able to trace a whole correspondence, which might extend through several volumes. the last number entered in his book is 98,721. he had scores of green cardboard boxes, all neatly labelled, in which he kept his various papers. these boxes formed quite a feature of his study at oxford, a large number of them being arranged upon a revolving bookstand. the lists, of various sorts, which he kept were innumerable; one of them, that of unanswered correspondents, generally held seventy or eighty names at a time, exclusive of autograph-hunters, whom he did not answer on principle. he seemed to delight in being arithmetically accurate about every detail of life. he always rose at the same early hour, and, if he was in residence at christ church, attended college service. he spent the day according to a prescribed routine, which usually included a long walk into the country, very often alone, but sometimes with another don, or perhaps, if the walk was not to be as long as usual, with some little girl-friend at his side. when he had a companion with him, he would talk the whole time, telling delightful stories, or explaining some new logical problem; if he was alone, he used to think out his books, as probably many another author has done and will do, in the course of a lonely walk. the only irregularity noticeable in his mode of life was the hour of retiring, which varied from 11 p.m. to four o'clock in the morning, according to the amount of work which he felt himself in the mood for. he had a wonderfully good memory, except for faces and dates. the former were always a stumbling-block to him, and people used to say (most unjustly) that he was intentionally short-sighted. one night he went up to london to dine with a friend, whom he had only recently met. the next morning a gentleman greeted him as he was walking. "i beg your pardon," said mr. dodgson, "but you have the advantage of me. i have no remembrance of having ever seen you before this moment." "that is very strange," the other replied, "for i was your host last night!" such little incidents as this happened more than once. to help himself to remember dates, he devised a system of mnemonics, which he circulated among his friends. as it has never been published, and as some of my readers may find it useful, i reproduce it here. my "memoria technica" is a modification of gray's; but, whereas he used both consonants and vowels to represent digits, and had to content himself with a syllable of gibberish to represent the date or whatever other number was required, i use only consonants, and fill in with vowels _ad libitum,_ and thus can always manage to make a real word of whatever has to be represented. the principles on which the necessary 20 consonants have been chosen are as follows:- 1. "b" and "c," the first two consonants in the alphabet. 2. "d" from "duo," "w" from "two." 3. "t" from "tres," the other may wait awhile. 4. "f" from "four," "q" from "quattuor." 5. "l" and "v," because "l" and "v" are the roman symbols for "fifty" and "five." 6. "s" and "x" from "six." 7. "p" and "m" from "septem." 8. "h" from "huit," and "k" from the greek "okto." 9. "n" from "nine"; and "g" because it is so like a "9." 0. "z" and "r" from "zero." there is now one consonant still waiting for its digit, viz., "j," and one digit waiting for its consonant, viz., "3," the conclusion is obvious. the result may be tabulated thus:- |1 |2 |3 |4 |5 |6 |7 |8 |9 |0 | |b |d |t |f |l |s |p |h |n |z | |c |w |j |q |v |x |m |k |g |r | when a word has been found, whose last consonants represent the number required, the best plan is to put it as the last word of a rhymed couplet, so that, whatever other words in it are forgotten, the rhyme will secure the only really important word. now suppose you wish to remember the date of the discovery of america, which is 1492; the "1" may be left out as obvious; all we need is "492." write it thus:- 4 9 2 f n d q g w and try to find a word that contains "f" or "q," "n" or "g," "d" or "w." a word soon suggests itself--"found." the poetic faculty must now be brought into play, and the following couplet will soon be evolved:- "columbus sailed the world around, until america was f o u n d." if possible, invent the couplets for yourself; you will remember them better than any others. _june_, 1888. the inventor found this "memoria technica" very useful in helping him to remember the dates of the different colleges. he often, of course, had to show his friends the sights of oxford, and the easy way in which, asked or unasked, he could embellish his descriptions with dates used to surprise those who did not know how the thing was done. the couplet for st. john's college ran as follows:- "they must have a bevel to keep them so level." the allusion is to the beautiful lawns, for which st. john's is famous. in his power of remembering anecdotes, and bringing them out just at the right moment, mr. dodgson was unsurpassed. a guest brought into christ church common room was usually handed over to him to be amused. he was not a good man to tell a story to--he had always heard it before; but as a _raconteur_ i never met his equal. and the best of it was that his stories never grew--except in number. one would have expected that a mind so clear and logical and definite would have fought shy of the feminine intellect, which is generally supposed to be deficient in those qualities; and so it is somewhat surprising to find that by far the greater number of his friends were ladies. he was quite prepared to correct them, however, when they were guilty of what seemed to him unreasoning conduct, as is shown by the following extract from a letter of his to a young lady who had asked him to try and find a place for a governess, without giving the latter's address:- some of my friends are business-men, and it is pleasant to see how methodical and careful they are in transacting any business-matter. if, for instance, one of them were to write to me, asking me to look out for a place for a french governess in whom he was interested, i should be sure to admire the care with which he would give me _her name in full_--(in extra-legible writing if it were an unusual name)--as well as her address. some of my friends are not men of business. so many such requests were addressed to him that at one time he had a circular letter printed, with a list of people requiring various appointments or assistants, which he sent round to his friends. in one respect lewis carroll resembled the stoic philosophers, for no outward circumstance could upset the tranquillity of his mind. he lived, in fact, the life which marcus aurelius commends so highly, the life of calm contentment, based on the assurance that so long as we are faithful to ourselves, no seeming evils can really harm us. but in him there was one exception to this rule. during an argument he was often excited. the war of words, the keen and subtle conflict between trained minds--in this his soul took delight, in this he sought and found the joy of battle and of victory. yet he would not allow his serenity to be ruffled by any foe whom he considered unworthy of his steel; he refused to argue with people whom he knew to be hopelessly illogical--definitely refused, though with such tact that no wound was given, even to the most sensitive. he was modest in the true sense of the term, neither overestimating nor underrating his own mental powers, and preferring to follow his own course without regarding outside criticism. "i never read anything about myself or my books," he writes in a letter to a friend; and the reason he used to give was that if the critics praised him he might become conceited, while, if they found fault, he would only feel hurt and angry. on october 25, 1888, he wrote in his diary: "i see there is a leader in to-day's _standard_ on myself as a writer; but i do not mean to read it. it is not healthy reading, i think." he hated publicity, and tried to avoid it in every way. "do not tell any one, if you see me in the theatre," he wrote once to miss marion terry. on another occasion, when he was dining out at oxford, and some one, who did not know that it was a forbidden subject, turned the conversation on "alice in wonderland," he rose suddenly and fled from the house. i could multiply instances of this sort, but it would be unjust to his memory to insist upon the morbid way in which he regarded personal popularity. as compared with self-advertisement, it is certainly the lesser evil; but that it _is_ an evil, and a very painful one to its possessor, mr. dodgson fully saw. of course it had its humorous side, as, for instance, when he was brought into contact with lion-hunters, autograph-collectors, _et hoc genus omne_. he was very suspicious of unknown correspondents who addressed questions to him; in later years he either did not answer them at all, or used a typewriter. before he bought his typewriter, he would get some friend to write for him, and even to sign "lewis carroll" at the end of the letter. it used to give him great amusement to picture the astonishment of the recipients of these letters, if by any chance they ever came to compare his "autographs." on one occasion the secretary of a "young ladies' academy" in the united states asked him to present some of his works to the school library. the envelope was addressed to "lewis carroll, christ church," an incongruity which always annoyed him intensely. he replied to the secretary, "as mr. dodgson's books are all on mathematical subjects, he fears that they would not be very acceptable in a school library." some fourteen or fifteen years ago, the fourth-class of the girl's latin school at boston, u.s., started a magazine, and asked him if they might call it _the jabberwock._ he wrote in reply:- mr. lewis carroll has much pleasure in giving to the editors of the proposed magazine permission to use the title they wish for. he finds that the anglo-saxon word "wocer" or "wocor" signifies "offspring" or "fruit." taking "jabber" in its ordinary acceptation of "excited and voluble discussion," this would give the meaning of "the result of much excited discussion." whether this phrase will have any application to the projected periodical, it will be for the future historian of american literature to determine. mr. carroll wishes all success to the forthcoming magazine. from that time forward he took a great interest in the magazine, and thought very well of it. it used, i believe, to be regularly supplied to him. only once did he express disapproval of anything it contained, and that was in 1888, when he felt it necessary to administer a rebuke for what he thought to be an irreverent joke. the sequel is given in the following extract from _the jabberwock_ for june, 1888:- a friend worth having. _the jabberwock_ has many friends, and perhaps a few (very few, let us hope) enemies. but, of the former, the friend who has helped us most on the road to success is mr. lewis carroll, the author of "alice in wonderland," &c. our readers will remember his kind letter granting us permission to use the name "jabberwock," and also giving the meaning of that word. since then we have received another letter from him, in which he expresses both surprise and regret at an anecdote which we published in an early number of our little paper. we would assure mr. carroll, as well as our other friends, that we had no intention of making light of a serious matter, but merely quoted the anecdote to show what sort of a book washington's diary was. but now a third letter from our kind friend has come, enclosing, to our delight, a poem, "a lesson in latin," the pleasantest latin lesson we have had this year. the first two letters from mr. carroll were in a beautiful literary hand, whereas the third is written with a typewriter. it is to this fact that he refers in his letter, which is as follows:- "29, bedford street, covent garden, london, _may_ 16, 1888. dear young friends,--after the black draught of serious remonstrance which i ventured to send to you the other day, surely a lump of sugar will not be unacceptable? the enclosed i wrote this afternoon on purpose for you. i hope you will grant it admission to the columns of _the jabberwock_, and not scorn it as a mere play upon words. this mode of writing, is, of course, an american invention. we never invent new machinery here; we do but use, to the best of our ability, the machines you send us. for the one i am now using, i beg you to accept my best thanks, and to believe me your sincere friend, lewis carroll." surely we can patiently swallow many black draughts, if we are to be rewarded with so sweet a lump of sugar! the enclosed poem, which has since been republished in "three sunsets," runs as follows: a lesson in latin. our latin books, in motley row, invite us to the task- gay horace, stately cicero; yet there's one verb, when once we know, no higher skill we ask: this ranks all other lore above- we've learned "amare" means "to love"! so hour by hour, from flower to flower, we sip the sweets of life: till ah! too soon the clouds arise, and knitted brows and angry eyes proclaim the dawn of strife. with half a smile and half a sigh, "amare! bitter one!" we cry. last night we owned, with looks forlorn, "too well the scholar knows there is no rose without a thorn "- but peace is made! we sing, this morn, "no thorn without a rose!" our latin lesson is complete: we've learned that love is "bitter-sweet" lewis carroll. in october mr. dodgson invented a very ingenious little stamp-case, decorated with two "pictorial surprises," representing the "cheshire cat" vanishing till nothing but the grin was left, and the baby turning into a pig in "alice's" arms. the invention was entered at stationers' hall, and published by messrs. emberlin and son, of oxford. as an appropriate accompaniment, he wrote "eight or nine wise words on letter-writing," a little booklet which is still sold along with the case. the "wise words," as the following extracts show, have the true "carrollian" ring about them:- some american writer has said "the snakes in this district may be divided into one species--the venomous." the same principle applies here. postage-stamp-cases may be divided into one species--the "wonderland." since i have possessed a "wonderland-stamp-case," life has been bright and peaceful, and i have used no other. i believe the queen's laundress uses no other. my fifth rule is, if your friend makes a severe remark, either leave it unnoticed or make your reply distinctly less severe: and, if he makes a friendly remark, tending towards "making up" the little difference that has arisen between you, let your reply be distinctly _more_ friendly. if, in picking a quarrel, each party declined to go more than _three-eighths_ of the way, and if, in making friends, each was ready to go _five-eighths_ of the way--why, there would be more reconciliations than quarrels! which is like the irishman's remonstrance to his gad-about daughter: "shure, you're _always_ goin' out! you go out _three_ times for wanst that you come in!" my sixth rule is, _don't try to have the last word!_ how many a controversy would be nipped in the bud, if each was anxious to let the _other_ have the last word! never mind how telling a rejoinder you leave unuttered: never mind your friend's supposing that you are silent from lack of anything to say: let the thing drop, as soon as it is possible without discourtesy: remember "speech is silvern, but silence is golden"! (n.b. if you are a gentleman, and your friend a lady, this rule is superfluous: _you won't get the last word!_) remember the old proverb, "cross-writing makes cross-reading." "the _old_ proverb?" you say inquiringly. "_how_ old?" well, not so _very_ ancient, i must confess. in fact, i invented it while writing this paragraph. still, you know, "old" is a _comparative_ term. i think you would be _quite_ justified in addressing a chicken, just out of the shell, as "old boy!" _when compared_ with another chicken that was only half-out! the pamphlet ends with an explanation of lewis carroll's method of using a correspondence-book, illustrated by a few imaginary pages from such a compilation, which are very humorous. [illustration: _facsimile of programme of "alice in wonderland_."] at the end of the year the "alice" operetta was again produced at the globe theatre, with miss isa bowman as the heroine. "isa makes a delightful alice," mr. dodgson writes, "and emsie [a younger sister] is wonderfully good as dormouse and as second ghost [of an oyster!], when she sings a verse, and dances the sailor's hornpipe." [illustration: "the mad tea-party." _from a photograph by elliott & fry_.] the first of an incomplete series, "curiosa mathematica," was published for mr. dodgson by messrs. macmillan during the year. it was entitled "a new theory of parallels," and any one taking it up for the first time might be tempted to ask, is the author serious, or is he simply giving us some _jeu d'esprit?_ a closer inspection, however, soon settles the question, and the reader, if mathematics be his hobby, is carried irresistibly along till he reaches the last page. the object which mr. dodgson set himself to accomplish was to prove euclid i. 32 without assuming the celebrated 12th axiom, a feat which calls up visions of the "circle-squarers." the work is divided into two parts: book i. contains certain propositions which require no disputable axiom for their proof, and when once the few definitions of "amount," &c., have become familiar it is easy reading. in book ii. the author introduces a new axiom, or rather "quasi-axiom"--for it's _self-evident_ character is open to dispute. this axiom is as follows:- in any circle the inscribed equilateral tetragon (hexagon in editions 1st and 2nd) is greater than any one of the segments which lie outside it. assuming the truth of this axiom, mr. dodgson proves a series of propositions, which lead up to and enable him to accomplish the feat referred to above. at the end of book ii. he places a proof (so far as finite magnitudes are concerned) of euclid's axiom, preceded by and dependent on the axiom that "if two homogeneous magnitudes be both of them finite, the lesser may be so multiplied by a finite number as to exceed the greater." this axiom, he says, he believes to be assumed by every writer who has attempted to prove euclid's 12th axiom. the proof itself is borrowed, with slight alterations, from cuthbertson's "euclidean geometry." in appendix i. there is an alternative axiom which may be substituted for that which introduces book ii., and which will probably commend itself to many minds as being more truly axiomatic. to substitute this, however, involves some additions and alterations, which the author appends. appendix ii. is headed by the somewhat startling question, "is euclid's axiom true?" and though true for finite magnitudes--the sense in which, no doubt, euclid meant it to be taken--it is shown to be not universally true. in appendix iii. he propounds the question, "how should parallels be defined?" appendix iv., which deals with the theory of parallels as it stands to-day, concludes with the following words:- i am inclined to believe that if ever euclid i. 32 is proved without a new axiom, it will be by some new and ampler definition of the _right line_--some definition which shall connote that mysterious property, which it must somehow possess, which causes euclid i. 32 to be true. try _that_ track, my gentle reader! it is not much trodden as yet. and may success attend your search! in the introduction, which, as is frequently the case, ought to be read _last_ in order to be appreciated properly, he relates his experiences with two of those "misguided visionaries," the circle-squarers. one of them had selected 3.2 as the value for "_pi_," and the other proved, to his own satisfaction at least, that it is correctly represented by 3! the rev. watson hagger, to whose kindness, as i have already stated in my preface, my readers are indebted for the several accounts of mr. dodgson's books on mathematics which appear in this memoir, had a similar experience with one of these "cranks." this circle-squarer selected 3.125 as the value for "_pi_," and mr. hagger, who was fired with mr. dodgson's ambition to convince his correspondent of his error, failed as signally as mr. dodgson did. the following letter is interesting as showing that, strict conservative though he was, he was not in religious matters narrow-minded; he held his own opinions strongly, but he would never condemn those of other people. he saw "good in everything," and there was but little exaggeration, be it said in all reverence, in the phrase which an old friend of his used in speaking of him to me: "mr. dodgson was as broad--as broad as _christ_." christ church, oxford, _may_ 4, 1889. dear miss manners,--i hope to have a new book out very soon, and had entered your name on the list of friends to whom copies are to go; but, on second thoughts, perhaps you might prefer that i should send it to your little sister (?) (niece) rachel, whom you mentioned in one of your letters. it is to be called "the nursery alice," and is meant for very young children, consisting of coloured enlargements of twenty of the pictures in "alice," with explanations such as one would give in showing them to a little child. i was much interested by your letter, telling me you belong to the society of friends. please do not think of _me_ as one to whom a "difference of creed" is a bar to friendship. my sense of brotherand sisterhood is at least broad enough to include _christians_ of all denominations; in fact, i have one valued friend (a lady who seems to live to do good kind things) who is a unitarian. shall i put "rachel manners" in the book? believe me, very sincerely yours, c. l. dodgson. from june 7th to june 10th he stayed at hatfield. once at luncheon [he writes] i had the duchess (of albany) as neighbour and once at breakfast, and had several other chats with her, and found her very pleasant indeed. princess alice is a sweet little girl. her little brother (the duke of albany) was entirely fascinating, a perfect little prince, and the picture of good-humour. on sunday afternoon i had a pleasant half-hour with the children [princess alice, the duke of albany, honorable mabel palmer, lady victoria manners, and lord haddon], telling them "bruno's picnic" and folding a fishing-boat for them. i got the duchess's leave to send the little alice a copy of the "nursery alice," and mean to send it with "alice underground" for herself. towards the end of the year lewis carroll had tremendously hard work, completing "sylvie and bruno." for several days on end he worked from breakfast until nearly ten in the evening without a rest. at last it was off his hands, and for a month or so he was (comparatively) an idle man. some notes from his diary, written during this period, follow:- _nov. 17th._--met, for first time, an actual believer in the "craze" that buying and selling are wrong (!) (he is rather 'out of his mind'). the most curious thing was his declaration that he himself _lives_ on that theory, and never buys anything, and has no money! i thought of railway travelling, and ventured to ask how he got from london to oxford? "on a bicycle!" and how he got the bicycle? "it was given him!" so i was floored, and there was no time to think of any other instances. the whole thing was so new to me that, when he declared it to be _un-christian_, i quite forgot the text, "he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one." _dec. 19th._--went over to birmingham to see a performance of "alice" (mrs. freiligrath kroeker's version) at the high school. i rashly offered to tell "bruno's picnic" afterwards to the little children, thinking i should have an audience of 40 or 50, mostly children, instead of which i had to tell it from the stage to an audience of about 280, mostly older girls and grown-up people! however, i got some of the children to come on the stage with me, and the little alice (muriel howard-smith, ã¦t. 11) stood by me, which made it less awful. the evening began with some of "julius caesar" in german. this and "alice" were really capitally acted, the white queen being quite the best i have seen (miss b. lloyd owen). i was introduced to alice and a few more, and was quite sorry to hear afterwards that the other performers wanted to shake hands. the publication of "sylvie and bruno" marks an epoch in its author's life, for it was the publication of all the ideals and sentiments which he held most dear. it was a book with a definite purpose; it would be more true to say with several definite purposes. for this very reason it is not an artistic triumph as the two "alice" books undoubtedly are; it is on a lower literary level, there is no unity in the story. but from a higher standpoint, that of the christian and the philanthropist, the book is the best thing he ever wrote. it is a noble effort to uphold the right, or what he thought to be the right, without fear of contempt or unpopularity. the influence which his earlier books had given him he was determined to use in asserting neglected truths. [illustration: the late duke of albany. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] of course the story has other features, delightful nonsense not surpassed by anything in "wonderland," childish prattle with all the charm of reality about it, and pictures which may fairly be said to rival those of sir john tenniel. had these been all, the book would have been a great success. as things are, there are probably hundreds of readers who have been scared by the religious arguments and political discussions which make up a large part of it, and who have never discovered that sylvie is just as entrancing a personage as alice when you get to know her. perhaps the sentiment of the following poem, sent to lewis carroll by an anonymous correspondent, may also explain why some of "alice's" lovers have given "sylvie" a less warm welcome:- to sylvie. ah! sylvie, winsome, wise and good! fain would i love thee as i should. but, to tell the truth, my dear,- and sylvie loves the truth to hear,- though fair and pure and sweet thou art, thine elder sister has my heart! i gave it her long, long ago to have and hold; and well i know, brave lady sylvie, thou wouldst scorn to accept a heart foresworn. lovers thou wilt have enow under many a greening bough- lovers yet unborn galore, like alice all the wide world o'er; but, darling, i am now too old to change. and though i still shall hold thee, and that puckling sprite, thy brother, dear, i cannot _love_ another: in this heart of mine i own _she_ must ever reign alone! _march_, 1890. n.p. i do not know n.p.'s name and address, or i should have asked leave before giving publicity to the above verses. if these words meet his eye, i hope he will accept my most humble apologies for the liberty i have taken. at the beginning of 1894 a baptist minister, preaching on the text, "no man liveth to himself," made use of "sylvie and bruno" to enforce his argument. after saying that he had been reading that book, he proceeded as follows: a child was asked to define charity. he said it was "givin' away what yer didn't want yerself." this was some people's idea of self-sacrifice; but it was not christ's. then as to serving others in view of reward: mr. lewis carroll put this view of the subject very forcibly in his "sylvie and bruno"--an excellent book for youth; indeed, for men and women too. he first criticised archdeacon paley's definition of virtue (which was said to be "the doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will of god, and for the sake of everlasting happiness,") and then turned to such hymns as the following:- whatever, lord, we lend to thee, _repaid a thousandfold shall be_, then gladly will we give to thee, giver of all! mr. carroll's comment was brief and to the point. he said: "talk of original _sin_! can you have a stronger proof of the original goodness there must be in this nation than the fact that religion has been preached to us, as a commercial speculation, for a century, and that we still believe in a god?" ["sylvie and bruno," part i., pp. 276, 277.] of course it was quite true, as mr. carroll pointed out, that our good deeds would be rewarded; but we ought to do them because they were _good_, and not because the reward was great. in the preface to "sylvie and bruno," lewis carroll alluded to certain editions of shakespeare which seemed to him unsuitable for children; it never seemed to strike him that his words might be read by children, and that thus his object very probably would be defeated, until this fact was pointed out to him in a letter from an unknown correspondent, mr. j.c. cropper, of hampstead. mr. dodgson replied as follows:- dear sir,--accept my best thanks for your thoughtful and valuable suggestion about the preface to "sylvie and bruno." the danger you point out had not occurred to me (i suppose i had not thought of _children_ reading the preface): but it is a very real one, and i am very glad to have had my attention called to it. believe me, truly yours, lewis carroll. mathematical controversy carried on by correspondence was a favourite recreation of mr. dodgson's, and on february 20, 1890, he wrote:- i've just concluded a correspondence with a cambridge man, who is writing a geometry on the "direction" theory (wilson's plan), and thinks he has avoided wilson's (what _i_ think) fallacies. he _hasn't_, but i can't convince him! my view of life is, that it's next to impossible to convince _anybody_ of _anything_. the following letter is very characteristic. "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might," was mr. dodgson's rule of life, and, as the end drew near, he only worked the harder:- christ church, oxford, _april_ 10, 1890. my dear atkinson,--many and sincere thanks for your most hospitable invitation, and for the very interesting photo of the family group. the former i fear i must ask you to let me defer _sine die_, and regard it as a pleasant dream, not _quite_ hopeless of being some day realised. i keep a list of such pleasant possibilities, and yours is now one of ten similar kind offers of hospitality. but as life shortens in, and the evening shadows loom in sight, one gets to _grudge any_ time given to mere pleasure, which might entail the leaving work half finished that one is longing to do before the end comes. there are several books i _greatly_ desire to get finished for children. i am glad to find my working powers are as good as they ever were. even with the mathematical book (a third edition) which i am now getting through the press, i think nothing of working six hours at a stretch. there is one text that often occurs to me, "the night cometh, when no man can work." kindest regards to mrs. atkinson, and love to gertrude. always sincerely yours, c. l. dodgson. for the benefit of children aged "from nought to five," as he himself phrased it, lewis carroll prepared a nursery edition of "alice." he shortened the text considerably, and altered it so much that only the plot of the story remained unchanged. it was illustrated by the old pictures, coloured by tenniel, and the cover was adorned by a picture designed by miss e. gertrude thomson. as usual, the dedication takes the form of an anagram, the solution of which is the name of one of his later child-friends. "_the nursery 'alice,_'" was published by macmillan and co., in march, 1890. on august 18th the following letter on the "eight hours movement" appeared in _the standard:_- sir,--supposing it were the custom, in a certain town, to sell eggs in paper bags at so much per bag, and that a fierce dispute had arisen between the egg vendors and the public as to how many eggs each bag should be understood to contain, the vendors wishing to be allowed to make up smaller bags; and supposing the public were to say, "in future we will pay you so much per egg, and you can make up bags as you please," would any ground remain for further dispute? supposing that employers of labour, when threatened with a "strike" in case they should decline to reduce the number of hours in a working day, were to reply, "in future we will pay you so much per hour, and you can make up days as you please," it does appear to me--being, as i confess, an ignorant outsider--that the dispute would die out for want of a _raison d'ãªtre_, and that these disastrous strikes, inflicting such heavy loss on employers and employed alike, would become things of the past. i am, sir, your obedient servant, lewis carroll. the remainder of the year was uneventful; a few notes from his diary must represent it here:- _oct. 4th._--called on mr. coventry patmore (at hastings), and was very kindly received by him, and stayed for afternoon tea and dinner. he showed me some interesting pictures, including a charming little drawing, by holman hunt, of one of his daughters when three years old. he gave me an interesting account of his going, by tennyson's request, to his lodging to look for the ms. of "in memoriam," which he had left behind, and only finding it by insisting on going upstairs, in spite of the landlady's opposition, to search for it. also he told me the story (i think i have heard it before) of what wordsworth told his friends as the "one joke" of his life, in answer to a passing carter who asked if he had seen his wife. "my good friend, i didn't even know you had a wife!" he seems a very hale and vigorous old man for nearly seventy, which i think he gave as his age in writing to me. _oct. 31st._--this morning, thinking over the problem of finding two squares whose sum is a square, i chanced on a theorem (which seems _true_, though i cannot prove it), that if xâ² + yâ² be even, its half is the sum of two squares. a kindred theorem, that 2(xâ² + yâ²) is always the sum of two squares, also seems true and unprovable. _nov. 5th.--_i have now proved the above two theorems. another pretty deduction from the theory of square numbers is, that any number whose square is the sum of two squares, is itself the sum of two squares. i have already mentioned mr. dodgson's habit of thinking out problems at night. often new ideas would occur to him during hours of sleeplessness, and he had long wanted to hear of or invent some easy method of taking notes in the dark. at first he tried writing within oblongs cut out of cardboard, but the result was apt to be illegible. in 1891 he conceived the device of having a series of squares cut out in card, and inventing an alphabet, of which each letter was made of lines, which could be written along the edges of the squares, and dots, which could be marked at the corners. the thing worked well, and he named it the "typhlograph," but, at the suggestion of one of his brother-students, this was subsequently changed into "nyctograph." he spent the long vacation at eastbourne, attending service every sunday at christ church, according to his usual rule. _sept._ 6, 1891.--at the evening service at christ church a curious thing happened, suggestive of telepathy. before giving out the second hymn the curate read out some notices. meanwhile i took my hymn-book, and said to myself (i have no idea _why_), "it will be hymn 416," and i turned to it. it was not one i recognised as having ever heard; and, on looking at it, i said, "it is very prosaic; it is a very unlikely one"--and it was really startling, the next minute, to hear the curate announce "hymn 416." in october it became generally known that dean liddell was going to resign at christmas. this was a great blow to mr. dodgson, but little mitigated by the fact that the very man whom he himself would have chosen, dr. paget, was appointed to fill the vacant place. the old dean was very popular in college; even the undergraduates, with whom he was seldom brought into contact, felt the magic of his commanding personality and the charm of his gracious, old-world manner. he was a man whom, once seen, it was almost impossible to forget. [illustration: the dean of christ church. _from a photograph by hill & saunders._] shortly before the resignation of dr. liddell, the duchess of albany spent a few days at the deanery. mr. dodgson was asked to meet her royal highness at luncheon, but was unable to go. princess alice and the little duke of albany, however, paid him a visit, and were initiated in the art of making paper pistols. he promised to send the princess a copy of a book called "the fairies," and the children, having spent a happy half-hour in his rooms, returned to the deanery. this was one of the days which he "marked with a white stone." he sent a copy of "the nursery 'alice'" to the little princess alice, and received a note of thanks from her, and also a letter from her mother, in which she said that the book had taught the princess to like reading, and to do it out of lesson-time. to the duke he gave a copy of a book entitled "the merry elves." in his little note of thanks for this gift, the boy said, "alice and i want you to love us both." mr. dodgson sent princess alice a puzzle, promising that if she found it out, he would give her a "golden chair from wonderland." at the close of the year he wrote me a long letter, which i think worthy of reproducing here, for he spent a long time over it, and it contains excellent examples of his clear way of putting things. _to s.d. collingwood._ ch. ch., oxford, _dec_. 29, 1891. my dear stuart,--(rather a large note-sheet, isn't it? but they do differ in size, you know.) i fancy this book of science (which i have had a good while, without making any use of it), may prove of some use to you, with your boys. [i was a schoolmaster at that time.] also this cycling-book (or whatever it is to be called) may be useful in putting down engagements, &c., besides telling you a lot about cycles. there was no use in sending it to _me; my _cycling days are over. you ask me if your last piece of "meritt" printing is dark enough. i think not. i should say the rollers want fresh inking. as to the _matter_ of your specimen--[it was a poor little essay on killing animals for the purpose of scientific recreations, _e.g._, collecting butterflies]--i think you _cannot_ spend your time better than in trying to set down clearly, in that essay-form, your ideas on any subject that chances to interest you; and _specially_ any theological subject that strikes you in the course of your reading for holy orders. it will be most _excellent_ practice for you, against the time when you try to compose sermons, to try thus to realise exactly what it is you mean, and to express it clearly, and (a much harder matter) to get into proper shape the _reasons_ of your opinions, and to see whether they do, or do not, tend to prove the conclusions you come to. you have never studied technical logic, at all, i fancy. [i _had_, but i freely admit that the essay in question proved that i had not then learnt to apply my principles to practice.] it would have been a great help: but still it is not indispensable: after all, it is only the putting into rules of the way in which _every_ mind proceeds, when it draws valid conclusions; and, by practice in careful thinking, you may get to know "fallacies" when you meet with them, without knowing the formal _rules_. at present, when you try to give _reasons_, you are in considerable danger of propounding fallacies. instances occur in this little essay of yours; and i hope it won't offend your _amour propre_ very much, if an old uncle, who has studied logic for forty years, makes a few remarks on it. i am not going to enter _at all_ on the subject-matter itself, or to say whether i agree, or not, with your _conclusions_: but merely to examine, from a logic-lecturer's point of view, your _premisses_ as relating to them. (1) "as the lower animals do not appear to have personality or individual existence, i cannot see that any particular one's life can be very important," &c. the word "personality" is very vague: i don't know what you mean by it. if you were to ask yourself, "what test should i use in distinguishing what _has_, from what has _not_, personality?" you might perhaps be able to express your meaning more clearly. the phrase "individual existence" is clear enough, and is in direct logical contradiction to the phrase "particular one." to say, of anything, that it has _not_ "individual existence," and yet that it _is_ a "particular one," involves the logical fallacy called a "contradiction in terms." (2) "in both cases" (animal and plant) "death is only the conversion of matter from one form to another." the word "form" is very vague--i fancy you use it in a sort of _chemical_ sense (like saying "sugar is starch in another form," where the change in nature is generally believed to be a rearrangement of the very same atoms). if you mean to assert that the difference between a live animal and a dead animal, _i.e.,_ between animate and sensitive matter, and the same matter when it becomes inanimate and insensitive, is a mere rearrangement of the same atoms, your premiss is intelligible. (it is a bolder one than any biologists have yet advanced. the most sceptical of them admits, i believe, that "vitality" is a thing _per se. _however, that is beside my present scope.) but this premiss is advanced to prove that it is of no "consequence" to kill an animal. but, granting that the conversion of sensitive into insensitive matter (and of course _vice versa_) is a mere change of "form," and _therefore_ of no "consequence"; granting this, we cannot escape the including under this rule all similar cases. if the _power_ of feeling pain, and the _absence_ of that power, are only a difference of "form," the conclusion is inevitable that the _feeling_ pain, and the _not_ feeling it, are _also_ only a difference in form, _i.e.,_ to convert matter, which is _not_ feeling pain, into matter _feeling_ pain, is only to change its "form," and, if the process of "changing form" is of no "consequence" in the case of sensitive and insensitive matter, we must admit that it is _also_ of no "consequence" in the case of pain-feeling and _not_ pain-feeling matter. this conclusion, i imagine, you neither intended nor foresaw. the premiss, which you use, involves the fallacy called "proving too much." the best advice that could be given to you, when you begin to compose sermons, would be what an old friend once gave to a young man who was going out to be an indian judge (in india, it seems, the judge decides things, without a jury, like our county court judges). "give _your decisions_ boldly and clearly; they will probably be _right_. but do _not_ give your _reasons: they_ will probably be _wrong"_ if your lot in life is to be in a _country_ parish, it will perhaps not matter _much_ whether the reasons given in your sermons do or do not prove your conclusions. but even there you _might_ meet, and in a town congregation you would be _sure_ to meet, clever sceptics, who know well how to argue, who will detect your fallacies and point them out to those who are _not_ yet troubled with doubts, and thus undermine _all_ their confidence in your teaching. at eastbourne, last summer, i heard a preacher advance the astounding argument, "we believe that the bible is true, because our holy mother, the church, tells us it is." i pity that unfortunate clergyman if ever he is bold enough to enter any young men's debating club where there is some clear-headed sceptic who has heard, or heard of, that sermon. i can fancy how the young man would rub his hands, in delight, and would say to himself, "just see me get him into a corner, and convict him of arguing in a circle!" the bad logic that occurs in many and many a well-meant sermon, is a real danger to modern christianity. when detected, it may seriously injure many believers, and fill them with miserable doubts. so my advice to you, as a young theological student, is "sift your reasons _well_, and, before you offer them to others, make sure that they prove your conclusions." i hope you won't give this letter of mine (which it has cost me some time and thought to write) just a single reading and then burn it; but that you will lay it aside. perhaps, even years hence, it may be of some use to you to read it again. believe me always your affectionate uncle, c. l. dodgson. * * * * * chapter viii (1892-1896) mr. dodgson resigns the curatorship--bazaars--he lectures to children--a mechanical "humpty dumpty"--a logical controversy--albert chevalier--"sylvie and bruno concluded"--"pillow problems"--mr. dodgson's generosity--college services--religious difficulties--a village sermon--plans for the future--reverence--"symbolic logic." at christ church, as at other colleges, the common room is an important feature. open from eight in the morning until ten at night, it takes the place of a club, where the "dons" may see the newspapers, talk, write letters, or enjoy a cup of tea. after dinner, members of high table, with their guests if any are present, usually adjourn to the common room for wine and dessert, while there is a smoking-room hard by for those who do not despise the harmless but unnecessary weed, and below are cellars, with a goodly store of choice old wines. the curator's duties were therefore sufficiently onerous. they were doubly so in mr. dodgson's case, for his love of minute accuracy greatly increased the amount of work he had to do. it was his office to select and purchase wines, to keep accounts, to adjust selling price to cost price, to see that the two common room servants performed their duties, and generally to look after the comfort and convenience of the members. "having heard," he wrote near the end of the year 1892, "that strong was willing to be elected (as curator), and common room willing to elect him, i most gladly resigned. the sense of relief at being free from the burdensome office, which has cost me a large amount of time and trouble, is very delightful. i was made curator, december 8, 1882, so that i have held the office more than nine years." the literary results of his curatorship were three very interesting little pamphlets, "twelve months in a curatorship, by one who has tried it"; "three years in a curatorship, by one whom it has tried"; and "curiosissima curatoria, by 'rude donatus,'" all printed for private circulation, and couched in the same serio-comic vein. as a logician he naturally liked to see his thoughts in print, for, just as the mathematical mind craves for a black-board and a piece of chalk, so the logical mind must have its paper and printing-press wherewith to set forth its deductions effectively. a few extracts must suffice to show the style of these pamphlets, and the opportunity offered for the display of humour. in the arrangement of the prices at which wines were to be sold to members of common room, he found a fine scope for the exercise of his mathematical talents and his sense of proportion. in one of the pamphlets he takes old port and chablis as illustrations. the original cost of each is about 3s. a bottle; but the present value of the old port is about 11s. a bottle. let us suppose, then, that we have to sell to common room one bottle of old port and three of chablis, the original cost of the whole being 12s., and the present value 20s. these are our data. we have now two questions to answer. first, what sum shall we ask for the whole? secondly, how shall we apportion that sum between the two kinds of wine? the sum to be asked for the whole he decides, following precedent, is to be the present market-value of the wine; as to the second question, he goes on to say- we have, as so often happens in the lives of distinguished premiers, three courses before us: (1) to charge the _present_ value for each kind of wine; (2) to put on a certain percentage to the _original_ value of each kind; (3) to make a compromise between these two courses. course 1 seems to me perfectly reasonable; but a very plausible objection has been made to it--that it puts a prohibitory price on the valuable wines, and that they would remain unconsumed. this would not, however, involve any loss to our finances; we could obviously realise the enhanced values of the old wines by selling them to outsiders, if the members of common room would not buy them. but i do not advocate this course. course 2 would lead to charging 5s. a bottle for port and chablis alike. the port-drinker would be "in clover," while the chablis-drinker would probably begin getting his wine direct from the merchant instead of from the common room cellar, which would be a _reductio ad absurdum_ of the tariff. yet i have heard this course advocated, repeatedly, as an abstract principle. "you ought to consider the _original_ value only," i have been told. "you ought to regard the port-drinker as a private individual, who has laid the wine in for himself, and who ought to have all the advantages of its enhanced value. you cannot fairly ask him for more than what you need to refill the bins with port, _plus_ the percentage thereon needed to meet the contingent expenses." i have listened to such arguments, but have never been convinced that the course is just. it seems to me that the 8s. additional value which the bottle of port has acquired, is the property of _common room_, and that common room has the power to give it to whom it chooses; and it does not seem to me fair to give it all to the port-drinker. what merit is there in preferring port to chablis, that could justify our selling the port-drinker his wine at less than half what he would have to give outside, and charging the chablis-drinker five-thirds of what he would have to give outside? at all events, i, as a port-drinker, do not wish to absorb the whole advantage, and would gladly share it with the chablis-drinker. the course i recommend is course 3, which is a compromise between 1 and 2, its essential principle being to sell the new wines _above_ their value, in order to be able to sell the old _below_ their value. and it is clearly desirable, as far as possible, to make the reductions _where they will be felt,_ and the additions _where they will not be felt._ moreover it seems to me that reduction is most felt where it _goes down to the next round sum,_ and an addition in the reverse case, _i.e.,_ when it _starts from a round sum._ thus, if we were to take 2d. off a 5s. 8d. wine, and add it to a 4s. 4d.--thus selling them at 5s. 6d. and 4s. 6d. the reduction would be welcomed, and the addition unnoticed; and the change would be a popular one. the next extract shows with what light-hearted frivolity he could approach this tremendous subject of wine:- the consumption of madeira (b) has been during the past year, zero. after careful calculation i estimate that, if this rate of consumption be steadily maintained, our present stock will last us an infinite number of years. and although there may be something monotonous and dreary in the prospect of such vast cycles spent in drinking second-class madeira, we may yet cheer ourselves with the thought of how economically it can be done. to assist the curator in the discharge of his duties, there was a wine committee, and for its guidance a series of rules was drawn up. the first runs as follows: "there shall be a wine committee, consisting of five persons, including the curator, whose duty it shall be to assist the curator in the management of the cellar." "hence," wrote mr. dodgson, "logically it is the bounden duty of the curator 'to assist himself.' i decline to say whether this clause has ever brightened existence for me--or whether, in the shades of evening, i may ever have been observed leaving the common room cellars with a small but suspicious-looking bundle, and murmuring, 'assist thyself, assist thyself!'" every christmas at christ church the children of the college servants have a party in the hall. this year he was asked to entertain them, and gladly consented to do so. he hired a magic lantern and a large number of slides, and with their help told the children the three following stories: (1) "the epiphany"; (2) "the children lost in the bush"; (3) "bruno's picnic." i have already referred to the services held in christ church for the college servants, at which mr. dodgson used frequently to preach. the way in which he regarded this work is very characteristic of the man. "once more," he writes, "i have to thank my heavenly father for the great blessing and privilege of being allowed to speak for him! may he bless my words to help some soul on its heavenward way." after one of these addresses he received a note from a member of the congregation, thanking him for what he had said. "it is very sweet," he said, "to get such words now and then; but there is danger in them if more such come, i must beg for silence." during the year mr. dodgson wrote the following letter to the rev. c.a. goodhart, rector of lambourne, essex:- dear sir,--your kind, sympathising and most encouraging letter about "sylvie and bruno" has deserved a better treatment from me than to have been thus kept waiting more than two years for an answer. but life is short; and one has many other things to do; and i have been for years almost hopelessly in arrears in correspondence. i keep a register, so that letters which i intend to answer do somehow come to the front at last. in "sylvie and bruno" i took courage to introduce what i had entirely avoided in the two "alice" books--some reference to subjects which are, after all, the _only_ subjects of real interest in life, subjects which are so intimately bound up with every topic of human interest that it needs more effort to avoid them than to touch on them; and i felt that such a book was more suitable to a clerical writer than one of mere fun. i hope i have not offended many (evidently i have not offended _you_) by putting scenes of mere fun, and talk about god, into the same book. only one of all my correspondents ever guessed there was more to come of the book. she was a child, personally unknown to me, who wrote to "lewis carroll" a sweet letter about the book, in which she said, "i'm so glad it hasn't got a regular wind-up, as it shows there is more to come!" there is indeed "more to come." when i came to piece together the mass of accumulated material i found it was quite _double_ what could be put into one volume. so i divided it in the middle; and i hope to bring out "sylvie and bruno concluded" next christmas--if, that is, my heavenly master gives me the time and the strength for the task; but i am nearly 60, and have no right to count on years to come. in signing my real name, let me beg you not to let the information go further--i have an _intense_ dislike to personal publicity; and, the more people there are who know nothing of "lewis carroll" save his books, the happier i am. believe me, sincerely yours, charles l. dodgson. i have made no attempt to chronicle all the games and puzzles which lewis carroll invented. a list of such as have been published will be found in the bibliographical chapter. he intended to bring out a book of "original games and puzzles," with illustrations by miss e. gertrude thomson. the ms. was, i believe, almost complete before his death, and one, at least, of the pictures had been drawn. on june 30th he wrote in his diary, "invented what i think is a new kind of riddle. a russian had three sons. the first, named rab, became a lawyer; the second, ymra, became a soldier; the third became a sailor. what was his name?" the following letter written to a child-friend, miss e. drury, illustrates lewis carroll's hatred of bazaars:- ch. ch., oxford, _nov_. 10, 1892. my dear emmie,--i object to _all_ bazaars on the general principle that they are very undesirable schools for young ladies, in which they learn to be "too fast" and forward, and are more exposed to undesirable acquaintances than in ordinary society. and i have, besides that, special objections to bazaars connected with charitable or religious purposes. it seems to me that they desecrate the religious object by their undesirable features, and that they take the reality out of all charity by getting people to think that they are doing a good action, when their true motive is amusement for themselves. ruskin has put all this far better than i can possibly do, and, if i can find the passage, and find the time to copy it, i will send it you. but _time_ is a very scarce luxury for me! always yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. in his later years he used often to give lectures on various subjects to children. he gave a series on "logic" at the oxford girls' high school, but he sometimes went further afield, as in the following instance:- went, as arranged with miss a. ottley, to the high school at worcester, on a visit. at half-past three i had an audience of about a hundred little girls, aged, i should think, from about six to fourteen. i showed them two arithmetic puzzles on the black-board, and told them "bruno's picnic." at half-past seven i addressed some serious words to a second audience of about a hundred elder girls, probably from fifteen to twenty--an experience of the deepest interest to me. the illustration on the next page will be best explained by the following letter which i have received from mr. walter lindsay, of philadelphia, u.s.:- phila., _september_ 12, 1898. dear sir,--i shall be very glad to furnish what information i can with respect to the "mechanical humpty dumpty" which i constructed a few years ago, but i must begin by acknowledging that, in one sense at least, i did not "invent" the figure. the idea was first put into my head by an article in the _cosmopolitan_, somewhere about 1891, i suppose, describing a similar contrivance. as a devoted admirer of the "alice" books, i determined to build a humpty dumpty of my own; but i left the model set by the author of the article mentioned, and constructed the figure on entirely different lines. in the first place, the figure as described in the magazine had very few movements, and not very satisfactory ones at that; and in the second place, no attempt whatever was made to reproduce, even in a general way, the well-known appearance of tenniel's drawing. humpty, when completed, was about two feet and a half high. his face, of course, was white; the lower half of the egg was dressed in brilliant blue. his stockings were grey, and the famous cravat orange, with a zigzag pattern in blue. i am sorry to say that the photograph hardly does him justice; but he had travelled to so many different places during his career, that he began to be decidedly out of shape before he sat for his portrait. [illustration: the mechanical "humpty dumpty." _from a photograph._] when humpty was about to perform, a short "talk" was usually given before the curtain rose, explaining the way in which the sheep put the egg on the shelf at the back of the little shop, and how alice went groping along to it. and then, just as the explanation had reached the opening of the chapter on humpty dumpty, the curtain rose, and humpty was discovered, sitting on the wall, and gazing into vacancy. as soon as the audience had had time to recover, alice entered, and the conversation was carried on just as it is in the book. humpty dumpty gesticulated with his arms, rolled his eyes, raised his eyebrows, frowned, turned up his nose in scorn at alice's ignorance, and smiled from ear to ear when he shook hands with her. besides this, his mouth kept time with his words all through the dialogue, which added very greatly to his life-like appearance. the effect of his huge face, as it changed from one expression to another, was ludicrous in the extreme, and we were often obliged to repeat sentences in the conversation (to "go back to the last remark but one") because the audience laughed so loudly over humpty dumpty's expression of face that they drowned what he was trying to say. the funniest effect was the change from the look of self-satisfied complacency with which he accompanied the words: "the king has promised me--" to that of towering rage when alice innocently betrays her knowledge of the secret. at the close of the scene, when alice has vainly endeavoured to draw him into further conversation, and at last walks away in disgust, humpty loses his balance on the wall, recovers himself, totters again, and then falls off backwards; at the same time a box full of broken glass is dropped on the floor behind the scenes, to represent the "heavy crash," which "shook the forest from end to end";--and the curtain falls. now, as to how it was all done. humpty was made of barrel hoops, and covered with stiff paper and muslin. his eyes were round balls of rags, covered with muslin, drawn smoothly, and with the pupil and iris marked on the front. these eyes were pivoted to a board, fastened just behind the eye-openings in the face. to the eyeballs were sewed strong pieces of tape, which passed through screw-eyes on the edges of the board, and so down to a row of levers which were hinged in the lower part of the figure. one lever raised both eyes upward, another moved them both to the left, and so on. the eyebrows were of worsted and indiarubber knitted together. they were fastened at the ends, and raised and lowered by fine white threads passing through small holes in the face, and also operated by levers. the arms projected into the interior of the machine, and the gestures were made by moving the short ends inside. the right hand contained a spring clothes-pin, by which he was enabled to hold the note-book in which alice set down the celebrated problem- 365 1 ___ 364 the movement of the mouth, in talking, was produced by a long tape, running down to a pedal, which was controlled by the foot of the performer. and the smile consisted of long strips of red tape, which were drawn out through slits at the corners of the mouth by means of threads which passed through holes in the sides of the head. the performer--who was always your humble servant--stood on a box behind the wall, his head just reaching the top of the egg, which was open all the way up the back. at the lower end of the figure, convenient to the hands of the performer, was the row of levers, like a little keyboard; and by striking different chords on the keys, any desired expression could be produced on the face. of course, a performance of this kind without a good alice would be unutterably flat; but the little girl who played opposite to humpty, miss nellie k---, was so exactly the counterpart of alice, both in appearance and disposition, that most children thought she was the original, right out of the book. humpty still exists, but he has not seen active life for some years. his own popularity was the cause of his retirement; for having given a number of performances (for charity, of course), and delighted many thousands of children of all ages, the demands upon his time, from sunday-schools and other institutions, became so numerous that the performers were obliged to withdraw him in self-defence. he was a great deal of trouble to build, but the success he met with and the pleasure he gave more than repaid me for the bother; and i am sure that any one else who tries it will reach the same conclusion. yours sincerely, walter lindsay. at the beginning of 1893 a fierce logical battle was being waged between lewis carroll and mr. cook wilson, professor of logic at oxford. the professor, in spite of the countless arguments that mr. dodgson hurled at his head, would not confess that he had committed a fallacy. on february 5th the professor appears to have conceded a point, for mr. dodgson writes: "heard from cook wilson, who has long declined to read a paper which i sent january 12th, and which seems to me to prove the fallacy of a view of his about hypotheticals. he now offers to read it, if _i_ will study a proof he sent, that another problem of mine had contradictory _data_. i have accepted his offer, and studied and answered his paper. so i now look forward hopefully to the result of his reading mine." the hopes which he entertained were doomed to be disappointed; the controversy bore no fruits save a few pamphlets and an enormous amount of correspondence, and finally the two antagonists had to agree to differ. as a rule mr. dodgson was a stern opponent of music-halls and music-hall singers; but he made one or two exceptions with regard to the latter. for chevalier he had nothing but praise; he heard him at one of his recitals, for he never in his life entered a "variety theatre." i give the passage from his diary:- went to hear mr. albert chevalier's recital. i only knew of him as being now recognised as _facile princeps_ among music-hall singers, and did not remember that i had seen him twice or oftener on the stage--first as "mr. hobbs" in "little lord fauntleroy," and afterwards as a "horsy" young man in a _matinã©e_ in which violet vanbrugh appeared. he was decidedly _good_ as an actor; but as a comic singer (with considerable powers of pathos as well) he is quite first-rate. his chief merit seems to be the earnestness with which he throws himself into the work. the songs (mostly his own writing) were quite inoffensive, and very funny. i am very glad to be able to think that his influence on public taste is towards refinement and purity. i liked best "the future mrs. 'awkins," with its taking tune, and "my old dutch," which revealed powers that, i should think, would come out grandly in robsonian parts, such as "the porter's knot." "the little nipper" was also well worth hearing. mr. dodgson's views on sunday observance were old-fashioned, but he lived up to them, and did not try to force them upon people with whose actions he had no concern. they were purely matters of "private opinion" with him. on october 2nd he wrote to miss e.g. thomson, who was illustrating his "three sunsets":- would you kindly do _no_ sketches, or photos, for _me_, on a sunday? it is, in _my_ view (of _course_ i don't condemn any one who differs from me) inconsistent with keeping the day holy. i do _not_ hold it to be the jewish "sabbath," but i _do_ hold it to be "the lord's day," and so to be made very distinct from the other days. in december, the logical controversy being over for a time, mr. dodgson invented a new problem to puzzle his mathematical friends with, which was called "the monkey and weight problem." a rope is supposed to be hung over a wheel fixed to the roof of a building; at one end of the rope a weight is fixed, which exactly counterbalances a monkey which is hanging on to the other end. suppose that the monkey begins to climb the rope, what will be the result? the following extract from the diary illustrates the several possible answers which may be given:- got professor clifton's answer to the "monkey and weight problem." it is very curious, the different views taken by good mathematicians. price says the weight goes _up_, with increasing velocity; clifton (and harcourt) that it goes _up_, at the same rate as the monkey; while sampson says that it goes _down_. on december 24th mr. dodgson received the first twelve copies of "sylvie and bruno concluded," just about four years after the appearance of the first part of the story. in this second volume the two fairy children are as delightful as ever; it also contains what i think most people will agree to be the most beautiful poem lewis carroll ever wrote, "say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping?" (p. 305). in the preface he pays a well-deserved compliment to mr. harry furniss for his wonderfully clever pictures; he also explains how the book was written, showing that many of the amusing remarks of bruno had been uttered by real children. he makes allusion to two books, which only his death prevented him from finishing--"original games and puzzles," and a paper on "sport," viewed from the standpoint of the humanitarian. from a literary point of view the second volume of "sylvie and bruno" lacks unity; a fairy tale is all very well, and a novel also is all very well, but the combination of the two is surely a mistake. however, the reader who cares more for the spirit than the letter will not notice this blemish; to him "sylvie and bruno concluded" will be interesting and helpful, as the revelation of a very beautiful personality. you have made everything turn out just as i should have chosen [writes a friend to whom he had sent a copy], and made right all that disappointed me in the first part. i have not only to thank you for writing an interesting book, but for writing a helpful one too. i am sure that "sylvie and bruno" has given me many thoughts that will help me all life through. one cannot know "sylvie" without being the better for it. you may say that "mister sir" is not consciously meant to be yourself, but i cannot help feeling that he is. as "mister sir" talks, i hear your voice in every word. i think, perhaps, that is why i like the book so much. i have received an interesting letter from mr. furniss, bearing upon the subject of "sylvie and bruno," and lewis carroll's methods of work. the letter runs as follows:- i have illustrated stories of most of our leading authors, and i can safely say that lewis carroll was the only one who cared to understand the illustrations to his own book. he was the w. s. gilbert for children, and, like gilbert producing one of his operas, lewis carroll took infinite pains to study every detail in producing his extraordinary and delightful books. mr. gilbert, as every one knows, has a model of the stage; he puts up the scenery, draws every figure, moves them about just as he wishes the real actors to move about. lewis carroll was precisely the same. this, of course, led to a great deal of work and trouble, and made the illustrating of his books more a matter of artistic interest than of professional profit. i was _seven years_ illustrating his last work, and during that time i had the pleasure of many an interesting meeting with the fascinating author, and i was quite repaid for the trouble i took, not only by his generous appreciation of my efforts, but by the liberal remuneration he gave for the work, and also by the charm of having intercourse with the interesting, if somewhat erratic genius. a book very different in character from "sylvie and bruno," but under the same well-known pseudonym, appeared about the same time. i refer to "pillow problems," the second part of the series entitled "curiosa mathematica." "pillow problems thought out during wakeful hours" is a collection of mathematical problems, which mr. dodgson solved while lying awake at night. a few there are to which the title is not strictly applicable, but all alike were worked out mentally before any diagram or word of the solution was committed to paper. the author says that his usual practice was to write down the _answer_ first of all, and afterwards the question and its solution. his motive, he says, for publishing these problems was not from any desire to display his powers of mental calculation. those who knew him will readily believe this, though they will hardly be inclined to accept his own modest estimate of those powers. still the book was intended, not for the select few who can scale the mountain heights of advanced mathematics, but for the much larger class of ordinary mathematicians, and they at least will be able to appreciate the gifted author, and to wonder how he could follow so clearly in his head the mental diagrams and intricate calculations involved in some of these "pillow problems." his chief motive in publishing the book was to show how, by a little determination, the mind "can be made to concentrate itself on some intellectual subject (not necessarily mathematics), and thus banish those petty troubles and vexations which most people experience, and which--unless the mind be otherwise occupied--_will_ persist in invading the hours of night." and this remedy, as he shows, serves a higher purpose still. in a paragraph which deserves quoting at length, as it gives us a momentary glimpse of his refined and beautiful character, he says:- perhaps i may venture for a moment to use a more serious tone, and to point out that there are mental troubles, much worse than mere worry, for which an absorbing object of thought may serve as a remedy. there are sceptical thoughts, which seem for the moment to uproot the firmest faith: there are blasphemous thoughts, which dart unbidden into the most reverent souls: there are unholy thoughts, which torture with their hateful presence the fancy that would fain be pure. against all these some real mental work is a most helpful ally. that "unclean spirit" of the parable, who brought back with him seven others more wicked than himself, only did so because he found the chamber "swept and garnished," and its owner sitting with folded hands. had he found it all alive with the "busy hum" of active _work_, there would have been scant welcome for him and his seven! it would have robbed the book of its true character if lewis carroll had attempted to improve on the work done in his head, and consequently we have the solutions exactly as he worked them out before setting them down on paper. of the problems themselves there is not much to be said here; they are original, and some of them (e.g., no. 52) expressed in a style peculiarly the author's own. the subjects included in their range are arithmetic, algebra, pure geometry (plane), trigonometry, algebraic geometry, and differential calculus; and there is one problem to which mr. dodgson says he "can proudly point," in "transcendental probabilities," which is here given: "a bag contains two counters, as to which nothing is known except that each is either black or white. ascertain their colour without taking them out of the bag." the answer is, "one is black and the other white." for the solution the reader is referred to the book itself, a study of which will well repay him, apart from the chance he may have of discovering some mistake, and the consequent joy thereat! a few extracts from the diary follow, written during the early part of 1894:- _feb._ 1_st.--dies notandus._ as ragg was reading prayers, and bayne and i were the only m.a.'s in the stalls, i tried the experiment of going to the lectern and reading the lesson. i did not hesitate much, but feel it too great a strain on the nerves to be tried often. then i went to the latin chapel for holy communion. only paget (dean) and dr. huntley came: so, for the first time in my recollection, it had to be given up. then i returned to my rooms, and found in _the standard_ the very important communication from gladstone denying the rumour that he has decided upon resigning the premiership, but admitting that, owing to failing powers, it may come at any moment. it will make a complete change in the position of politics! then i got, from cook wilson, what i have been so long trying for--an accepted transcript of the fallacious argument over which we have had an (apparently) endless fight. i think the end is near, _now_. _feb._ 4_th._--the idea occurred to me that it might be a pleasant variation in backgammon to throw _three_ dice, and choose any two of the three numbers. the average quality of the throws would be much raised. i reckon that the chance of "6, 6" would be about two and a half what it now is. it would also furnish a means, similar to giving points in billiards, for equalising players: the weaker might use three dice, the other using two. i think of calling it "thirdie backgammon." _march_ 31_st._--have just got printed, as a leaflet, "a disputed point in logic"--the point professor wilson and i have been arguing so long. this paper is wholly in his own words, and puts the point very clearly. i think of submitting it to all my logical friends. "a disputed point in logic" appeared also, i believe, in _mind_, july, 1894. this seems a fitting place in which to speak of a side of mr. dodgson's character of which he himself was naturally very reticent--his wonderful generosity. my own experience of him was of a man who was always ready to do one a kindness, even though it put him to great expense and inconvenience; but of course i did not know, during his lifetime, that my experience of him was the same as that of all his other friends. the income from his books and other sources, which might have been spent in a life of luxury and selfishness, he distributed lavishly where he saw it was needed, and in order to do this he always lived in the most simple way. to make others happy was the golden rule of his life. on august 31st he wrote, in a letter to a friend, miss mary brown: "and now what am i to tell you about myself? to say i am quite well 'goes without saying' with me. in fact, my life is so strangely free from all trial and trouble that i cannot doubt my own happiness is one of the talents entrusted to me to 'occupy' with, till the master shall return, by doing something to make other lives happy." in several instances, where friends in needy circumstances have written to him for loans of money, he has answered them, "i will not _lend_, but i will _give_ you the â£100 you ask for." to help child-friends who wanted to go on the stage, or to take up music as a profession, he has introduced them to leading actors and actresses, paid for them having lessons in singing from the best masters, sent round circulars to his numerous acquaintances begging them to patronise the first concert or recital. in writing his books he never attempted to win popularity by acceding to the prejudices and frailties of the age--his one object was to make his books useful and helpful and ennobling. like the great master, in whose steps he so earnestly strove to follow, he "went about doing good." and one is glad to think that even his memory is being made to serve the same purpose. the "alice" cots are a worthy sequel to his generous life. even mr. dodgson, with all his boasted health, was not absolutely proof against disease, for on february 12, 1895, he writes:- tenth day of a rather bad attack of influenza of the ague type. last night the fever rose to a great height, partly caused by a succession of _five_ visitors. one, however, was of my own seeking--dean paget, to whom i was thankful to be able to tell all i have had in my mind for a year or more, as to our chapel services _not_ being as helpful as they could be made. the chief fault is extreme _rapidity_. i long ago gave up the attempt to say the confession at that pace; and now i say it, and the lord's prayer, close together, and never hear a word of the absolution. also many of the lessons are quite unedifying. on july 11th he wrote to my brother on the subject of a paper about eternal punishment, which was to form the first of a series of essays on religious difficulties:- i am sending you the article on "eternal punishment" as it is. there is plenty of matter for consideration, as to which i shall be glad to know your views. also if there are other points, connected with religion, where you feel that perplexing difficulties exist, i should be glad to know of them in order to see whether i can see my way to saying anything helpful. but i had better add that i do not want to deal with any such difficulties, _unless_ they tend to affect _life. speculative_ difficulties which do not affect conduct, and which come into collision with any of the principles which i intend to state as axioms, lie outside the scope of my book. these axioms are:- (1) human conduct is capable of being _right_, and of being _wrong_. (2) i possess free-will, and am able to choose between right and wrong. (3) i have in some cases chosen wrong. (4) i am responsible for choosing wrong. (5) i am responsible to a person. (6) this person is perfectly good. i call them axioms, because i have no _proofs_ to offer for them. there will probably be others, but these are all i can think of just now. the rev. h. hopley, vicar of westham, has sent me the following interesting account of a sermon mr. dodgson preached at his church:- in the autumn of 1895 the vicar of eastbourne was to have preached my harvest sermon at westham, a village five miles away; but something or other intervened, and in the middle of the week i learned he could not come. a mutual friend suggested my asking mr. dodgson, who was then in eastbourne, to help me, and i went with him to his rooms. i was quite a stranger to mr. dodgson; but knowing from hearsay how reluctant he usually was to preach, i apologised and explained my position--with sunday so near at hand. after a moment's hesitation he consented, and in a most genial manner made me feel quite at ease as to the abruptness of my petition. on the morrow he came over to my vicarage, and made friends with my daughters, teaching them some new manner of playing croquet [probably castle croquet], and writing out for them puzzles and anagrams that he had composed. the following letter was forwarded on the saturday:- "7, lushington road, eastbourne, _september_ 26, 1895. dear mr. hopley,--i think you will excuse the liberty i am taking in asking you to give me some food after the service on sunday, so that i may have no need to catch the train, but can walk back at leisure. this will save me from the worry of trying to conclude at an exact minute, and you, perhaps, from the trouble of finding short hymns, to save time. it will not, i hope, cause your cook any trouble, as my regular rule here is _cold_ dinner on sundays. this not from any "sabbatarian" theory, but from the wish to let our _employã©s_ have the day _wholly_ at their own disposal. i beg miss hopley's acceptance of the enclosed papers- (puzzles and diagrams.) believe me, very truly yours, c.l. dodgson." on sunday our grand old church was crowded, and, although our villagers are mostly agricultural labourers, yet they breathlessly listened to a sermon forty minutes long, and apparently took in every word of it. it was quite extempore, in very simple words, and illustrated by some delightful and most touching stories of children. i only wish there had been a shorthand-writer there. in the vestry after service, while he was signing his name in the preachers' book, a church officer handed him a bit of paper. "mr. dodgson, would you very kindly write your name on that?" "sir!" drawing himself up sternly--"sir, i never do that for any one"--and then, more kindly, "you see, if i did it for one, i must do it for all." an amusing incident in mr. dodgson's life is connected with the well-known drama, "two little vagabonds." i give the story as he wrote it in his diary:- _nov._ 28_th.--matinã©e_ at the princess's of "two little vagabonds," a very sensational melodrama, capitally acted. "dick" and "wally" were played by kate tyndall and sydney fairbrother, whom i guess to be about fifteen and twelve. both were excellent, and the latter remarkable for the perfect realism of her acting. there was some beautiful religious dialogue between "wally" and a hospital nurse- most reverently spoken, and reverently received by the audience. _dec._ 17_th._--i have given books to kate tyndall and sydney fairbrother, and have heard from them, and find i was entirely mistaken in taking them for children. both are married women! the following is an extract from a letter written in 1896 to one of his sisters, in allusion to a death which had recently occurred in the family:- it is getting increasingly difficult now to remember _which_ of one's friends remain alive, and _which_ have gone "into the land of the great departed, into the silent land." also, such news comes less and less as a shock, and more and more one realises that it is an experience each of _us_ has to face before long. that fact is getting _less_ dreamlike to me now, and i sometimes think what a grand thing it will be to be able to say to oneself, "death is _over_ now; there is not _that_ experience to be faced again." i am beginning to think that, if the _books i_ am still hoping to write are to be done _at all,_ they must be done _now_, and that i am _meant_ thus to utilise the splendid health i have had, unbroken, for the last year and a half, and the working powers that are fully as great as, if not greater, than i have ever had. i brought with me here (this letter was written from eastbourne) the ms., such as it is (very fragmentary and unarranged) for the book about religious difficulties, and i meant, when i came here, to devote myself to that, but i have changed my plan. it seems to me that _that_ subject is one that hundreds of living men could do, if they would only try, _much_ better than i could, whereas there is no living man who could (or at any rate who would take the trouble to) arrange and finish and publish the second part of the "logic." also, i _have_ the logic book in my head; it will only need three or four months to write out, and i have _not_ got the other book in my head, and it might take years to think out. so i have decided to get part ii. finished _first_, and i am working at it day and night. i have taken to early rising, and sometimes sit down to my work before seven, and have one and a half hours at it before breakfast. the book will be a great novelty, and will help, i fully believe, to make the study of logic _far_ easier than it now is. and it will, i also believe, be a help to religious thought by giving _clearness_ of conception and of expression, which may enable many people to face, and conquer, many religious difficulties for themselves. so i do really regard it as work for _god_. another letter, written a few months later to miss dora abdy, deals with the subject of "reverence," which mr. dodgson considered a virtue not held in sufficient esteem nowadays:- my dear dora,--in correcting the proofs of "through the looking-glass" (which is to have "an easter greeting" inserted at the end), i am reminded that in that letter (i enclose a copy), i had tried to express my thoughts on the very subject we talked about last night--the relation of _laughter_ to religious thought. one of the hardest things in the world is to convey a meaning accurately from one mind to another, but the _sort_ of meaning i want to convey to other minds is that while the laughter of _joy_ is in full harmony with our deeper life, the laughter of amusement should be kept apart from it. the danger is too great of thus learning to look at solemn things in a spirit of _mockery_, and to seek in them opportunities for exercising _wit_. that is the spirit which has spoiled, for me, the beauty of some of the bible. surely there is a deep meaning in our prayer, "give us an heart to love and _dread_ thee." we do not mean _terror_: but a dread that will harmonise with love; "respect" we should call it as towards a human being, "reverence" as towards god and all religious things. yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. in his "game of logic" lewis carroll introduced an original method of working logical problems by means of diagrams; this method he superseded in after years for a much simpler one, the method of "subscripts." in "symbolic logic, part i." (london: macmillan, 1896) he employed both methods. the introduction is specially addressed "to learners," whom lewis carroll advises to read the book straight through, without _dipping_. this rule [he says] is very desirable with other kinds of books--such as novels, for instance, where you may easily spoil much of the enjoyment you would otherwise get from the story by dipping into it further on, so that what the author meant to be a pleasant surprise comes to you as a matter of course. some people, i know, make a practice of looking into vol. iii. first, just to see how the story ends; and perhaps it _is_ as well just to know that all ends _happily_--that the much persecuted lovers _do_ marry after all, that he is proved to be quite innocent of the murder, that the wicked cousin is completely foiled in his plot, and gets the punishment he deserves, and that the rich uncle in india (_qu._ why in _india? ans._ because, somehow, uncles never _can_ get rich anywhere else) dies at exactly the right moment--before taking the trouble to read vol i. this, i say, is _just_ permissible with a _novel_, where vol. iii. has a _meaning_, even for those who have not read the earlier part of the story; but with a _scientific_ book, it is sheer insanity. you will find the latter part _hopelessly_ unintelligible, if you read it before reaching it in regular course. * * * * * chapter ix (1897-1898) logic-lectures--irreverent anecdotes--tolerance of his religious views--a mathematical discovery--"the little minister" sir george baden-powell--last illness--"thy will be done"--"wonderland" at last!--letters from friends "three sunsets"--"of such is the kingdom of heaven." the year 1897, the last complete year which he was destined to spend, began for mr. dodgson at guildford. on january 3rd he preached in the morning at the beautiful old church of s. mary's, the church which he always attended when he was staying with his sisters at the chestnuts. on the 5th he began a course of logic lectures at abbot's hospital. the rev. a. kingston, late curate of holy trinity and s. mary's parishes, guildford, had requested him to do this, and he had given his promise if as many as six people could be got together to hear him. mr. kingston canvassed the town so well that an audience of about thirty attended the first lecture. [illustration: lewis carroll. _from a photograph._] a long sunday walk was always a feature of mr. dodgson's life in the vacations. in earlier years the late mr. w. watson was his usual companion at guildford. the two men were in some respects very much alike; a peculiar gentleness of character, a winning charm of manner which no one could resist, distinguished them both. after mr. watson's death his companion was usually one of the following guildford clergymen: the rev. j.h. robson, ll.d., the rev. h.r. ware, and the rev. a. kingston. on the 26th mr. dodgson paid a visit to the girls' high school, to show the pupils some mathematical puzzles, and to teach the elder ones his "memoria technica." on the 28th he returned to oxford, so as to be up in time for term. i have said that he always refused invitations to dinner; accordingly his friends who knew of this peculiarity, and wished to secure him for a special evening, dared not actually invite him, but wrote him little notes stating that on such and such days they would be dining at home. thus there is an entry in his journal for february 10th: "dined with mrs. g--(she had not sent an 'invitation'--only 'information')." his system of symbolic logic enabled him to work out the most complex problems with absolute certainty in a surprisingly short time. thus he wrote on the 15th: "made a splendid logic-problem, about "great-grandsons" (modelled on one by de morgan). my method of solution is quite new, and i greatly doubt if any one will solve the problem. i have sent it to cook wilson." on march 7th he preached in the university church, the first occasion on which he had done so:- there is now [he writes] a system established of a course of six sermons at s. mary's each year, for university men _only_, and specially meant for undergraduates. they are preached, preceded by a few prayers and a hymn, at half-past eight. this evening ended the course for this term: and it was my great privilege to preach. it has been the most formidable sermon i have ever had to preach, and it is a _great_ relief to have it over. i took, as text, job xxviii. 28, "and unto man he said, the fear of the lord, that is wisdom"--and the prayer in the litany "give us an heart to love and dread thee." it lasted three-quarters of an hour. one can imagine how he would have treated the subject. the views which he held on the subject of reverence were, so at least it appears to me, somewhat exaggerated; they are well expressed in a letter which he wrote to a friend of his, during the year, and which runs as follows:- dear--, after changing my mind several times, i have at last decided to venture to ask a favour of you, and to trust that you will not misinterpret my motives in doing so. the favour i would ask is, that you will not tell me any more stories, such as you did on friday, of remarks which children are said to have made on very sacred subjects- remarks which most people would recognise as irreverent, if made by _grown-up people_, but which are assumed to be innocent when made by children who are unconscious of any irreverence, the strange conclusion being drawn that they are therefore innocent when _repeated_ by a grown-up person. the misinterpretation i would guard against is, your supposing that i regard such repetition as always _wrong_ in any grown-up person. let me assure you that i do _not_ so regard it. i am always willing to believe that those who repeat such stories differ wholly from myself in their views of what is, and what is not, fitting treatment of sacred things, and i fully recognise that what would certainly be wrong in _me_, is not necessarily so in _them_. so i simply ask it as a personal favour to myself. the hearing of that anecdote gave me so much pain, and spoiled so much the pleasure of my tiny dinner-party, that i feel sure you will kindly spare me such in future. one further remark. there are quantities of such anecdotes going about. i don't in the least believe that 5 per cent. of them were ever said by _children_. i feel sure that most of them are concocted by people who _wish_ to bring sacred subjects into ridicule--sometimes by people who _wish_ to undermine the belief that others have in religious truths: for there is no surer way of making one's beliefs _unreal_ than by learning to associate them with ludicrous ideas. forgive the freedom with which i have said all this. sincerely yours, c.l. dodgson. the entry in the diary for april 11th (sunday) is interesting:- went my eighteen-mile round by besilsleigh. from my rooms back to them again, took me five hours and twenty-seven minutes. had "high tea" at twenty minutes past seven. this entails only leaving a plate of cold meat, and gives much less trouble than hot dinner at six. dinner at six has been my rule since january 31st, when it began--i then abandoned the seven o'clock sunday dinner, of which i entirely disapprove. it has prevented, for two terms, the college servants' service. on may 12th he wrote:- as the prince of wales comes this afternoon to open the town hall, i went round to the deanery to invite them to come through my rooms upon the roof, to see the procession arrive.... a party of about twenty were on my roof in the afternoon, including mrs. moberly, mrs. driver, and mrs. baynes, and most, if not all, of the children in christ church. dinner in hall at eight. the dean had the prince on his right, and lord salisbury on his left. my place was almost _vis-ã -vis_ with the prince. he and the dean were the only speakers. we did not get out of hall till nearly ten. in june he bought a "whiteley exerciser," and fixed it up in his rooms. one would have thought that he would have found his long walks sufficient exercise (an eighteen-mile round was, as we have seen, no unusual thing for him to undertake), but apparently it was not so. he was so pleased with the "exerciser," that he bought several more of them, and made presents of them to his friends. as an instance of his broad-mindedness, the following extract from his diary for june 20th is interesting. it must be premised that e--was a young friend of his who had recently become a member of the roman catholic church, and that their place of worship in oxford is dedicated to s. aloysius. i went with e-to s. aloysius. there was much beauty in the service, part of which consisted in a procession, with banner, all round the church, carrying the host, preceded by a number of girls in white, with veils (who had all had their first communion that morning), strewing flowers. many of them were quite little things of about seven. the sermon (by father richardson) was good and interesting, and in a very loyal tone about the queen. a letter he wrote some years before to a friend who had asked him about his religious opinions reveals the same catholicity of mind:- i am a member of the english church, and have taken deacon's orders, but did not think fit (for reasons i need not go into) to take priest's orders. my dear father was what is called a "high churchman," and i naturally adopted those views, but have always felt repelled by the yet higher development called "ritualism." but i doubt if i am fully a "high churchman" now. i find that as life slips away (i am over fifty now), and the life on the other side of the great river becomes more and more the reality, of which _this_ is only a shadow, that the petty distinctions of the many creeds of christendom tend to slip away as well--leaving only the great truths which all christians believe alike. more and more, as i read of the christian religion, as christ preached it, i stand amazed at the forms men have given to it, and the fictitious barriers they have built up between themselves and their brethren. i believe that when you and i come to lie down for the last time, if only we can keep firm hold of the great truths christ taught us--our own utter worthlessness and his infinite worth; and that he has brought us back to our one father, and made us his brethren, and so brethren to one another--we shall have all we need to guide us through the shadows. most assuredly i accept to the full the doctrines you refer to--that christ died to save us, that we have no other way of salvation open to us but through his death, and that it is by faith in him, and through no merit of ours, that we are reconciled to god; and most assuredly i can cordially say, "i owe all to him who loved me, and died on the cross of calvary." he spent the long vacation at eastbourne as usual, frequently walking over to hastings, which is about twenty miles off. a good many of his mornings were spent in giving lectures and telling stories at schools. a letter to the widow of an old college friend reveals the extraordinary sensitiveness of his nature:- 2, bedford well road, eastbourne, _august_ 2, 1897. my dear mrs. woodhouse,--your letter, with its mournful news, followed me down here, and i only got it on saturday night; so i was not able to be with you in thought when the mortal remains of my dear old friend were being committed to the ground; to await the time when our heavenly father shall have accomplished the number of his elect, and when you and i shall once more meet the loved ones from whom we are, for a little while only--what a little while even a long human life lasts!--parted in sorrow, yet _not_ sorrowing as those without hope. you will be sure without words of mine, that you have my true and deep sympathy. of all the friends i made at ch. ch., your husband was the very _first_ who spoke to me--across the dinner-table in hall. that is forty-six years ago, but i remember, as if it were only yesterday, the kindly smile with which he spoke.... september 27th and 28th are marked in his diary "with a white stone":- _sept. 27th.--dies notandus._ discovered rule for dividing a number by 9, by mere addition and subtraction. i felt sure there must be an analogous one for 11, and found it, and proved first rule by algebra, after working about nine hours! _sept. 28th.--dies cretã¢ notandus._ i have actually _superseded_ the rules discovered yesterday! my new rules require to ascertain the 9-remainder, and the 11-remainder, which the others did _not_ require; but the new ones are much the quickest. i shall send them to _the educational times_, with date of discovery. on november 4th he wrote:- completed a rule for dividing a given number by any divisor that is within 10 of a power of 10, either way. the _principle_ of it is not my discovery, but was sent me by bertram collingwood--a rule for dividing by a divisor which is within 10 of a power of 10, _below_ it. my readers will not be surprised to learn that only eight days after this he had superseded his rule:- an inventive morning! after waking, and before i had finished dressing, i had devised a new and much neater form in which to work my rules for long division, and also decided to bring out my "games and puzzles," and part iii. of "curiosa mathematica," in _numbers_, in paper covers, paged consecutively, to be ultimately issued in boards. on november 20th he spent the day in london, with the object of seeing "the little minister" at the haymarket. "a beautiful play, beautifully acted," he calls it, and says that he should like to see it "again and again." he especially admired the acting of mrs. cyril maude (miss winifred emery) as lady babbie. this was the last theatrical performance he ever witnessed. he apparently kept rough notes for his diary, and only wrote it up every few weeks, as there are no entries at all for 1898, nor even for the last week of 1897. the concluding page runs as follows:- _dec. (w.) 10 a.m._--i am in my large room, with no fire, and open window--temperature 54 degrees. _dec. 17 (f.)._--maggie [one of his sisters], and our nieces nella and violet, came to dinner. _dec. 19 (sun.)._--sat up last night till 4 a.m., over a tempting problem, sent me from new york, "to find 3 equal rational-sided rt.-angled _triangles_." i found _two_, whose sides are 20, 21, 29; 12, 35, 37; but could not find _three_. _dec. 23(th.)._--i start for guildford by the 2.7 today. as my story of lewis carroll's life draws near its end, i have received some "stray reminiscences" from sir george baden-powell, m.p., which, as they refer to several different periods of time, are as appropriate here as in any other part of the book. the rev. e.h. dodgson, referred to in these reminiscences, is a younger brother of lewis carroll's; he spent several years of his life upon the remote island of tristan d'acunha, where there were only about seventy or eighty inhabitants besides himself. about once a year a ship used to call, when the island-folk would exchange their cattle for cloth, corn, tea, &c., which they could not produce themselves. the island is volcanic in origin, and is exposed to the most terrific gales; the building used as a church stood at some distance from mr. dodgson's dwelling, and on one occasion the wind was so strong that he had to crawl on his hands and knees for the whole distance that separated the two buildings. my first introduction (writes sir george baden-powell) to the author of "through the looking-glass" was about the year 1870 or 1871, and under appropriate conditions! i was then coaching at oxford with the well-known rev. e. hatch, and was on friendly terms with his bright and pretty children. entering his house one day, and facing the dining-room, i heard mysterious noises under the table, and saw the cloth move as if some one were hiding. children's legs revealed it as no burglar, and there was nothing for it but to crawl upon them, roaring as a lion. bursting in upon them in their strong-hold under the table, i was met by the staid but amused gaze of a reverend gentleman. frequently afterwards did i see and hear "lewis carroll" entertaining the youngsters in his inimitable way. we became friends, and greatly did i enjoy intercourse with him over various minor oxford matters. in later years, at one time i saw much of him, in quite another _rã´le_--namely that of ardent sympathy with the, as he thought, ill-treated and deserted islanders of tristan d'acunha. his brother, it will be remembered, had voluntarily been left at that island with a view to ministering to the spiritual and educational needs of the few settlers, and sent home such graphic accounts and urgent demands for aid, that "lewis carroll" spared no pains to organise assistance and relief. at his instance i brought the matter before government and the house of commons, and from that day to this frequent communication has been held with the islanders, and material assistance has been rendered them--thanks to the warm heart of "lewis carroll." on december 23, 1897, as the note in his diary states, he went down, in accordance with his usual custom, to guildford, to spend christmas with his sisters at the chestnuts. he seemed to be in his ordinary health, and in the best of spirits, and there was nothing to show that the end was so near. [illustration: the chestnuts, guildford. _from a photograph._] at guildford he was hard at work upon the second part of his "symbolic logic," spending most of the day over this task. this book, alas! he was not destined to finish, which is the more to be regretted as it will be exceedingly difficult for any one else to take up the thread of the argument, even if any one could be found willing to give the great amount of time and trouble which would be needed. on january 5th my father, the rev. c.s. collingwood, rector of southwick, near sunderland, died after a very short illness. the telegram which brought mr. dodgson the news of this contained the request that he would come at once. he determined to travel north the next day--but it was not to be so. an attack of influenza, which began only with slight hoarseness, yet enough to prevent him from following his usual habit of reading family prayers, was pronounced next morning to be sufficiently serious to forbid his undertaking a journey. at first his illness seemed a trifle, but before a week had passed bronchial symptoms had developed, and dr. gabb, the family physician, ordered him to keep his bed. his breathing rapidly became hard and laborious, and he had to be propped up with pillows. a few days before his death he asked one of his sisters to read him that well-known hymn, every verse of which ends with 'thy will be done.' to another he said that his illness was a great trial of his patience. how great a trial it must have been it is hard for us to understand. with the work he had set himself still uncompleted, with a sense of youth and joyousness, which sixty years of the battle of life had in no way dulled, lewis carroll had to face death. he seemed to know that the struggle was over. "take away those pillows," he said on the 13th, "i shall need them no more." the end came about half-past two on the afternoon of the 14th. one of his sisters was in the room at the time, and she only noticed that the hard breathing suddenly ceased. the nurse, whom she summoned, at first hoped that this was a sign that he had taken a turn for the better. and so, indeed, he had--he had passed from a world of incompleteness and disappointment, to another where god is putting his beautiful soul to nobler and grander work than was possible for him here, where he is learning to comprehend those difficulties which used to puzzle him so much, and where that infinite love, which he mirrored so wonderfully in his own life, is being revealed to him "face to face." in accordance with his expressed wish, the funeral was simple in the extreme--flowers, and flowers only, adorned the plain coffin. there was no hearse to drag it up the steep incline that leads to the beautiful cemetery where he lies. the service was taken by dean paget and canon grant, rector of holy trinity and s. mary's, guildford. the mourners who followed him in the quiet procession were few--but the mourners who were not there, and many of whom had never seen him--who shall tell _their_ number? after the grave had been filled up, the wreaths which had covered the coffin were placed upon it. many were from "child-friends" and bore such inscriptions as "from two of his child-friends"--"to the sweetest soul that ever looked with human eyes," &c. then the mourners left him alone there--up on the pleasant downs where he had so often walked. a marble cross, under the shadow of a pine, marks the spot, and beneath his own name they have engraved the name of "lewis carroll," that the children who pass by may remember their friend, who is now--himself a child in all that makes childhood most attractive--in that "wonderland" which outstrips all our dreams and hopes. i cannot forbear quoting from professor sanday's sermon at christ church on the sunday after his death:- the world will think of lewis carroll as one who opened out a new vein in literature, a new and a delightful vein, which added at once mirth and refinement to life.... may we not say that from our courts at christ church there has flowed into the literature of our time a rill, bright and sparkling, health-giving and purifying, wherever its waters extend? [illustration: lewis carroll's grave. _from a photograph._] on the following sunday dean paget, in the course of a sermon on the "virtue of simplicity," said:- we may differ, according to our difference of taste or temperament, in appraising charles dodgson's genius; but that that great gift was his, that his best work ranks with the very best of its kind, this has been owned with a recognition too wide and spontaneous to leave room for doubt. the brilliant, venturesome imagination, defying forecast with ever-fresh surprise; the sense of humour in its finest and most naã¯ve form; the power to touch with lightest hand the undercurrent of pathos in the midst of fun; the audacity of creative fancy, and the delicacy of insight--these are rare gifts; and surely they were his. yes, but it was his simplicity of mind and heart that raised them all, not only in his work but in his life, in all his ways, in the man as we knew him, to something higher than any mere enumeration of them tells: that almost curious simplicity, at times, that real and touching child-likeness that marked him in all fields of thought, appearing in his love of children and in their love of him, in his dread of giving pain to any living creature, in a certain disproportion, now and then, of the view he took of things--yes, and also in that deepest life, where the pure in heart and those who become as little children see the very truth and walk in the fear and love of god. some extracts from the numerous sympathetic letters received by mr. dodgson's brothers and sisters will show how greatly his loss was felt. thus canon jelf writes:- it was quite a shock to me to see in the paper to-day the death of your dear, good brother, to whom we owe so much of the brightening of our lives with pure, innocent fun. personally i feel his loss very much indeed. we were together in old ch. ch. days from 1852 onwards; and he was always such a loyal, faithful friend to me. i rejoice to think of the _serious_ talks we had together--of the grand, brave way in which he used the opportunities he had as a man of humour, to reach the consciences of a host of readers--of his love for children--his simplicity of heart--of his care for servants--his spiritual care for them. who can doubt that he was fully prepared for a change however sudden--for the one clear call which took him away from us? yet the world seems darker for his going; we can only get back our brightness by realising who gave him all his talent, all his mirth of heart--the one who never leaves us. in deep sympathy, yours very sincerely, george e. jelf. p.s.--when you have time tell me a little about him; he was so dear to me. mr. frederic harrison writes as follows:- the occasional visits that i received from your late brother showed me a side of his nature which to my mind was more interesting and more worthy of remembrance even than his wonderful and delightful humour--i mean his intense sympathy with all who suffer and are in need. he came to see me several times on sundry errands of mercy, and it has been a lesson to me through life to remember his zeal to help others in difficulty, his boundless generosity, and his inexhaustible patience with folly and error. my young daughter, like all young people in civilised countries, was brought up on his beautiful fancies and humours. but for my part i remember him mainly as a sort of missionary to all in need. we all alike grieve, and offer you our heartfelt sympathy. i am, faithfully yours, frederic harrison. his old friend and tutor. dr. price, writes:- ... i feel his removal from among us as the loss of an old and dear friend and pupil, to whom i have been most warmly attached ever since he was with me at whitby, reading mathematics, in, i think, 1853--44 years ago! and 44 years of uninterrupted friendship .... i was pleased to read yesterday in _the times_ newspaper the kindly obituary notice: perfectly just and true; appreciative, as it should be, as to the unusual combination of deep mathematical ability and taste with the genius that led to the writing of "alice's adventures." only the other day [writes a lady friend] he wrote to me about his admiration for my dear husband, and he ended his letter thus: "i trust that when _my_ time comes, i may be found, like him, working to the last, and ready for the master's call"--and truly so he was. a friend at oxford writes:- mr. dodgson was ever the kindest and gentlest of friends, bringing sunshine into the house with him. we shall mourn his loss deeply, and my two girls are quite overcome with grief. all day memories of countless acts of kindness shown to me, and to people i have known, have crowded my mind, and i feel it almost impossible to realise that he has passed beyond the reach of our gratitude and affection. the following are extracts from letters written by some of his "child-friends," now grown up:- how beautiful to think of the track of light and love he has left behind him, and the amount of happiness he brought into the lives of all those he came in contact with! i shall never forget all his kindness to us, from the time he first met us as little mites in the railway train, and one feels glad to have had the privilege of knowing him. one of mr. dodgson's oldest "child-friends" writes:- he was to me a dear and true friend, and it has been my great privilege to see a good deal of him ever since i was a tiny child, and especially during the last two years. i cannot tell you how much we shall miss him here. ch. ch. without mr. dodgson will be a strange place, and it is difficult to realise it even while we listen to the special solemn anthems and hymns to his memory in our cathedral. one who had visited him at guildford, writes:- it must be quite sixteen years now since he first made friends with my sister and myself as children on the beach at eastbourne, and since then his friendship has been and must always be one of my most valued possessions. it culminated, i think, in the summer of 1892--the year when he brought me to spend a very happy sunday at guildford. i had not seen him before, that year, for some time; and it was then, i think, that the childish delight in his kindness, and pride in his friendship, changed into higher love and reverence, when in our long walks over the downs i saw more and more into the great tenderness and gentleness of his nature. shortly after mr. dodgson's death, his "three sunsets" was published by messrs. macmillan. the twelve "fairy fancies," which illustrate it, were drawn by miss e. g. thomson. though they are entirely unconnected with the text, they are so thoroughly in accordance with the author's delicate refinement, and so beautiful in themselves, that they do not strike one as inappropriate. some of the verses are strangely in keeping with the time at which they are published. i could not see, for blinding tears, the glories of the west: a heavenly music filled my ears, a heavenly peace my breast. "come unto me, come unto me- all ye that labour, unto me- ye heavy-laden, come to me- and i will give you rest." one cannot read this little volume without feeling that the shadow of some disappointment lay over lewis carroll's life. such i believe to have been the case, and it was this that gave him his wonderful sympathy with all who suffered. but those who loved him would not wish to lift the veil from these dead sanctities, nor would any purpose be served by so doing. the proper use of sympathy is not to weep over sorrows that are over, and whose very memory is perhaps obliterated for him in the first joy of possessing new and higher faculties. before leaving the subject of this book, i should like to draw attention to a few lines on "woman's mission," lines full of the noblest chivalry, reminding one of tennyson's "idylls of the king":- in the darkest path of man's despair, where war and terror shake the troubled earth, lies woman's mission; with unblenching brow to pass through scenes of horror and affright where men grow sick and tremble: unto her all things are sanctified, for all are good. nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care: nothing so great, but she may bear her part. no life is vain: each hath his place assigned: do thou thy task, and leave the rest to god. of the unpublished works which mr. dodgson left behind him, i may mention "original games and puzzles"; "symbolic logic, part ii.," and a portion of a mathematical book, the proofs of which are now in the hands of the controller of the oxford university press. i will conclude this chapter with a poem which appeared in _punch_ for january 29th, a fortnight after lewis carroll's death. it expresses, with all the grace and insight of the true poet, what i have tried, so feebly and ineffectually, to say:- lewis carroll. _born_ 1832. _died january_ 14, 1898. lover of children! fellow-heir with those of whom the imperishable kingdom is! beyond all dreaming now your spirit knows the unimagined mysteries. darkly as in a glass our faces look to read ourselves, if so we may, aright; you, like the maiden in your faã«rie book- you step behind and see the light! the heart you wore beneath your pedant's cloak only to children's hearts you gave away; yet unaware in half the world you woke the slumbering charm of childhood's day. we older children, too, our loss lament, we of the "table round," remembering well how he, our comrade, with his pencil lent your fancy's speech a firmer spell. master of rare woodcraft, by sympathy's sure touch he caught your visionary gleams, and made your fame, the dreamer's, one with his. the wise interpreter of dreams. farewell! but near our hearts we have you yet, holding our heritage with loving hand, who may not follow where your feet are set upon the ways of wonderland.[025] [illustration: lorina and alice liddell. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] * * * * * chapter x child friends mr. dodgson's fondness for children--miss isabel standen--puzzles--"me and myself"--a double acrostic--"father william"--of drinking healths--kisses by post--tired in the face--the unripe plum--eccentricities--"sylvie and bruno"--"mr. dodgson is going on _well_." this chapter, and the next will deal with mr. dodgson's friendships with children. it would have been impossible to arrange them in chronological sequence in the earlier part of this book, and the fact that they exhibit a very important and distinct side of his nature seems to justify me in assigning them a special and individual position. for the contents of these two chapters, both my readers and myself owe a debt of gratitude to those child-friends of his, without whose ever-ready help this book could never have been written. from very early college days began to emerge that beautiful side of lewis carroll's character which afterwards was to be, next to his fame as an author, the one for which he was best known--his attitude towards children, and the strong attraction they had for him. i shall attempt to point out the various influences which led him in this direction; but if i were asked for one comprehensive word wide enough to explain this tendency of his nature, i would answer unhesitatingly--love. my readers will remember a beautiful verse in "sylvie and bruno"; trite though it is, i cannot forbear to quote it- say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, like a picture so fair to the sight? that flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, till the little lambs leap with delight? 'tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, though 'tis sung by the angels above, in notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear, and the name of the secret is love! that "secret"--an open secret for him--explains this side of his character. as _he_ read everything in its light, so it is only in its light that _we_ can properly understand _him_. i think that the following quotation from a letter to the rev. f. h. atkinson, accompanying a copy of "alice" for his little daughter gertrude, sufficiently proves the truth of what i have just stated:- many thanks to mrs. atkinson and to you for the sight of the tinted photograph of your gertrude. as you say, the picture speaks for itself, and i can see exactly what sort of a child she is, in proof of which i send her my love and a kiss herewith. it is possible i may be the first (unseen) gentleman from whom she has had so ridiculous a message; but i can't say she is the first unseen child to whom i have sent one! i think the most precious message of the kind i ever got from a child i never saw (and never shall see in this world) was to the effect that she liked me when she read about alice, "but please tell him, whenever i read that easter letter he sent me i _do_ love him!" she was in a hospital, and a lady friend who visited there had asked me to send the letter to her and some other sick children. and now as to the secondary causes which attracted him to children. first, i think children appealed to him because he was pre-eminently a teacher, and he saw in their unspoiled minds the best material for him to work upon. in later years one of his favourite recreations was to lecture at schools on logic; he used to give personal attention to each of his pupils, and one can well imagine with what eager anticipation the children would have looked forward to the visits of a schoolmaster who knew how to make even the dullest subjects interesting and amusing. again, children appealed to his ã¦sthetic faculties, for he was a keen admirer of the beautiful in every form. poetry, music, the drama, all delighted him, but pictures more than all put together. i remember his once showing me "the lady with the lilacs," which arthur hughes had painted for him, and how he dwelt with intense pleasure on the exquisite contrasts of colour which it contained--the gold hair of a girl standing out against the purple of lilac-blossom. but with those who find in such things as these a complete satisfaction of their desire for the beautiful he had no sympathy; for no imperfect representations of life could, for him, take the place of life itself, life as god has made it--the babbling of the brook, the singing of the birds, the laughter and sweet faces of the children. and yet, recognising, as he did, what mr. pater aptly terms "the curious perfection of the human form," in man, as in nature, it was the soul that attracted him more than the body. his intense admiration, one might almost call it adoration, for the white innocence and uncontaminated spirituality of childhood emerges most clearly in "sylvie and bruno." he says very little of the personal beauty of his heroine; he might have asked, with mr. francis thompson- how can i tell what beauty is her dole, who cannot see her countenance for her soul? so entirely occupied is he with her gentleness, her pity, her sincerity, and her love. again, the reality of children appealed strongly to the simplicity and genuineness of his own nature. i believe that he understood children even better than he understood men and women; civilisation has made adult humanity very incomprehensible, for convention is as a veil which hides the divine spark that is in each of us, and so this strange thing has come to be, that the imperfect mirrors perfection more completely than the perfected, that we see more of god in the child than in the man. and in those moments of depression of which he had his full share, when old age seemed to mock him with all its futility and feebleness, it was the thought that the children still loved him which nerved him again to continue his life-work, which renewed his youth, so that to his friends he never seemed an old man. even the hand of death itself only made his face look more boyish--the word is not too strong. "how wonderfully young your brother looks!" were the first words the doctor said, as he returned from the room where lewis carroll's body lay, to speak to the mourners below. and so he loved children because their friendship was the true source of his perennial youth and unflagging vigour. this idea is expressed in the following poem--an acrostic, which he wrote for a friend some twenty years ago:- around my lonely hearth, to-night, ghostlike the shadows wander: now here, now there, a childish sprite, earthborn and yet as angel bright, seems near me as i ponder. gaily she shouts: the laughing air echoes her note of gladness- or bends herself with earnest care round fairy-fortress to prepare grim battlement or turret-stair- in childhood's merry madness! new raptures still hath youth in store: age may but fondly cherish half-faded memories of yore- up, craven heart! repine no more! love stretches hands from shore to shore: love is, and shall not perish! his first child-friend, so far as i know, was miss alice liddell, the little companion whose innocent talk was one of the chief pleasures of his early life at oxford, and to whom he told the tale that was to make him famous. in december, 1885, miss m.e. manners presented him with a little volume, of which she was the authoress, "aunt agatha ann and other verses," and which contained a poem (which i quoted in chapter vi.), about "alice." writing to acknowledge this gift, lewis carroll said:- permit me to offer you my sincere thanks for the very sweet verses you have written about my dream-child (named after a real alice, but none the less a dream-child) and her wonderland. that children love the book is a very precious thought to me, and, next to their love, i value the sympathy of those who come with a child's heart to what i have tried to write about a child's thoughts. next to what conversing with an angel _might_ be--for it is hard to imagine it--comes, i think, the privilege of having a real child's thoughts uttered to one. i have known some few _real_ children (you have too, i am sure), and their friendship is a blessing and a help in life. [illustration: alice liddell. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] it is interesting to note how in "sylvie and bruno" his idea of the thoughts of a child has become deeper and more spiritual. yet in the earlier tale, told "all in a golden afternoon," to the plash of oars and the swish of a boat through the waters of cherwell or thames, the ideal child is strangely beautiful; she has all sylvie's genuineness and honesty, all her keen appreciation of the interest of life; only there lacks that mysterious charm of deep insight into the hidden forces of nature, the gentle power that makes the sky "such a darling blue," which almost links sylvie with the angels. another of lewis carroll's early favourites was miss alexandra (xie) kitchin, daughter of the dean of durham. her father was for fifteen years the censor of the unattached members of the university of oxford, so that mr. dodgson had plenty of opportunities of photographing his little friend, and it is only fair to him to say that he did not neglect them. it would be futile to attempt even a bare list of the children whom he loved, and who loved him; during forty years of his life he was constantly adding to their number. some remained friends for life, but in a large proportion of cases the friendship ended with the end of childhood. to one of those few, whose affection for him had not waned with increasing years, he wrote:- i always feel specially grateful to friends who, like you, have given me a child-friendship and a woman-friendship. about nine out of ten, i think, of my child-friendships get ship-wrecked at the critical point, "where the stream and river meet," and the child-friends, once so affectionate, become uninteresting acquaintances, whom i have no wish to set eyes on again. [illustration: xie kitchin. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] these friendships usually began all very much in the same way. a chance meeting on the sea-shore, in the street, at some friend's house, led to conversation; then followed a call on the parents, and after that all sorts of kindnesses on lewis carroll's part, presents of books, invitations to stay with him at oxford, or at eastbourne, visits with him to the theatre. for the amusement of his little guests he kept a large assortment of musical-boxes, and an organette which had to be fed with paper tunes. on one occasion he ordered about twelve dozen of these tunes "on approval," and asked one of the other dons, who was considered a judge of music, to come in and hear them played over. in addition to these attractions there were clock-work bears, mice, and frogs, and games and puzzles in infinite variety. one of his little friends, miss isabel standen, has sent me the following account of her first meeting with him:- we met for the first time in the forbury gardens, reading. he was, i believe, waiting for a train. i was playing with my brothers and sisters in the gardens. i remember his taking me on his knee and showing me puzzles, one of which he refers to in the letter (given below. this puzzle was, by the way, a great favourite of his; the problem is to draw three interlaced squares without going over the same lines twice, or taking the pen off the paper), which is so thoroughly characteristic of him in its quaint humour:- "the chestnuts, guildford, _august _22, 1869. my dear isabel,--though i have only been acquainted with you for fifteen minutes, yet, as there is no one else in reading i have known so long, i hope you will not mind my troubling you. before i met you in the gardens yesterday i bought some old books at a shop in reading, which i left to be called for, and had not time to go back for them. i didn't even remark the name of the shop, but i can tell _where_ it was, and if you know the name of the woman who keeps the shop, and would put it into the blank i have left in this note, and direct it to her i should be much obliged ... a friend of mine, called mr. lewis carroll, tells me he means to send you a book. he is a _very_ dear friend of mine. i have known him all my life (we are the same age) and have _never_ left him. of course he was with me in the gardens, not a yard off--even while i was drawing those puzzles for you. i wonder if you saw him? your fifteen-minute friend, c.l. dodgson. have you succeeded in drawing the three squares?" another favourite puzzle was the following--i give it in his own words:- a is to draw a fictitious map divided into counties. b is to colour it (or rather mark the counties with _names_ of colours) using as few colours as possible. two adjacent counties must have _different_ colours. a's object is to force b to use as _many_ colours as possible. how many can he force b to use? one of his most amusing letters was to a little girl called magdalen, to whom he had given a copy of his "hunting of the snark":- christ church, _december_ 15, 1875. my dear magdalen,--i want to explain to you why i did not call yesterday. i was sorry to miss you, but you see i had so many conversations on the way. i tried to explain to the people in the street that i was going to see you, but they wouldn't listen; they said they were in a hurry, which was rude. at last i met a wheelbarrow that i thought would attend to me, but i couldn't make out what was in it. i saw some features at first, then i looked through a telescope, and found it was a countenance; then i looked through a microscope, and found it was a face! i thought it was father like me, so i fetched a large looking-glass to make sure, and then to my great joy i found it was me. we shook hands, and were just beginning to talk, when myself came up and joined us, and we had quite a pleasant conversation. i said, "do you remember when we all met at sandown?" and myself said, "it was very jolly there; there was a child called magdalen," and me said, "i used to like her a little; not much, you know--only a little." then it was time for us to go to the train, and who do you think came to the station to see us off? you would never guess, so i must tell you. they were two very dear friends of mine, who happen to be here just now, and beg to be allowed to sign this letter as your affectionate friends, lewis carroll and c.l. dodgson. another child-friend, miss f. bremer, writes as follows:- our acquaintance began in a somewhat singular manner. we were playing on the fort at margate, and a gentleman on a seat near asked us if we could make a paper boat, with a seat at each end, and a basket in the middle for fish! we were, of course, enchanted with the idea, and our new friend--after achieving the feat--gave us his card, which we at once carried to our mother. he asked if he might call where we were staying, and then presented my elder sister with a copy of "alice in wonderland," inscribed "from the author." he kindly organised many little excursions for us--chiefly in the pursuit of knowledge. one memorable visit to a light house is still fresh in our memories. it was while calling one day upon mrs. bremer that he scribbled off the following double acrostic on the names of her two daughters- double acrostic--five letters. two little girls near london dwell, more naughty than i like to tell. 1. upon the lawn the hoops are seen: the balls are rolling on the green. t ur f 2. the thames is running deep and wide: and boats are rowing on the tide. r ive r 3. in winter-time, all in a row, the happy skaters come and go. i c e 4. "papa!" they cry, "do let us stay!" he does not speak, but says they may. n o d 5. "there is a land," he says, "my dear, which is too hot to skate, i fear." a fric a at margate also he met miss adelaide paine, who afterwards became one of his greatest favourites. he could not bear to see the healthy pleasures of childhood spoiled by conventional restraint. "one piece of advice given to my parents," writes miss paine, "gave me very great glee, and that was not to make little girls wear gloves at the seaside; they took the advice, and i enjoyed the result." _apropos_ of this i may mention that, when staying at eastbourne, he never went down to the beach without providing himself with a supply of safety-pins. then if he saw any little girl who wanted to wade in the sea, but was afraid of spoiling her frock, he would gravely go up to her and present her with a safety-pin, so that she might fasten up her skirts out of harm's way. tight boots were a great aversion of his, especially for children. one little girl who was staying with him at eastbourne had occasion to buy a new pair of boots. lewis carroll gave instructions to the bootmaker as to how they were to be made, so as to be thoroughly comfortable, with the result that when they came home they were more useful than ornamental, being very nearly as broad as they were long! which shows that even hygienic principles may be pushed too far. the first meeting with miss paine took place in 1876. when lewis carroll returned to christ church he sent her a copy of "the hunting of the snark," with the following acrostic written in the fly-leaf:- 'a re you deaf, father william?' the young man said, 'd id you hear what i told you just now? e xcuse me for shouting! don't waggle your head l ike a blundering, sleepy old cow! a little maid dwelling in wallington town, i s my friend, so i beg to remark: d o you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down e ntitled "the hunt of the snark?"' 'p ack it up in brown paper!' the old man cried, 'a nd seal it with olive-and-dove. i command you to do it!' he added with pride, 'n or forget, my good fellow, to send her beside e aster greetings, and give her my love.' this was followed by a letter, dated june 7, 1876:- my dear adelaide,--did you try if the letters at the beginnings of the lines about father william would spell anything? sometimes it happens that you can spell out words that way, which is very curious. i wish you could have heard him when he shouted out "pack it up in brown paper!" it quite shook the house. and he threw one of his shoes at his son's head (just to make him attend, you know), but it missed him. he was glad to hear you had got the book safe, but his eyes filled with tears as he said, "i sent _her_ my love, but she never--" he couldn't say any more, his mouth was so full of bones (he was just finishing a roast goose). another letter to miss paine is very characteristic of his quaint humour:- christ church, oxford, _march_ 8, 1880. my dear ada,--(isn't that your short name? "adelaide" is all very well, but you see when one's _dreadfully_ busy one hasn't time to write such long words--particularly when it takes one half an hour to remember how to spell it--and even then one has to go and get a dictionary to see if one has spelt it right, and of course the dictionary is in another room, at the top of a high bookcase--where it has been for months and months, and has got all covered with dust--so one has to get a duster first of all, and nearly choke oneself in dusting it--and when one _has_ made out at last which is dictionary and which is dust, even _then_ there's the job of remembering which end of the alphabet "a" comes--for one feels pretty certain it isn't in the _middle_--then one has to go and wash one's hands before turning over the leaves--for they've got so thick with dust one hardly knows them by sight--and, as likely as not, the soap is lost, and the jug is empty, and there's no towel, and one has to spend hours and hours in finding things--and perhaps after all one has to go off to the shop to buy a new cake of soap--so, with all this bother, i hope you won't mind my writing it short and saying, "my dear ada"). you said in your last letter you would like a likeness of me: so here it is, and i hope you will like it--i won't forget to call the next time but one i'm in wallington. your very affectionate friend, lewis carroll. it was quite against mr. dodgson's usual rule to give away photographs of himself; he hated publicity, and the above letter was accompanied by another to mrs. paine, which ran as follows:- i am very unwilling, usually, to give my photograph, for i don't want people, who have heard of lewis carroll, to be able to recognise him in the street--but i can't refuse ada. will you kindly take care, if any of your ordinary acquaintances (i don't speak of intimate friends) see it, that they are _not_ told anything about the name of "lewis carroll"? he even objected to having his books discussed in his presence; thus he writes to a friend:- your friend, miss--was very kind and complimentary about my books, but may i confess that i would rather have them ignored? perhaps i am too fanciful, but i have somehow taken a dislike to being talked to about them; and consequently have some trials to bear in society, which otherwise would be no trials at all.... i don't think any of my many little stage-friends have any shyness at all about being talked to of their performances. _they_ thoroughly enjoy the publicity that i shrink from. the child to whom the three following letters were addressed, miss gaynor simpson, was one of lewis carroll's guildford friends. the correct answer to the riddle propounded in the second letter is "copal":- _december_ 27, 1873. my dear gaynor,--my name is spelt with a "g," that is to say "_dodgson_." any one who spells it the same as that wretch (i mean of course the chairman of committees in the house of commons) offends me _deeply_, and _for ever!_ it is a thing i _can_ forget, but _never can forgive! _if you do it again, i shall call you "'aynor." could you live happy with such a name? as to dancing, my dear, i _never_ dance, unless i am allowed to do it _in my own peculiar way. _there is no use trying to describe it: it has to be seen to be believed. the last house i tried it in, the floor broke through. but then it was a poor sort of floor--the beams were only six inches thick, hardly worth calling beams at all: stone arches are much more sensible, when any dancing, _of my peculiar kind_, is to be done. did you ever see the rhinoceros, and the hippopotamus, at the zoã¶logical gardens, trying to dance a minuet together? it is a touching sight. give any message from me to amy that you think will be most likely to surprise her, and, believe me, your affectionate friend, lewis carroll. my dear gaynor,--so you would like to know the answer to that riddle? don't be in a hurry to tell it to amy and frances: triumph over them for a while! my first lends its aid when you plunge into trade. _gain_. who would go into trade if there were no gain in it? my second in jollifications- _or_ [the french for "gold"--] your jollifications would be _very_ limited if you had no money. my whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish to pictorial representations. _gaynor_. because she will be an ornament to the shakespeare charades--only she must be "laid on thinnish," that is, _there musn't be too much of her._ yours affectionately, c. l. dodgson. my dear gaynor,--forgive me for having sent you a sham answer to begin with. my first--_sea_. it carries the ships of the merchants. my second--_weed_. that is, a cigar, an article much used in jollifications. my whole--_seaweed_. take a newly painted oil-picture; lay it on its back on the floor, and spread over it, "thinnish," some wet seaweed. you will find you have "finished" that picture. yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. lewis carroll during the last fifteen years of his life always spent the long vacation at eastbourne; in earlier times, sandown, a pleasant little seaside resort in the isle of wight, was his summer abode. he loved the sea both for its own sake and because of the number of children whom he met at seaside places. here is another "first meeting"; this time it is at sandown, and miss gertrude chataway is the narrator:- i first met mr. lewis carroll on the sea-shore at sandown in the isle of wight, in the summer of 1875, when i was quite a little child. we had all been taken there for change of air, and next door there was an old gentlemen--to me at any rate he seemed old--who interested me immensely. he would come on to his balcony, which joined ours, sniffing the sea-air with his head thrown back, and would walk right down the steps on to the beach with his chin in air, drinking in the fresh breezes as if he could never have enough. i do not know why this excited such keen curiosity on my part, but i remember well that whenever i heard his footstep i flew out to see him coming, and when one day he spoke to me my joy was complete. thus we made friends, and in a very little while i was as familiar with the interior of his lodgings as with our own. i had the usual child's love for fairy-tales and marvels, and his power of telling stories naturally fascinated me. we used to sit for hours on the wooden steps which led from our garden on to the beach, whilst he told the most lovely tales that could possibly be imagined, often illustrating the exciting situations with a pencil as he went along. one thing that made his stories particularly charming to a child was that he often took his cue from her remarks--a question would set him off on quite a new trail of ideas, so that one felt that one had somehow helped to make the story, and it seemed a personal possession it was the most lovely nonsense conceivable, and i naturally revelled in it. his vivid imagination would fly from one subject to another, and was never tied down in any way by the probabilities of life. to _me_ it was of course all perfect, but it is astonishing that _he_ never seemed either tired or to want other society. i spoke to him once of this since i have been grown up, and he told me it was the greatest pleasure he could have to converse freely with a child, and feel the depths of her mind. he used to write to me and i to him after that summer, and the friendship, thus begun, lasted. his letters were one of the greatest joys of my childhood. i don't think that he ever really understood that we, whom he had known as children, could not always remain such. i stayed with him only a few years ago, at eastbourne, and felt for the time that i was once more a child. he never appeared to realise that i had grown up, except when i reminded him of the fact, and then he only said, "never mind: you will always be a child to me, even when your hair is grey." some of the letters, to which miss chataway refers in these reminiscences, i am enabled, through her kindness, to give below:- christ church, oxford, _october_ 13, 1875. my dear gertrude,--i never give birthday _presents_, but you see i _do_ sometimes write a birthday _letter_: so, as i've just arrived here, i am writing this to wish you many and many a happy return of your birthday to-morrow. i will drink your health, if only i can remember, and if you don't mind--but perhaps you object? you see, if i were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your tea, you wouldn't like _that_, would you? you would say "boo! hoo! here's mr. dodgson's drunk all my tea, and i haven't got any left!" so i am very much afraid, next time sybil looks for you, she'll find you sitting by the sad sea-wave, and crying "boo! hoo! here's mr. dodgson has drunk my health, and i haven't got any left!" and how it will puzzle dr. maund, when he is sent for to see you! "my dear madam, i'm very sorry to say your little girl has got _no health at all_! i never saw such a thing in my life!" "oh, i can easily explain it!" your mother will say. "you see she would go and make friends with a strange gentleman, and yesterday he drank her health!" "well, mrs. chataway," he will say, "the only way to cure her is to wait till his next birthday, and then for _her_ to drink _his_ health." and then we shall have changed healths. i wonder how you'll like mine! oh, gertrude, i wish you wouldn't talk such nonsense!... your loving friend, lewis carroll. christ church, oxford, _dec_. 9, 1875. my dear gertrude,--this really will _not_ do, you know, sending one more kiss every time by post: the parcel gets so heavy it is quite expensive. when the postman brought in the last letter, he looked quite grave. "two pounds to pay, sir!" he said. "_extra weight_, sir!" (i think he cheats a little, by the way. he often makes me pay two _pounds_, when i think it should be _pence_). "oh, if you please, mr. postman!" i said, going down gracefully on one knee (i wish you could see me go down on one knee to a postman--it's a very pretty sight), "do excuse me just this once! it's only from a little girl!" "only from a little girl!" he growled. "what are little girls made of?" "sugar and spice," i began to say, "and all that's ni--" but he interrupted me. "no! i don't mean _that_. i mean, what's the good of little girls, when they send such heavy letters?" "well, they're not _much_ good, certainly," i said, rather sadly. "mind you don't get any more such letters," he said, "at least, not from that particular little girl. _i know her well, and she's a regular bad one!"_ that's not true, is it? i don't believe he ever saw you, and you're not a bad one, are you? however, i promised him we would send each other _very_ few more letters--"only two thousand four hundred and seventy, or so," i said. "oh!" he said, "a little number like _that_ doesn't signify. what i meant is, you mustn't send _many_." so you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two thousand four hundred and seventy, we mustn't write any more, unless the postman gives us leave. i sometimes wish i was back on the shore at sandown; don't you? your loving friend, lewis carroll. why is a pig that has lost its tail like a little girl on the sea-shore? because it says, "i should like another tale, please!" christ church, oxford, _july_ 21, 1876. my dear gertrude,--explain to me how i am to enjoy sandown without _you_. how can i walk on the beach alone? how can i sit all alone on those wooden steps? so you see, as i shan't be able to do without you, you will have to come. if violet comes, i shall tell her to invite you to stay with her, and then i shall come over in the heather-bell and fetch you. if i ever _do_ come over, i see i couldn't go back the same day, so you will have to engage me a bed somewhere in swanage; and if you can't find one, i shall expect _you_ to spend the night on the beach, and give up your room to _me_. guests of course must be thought of before children; and i'm sure in these warm nights the beach will be quite good enough for _you_. if you _did_ feel a little chilly, of course you could go into a bathing-machine, which everybody knows is _very_ comfortable to sleep in--you know they make the floor of soft wood on purpose. i send you seven kisses (to last a week) and remain your loving friend, lewis carroll. christ church, oxford, _october_ 28, 1876. my dearest gertrude,--you will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness i have had ever since you went. i sent for the doctor, and said, "give me some medicine, for i'm tired." he said, "nonsense and stuff! you don't want medicine: go to bed!" i said, "no; it isn't the sort of tiredness that wants bed. i'm tired in the _face_." he looked a little grave, and said, "oh, it's your _nose_ that's tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he nose a great deal." i said, "no; it isn't the nose. perhaps it's the _hair_." then he looked rather grave, and said, "_now_ i understand: you've been playing too many hairs on the piano-forte." "no, indeed i haven't!" i said, "and it isn't exactly the _hair_: it's more about the nose and chin." then he looked a good deal graver, and said, "have you been walking much on your chin lately?" i said, "no." "well!" he said, "it puzzles me very much. do you think that it's in the lips?" "of course!" i said. "that's exactly what it is!" then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "i think you must have been giving too many kisses." "well," i said, "i did give _one_ kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine." "think again," he said; "are you sure it was only _one_?" i thought again, and said, "perhaps it was eleven times." then the doctor said, "you must not give her _any_ more till your lips are quite rested again." "but what am i to do?" i said, "because you see, i owe her a hundred and eighty-two more." then he looked so grave that the tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "you may send them to her in a box." then i remembered a little box that i once bought at dover, and thought i would some day give it to _some_ little girl or other. so i have packed them all in it very carefully. tell me if they come safe, or if any are lost on the way. reading station, _april_ 13, 1878. my dear gertrude,--as i have to wait here for half an hour, i have been studying bradshaw (most things, you know, ought to be studied: even a trunk is studded with nails), and the result is that it seems i could come, any day next week, to winckfield, so as to arrive there about one; and that, by leaving winckfield again about half-past six, i could reach guildford again for dinner. the next question is, _how far is it from winckfield to rotherwick?_ now do not deceive me, you wretched child! if it is more than a hundred miles, i can't come to see you, and there is no use to talk about it. if it is less, the next question is, _how much less?_ these are serious questions, and you must be as serious as a judge in answering them. there mustn't be a smile in your pen, or a wink in your ink (perhaps you'll say, "there can't be a _wink_ in _ink_: but there _may_ be _ink_ in a _wink_"--but this is trifling; you mustn't make jokes like that when i tell you to be serious) while you write to guildford and answer these two questions. you might as well tell me at the same time whether you are still living at rotherwick--and whether you are at home--and whether you get my letter--and whether you're still a child, or a grown-up person--and whether you're going to the seaside next summer--and anything else (except the alphabet and the multiplication table) that you happen to know. i send you 10,000,000 kisses, and remain. your loving friend, c. l. dodgson. the chestnuts, guildford, _april_ 19, 1878. my dear gertrude,--i'm afraid it's "no go"--i've had such a bad cold all the week that i've hardly been out for some days, and i don't think it would be wise to try the expedition this time, and i leave here on tuesday. but after all, what does it signify? perhaps there are ten or twenty gentlemen, all living within a few miles of rotherwick, and any one of them would do just as well! when a little girl is hoping to take a plum off a dish, and finds that she can't have that one, because it's bad or unripe, what does she do? is she sorry, or disappointed? not a bit! she just takes another instead, and grins from one little ear to the other as she puts it to her lips! this is a little fable to do you good; the little girl means _you_--the bad plum means _me_--the other plum means some other friend--and all that about the little girl putting plums to her lips means--well, it means--but you know you can't expect _every bit_ of a fable to mean something! and the little girl grinning means that dear little smile of yours, that just reaches from the tip of one ear to the tip of the other! your loving friend, c.l. dodgson. i send you 4-3/4 kisses. the next letter is a good example of the dainty little notes lewis carroll used to scribble off on any scrap of paper that lay to his hand:- chestnuts, guildford, _january_ 15, 1886. yes, my child, if all be well, i shall hope, and you may fear, that the train reaching hook at two eleven, will contain your loving friend, c.l. dodgson. only a few years ago, illness prevented him from fulfilling his usual custom of spending christmas with his sisters at guildford. this is the allusion in the following letter:- my dear old friend,--(the friendship is old, though the child is young.) i wish a very happy new year, and many of them, to you and yours; but specially to you, because i know you best and love you most. and i pray god to bless you, dear child, in this bright new year, and many a year to come. ... i write all this from my sofa, where i have been confined a prisoner for six weeks, and as i dreaded the railway journey, my doctor and i agreed that i had better not go to spend christmas with my sisters at guildford. so i had my christmas dinner all alone, in my room here, and (pity me, gertrude!) it wasn't a christmas dinner at all--i suppose the cook thought i should not care for roast beef or plum pudding, so he sent me (he has general orders to send either fish and meat, or meat and pudding) some fried sole and some roast mutton! never, never have i dined before, on christmas day, without _plum pudding_. wasn't it sad? now i think you must be content; this is a longer letter than most will get. love to olive. my clearest memory of her is of a little girl calling out "good-night" from her room, and of your mother taking me in to see her in her bed, and wish her good-night. i have a yet clearer memory (like a dream of fifty years ago) of a little bare-legged girl in a sailor's jersey, who used to run up into my lodgings by the sea. but why should i trouble you with foolish reminiscences of _mine_ that _cannot_ interest you? yours always lovingly, c. l. dodgson. it was a writer in _the national review_ who, after eulogising the talents of lewis carroll, and stating that _he_ would never be forgotten, added the harsh prophecy that "future generations will not waste a single thought upon the rev. c.l. dodgson." if this prediction is destined to be fulfilled, i think my readers will agree with me that it will be solely on account of his extraordinary diffidence about asserting himself. but such an unnatural division of lewis carroll, the author, from the rev. c.l. dodgson, the man, is forced in the extreme. his books are simply the expression of his normal habit of mind, as these letters show. in literature, as in everything else, he was absolutely natural. to refer to such criticisms as this (i am thankful to say they have been very few) is not agreeable; but i feel that it is owing to mr. dodgson to do what i can to vindicate the real unity which underlay both his life and all his writings. of many anecdotes which might be adduced to show the lovable character of the man, the following little story has reached me through one of his child-friends:- my sister and i [she writes] were spending a day of delightful sightseeing in town with him, on our way to his home at guildford, where we were going to pass a day or two with him. we were both children, and were much interested when he took us into an american shop where the cakes for sale were cooked by a very rapid process before your eyes, and handed to you straight from the cook's hands. as the preparation of them could easily be seen from outside the window, a small crowd of little ragamuffins naturally assembled there, and i well remember his piling up seven of the cakes on one arm, and himself taking them out and doling them round to the seven hungry little youngsters. the simple kindness of his act impressed its charm on his child-friends inside the shop as much as on his little stranger friends outside. it was only to those who had but few personal dealings with him that he seemed stiff and "donnish"; to his more intimate acquaintances, who really understood him, each little eccentricity of manner or of habits was a delightful addition to his charming and interesting personality. that he was, in some respects, eccentric cannot be denied; for instance he hardly ever wore an overcoat, and always wore a tall hat, whatever might be the climatic conditions. at dinner in his rooms small pieces of cardboard took the place of table-mats; they answered the purpose perfectly well, he said, and to buy anything else would be a mere waste of money. on the other hand, when purchasing books for himself, or giving treats to the children he loved, he never seemed to consider expense at all. he very seldom sat down to write, preferring to stand while thus engaged. when making tea for his friends, he used, in order, i suppose, to expedite the process, to walk up and down the room waving the teapot about, and telling meanwhile those delightful anecdotes of which he had an inexhaustible supply. great were his preparations before going a journey; each separate article used to be carefully wrapped up in a piece of paper all to itself, so that his trunks contained nearly as much paper as of the more useful things. the bulk of the luggage was sent on a day or two before by goods train, while he himself followed on the appointed day, laden only with his well-known little black bag, which he always insisted on carrying himself. he had a strong objection to staring colours in dress, his favourite combination being pink and grey. one little girl who came to stay with him was absolutely forbidden to wear a red frock, of a somewhat pronounced hue, while out in his company. at meals he was very abstemious always, while he took nothing in the middle of the day except a glass of wine and a biscuit. under these circumstances it is not very surprising that the healthy appetites of his little friends filled him with wonder, and even with alarm. when he took a certain one of them out with him to a friend's house to dinner, he used to give the host or hostess a gentle warning, to the mixed amazement and indignation of the child, "please be careful, because she eats a good deal too much." another peculiarity, which i have already referred to, was his objection to being invited to dinners or any other social gatherings; he made a rule of never accepting invitations. "because you have invited me, therefore i cannot come," was the usual form of his refusal. i suppose the reason of this was his hatred of the interference with work which engagements of this sort occasion. he had an extreme horror of infection, as will appear from the following illustration. miss isa bowman and her sister, nellie, were at one time staying with him at eastbourne, when news came from home that their youngest sister had caught the scarlet fever. from that day every letter which came from mrs. bowman to the children was held up by mr. dodgson, while the two little girls, standing at the opposite end of the room, had to read it as best they could. mr. dodgson, who was the soul of honour, used always to turn his head to one side during these readings, lest he might inadvertently see some words that were not meant for his eyes. some extracts from letters of his to a child-friend, who prefers to remain anonymous, follow: _november_ 30, 1879. i have been awfully busy, and i've had to write _heaps_ of letters--wheelbarrows full, almost. and it tires me so that generally i go to bed again the next minute after i get up: and sometimes i go to bed again a minute _before_ i get up! did you ever hear of any one being so tired as _that?_... _november_ 7, 1882. my dear e--, how often you must find yourself in want of a pin! for instance, you go into a shop, and you say to the man, "i want the largest penny bun you can let me have for a halfpenny." and perhaps the man looks stupid, and doesn't quite understand what you mean. then how convenient it is to have a pin ready to stick into the back of his hand, while you say, "now then! look sharp, stupid!"... and even when you don't happen to want a pin, how often you think to yourself, "they say interlacken is a very pretty place. i wonder what it looks like!" (that is the place that is painted on this pincushion.) when you don't happen to want either a pin or pictures, it may just remind you of a friend who sometimes thinks of his dear little friend e--, and who is just now thinking of the day he met her on the parade, the first time she had been allowed to come out alone to look for him.... _december_ 26, 1886. my dear e--, though rushing, rapid rivers roar between us (if you refer to the map of england, i think you'll find that to be correct), we still remember each other, and feel a sort of shivery affection for each other.... _march_ 31, 1890. i _do_ sympathise so heartily with you in what you say about feeling shy with children when you have to entertain them! sometimes they are a real _terror_ to me--especially boys: little girls i can now and then get on with, when they're few enough. they easily become "de trop." but with little _boys_ i'm out of my element altogether. i sent "sylvie and bruno" to an oxford friend, and, in writing his thanks, he added, "i think i must bring my little boy to see you." so i wrote to say "_don't_," or words to that effect: and he wrote again that he could hardly believe his eyes when he got my note. he thought i doted on _all_ children. but i'm _not_ omnivorous!--like a pig. i pick and choose.... you are a lucky girl, and i am rather inclined to envy you, in having the leisure to read dante--_i_ have never read a page of him; yet i am sure the "divina commedia" is one of the grandest books in the world--though i am _not_ sure whether the reading of it would _raise_ one's life and give it a nobler purpose, or simply be a grand poetical treat. that is a question you are beginning to be able to answer: i doubt if _i_ shall ever (at least in this life) have the opportunity of reading it; my life seems to be all torn into little bits among the host of things i want to do! it seems hard to settle what to do _first. one_ piece of work, at any rate, i am clear ought to be done this year, and it will take months of hard work: i mean the second volume of "sylvie and bruno." i fully _mean_, if i have life and health till xmas next, to bring it out then. when one is close on sixty years old, it seems presumptuous to count on years and years of work yet to be done.... she is rather the exception among the hundred or so of child-friends who have brightened my life. usually the child becomes so entirely a different being as she grows into a woman, that our friendship has to change too: and _that_ it usually does by gliding down from a loving intimacy into an acquaintance that merely consists of a smile and a bow when we meet!... _january_ 1, 1895. ... you are quite correct in saying it is a long time since you have heard from me: in fact, i find that i have not written to you since the 13th of last november. but what of that? you have access to the daily papers. surely you can find out negatively, that i am all right! go carefully through the list of bankruptcies; then run your eye down the police cases; and, if you fail to find my name anywhere, you can say to your mother in a tone of calm satisfaction, "mr. dodgson is going on _well_." * * * * * chapter xi (the same--_continued_.) books for children--"the lost plum-cake"--"an unexpected guest"--miss isa bowman--interviews--"matilda jane"--miss edith rix--miss kathleen eschwege. lewis carroll's own position as an author did not prevent him from taking a great interest in children's books and their writers. he had very strong ideas on what was or was not suitable in such books, but, when once his somewhat exacting taste was satisfied, he was never tired of recommending a story to his friends. his cousin, mrs. egerton allen, who has herself written several charming tales for young readers, has sent me the following letter which she received from him some years ago:- dear georgie,--_many_ thanks. the book was at ch. ch. i've done an unusual thing, in thanking for a book, namely, _waited to read it_. i've read it _right through_! in fact, i found it very refreshing, when jaded with my own work at "sylvie and bruno" (coming out at xmas, i hope) to lie down on the sofa and read a chapter of "evie." i like it very much: and am so glad to have helped to bring it out. it would have been a real loss to the children of england, if you had burned the ms., as you once thought of doing.... [illustration: xie kitchin as a chinaman. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] the very last words of his that appeared in print took the form of a preface to one of mrs. allen's tales, "the lost plum-cake," (macmillan & co., 1898). so far as i know, this was the only occasion on which he wrote a preface for another author's book, and his remarks are doubly interesting as being his last service to the children whom he loved. no apology, then, is needed for quoting from them here:- let me seize this opportunity of saying one earnest word to the mothers in whose hands this little book may chance to come, who are in the habit of taking their children to church with them. however well and reverently those dear little ones have been taught to behave, there is no doubt that so long a period of enforced quietude is a severe tax on their patience. the hymns, perhaps, tax it least: and what a pathetic beauty there is in the sweet fresh voices of the children, and how earnestly they sing! i took a little girl of six to church with me one day: they had told me she could hardly read at all--but she made me find all the places for her! and afterwards i said to her elder sister "what made you say barbara couldn't read? why, i heard her joining in, all through the hymn!" and the little sister gravely replied, "she knows the _tunes_, but not the _words_." well, to return to my subject--children in church. the lessons, and the prayers, are not wholly beyond them: often they can catch little bits that come within the range of their small minds. but the sermons! it goes to one's heart to see, as i so often do, little darlings of five or six years old, forced to sit still through a weary half-hour, with nothing to do, and not one word of the sermon that they can understand. most heartily can i sympathise with the little charity-girl who is said to have written to some friend, "i think, when i grows up, i'll never go to church no more. i think i'se getting sermons enough to last me all my life!" but need it be so? would it be so _very_ irreverent to let your child have a story-book to read during the sermon, to while away that tedious half-hour, and to make church-going a bright and happy memory, instead of rousing the thought, "i'll never go to church no more"? i think not. for my part, i should love to see the experiment tried. i am quite sure it would be a success. my advice would be to _keep_ some books for that special purpose. i would call such books "sunday-treats"--and your little boy or girl would soon learn to look forward with eager hope to that half-hour, once so tedious. if i were the preacher, dealing with some subject too hard for the little ones, i should love to see them all enjoying their picture-books. and if _this_ little book should ever come to be used as a "sunday-treat" for some sweet baby reader, i don't think it could serve a better purpose. lewis carroll. miss m.e. manners was another writer for children whose books pleased him. she gives an amusing account of two visits which he paid to her house in 1889:- _an unexpected guest._ "mr. dobson wants to see you, miss." i was in the kitchen looking after the dinner, and did not feel that i particularly wished to see anybody. "he wants a vote, or he is an agent for a special kind of tea," thought i. "i don't know him; ask him to send a message." presently the maid returned- "he says he is mr. dodgson, of oxford." "lewis carroll!" i exclaimed; and somebody else had to superintend the cooking that day. my apologies were soon made and cheerfully accepted. i believe i was unconventional enough to tell the exact truth concerning my occupation, and matters were soon on a friendly footing. indeed i may say at once that the stately college don we have heard so much about never made his appearance during our intercourse with him. he did not talk "alice," of course; authors don't generally _talk_ their books, i imagine; but it was undoubtedly lewis carroll who was present with us. a portrait of ellen terry on the wall had attracted his attention, and one of the first questions he asked was, "do you ever go to the theatre?" i explained that such things were done, occasionally, even among quakers, but they were not considered quite orthodox. "oh, well, then you will not be shocked, and i may venture to produce my photographs." and out into the hall he went, and soon returned with a little black bag containing character portraits of his child-friends, isa and nellie bowman. "isa used to be alice until she grew too big," he said. "nellie was one of the oyster-fairies, and emsie, the tiny one of all, was the dormouse." "when 'alice' was first dramatised," he said, "the poem of the 'walrus and the carpenter' fell rather flat, for people did not know when it was finished, and did not clap in the right place; so i had to write a song for the ghosts of the oysters to sing, which made it all right." [illustration: alice and the dormouse. _from a photograph by elliott & fry_.] he was then on his way to london, to fetch isa to stay with him at eastbourne. she was evidently a great favourite, and had visited him before. of that earlier time he said:- "when people ask me why i have never married, i tell them i have never met the young lady whom i could endure for a fortnight--but isa and i got on so well together that i said i should keep her a month, the length of the honeymoon, and we didn't get tired of each other." nellie afterwards joined her sister "for a few days," but the days spread to some weeks, for the poor little dormouse developed scarlet fever, and the elder children had to be kept out of harm's way until fear of infection was over. of emsie he had a funny little story to tell. he had taken her to the aquarium, and they had been watching the seals coming up dripping out of the water. with a very pitiful look she turned to him and said, "don't they give them any towels?" [the same little girl commiserated the bear, because it had got no tail.] asked to stay to dinner, he assured us that he never took anything in the middle of the day but a glass of wine and a biscuit; but he would be happy to sit down with us, which he accordingly did and kindly volunteered to carve for us. his offer was gladly accepted, but the appearance of a rather diminutive piece of neck of mutton was somewhat of a puzzle to him. he had evidently never seen such a joint in his life before, and had frankly to confess that he did not know how to set about carving it. directions only made things worse, and he bravely cut it to pieces in entirely the wrong fashion, relating meanwhile the story of a shy young man who had been asked to carve a fowl, the joints of which had been carefully wired together beforehand by his too attentive friends. the task and the story being both finished, our visitor gazed on the mangled remains, and remarked quaintly: "i think it is just as well i don't want anything, for i don't know where i should find it." at least one member of the party felt she could have managed matters better; but that was a point of very little consequence. a day or two after the first call came a note saying that he would be taking isa home before long, and if we would like to see her he would stop on the way again. of course we were only too delighted to have the opportunity, and, though the visit was postponed more than once, it did take place early in august, when he brought both isa and nellie up to town to see a performance of "sweet lavender." it is needless to remark that we took care, this time, to be provided with something at once substantial and carvable. the children were bright, healthy, happy and childlike little maidens, quite devoted to their good friend, whom they called "uncle"; and very interesting it was to see them together. but he did not allow any undue liberties either, as a little incident showed. he had been describing a particular kind of collapsible tumbler, which you put in your pocket and carried with you for use on a railway journey. "there now," he continued, turning to the children, "i forgot to bring it with me after all." "oh goosie," broke in isa; "you've been talking about that tumbler for days, and now you have forgotten it." he pulled himself up, and looked at her steadily with an air of grave reproof. much abashed, she hastily substituted a very subdued "uncle" for the objectionable "goosie," and the matter dropped. the principal anecdote on this occasion was about a dog which had been sent into the sea after sticks. he brought them back very properly for some time, and then there appeared to be a little difficulty, and he returned swimming in a very curious manner. on closer inspection it appeared that he had caught hold of his own tail by mistake, and was bringing it to land in triumph. this was told with the utmost gravity, and though we had been requested beforehand not to mention "lewis carroll's" books, the temptation was too strong. i could not help saying to the child next me- "that was like the whiting, wasn't it?" our visitor, however, took up the remark, and seemed quite willing to talk about it. "when i wrote that," he said, "i believed that whiting really did have their tails in their mouths, but i have since been told that fishmongers put the tail through the eye, not in the mouth at all." he was not a very good carver, for miss bremer also describes a little difficulty he had--this time with the pastry: "an amusing incident occurred when he was at lunch with us. he was requested to serve some pastry, and, using a knife, as it was evidently rather hard, the knife penetrated the d'oyley beneath--and his consternation was extreme when he saw the slice of linen and lace he served as an addition to the tart!" it was, i think, through her connection with the "alice" play that mr. dodgson first came to know miss isa bowman. her childish friendship for him was one of the joys of his later years, and one of the last letters he wrote was addressed to her. the poem at the beginning of "sylvie and bruno" is an acrostic on her name- is all our life, then, but a dream, seen faintly in the golden gleam athwart times's dark, resistless stream? bowed to the earth with bitter woe, or laughing at some raree-show, we flutter idly to and fro. man's little day in haste we spend, and, from the merry noontide, send no glance to meet the silent end. every one has heard of lewis carroll's hatred of interviewers; the following letter to miss manners makes one feel that in some cases, at least, his feeling was justifiable:- if your manchester relatives ever go to the play, tell them they ought to see isa as "cinderella"--she is evidently a success. and she has actually been "interviewed" by one of those dreadful newspapers reporters, and the "interview" is published with her picture! and such rubbish he makes her talk! she tells him that something or other was "tacitly conceded": and that "i love to see a great actress give expression to the wonderful ideas of the immortal master!" (n.b.--i never let her talk like that when she is with _me_!) emsie recovered in time to go to america, with her mother and isa and nellie: and they all enjoyed the trip much; and emsie has a london engagement. only once was an interviewer bold enough to enter lewis carroll's _sanctum_. the story has been told in _the guardian_ (january 19, 1898), but will bear repetition:- not long ago mr. dodgson happened to get into correspondence with a man whom he had never seen, on some question of religious difficulty, and he invited him to come to his rooms and have a talk on the subject. when, therefore, a mr. x-was announced to him one morning, he advanced to meet him with outstretched hand and smiles of welcome. "come in mr. x--, i have been expecting you." the delighted visitor thought this a promising beginning, and immediately pulled out a note-book and pencil, and proceeded to ask "the usual questions." great was mr. dodgson's disgust! instead of his expected friend, here was another man of the same name, and one of the much-dreaded interviewers, actually sitting in his chair! the mistake was soon explained, and the representative of the press was bowed out as quickly as he had come in. it was while isa and one of her sisters were staying at eastbourne that the visit to america was mooted. mr. dodgson suggested that it would be well for them to grow gradually accustomed to seafaring, and therefore proposed to take them by steamer to hastings. this plan was carried out, and the weather was unspeakably bad--far worse than anything they experienced in their subsequent trip across the atlantic. the two children, who were neither of them very good sailors, experienced sensations that were the reverse of pleasant. mr. dodgson did his best to console them, while he continually repeated, "crossing the atlantic will be much worse than this." however, even this terrible lesson on the horrors of the sea did not act as a deterrent; it was as unsuccessful as the effort of the old lady in one of his stories: "an old lady i once knew tried to check the military ardour of a little boy by showing him a picture of a battlefield, and describing some of its horrors. but the only answer she got was, 'i'll be a soldier. tell it again!'" the bowman children sometimes came over to visit him at oxford, and he used to delight in showing them over the colleges, and pointing out the famous people whom they encountered. on one of these occasions he was walking with maggie, then a mere child, when they met the bishop of oxford, to whom mr. dodgson introduced his little guest. his lordship asked her what she thought of oxford. "i think," said the little actress, with quite a professional _aplomb,_ "it's the best place in the provinces!" at which the bishop was much amused. after the child had returned to town, the bishop sent her a copy of a little book called "golden dust," inscribed "from w. oxon," which considerably mystified her, as she knew nobody of that name! another little stage-friend of lewis carroll's was miss vera beringer, the "little lord fauntleroy," whose acting delighted all theatre-goers eight or nine years ago. once, when she was spending a holiday in the isle of man, he sent her the following lines:- there was a young lady of station, "i love man" was her sole exclamation; but when men cried, "you flatter," she replied, "oh! no matter, isle of man is the true explanation." many of his friendships with children began in a railway carriage, for he always took about with him a stock of puzzles when he travelled, to amuse any little companions whom chance might send him. once he was in a carriage with a lady and her little daughter, both complete strangers to him. the child was reading "alice in wonderland," and when she put her book down, he began talking to her about it. the mother soon joined in the conversation, of course without the least idea who the stranger was with whom she was talking. "isn't it sad," she said, "about poor mr. lewis carroll? he's gone mad, you know." "indeed," replied mr. dodgson, "i had never heard that." "oh, i assure you it is quite true," the lady answered. "i have it on the best authority." before mr. dodgson parted with her, he obtained her leave to send a present to the little girl, and a few days afterwards she received a copy of "through the looking-glass," inscribed with her name, and "from the author, in memory of a pleasant journey." when he gave books to children, he very often wrote acrostics on their names on the fly-leaf. one of the prettiest was inscribed in a copy of miss yonge's "little lucy's wonderful globe," which he gave to miss ruth dymes:- r ound the wondrous globe i wander wild, u p and down-hill--age succeeds to youth- t oiling all in vain to find a child h alf so loving, half so dear as ruth. in another book, given to her sister margaret, he wrote:- m aidens, if a maid you meet a lways free from pout and pet, r eady smile and temper sweet, g reet my little margaret. a nd if loved by all she be r ightly, not a pampered pet, e asily you then may see 'tis my little margaret. here are two letters to children, the one interesting as a specimen of pure nonsense of the sort which children always like, the other as showing his dislike of being praised. the first was written to miss gertrude atkinson, daughter of an old college friend, but otherwise unknown to lewis carroll except by her photograph:- my dear gertrude,--so many things have happened since we met last, really i don't know _which_ to begin talking about! for instance, england has been conquered by william the conqueror. we haven't met since _that_ happened, you know. how did you like it? were you frightened? and one more thing has happened: i have got your photograph. thank you very much for it. i like it "awfully." do they let you say "awfully"? or do they say, "no, my dear; little girls mustn't say 'awfully'; they should say 'very much indeed'"? i wonder if you will ever get as far as jersey? if not, how _are_ we to meet? your affectionate friend, c.l. dodgson. from the second letter, to miss florence jackson, i take the following extract:- i have two reasons for sending you this fable; one is, that in a letter you wrote me you said something about my being "clever"; and the other is that, when you wrote again you said it again! and _each_ time i thought, "really, i _must_ write and ask her _not_ to say such things; it is not wholesome reading for me." the fable is this. the cold, frosty, bracing air is the treatment one gets from the world generally--such as contempt, or blame, or neglect; all those are very wholesome. and the hot dry air, that you breathe when you rush to the fire, is the praise that one gets from one's young, happy, rosy, i may even say _florid_ friends! and that's very bad for me, and gives pride--fever, and conceit--cough, and such-like diseases. now i'm sure you don't want me to be laid up with all these diseases; so please don't praise me _any_ more! the verses to "matilda jane" certainly deserve a place in this chapter. to make their meaning clear, i must state that lewis carroll wrote them for a little cousin of his, and that matilda jane was the somewhat prosaic name of her doll. the poem expresses finely the blind, unreasoning devotion which the infant mind professes for inanimate objects:- matilda jane, you never look at any toy or picture-book; i show you pretty things in vain, you must be blind, matilda jane! i ask you riddles, tell you tales, but all our conversation fails; you never answer me again, i fear you're dumb, matilda jane! matilda, darling, when i call you never seem to hear at all; i shout with all my might and main, but you're _so_ deaf, matilda jane! matilda jane, you needn't mind, for though you're deaf, and dumb, and blind, there's some one loves you, it is plain, and that is _me_, matilda jane! in an earlier chapter i gave some of mr. dodgson's letters to miss edith rix; the two which follow, being largely about children, seem more appropriate here:- my dear edith,--would you tell your mother i was aghast at seeing the address of her letter to me: and i would much prefer "rev. c.l. dodgson, ch. ch., oxford." when a letter comes addressed "lewis carroll, ch. ch.," it either goes to the dead letter office, or it impresses on the minds of all letter-carriers, &c., through whose hands it goes, the very fact i least want them to know. please offer to your sister all the necessary apologies for the liberty i have taken with her name. my only excuse is, that i know no other; and how _am_ i to guess what the full name is? it _may_ be carlotta, or zealot, or ballot, or lotus-blossom (a very pretty name), or even charlotte. never have i sent anything to a young lady of whom i have a more shadowy idea. name, an enigma; age, somewhere between 1 and 19 (you've no idea how bewildering it is, alternately picturing her as a little toddling thing of 5, and a tall girl of 15!); disposition--well, i _have_ a fragment of information on _that_ question--your mother says, as to my coming, "it must be when lottie is at home, or she would never forgive us." still, i _cannot_ consider the mere fact that she is of an unforgiving disposition as a complete view of her character. i feel sure she has some other qualities besides. believe me, yrs affectionately, c.l. dodgson. my dear child,--it seems quite within the bounds of possibility, if we go on long in this style, that our correspondence may at last assume a really friendly tone. i don't of course say it will actually do so--that would be too bold a prophecy, but only that it may tend to shape itself in that direction. your remark, that slippers for elephants _could_ be made, only they would not be slippers, but boots, convinces me that there is a branch of your family in _ireland_. who are (oh dear, oh dear, i am going distracted! there's a lady in the opposite house who simply sings _all_ day. all her songs are wails, and their tunes, such as they have, are much the same. she has one strong note in her voice, and she knows it! i _think_ it's "a natural," but i haven't much ear. and when she gets to that note, she howls!) they? the o'rixes, i suppose? about your uninteresting neighbours, i sympathise with you much; but oh, i wish i had you here, that i might teach you _not_ to say "it is difficult to visit one's district regularly, like every one else does!" and now i come to the most interesting part of your letter- may you treat me as a perfect friend, and write anything you like to me, and ask my advice? why, _of course_ you may, my child! what else am i good for? but oh, my dear child-friend, you cannot guess how such words sound to _me_! that any one should look up to _me_, or think of asking _my_ advice--well, it makes one feel humble, i think, rather than proud--humble to remember, while others think so well of me, what i really _am_, in myself. "thou, that teachest another, teachest thou not thyself?" well, i won't talk about myself, it is not a healthy topic. perhaps it may be true of _any_ two people, that, if one could see the other through and through, love would perish. i don't know. anyhow, i like to _have_ the love of my child-friends, tho' i know i don't deserve it. please write as freely as _ever_ you like. i went up to town and fetched phoebe down here on friday in last week; and we spent _most_ of saturday upon the beach--phoebe wading and digging, and "as happy as a bird upon the wing" (to quote the song she sang when first i saw her). tuesday evening brought a telegram to say she was wanted at the theatre next morning. so, instead of going to bed, phoebe packed her things, and we left by the last train, reaching her home by a quarter to 1 a.m. however, even four days of sea-air, and a new kind of happiness, did her good, i think. i am rather lonely now she is gone. she is a very sweet child, and a thoughtful child, too. it was very touching to see (we had a little bible-reading every day: i tried to remember that my little friend had a soul to be cared for, as well as a body) the far-away look in her eyes, when we talked of god and of heaven--as if her angel, who beholds his face continually, were whispering to her. of course, there isn't _much_ companionship possible, after all, between an old man's mind and a little child's, but what there is is sweet--and wholesome, i think. three letters of his to a child-friend, miss kathleen eschwege, now mrs. round, illustrate one of those friendships which endure: the sort of friendship that he always longed for, and so often failed to secure:-[illustrations and: facsimile of a "looking-glass letter" from lewis carroll to miss edith ball.] ch. ch., oxford, _october_ 24, 1879. my dear kathleen,--i was really pleased to get your letter, as i had quite supposed i should never see or hear of you again. you see i knew only your christian name--not the ghost of a surname, or the shadow of an address--and i was not prepared to spend my little all in advertisements--"if the young lady, who was travelling on the g.w. railway, &c." --or to devote the remainder of my life to going about repeating "kathleen," like that young woman who came from some foreign land to look for her lover, but only knew that he was called "edward" (or "richard" was it? i dare say you know history better than i do) and that he lived in england; so that naturally it took her some time to find him. all i knew was that _you_ could, if you chose, write to me through macmillan: but it is three months since we met, so i was _not_ expecting it, and it was a pleasant surprise. well, so i hope i may now count you as one of my child-friends. i am fond of children (except boys), and have more child-friends than i could possibly count on my fingers, even if i were a centipede (by the way, _have_ they fingers? i'm afraid they're only feet, but, of course, they use them for the same purpose, and that is why no other insects, _except centipedes_, ever succeed in doing _long multiplication_), and i have several not so very far from you--one at beckenham, two at balham, two at herne hill, one at peckham--so there is every chance of my being somewhere near you _before the year_ 1979. if so, may i call? i am _very_ sorry your neck is no better, and i wish they would take you to margate: margate air will make _any_ body well of _any_ thing. it seems you have already got my two books about "alice." have you also got "the hunting of the snark"? if not, i should be very glad to send you one. the pictures (by mr. holiday) are pretty: and you needn't read the verses unless you like. how do you pronounce your surname? "esk-weej"? or how? is it a german name? if you can do "doublets," with how many links do you turn kath into leen? with kind remembrances to your mother, i am your affectionate friend, charles l. dodgson (_alias_ "lewis carroll"). ch. ch., oxford, _january_ 20, 1892. my dear kathleen,--some months ago i heard, from my cousin, may wilcox, that you were engaged to be married. and, ever since, i have cherished the intention of writing to offer my congratulations. some might say, "why not write _at once?"_ to such unreasoning creatures, the obvious reply is, "when you have bottled some peculiarly fine port, do you usually begin to drink it _at once?"_ is not that a beautiful simile? of course, i need not remark that my congratulations are like fine old port--only finer, and _older!_ accept, my dear old friend, my _heartiest_ wishes for happiness, of all sorts and sizes, for yourself, and for him whom you have chosen as your other self. and may you love one another with a love second only to your love for god--a love that will last through bright days and dark days, in sickness and in health, through life and through death. a few years ago i went, in the course of about three months, to the weddings of three of my old child-friends. but weddings are not very exhilarating scenes for a miserable old bachelor; and i think you'll have to excuse me from attending _yours_. however, i have so far concerned myself in it that i actually _dreamed_ about it a few nights ago! i dreamed that you had had a photograph done of the wedding-party, and had sent me a copy of it. at one side stood a group of ladies, among whom i made out the faces of dolly and ninty; and in the foreground, seated in a boat, were two people, a gentleman and a lady i _think_ (could they have been the bridegroom and the bride?) engaged in the natural and usual occupation for a riverside picnic--pulling a christmas cracker! i have no idea what put such an idea into my head. _i_ never saw crackers used in such a scene! i hope your mother goes on well. with kindest regards to her and your father, and love to your sisters--and to yourself too, if he doesn't object!--i am, yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. p.s.--i never give wedding-presents; so please regard the enclosed as an _unwedding_ present. ch. ch., oxford, _december_ 8, 1897. my dear kathleen,--many thanks for the photo of yourself and your _fiancã©_, which duly reached me january 23, 1892. also for a wedding-card, which reached me august 28, 1892. neither of these favours, i fear, was ever acknowledged. our only communication since, has been, that on december 13, 1892, i sent you a biscuit-box adorned with "looking-glass" pictures. this _you_ never acknowledged; so i was properly served for my negligence. i hope your little daughter, of whose arrival mrs. eschwege told me in december, 1893, has been behaving well? how quickly the years slip by! it seems only yesterday that i met, on the railway, a little girl who was taking a sketch of oxford! your affectionate old friend, c.l. dodgson. the following verses were inscribed in a copy of "alice's adventures," presented to the three miss drurys in august, 1869:-_to three puzzled little girls, from the author._ three little maidens weary of the rail, three pairs of little ears listening to a tale, three little hands held out in readiness, for three little puzzles very hard to guess. three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide, at three little scissors lying side by side. three little mouths that thanked an unknown friend, for one little book, he undertook to send. though whether they'll remember a friend, or book, or day- in three little weeks is very hard to say. he took the same three children to german reed's entertainment, where the triple bill consisted of "happy arcadia," "all abroad," and "very catching." a few days afterwards he sent them "phantasmagoria," with a little poem on the fly-leaf to remind them of their treat:- three little maids, one winter day, while others went to feed, to sing, to laugh, to dance, to play, more wisely went to--reed. others, when lesson-time's begun, go, half inclined to cry, some in a walk, some in a run; but _these_ went in a--fly. i give to other little maids a smile, a kiss, a look, presents whose memory quickly fades, i give to these--a book. _happy arcadia _may blind, while _all abroad,_ their eyes; at home, this book (i trust) they'll find a _very catching_ prize. the next three letters were addressed to two of mr. arthur hughes' children. they are good examples of the wild and delightful nonsense with which lewis carroll used to amuse his little friends:- my dear agnes,--you lazy thing! what? i'm to divide the kisses myself, am i? indeed i won't take the trouble to do anything of the sort! but i'll tell _you_ how to do it. first, you must take _four_ of the kisses, and--and that reminds me of a very curious thing that happened to me at half-past four yesterday. three visitors came knocking at my door, begging me to let them in. and when i opened the door, who do you think they were? you'll never guess. why, they were three cats! wasn't it curious? however, they all looked so cross and disagreeable that i took up the first thing i could lay my hand on (which happened to be the rolling-pin) and knocked them all down as flat as pan-cakes! "if _you_ come knocking at _my_ door," i said, "_i_ shall come knocking at _your_ heads." "that was fair, wasn't it?" yours affectionately, lewis carroll. my dear agnes,--about the cats, you know. of course i didn't leave them lying flat on the ground like dried flowers: no, i picked them up, and i was as kind as i could be to them. i lent them the portfolio for a bed--they wouldn't have been comfortable in a real bed, you know: they were too thin--but they were _quite_ happy between the sheets of blotting-paper--and each of them had a pen-wiper for a pillow. well, then i went to bed: but first i lent them the three dinner-bells, to ring if they wanted anything in the night. you know i have _three_ dinner-bells--the first (which is the largest) is rung when dinner is _nearly_ ready; the second (which is rather larger) is rung when it is quite ready; and the third (which is as large as the other two put together) is rung all the time i am at dinner. well, i told them they might ring if they happened to want anything--and, as they rang _all_ the bells _all_ night, i suppose they did want something or other, only i was too sleepy to attend to them. in the morning i gave them some rat-tail jelly and buttered mice for breakfast, and they were as discontented as they could be. they wanted some boiled pelican, but of course i knew it wouldn't be good _for_ them. so all i said was "go to number two, finborough road, and ask for agnes hughes, and if it's _really_ good for you, she'll give you some." then i shook hands with them all, and wished them all goodbye, and drove them up the chimney. they seemed very sorry to go, and they took the bells and the portfolio with them. i didn't find this out till after they had gone, and then i was sorry too, and wished for them back again. what do i mean by "them"? never mind. how are arthur, and amy, and emily? do they still go up and down finborough road, and teach the cats to be kind to mice? i'm _very_ fond of all the cats in finborough road. give them my love. who do i mean by "them"? never mind. your affectionate friend, lewis carroll. [illustration: arthur hughes and his daughter agnes. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] my dear amy,--how are you getting on, i wonder, with guessing those puzzles from "wonderland"? if you think you've found out any of the answers, you may send them to me; and if they're wrong, i won't tell you they're right! you asked me after those three cats. ah! the dear creatures! do you know, ever since that night they first came, they have _never left me?_ isn't it kind of them? tell agnes this. she will be interested to hear it. and they _are_ so kind and thoughtful! do you know, when i had gone out for a walk the other day, they got _all_ my books out of the bookcase, and opened them on the floor, to be ready for me to read. they opened them all at page 50, because they thought that would be a nice useful page to begin at. it was rather unfortunate, though: because they took my bottle of gum, and tried to gum pictures upon the ceiling (which they thought would please me), and by accident they spilt a quantity of it all over the books. so when they were shut up and put by, the leaves all stuck together, and i can never read page 50 again in any of them! however, they meant it very kindly, so i wasn't angry. i gave them each a spoonful of ink as a treat; but they were ungrateful for that, and made dreadful faces. but, of course, as it was given them as a treat, they had to drink it. one of them has turned black since: it was a white cat to begin with. give my love to any children you happen to meet. also i send two kisses and a half, for you to divide with agnes, emily, and godfrey. mind you divide them fairly. yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. the intelligent reader will make a discovery about the first of the two following letters, which miss maggie cunningham, the "child-friend" to whom both were addressed, perhaps did not hit upon at once. mr. dodgson wrote these two letters in 1868:- dear maggie,--i found that _the friend, _that the little girl asked me to write to, lived at ripon, and not at land's end--a nice sort of place to invite to! it looked rather suspicious to me--and soon after, by dint of incessant inquiries, i found out that _she_ was called maggie, and lived in a crescent! of course i declared, "after that" (the language i used doesn't matter), "i will _not_ address her, that's flat! so do not expect me to flatter." well, i hope you will soon see your beloved pa come back--for consider, should you be quite content with only jack? just suppose they made a blunder! (such things happen now and then.) really, now, i shouldn't wonder if your "john" came home again, and your father stayed at school! a most awkward thing, no doubt. how would you receive him? you'll say, perhaps, "you'd turn him out." that would answer well, so far as concerns the boy, you know--but consider your papa, learning lessons in a row of great inky schoolboys! this (though unlikely) might occur: "haly" would be grieved to miss him (don't mention it to _her_). no _carte_ has yet been done of me, that does real justice to my _smile_; and so i hardly like, you see, to send you one. however, i'll consider if i will or not--meanwhile, i send a little thing to give you an idea of what i look like when i'm lecturing. the merest sketch, you will allow--yet still i think there's something grand in the expression of the brow and in the action of the hand. have you read my fairy tale in _aunt judy's magazine?_ if you have you will not fail to discover what i mean when i say "bruno yesterday came to remind me that _he_ was my god-son!"--on the ground that i "gave him a name"! your affectionate friend, c.l. dodgson. p.s.--i would send, if i were not too shy, the same message to "haly" that she (though i do not deserve it, not i!) has sent through her sister to me. my best love to yourself--to your mother my kindest regards--to your small, fat, impertinent, ignorant brother my hatred. i think that is all. [illustration: what i look like when i'm lecturing. _from a drawing, by lewis carroll._] my dear maggie,--i am a very bad correspondent, i fear, but i hope you won't leave off writing to me on that account. i got the little book safe, and will do my best about putting my name in, if i can only manage to remember what day my birthday is--but one forgets these things so easily. somebody told me (a little bird, i suppose) that you had been having better photographs done of yourselves. if so, i hope you will let me buy copies. fanny will pay you for them. but, oh maggie, how _can_ you ask for a better one of me than the one i sent! it is one of the best ever done! such grace, such dignity, such benevolence, such--as a great secret (please don't repeat it) the _queen_ sent to ask for a copy of it, but as it is against my rule to give in such a case, i was obliged to answer- "mr. dodgson presents his compliments to her majesty, and regrets to say that his rule is never to give his photograph except to _young_ ladies." i am told she was annoyed about it, and said, "i'm not so old as all that comes to!" and one doesn't like to annoy queens; but really i couldn't help it, you know. i will conclude this chapter with some reminiscences of lewis carroll, which have been kindly sent me by an old child-friend of his, mrs. maitland, daughter of the late rev. e.a. litton, rector of naunton, and formerly fellow of oriel college and vice-principal of saint edmund's hall:- to my mind oxford will be never quite the same again now that so many of the dear old friends of one's childhood have "gone over to the great majority." often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the old wainscotted wall, have we--father and i--chatted over the old oxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together in long wall street. i was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child then, and for some years i was left almost entirely to the care of mary pearson, my own particular attendant. i first remember mr. dodgson when i was about seven years old, and from that time until we went to live in gloucestershire he was one of my most delightful friends. i shall never forget how mr. dodgson and i sat once under a dear old tree in the botanical gardens, and how he told me, for the first time, hans andersen's story of the "ugly duckling." i cannot explain the charm of mr. dodgson's way of telling stories; as he spoke, the characters seemed to be real flesh and blood. this particular story made a great impression upon me, and interested me greatly, as i was very sensitive about my ugly little self. i remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good and truthful and to try not to think of oneself than to be a pretty, selfish child, spoiled and disagreeable; and, after telling me this story, he gave me the name of "ducky." "never mind, little ducky," he used often to say, "perhaps some day you will turn out a swan." i always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of mr. dodgson: his stories about them, his knowledge of their lives and histories, his enthusiasm about birds and butterflies enlivened many a dull hour. the monkeys in the botanical gardens were our special pets, and when we fed them with nuts and biscuits he seemed to enjoy the fun as much as i did. every day my nurse and i used to take a walk in christ church meadows, and often we would sit down on the soft grass, with the dear old broad walk quite close, and, when we raised our eyes, merton college, with its walls covered with virginian creeper. and how delighted we used to be to see the well-known figure in cap and gown coming, so swiftly, with his kind smile ready to welcome the "ugly duckling." i knew, as he sat beside me, that a book of fairy tales was hidden in his pocket, or that he would have some new game or puzzle to show me--and he would gravely accept a tiny daisy-bouquet for his coat with as much courtesy as if it had been the finest hot-house _boutonniã¨re_. two or three times i went fishing with him from the bank near the old mill, opposite addison's walk, and he quite entered into my happiness when a small fish came wriggling up at the end of my bent pin, just ready for the dinner of the little white kitten "lily," which he had given me. my hair was a great trouble to me, as a child, for it would tangle, and mary was not too patient with me, as i twisted about while she was trying to dress it. one day i received a long blue envelope addressed to myself, which contained a story-letter, full of drawings, from mr. dodgson. the first picture was of a little girl--with her hat off and her tumbled hair very much in evidence--asleep on a rustic bench under a big tree by the riverside, and two birds, holding what was evidently a very important conversation, above in the branches, their heads on one side, eyeing the sleeping child. then there was a picture of the birds flying up to the child with twigs and straw in their beaks, preparing to build their nest in her hair. next came the awakening, with the nest completed, and the mother-bird sitting on it; while the father-bird flew round the frightened child. and then, lastly, hundreds of birds--the air thick with them--the child fleeing, small boys with tin trumpets raised to their lips to add to the confusion, and mary, armed with a basket of brushes and combs, bringing up the rear! after this, whenever i was restive while my hair was being arranged, mary would show me the picture of the child with the nest on her head, and i at once became "as quiet as a lamb." i had a daily governess, a dear old soul, who used to come every morning to teach me. i disliked particularly the large-lettered copies which she used to set me; and as i confided this to mr. dodgson, he came and gave me some copies himself. the only ones which i can remember were "patience and water-gruel cure gout" (i always wondered what "gout" might be) and "little girls should be seen and not heard" (which i thought unkind). these were written many times over, and i had to present the pages to him, without one blot or smudge, at the end of the week. one of the fellows of magdalen college at that time was a mr. saul, a friend of my father's and of mr. dodgson, and a great lover of music--his rooms were full of musical instruments of every sort. mr. dodgson and father and i all went one afternoon to pay him a visit. at that time he was much interested in the big drum, and we found him when we arrived in full practice, with his music-book open before him. he made us all join in the concert. father undertook the 'cello, and mr. dodgson hunted up a comb and some paper, and, amidst much fun and laughter, the walls echoed with the finished roll, or shake, of the big drum--a roll that was mr. saul's delight. my father died on august 27, 1897, and mr. dodgson on january 14, 1898. and we, who are left behind in this cold, weary world can only hope we may some day meet them again. till then, oh! father, and my dear old childhood's friend, _requiescalis in pace!_ * * * * * bibliography "notes on the first two books of euclid." 1860 oxford: parker. 8vo. 6d "photographs." (?)1860 (printed for private circulation; a list of negatives taken by the rev. c. l. dodgson.) pp. 4, 4to "a syllabus of plane algebraical geometry," 1860 systematically arranged, with formal definitions, postulates, and axioms. by charles lutwidge dodgson. part i. containing points, right lines, rectilinear figures, pencils and circles. oxford: parker. pp. xvi + 164, 8vo. cloth, paper label. 5s "rules for court circular." 1860 (a new game, invented by the rev. c.l. dodgson.) pp. 4. (reprinted in 1862). "the formulã� of plane trigonometry," 1861 printed with symbols (instead of words) to express the "goniometrical ratios." by charles lutwidge dodgson. oxford: parker. pp. 19, 4to. stitched, 1s. "notes on the first part of algebra." 1861 oxford: parker. 8vo. 6d "index to 'in memoriam.'" 1862 [suggested and edited by the rev. c.l. dodgson; much of the actual work of compilation was done by his sisters] london: moxon. "the enunciations of euclid, books i. and ii." 1863 oxford: printed at the university press. "general list of (mathematical) subjects, and 1863 cycle for working examples." oxford: printed at the university press. "croquã�t castles." 1863 (a new game invented by the rev. c.l. dodgson). london(?) pp. 4. (reprinted, with additions and alterations, in 1866 at oxford.) "the new examination statute." 1864 (a letter to the vice-chancellor.) pp. 2, 4 to. oxford. "a guide to the mathematical student in reading, 1864 reviewing, and working examples." by charles lutwidge dodgson. part i. pure mathematics. oxford: parker. two leaves and pp. 27, 8vo. stitched, 1s. "the dynamics of a parti-cle, with an excursus on 1865 the new method of evaluation as applied to pi." oxford: vincent. pp. 28, 8vo. (three editions). "alice's adventures in wonderland." by lewis 1865 carroll, with forty-two illustrations by john tenniel. london: macmillan. pp. 192, cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 6s. the 1st edition (recalled) was printed in oxford, and is very rare; all subsequent editions (1865 onwards) by richard clay in london. now in its 86th thousand. [people's edition, price 2s. 6d.; first published in 1887. now in its 70th thousand.] "condensation of determinants," being a new and 1866 brief method for computing their arithmetical values. by the rev. c.l. dodgson. from "the proceedings of the royal society, no. 84, 1866." london: taylor and francis. pp. 8, 8vo. "an elementary treatise on determinants." 1867 london: macmillan. (printed in oxford.) pp. viii + 143, 4to. cloth. 10s. 6d. "the fifth book of euclid treated algebraically, 1868 so far as it relates to commensurable magnitudes." with notes. by charles l. dodgson. oxford and london: parker. two leaves and pp. 37, 8vo. in wrapper, 1s. 6d. "algebraical formulã� for responsions." 1868 oxford: printed at the university press. "the telegraph cipher." (?)1868 (invented, in 1868, by the rev. c.l. dodgson.) "phantasmagoria and other poems." 1869 by lewis carroll. london: macmillan. (printed in oxford.) pp. viii + 202, small 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. "aventures d'alice au pays de merveilles." 1869 par lewis carroll, ouvrage illustrã© de 42 vignettes par john tenniel. traduit de l'anglais, par h. buã©. london: macmillan. pp. 196, cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 6s. (now in its 2nd thousand.) "alice's abenteuer im wunderland." von lewis 1869 carroll, mit zweiundvierzig illustrationen von john tenniel. uebersetzt von antonie zimmermann. london: macmillan. pp. 178, cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 6s. "gazette extraordinary." 1870 oxford: printed at the university press. "algebraical formulã� and rules." 1870 oxford: printed at the university press. "arithmetical formulã� and rules." 1870 oxford: printed at the university press. "to all child readers of 'alice's adventures in 1871 wonderland.'" pp. 4 "through the looking-glass and what alice found 1871 there." by lewis carroll. with fifty illustrations by john tenniel. london: macmillan. pp. 224., cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 6s. now in its 61st thousand [people's edition. price 2s. 6d. first published in 1887. now in its 46th thousand.] "le avventure d'alice nel paese della meraviglie." 1872 per lewis carroll. tradotte dall'inglese da t. pietrocã²la-rossetti. con 42 vignette di giovanni tenniel. london: macmillan. pp. 189, cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 6s. circular to hospitals offering copies of the two 1872 "alice" books. london: macmillan. "symbols, &c., to be used in euclid, 1872 books i. and ii." oxford: printed at the university press. "number of propositions in euclid." oxford: 1872 printed at the university press. "the new belfry of christ church, oxford." a 1872 monograph. by d.c.l. oxford: parker. pp. 2 + 31, cr. 8vo. in wrapper. 6d. (five editions.) "enunciations, euclid, i.-vi." 1873 oxford: printed at the university press. "objections, submitted to the governing body of 1873 christ church, oxford, against certain proposed alterations in the great quadrangle." oxford: printed at the university press. pp. 4, 4to. [printed for private circulation.] "the vision of the three t's." a threnody. by the 1873 author of "the new belfry." oxford. parker. pp. 37 + 3, 8vo. in wrapper, 9d. (three editions.) "a discussion of the various modes of procedure in 1873 conducting elections." oxford: printed at the university press. "euclid, book v. proved algebraically," so far as 1874 it relates to commensurable magnitudes. to which is prefixed a summary of all the necessary algebraical operations, arranged in order of difficulty. by charles l. dodgson. oxford: parker. pp. viii + 62, 8vo. cloth. 3s. 6d. "suggestions as to the best method of taking votes, 1874 where more than two issues are to be voted on." oxford: hall and stacy. pp. 8, 8vo. "the blank cheque." a fable. by the author of "the 1874 new belfry," and "the vision of the three t's" oxford: parker. pp. 14 + 2, cr. 8vo. in wrapper. 4d. "preliminary algebra, and euclid book v." 1874 oxford: printed at the university press. "the dynamics of a parti-cle." 1874 oxford: parker. pp. 24, cr. 8vo. in wrapper. 6d. "the new method of evaluation as applied to pi." 1874 oxford: parker. pp. 16, cr. 8vo. in wrapper. 4d. "facts, figures, and fancies," relating to the 1874 elections to the hebdomadal council, the offer of the clarendon trustees, and the proposal to convert the parks into cricket-grounds. oxford: parker. pp. 29 + 3, cr. 8vo. in wrapper. 8d. "notes by an oxford chiel." 1874 oxford: parker. cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. [this book consists of the following six pamphlets bound together--"the new method of evaluation," "the dynamics of a particle," "facts, figures, and fancies," "the new belfry," "the vision of the three t's," and "the blank cheque."] "examples in arithmetic." 1874 oxford: printed at the university press. "euclid, books i. and ii." edited by charles l. 1875 dodgson. oxford: parker. diagram, title, preface, and pp. 102, cr. 8vo. cloth. [the book was circulated privately among mathematical friends for hints. "not yet published" was printed above title.] "the professorship of comparative philology." 1876 (three leaflets.) oxford: printed at the university press. "a method of taking votes of more than two 1876 issues." oxford: printed at the university press. pp. 20, cr. 8vo. [a note on the title-page runs as follows: "as i hope to investigate this subject further, and to publish a more complete pamphlet on the subject, i shall feel greatly obliged if you will enter in this copy any remarks that occur to you, and return it to me any time before--"] letter and questions to hospitals. oxford: 1876 printed at the university press. "an easter greeting." [reprinted in london, by 1876 macmillan & co., in 1880.] "fame's penny trumpet." not published. 1876 oxford: baxter. pp. 4, 4to. [afterwards published in "rhyme? and reason?"] "the hunting of the snark." an agony, in eight 1876 fits. by lewis carroll. with nine illustrations by henry holiday. london: macmillan. pp. xi + 83, 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 4s.. 6d. "the responsions of hilary term, 1877." 1877 (a letter to the vice-chancellor.) oxford: printed at the university press. "a charade." (written with a cyclostyle.) pp. 4. 1878 "word-links." (a game, afterwards called 1878 "doublets," invented by the rev. c.l. dodgson.) oxford: printed at the university press. pp. 4, 8vo.[there is also a form written with a cyclostyle.] "doublets." a word-puzzle. by lewis carroll. 1879 london: macmillan. pp. 73, 8vo. cloth. 2s. (2nd edition, 1880.) "euclid and his modern rivals." 1879 london: macmillan. 8vo. cloth. 6s. (2nd edition, 1885. pp. xxxi + 275.) "doublets." a word-puzzle. by lewis carroll. 1880 oxford: printed at the university press. pp. 8. 8vo. [this puzzle appeared in vanity fair, april 19, 1879.] "letter from mabel to emily." to illustrate common 1880 errors in letter-writing. (written with a cyclostyle.) "lize's avonturen in het wonderland." (?)1881 naar het engelsch. [a dutch version of "alice in wonderland."] nijmegen. 4to. "on catching cold." (a pamphlet, consisting of 1881 extracts from two books by dr. inman.) oxford: printed at the university press. "jabberwocky." (lewis carroll's poem, with a.a. 1881 vansittart's latin rendering.) oxford: printed at the university press. notice re concordance to "in memoriam." 1881 oxford: printed at the university press. "lanrick." a game for two players. 1881 oxford: printed at the university press. a circular about the "school of dramatic art." 1882 oxford: printed at the university press. "an analysis of the responsions-lists from 1882 michaelmas, 1873, to michaelmas, 1881." oxford: printed at the university press. circular asking for suggestions for a girls' 1882 edition of shakespeare. oxford: printed at the university press. [two different forms, one pp. 2, the other pp. 4.] "euclid, books i. and ii." 1882 london: macmillan. printed in oxford. pp. xi + 108. 8vo. cloth. 2s. [seven editions were subsequently published.] "dreamland." a song. words by lewis carroll; music 1882 by rev. c. e. hutchinson. oxford: printed at the university press. "mischmasch." (a game invented by the rev. c. l. 1882 dodgson.) oxford: printed at the university press. two editions. "rhyme? and reason?" by lewis carroll. with 1883 sixty-five illustrations by arthur b. frost, and nine by henry holiday. london: macmillan. pp. xii + 214, cr. 8vo. cloth, 7s. (now in its 6th thousand.) [this book is a reprint, with a few additions, of "the hunting of the snark," and of the comic portions of "phantasmagoria and other poems."] "lawn tennis tournaments: the true method of 1883 assigning prizes, with a proof of the fallacy of the present method." london: macmillan. printed in oxford. 8vo. "rules for reckoning postage." 1883 oxford: baxter. "twelve months in a curatorship." 1884 by one who has tried it. oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 52, 8vo supplement to ditto. 1884 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 8, 8vo postscript to ditto. 1884 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 2, 8vo. "christmas greetings." 1884 london: macmillan. "the profits of authorship." by lewis carroll. 1884 london: macmillan. 8vo. 6d. "the principles of parliamentary representation." 1884 london: harrison. pp. 56, 8vo. (reprinted in 1885.) supplement to ditto. 1885 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 8, 8vo. two editions. postscript to supplement to ditto. 1885 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 4, 8vo. two editions. supplement to first edition of "euclid and his 1885 modern rivals." london: macmillan. 8vo. 1s "a tangled tale." by lewis carroll. with six 1885 illustrations by arthur b. frost. london: macmillan. printed in oxford. pp. 152, cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 4s. 6d. (now in its 4th thousand.) [first appeared in monthly packet, april, 1882-november, 1884. there are also separate reprints of each "knot," and of the answers to "knots" i. and ii.] "proposed procuratorial cycle." 1885 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 4, 4to. "the procuratorial cycle. further remarks." 1885 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 3, 4to. "suggestions as to the election of proctors." 1885 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 4, 4to. (reprinted, with additions, in 1886) "alice's adventures under ground." by lewis 1886 carroll. with thirty-seven illustrations by the author. london: macmillan. pp. viii + 95, cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 4s. (now in its 4th thousand.) [this book is a facsimile of the original manuscript story, afterwards developed into "alice in wonderland."] "three years in a curatorship." 1886 by one whom it has tried. oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 32, cr. 8vo. "remarks on the report of the finance committee." 1886 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 8, cr. 8vo. "remarks on mr. sampson's proposal." 1886 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 4, cr. 8vo. "observations on mr. sampson's proposal." 1889 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 12, 8vo. "first paper on logic." 1886 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 2, 8vo. "fourth paper on logic." 1886 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 3, 8vo. "fifth paper on logic." 1887 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 4, 8vo. "sixth paper on logic." 1887 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 4, 8vo. "questions in logic." 1887 oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. 4, fcap. fol. "alice's adventures in wonderland; and through the 1887 looking-glass." people's editions, 1 vol. london: macmillan. cr. 8vo. cloth. 4s. 6d. "the game of logic." by lewis carroll. 1887 london: macmillan. pp. 96, cr. 8vo. cloth. 3s. "curiosa mathematica, part i. a new theory of 1888 parallels." by c. l. dodgson. london: macmillan. pp. 75. 8vo. cloth. 2s. (reprinted in 1889, 1890, and 1895.) "memoria technica." [written with a cyclostyle.] 1888 pp. 4 "circular billiards for two players." invented, in (?)1889 1889, by lewis carroll. two editions "sylvie and bruno." by lewis carroll. with 1889 forty-six illustrations by harry furniss. london: macmillan. pp. xxiii + 400, cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. (now in its 13th thousand.) [the picture on p. 77 was drawn by miss alice havers.] "the nursery 'alice.'" containing twenty coloured 1890 enlargements from tenniel's illustrations to "alice's adventures in wonderland." with text adapted to nursery readers by lewis carroll. the cover designed and coloured by e. gertrude thomson. london: macmillan. pp. 56, 4to. boards. 4s. (now in its 11th thousand.) "eight or nine wise words about letter-writing." 1890 by lewis carroll. oxford: emberlin and son. (now in its 5th edition.) [this pamphlet is sold with the "wonderland" postage-stamp case, published by messrs. emberlin and son.] "the stranger circular." (a leaflet sent by mr. 1890 dodgson to people who wrote to him about his "lewis carroll" books, addressing the envelope to rev. c. l. dodgson.) oxford: printed by sheppard. circular, asking friends to send addresses of 1890 stationers likely to sell the "wonderland" postage-stamp case. oxford: printed by sheppard. circular sent to various hospitals, offering free 1890 copies of lewis carroll's books. oxford: printed by sheppard. list of institutions to which above was to be sent. 1890 oxford: printed by sheppard. circular, addressed to the governing body of 1891 christ church, oxford, about the proposal to invite m.a.'s to dine at high table. "a postal problem." june, 1891. 1891 ditto, supplement. 1891 a circular about resignation of curatorship. 1892 oxford: printed by sheppard. a circular about "unparliamentary" words 1892 used by some competitors in the "syzygies" competition in the lady. oxford: printed by sheppard. "curiosissima curatoria." by 'rude donatus.' 1892 (a pamphlet sent to all resident members of christ church common room.) oxford: printed by sheppard. "eighth paper on logic." 1892 oxford: printed by sheppard. [a revised version of one page was printed in same year.] "ninth paper on logic." 1892 oxford: printed by sheppard. "notes to logic papers eight and nine." 1892 oxford: printed by sheppard. "curiosa mathematica, part iii. pillow problems," 1893 thought out during wakeful hours, by c. l. dodgson. london, macmillan: printed in oxford. pp. xvii + 109, 8vo. cloth, 1st and 2nd editions. (reprinted in 1894, 1895.) "syzygies and lanrick." by lewis carroll. 1893 london: the lady office. pp. 26. 6d. "sylvie and bruno concluded." by lewis carroll. 1893 with forty-six illustrations by harry furniss. london: macmillan. pp. xxi + 423, cr. 8vo. cloth, gilt edges. 7s.6d. (now in its 3rd thousand.) [the picture on p. 409 was drawn by miss alice havers.] "a disputed point in logic." 1894 "what the tortoise said to achilles." (reprinted 1894 from mind, december, 1894.) pp. 4. "a fascinating mental recreation for the young." (?)1895 (a circular about symbolic logic, signed "lewis carroll.") "resident women-students." 1896 (a circular, signed "charles l dodgson.") oxford: printed by sheppard. "symbolic logic. part i. elementary." by lewis 1896 carroll. london: macmillan. pp. xxxi + 192, cr. 8vo. cloth. 2s. (now in its 4th edition.) "three sunsets and other poems." by lewis carroll. 1898 with twelve fairy-fancies by e. gertrude thomson. london: macmillan. pp. 68, fcap. 4to. cloth, gilt edges. 4s. [this book is a reprint, with additions, of the serious portions of "phantasmagoria and other poems."] "to my child-friend." (a poem, reprinted in "the no date game of logic.") pp. 2 "the alphabet-cipher." no date * * * * * index a abdy, miss dora, albany, the duchess of, "alice's adventures in wonderland," "alice's adventures underground," "alice" operetta, the, alice, princess, "alice, the nursery," allen, mrs. egerton, anderson, mrs., atkinson, miss g., atkinson, rev. f. h., b baden-powell, sir george, bayne, rev. t. vere, bennie, mrs., "blank cheque, the," bowman, miss isa, bremer, miss, "bruno's revenge," c calverley, c. s., chataway, miss g., chevalier, albert, circle-squarers, _college rhymes,_ college servants, _comic times, the,_ cook wilson, professor, croft, cunningham, miss m., d daresbury, "deserted parks, the," "determinants, an elementary treatise on," dodgson, archdeacon, dodgson, captain, dodgson, mrs., "dotheboys hall," "dreamland," drury, miss dymes, miss "dynamics of a parti-cle, the" e egerton, lord francis elphin, the bishop of elsdon eschwege, miss k. eternal punishment "euclid and his modern rivals" "euclid, books i. and ii." "euclid, book v." exhibition, the great f "facts, figures, and fancies" freiligrath kroeker, mrs. frost, a.b. furniss, harry g "game of logic, the" gatty, mrs. general elections h harrison, frederic holiday, henry hopley, rev. h. hughes, arthur hughes, miss agnes "hunting of the snark, the" hutchinson, rev. c.e. j _jabberwock, the_ jackson, miss f. jelf, canon jowett, dr. k kean, mrs. kingsley, henry kitchin, miss alexandra (xie) l "lays of sorrow" liddell, dr. liddell, miss alice liddon, canon "little minister, the" longley, archbishop m macdonald, george maitland, mrs. manners, miss m.e. maurier, george du mechanical "humpty dumpty," the "memoria technica" _misch-masch_ moscow n natural science "new belfry, the" "new method of evaluation, the" "new theory of parallels, the" nijni novgorod "notes by an oxford chiel" p paget, dean paget, sir james paine, miss adelaide patmore, coventry paton, sir noel "phantasmagoria" "pillow problems" potsdam price, professor "profits of authorship, the" pusey, dr. r _rectory umbrella, the_ "rhyme? and reason?" richmond rix, miss edith rugby ruskin, john s salisbury, the marquis of st. petersburg sanday, professor simpson, miss gaynor smedley, frank standen, miss isabel "sylvie and bruno" "sylvie and bruno concluded" "symbolic logic, part i." "syzygies" t tait, archbishop "tangled tale, a" taylor, tom tenniel, sir john tennyson, alfred terry, miss ellen terry, miss kate thackeray, w.m. thomson, miss e.g. "three sunsets" "through the looking-glass" _train, the_ "twelve months in a curatorship" v vansittart, a.a. "vision of the three t's, the" vivisection w wilberforce, bishop "wise words on letter-writing" "wonderland" stamp-case, the woodhouse, rev. g.c. y yates, edmund yonge, miss charlotte m. * * * * * footnotes. [footnote 001: perhaps an incorrect expression, as it was only the second attempt.] [footnote 002: the science of taking medicine in infinitely small doses.] [footnote 003: 1 _________________________ 1000000000000000000000000 ] [footnote 004: a man's history of his own life.] [footnote 005: the author of "the bandy-legged butterfly."] [footnote 006: afterwards president of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals.] [footnote 007: or a pulling by the ear.] [footnote 008: this rectory has been supposed to have been built in the time of edward vi., but recent discoveries clearly assign its origin to a much earlier period. a stone has been found in an island formed by the river tees on which is inscribed the letter "a," which is justly conjectured to stand for the name of the great king alfred, in whose reign this house was probably built.] [footnote 009: the poet entreats pardon for having represented a donkey under this dignified name.] [footnote 010: with reference to these remarkable animals see "moans from the miserable," page 12.] [footnote 011: a full account of the history and misfortunes of these interesting creatures may be found in the first "lay of sorrow," page 36.] [footnote 012: it is a singular fact that a donkey makes a point of returning any kicks offered to it.] [footnote 013: this valiant knight, besides having a heart of steel and nerves of iron, has been lately in the habit of carrying a brick in his eye.] [footnote 014: she was sister to both.] [footnote 015: the reader will probably be at a loss to discover the nature of this triumph, as no object was gained, and the donkey was obviously the victor; on this point, however, we are sorry to say, we can offer no good explanation.] [footnote 016: much more acceptable to a true knight than "corn-land" which the roman people were so foolish as to give to their daring champion, horatius.] [footnote 017: lewis carroll composed this poem while staying with his cousins, the misses wilcox, at whitburn, near sunderland. to while away an evening the whole party sat down to a game of verse-making, and "jabberwocky" was his contribution.] [footnote 018: coesper from coena and vesper.] [footnote 019: lubriciles, from lubricus and graciles. see the commentary in "humpty dumpty's square," which will also explain ultravia, and, if it requires explanation, moestenui.] [footnote 020: sanguis meus: verg. aen. vi. 836--"projice tela manu, sanguis meus!"] [footnote 021: egnia: "muffish"--segnis; therefore "uffish" = egnis. this is a conjectural analogy, but i can suggest no better solution.] [footnote 022: susuffrus: "whiffling," susurrus: "whistling."] [footnote 023: spicula: see the picture.] [footnote 024: burbur: apparently a labial variation of murmur, stronger but more dissonant.] [footnote 025: this poem is reproduced here by the kind permission of the proprietors of punch.] 