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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll
by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood

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Title: The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll

Author: Stuart Dodgson Collingwood

Release Date: March 6, 2004 [EBook #11483]

Language: English

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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 L100," 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, aequora tingens
           Splendore aurato. Pervenit umbra solo.
        Mortales lectos quaerunt, et membra relaxant
           Fessa labore dies; cuncta per orbe silet.
        Imperium placidum nunc sumit Phoebe corusca.
           Antris procedunt sanguine ore ferae.

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 L35 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 L20 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 L150 a year--supposing him to appropriate it thus:--

                                      L     s.    d.

    Invested at 4 per cent. ...  ... 100    0     0

    Life Insurance of L1,500     ...  29   15     0
    Books, besides those bought in
    ordinary course ...     ...  ...  20    5     0
                                      _____________
                                    L150    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 L1,220 ready money, for furnishing and
    other expenses.

      2. A sum of L1,500 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 L200, 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 L300 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'hote._ 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'hote_ 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 Koenigsberg. 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
    Koenigsberg, 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 Koenigsberg 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 _diner a
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 Bue, 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 Bue gave up the
idea of translation altogether, and, instead, parodied La Fontaine's
"Maitre Corbeau" as follows:--

        Maitre Corbeau sur un arbre perche
        Faisait son nid entre des branches;
        Il avait releve ses manches,
        Car il etait tres affaire.
        Maitre Renard par la passant,
        Lui dit: "Descendez donc, compere;
        Venez embrasser votre frere!"
        Le Corbeau, le reconnaissant,
        Lui repondit en son ramage!--
              "Fromage."

The dialogue in which the joke occurs about "tortoise" and "taught us"
("Wonderland," p. 142) is thus rendered:--

    "La maitresse etait une vieille tortue; nous l'appelions
    chelonee." "Et pourquoi l'appeliez-vous chelonee, si ce
    n'etait pas son nom?" "Parcequ'on ne pouvait s'empecher de
    s'ecrier en la voyant: Quel long nez!" dit la Fausse-Tortue
    d'un ton fache; "vous etes vraiment bien bornee!"

At two points, however, both M. Bue 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 Mueller 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 exgrabuere 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 exgrabuere 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:--

    Sec.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.

    Sec.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.

    Sec.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 creta
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 L200 instead of L300 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 L300 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 (aet. 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 precis of every letter he wrote
or received from the 1st of January, 1861, to the 8th of the same
month, 1898. These precis 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 brother- and 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, aet. 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'etre_, 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 x squared + y squared be even, its half is the sum of two squares.
    A kindred theorem, that 2(x squared + y squared) 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 _matinee_ 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 L100 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
        _employes_ 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.--Matinee_ 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-a-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 creta 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 _role_--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 naive 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 faerie 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 aesthetic 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 Zooelogical 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 _fiance_, 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 _boutonniere_.

    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
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"A SYLLABUS OF PLANE ALGEBRAICAL GEOMETRY,"                   1860
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"RULES FOR COURT CIRCULAR."                                   1860
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"THE FORMULAE OF PLANE TRIGONOMETRY,"                          1861
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"NOTES ON THE FIRST PART OF ALGEBRA."                         1861
  Oxford: Parker. 8vo. 6d


"INDEX TO 'IN MEMORIAM.'"                                     1862
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"THE ENUNCIATIONS OF EUCLID, Books I. and II."                1863
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"GENERAL LIST OF (MATHEMATICAL) SUBJECTS, AND                 1863
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"CROQUET CASTLES."                                            1863
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"THE NEW EXAMINATION STATUTE."                                1864
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"A GUIDE TO THE MATHEMATICAL STUDENT IN READING,              1864
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"THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE, with an Excursus on             1865
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"ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND." By Lewis                  1865
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"CONDENSATION OF DETERMINANTS," being a new and               1866
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"AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON DETERMINANTS."                     1867
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  Pp. viii + 143, 4to. Cloth. 10s. 6d.


"THE FIFTH BOOK OF EUCLID TREATED ALGEBRAICALLY,              1868
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"ALGEBRAICAL FORMULAE FOR RESPONSIONS."                        1868
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"THE TELEGRAPH CIPHER."                                    (?)1868
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"PHANTASMAGORIA AND OTHER POEMS."                             1869
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"AVENTURES D'ALICE AU PAYS DE MERVEILLES."                    1869
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"GAZETTE EXTRAORDINARY."                                      1870
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"ALGEBRAICAL FORMULAE AND RULES."                              1870
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"ARITHMETICAL FORMULAE AND RULES."                              1870
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"THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND               1871
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"LE AVVENTURE D'ALICE NEL PAESE DELLA MERAVIGLIE."            1872
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CIRCULAR TO HOSPITALS OFFERING COPIES OF THE TWO              1872
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"SYMBOLS, &c., TO BE USED IN EUCLID,                           1872
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  Oxford: Printed at the University Press.


"NUMBER OF PROPOSITIONS IN EUCLID." Oxford:                   1872
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"THE NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD." A                  1872
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"ENUNCIATIONS, EUCLID, I.-VI."                                1873
  Oxford: Printed at the University Press.


"OBJECTIONS, SUBMITTED TO THE GOVERNING BODY of               1873
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"THE VISION OF THE THREE T's." A Threnody. By the             1873
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"A DISCUSSION OF THE VARIOUS MODES OF PROCEDURE IN            1873
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  Oxford: Printed at the University Press.


"EUCLID, BOOK V. PROVED ALGEBRAICALLY," so far as             1874
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  Oxford: Parker.
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"SUGGESTIONS AS TO THE BEST METHOD OF TAKING VOTES,           1874
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"THE BLANK CHEQUE." A Fable. By the Author of "The            1874
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"PRELIMINARY ALGEBRA, AND EUCLID Book V."                     1874
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"THE NEW METHOD OF EVALUATION AS APPLIED TO pi."              1874
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"FACTS, FIGURES, AND FANCIES," relating to the                1874
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"NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL."                                   1874
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"EXAMPLES IN ARITHMETIC."                                     1874
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"EUCLID, BOOKS I. and II." Edited by Charles L.               1875
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"THE PROFESSORSHIP OF COMPARATIVE PHILOLOGY."                 1876
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LETTER AND QUESTIONS TO HOSPITALS. Oxford:                    1876
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"AN EASTER GREETING." [Reprinted in London, by                1876
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"FAME'S PENNY TRUMPET." Not published.                        1876
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"THE RESPONSIONS OF HILARY TERM, 1877."                       1877
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  Oxford: Printed at the University Press.


"A CHARADE." (Written with a cyclostyle.) Pp. 4.              1878


"WORD-LINKS." (A game, afterwards called                      1878
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"DOUBLETS." A Word-Puzzle. By Lewis Carroll.                  1879
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"EUCLID AND HIS MODERN RIVALS."                               1879
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"DOUBLETS." A Word-Puzzle. By Lewis Carroll.                  1880
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"LETTER FROM MABEL TO EMILY." To illustrate common            1880
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"LIZE'S AVONTUREN IN HET WONDERLAND."                      (?)1881
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  Nijmegen. 4to.


"ON CATCHING COLD." (A pamphlet, consisting of                1881
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  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
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"LANRICK." A Game for Two Players.                            1881
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A CIRCULAR ABOUT THE "SCHOOL OF DRAMATIC ART."                1882
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"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.]





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