Initial commit of ebook 77627 filesHEAD main

author: www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> 2026-01-06 13:45:22 -0800
committer: www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> 2026-01-06 13:45:22 -0800
commit: 2f68e7c1a249285133c7a22e183e712cf0685fec (patch)
tree: c3854c4f32ea5baedf8ebb14451aef630495e821 /77627-h/77627-h.htm
1 files changed, 4431 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/77627-h/77627-h.htm b/77627-h/77627-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..7243d4e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/77627-h/77627-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,4431 @@
+<!DOCTYPE html>
+<html lang="en">
+<head>
+    <meta charset="UTF-8">
+    <title>
+      Further Nonsense Verse and Prose | Project Gutenberg
+    </title>
+    <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover">
+    <style>
+
+body {
+    margin-left: 10%;
+    margin-right: 10%;
+}
+
+    h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {
+    text-align: center; /* all headings centered */
+    clear: both;
+}
+
+p {
+    margin-top: .51em;
+    text-align: justify;
+    margin-bottom: .49em;
+}
+
+
+.p02      {font-size: 0.6em;}
+.p025      {font-size: 0.7em;}
+.p05       {font-size: 0.8em;}
+.p075       {font-size: 0.9em;}
+.p125      {font-size: 1.25em;}
+.p15       {font-size: 1.5em;}
+.p20       {font-size: 2.0em;}
+
+
+hr {
+    width: 33%;
+    margin-top: 2em;
+    margin-bottom: 2em;
+    margin-left: 33.5%;
+    margin-right: 33.5%;
+    clear: both;
+}
+
+hr.tb   {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;}
+hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;}
+@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} }
+
+hr.r50 {width: 50%; margin-top: .1em; margin-bottom: 3em; margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%;}
+hr.r50h {width: 50%; height: 2px; background-color: black; margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: .2em; margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%;}
+
+
+div.chapter {page-break-before: always;}
+h2.nobreak  {page-break-before: avoid;}
+
+table {
+    margin-left: auto;
+    margin-right: auto;
+}
+table.autotable    { border-collapse: collapse; }
+table.autotable td,
+table.autotable th { padding: 0.25em; }
+
+.tdl      {text-align: left;}
+.tdr      {text-align: right;}
+
+
+.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */
+    /*  visibility: hidden;  */
+    position: absolute;
+    left: 92%;
+    font-size: small;
+    text-align: right;
+    font-style: normal;
+    font-weight: normal;
+    font-variant: normal;
+    text-indent: 0;
+} /* page numbers */
+
+
+.blockquot {
+    margin-left: 5%;
+    margin-right: 10%;
+}
+
+
+.center   {text-align: center;}
+
+.right    {text-align: right;}
+
+.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
+
+figcaption  {font-weight: bold;}
+
+/* Images */
+
+img {
+    max-width: 100%;
+    height: auto;
+}
+img.w100 {width: 100%;}
+img.w60 {width: 60%;}
+
+
+.figcenter {
+    margin: auto;
+    text-align: center;
+    page-break-inside: avoid;
+    max-width: 100%;
+}
+
+/* Footnotes */
+.footnote         {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;}
+
+.footnote .label  {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;}
+
+.fnanchor {
+    vertical-align: super;
+    font-size: .8em;
+    text-decoration:
+    none;
+}
+
+/* Poetry */
+/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */
+.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;}
+.poetry-container {text-align: center;}
+.poetry           {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;}
+.poetry .stanza   {margin: 1em auto;}
+.poetry .verse    {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;}
+
+/* Transcriber's notes */
+.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA;
+    color: black;
+    font-size:small;
+    padding:0.5em;
+    margin-bottom:5em;
+    font-family:sans-serif, serif;
+}
+
+
+/* Poetry indents */
+.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;}
+.poetry .indent1 {text-indent: -2.5em;}
+.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2.0em;}
+.poetry .indent3 {text-indent: -1.5em;}
+.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: -1.0em;}
+.poetry .indent6 {text-indent: 0.0em;}
+.poetry .indent10 {text-indent: 2.0em;}
+.poetry .indent12 {text-indent: 3.0em;}
+.poetry .indent14 {text-indent: 4.0em;}
+.poetry .indent18 {text-indent: 6.0em;}
+.poetry .indent30 {text-indent: 12.0em;}
+
+
+/* Illustration classes */
+.illowe54_1250 {width: 54.1250em;}
+.illowe27_7500 {width: 27.7500em;}
+.illowe55_5625 {width: 55.5625em;}
+.illowe97_9375 {width: 97.9375em;}
+.illowe25_6875 {width: 25.6875em;}
+.illowe32_6875 {width: 32.6875em;}
+.illowe80_0625 {width: 80.0625em;}
+.illowe37_5000 {width: 37.5000em;}
+.illowe39_4375 {width: 39.4375em;}
+.illowe24_5000 {width: 24.5000em;}
+.illowe50_3750 {width: 50.3750em;}
+.illowe66_3750 {width: 66.3750em;}
+.illowe52_3750 {width: 52.3750em;}
+.illowe39_8750 {width: 39.8750em;}
+.illowe48_9375 {width: 48.9375em;}
+    </style>
+</head>
+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77627 ***</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe54_1250" id="cover">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe54_1250" id="image098">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image098.png" alt="Kissing by Post">
+</figure>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<h1>
+FURTHER NONSENSE<br>
+VERSE AND PROSE
+</h1>
+<hr class="r50h">
+<hr class="r50"><br><br>
+
+
+<p class="p15 center">
+<i>BY</i>
+</p>
+
+<p class="p15 center">
+<strong>LEWIS CARROLL</strong>
+</p>
+
+<p class="p15 center">
+(<i>EDITED BY</i> LANGFORD REED)
+</p>
+
+<p class="p15 center">
+<i>ILLUSTRATED BY</i><br>
+H. M. BATEMAN
+</p>
+
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe27_7500" id="image091">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image091.png" alt="The Two Clocks">
+</figure>
+<br><br>
+
+<hr class="r50h">
+<hr class="r50">
+<p class="p15 center">
+D. APPLETON AND COMPANY<br>
+</p>
+<div style="text-align: center;">
+<p class="p15" style="display:inline-block;">
+NEW YORK <img src="images/gimgaw.png" alt="">MCMXXVI
+</p></div>
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div>
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">
+COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY<br>
+D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
+</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe55_5625" id="image086">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image086.png" alt="Hints for Etiquette">
+</figure>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+</p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe97_9375" id="image033">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image033.jpg" alt="The Sea Dirge">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+<table class="autotable">
+<tr>
+<th class="tdl"></th>
+<th class="tdl">PAGE<br></th>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#foreword"><span class="smcap">Foreword</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">1<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_01"><span class="smcap">The Lady of the Ladle</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">21<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_02"><span class="smcap">Coronach</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">24<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_03"><span class="smcap">Lays of Sorrow</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">26<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_04"><span class="smcap">My Fancy</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">29<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_05"><span class="smcap">A Sea Dirge</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">31<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_06"><span class="smcap">Limerick</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">34<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_07"><span class="smcap">A Bacchanalian Ode</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">35<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_08"><span class="smcap">A Lesson in Latin</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">36<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_09"><span class="smcap">The Two Brothers</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">38<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_10"><span class="smcap">Poetry for the Million</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">44<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_11"><span class="smcap">The Dear Gazelle</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">45<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_12"><span class="smcap">The Mouse’s Tail</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">46<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_13"><span class="smcap">Rhymed Correspondence</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">47<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_14"><span class="smcap">Acrostics</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">49<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_15"><span class="smcap">Maggie’s Visit to Oxford</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">51<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_16"><span class="smcap">Wilhelm von Schmitz</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">57<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_17"><span class="smcap">The Three Cats</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">71<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_18"><span class="smcap">The Legend of Scotland</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">74<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_19"><span class="smcap">Photography Extraordinary</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">81<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_20"><span class="smcap">Hints for Etiquette; or, Dining Out Made Easy</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">86<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_21"><span class="smcap">A Hemispherical Problem</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">89<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_22"><span class="smcap">The Two Clocks</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">91<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_23"><span class="smcap">The Ideal Mathematical School</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">93<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_24"><span class="smcap">Love and Loci</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">95<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_25"><span class="smcap">Morning Dress and Evening Dress</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">97<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_26"><span class="smcap">Kissing by Post</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">98<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_27"><span class="smcap">A Birthday Wish</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">101<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_28"><span class="smcap">A Few of the Things I Like</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">102<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_29"><span class="smcap">Myself and Me</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">103<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_30"><span class="smcap">My Style of Dancing</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">105<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_31"><span class="smcap">Gloves for Kittens</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">106<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_32"><span class="smcap">Art in Potsdam</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">109<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_33"><span class="smcap">On Waiters</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">110<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_34"><span class="smcap">Lewis Carroll as a Raconteur</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">113<br></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#ch_35"><span class="smcap">A Lewis Carroll Proverb</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr">119</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><br></td>
+<td class="tdl"></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><a href="#transnote"><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Note</span></a></td>
+<td class="tdr"></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="foreword"><i>FOREWORD</i></h2></div>
+
+<p>This present collection of writings by Lewis Carroll—the King
+of “Nonsense Literature”—is particularly opportune. Most, if not
+all, the matter in it will be new to the present generation; some of
+it, indeed, has never appeared in print before.</p>
+
+<p>Apart from other material, more than one hundred and fifty
+letters have been examined. Lewis Carroll was a prolific correspondent,
+and his letters, especially to his child friends, reflected
+his joyous personality and characteristic humour in no uncommon
+degree. In this connection, and for some of the biographical details
+in his introduction, the editor wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness
+to Mr. Stuart Dodgson Collingwood’s “Life and Letters of
+Lewis Carroll” (a fascinating book long out of print), and to Miss
+Vera Beringer, Mrs. Barclay, Mrs. Spens, and Mrs. Morton (formerly
+the three little Miss Bowmans), four ladies who, when children,
+were among the most intimate of Lewis Carroll’s juvenile
+comrades. The courtesy of the proprietors of “The Whitby
+Gazette” in giving permission for the inclusion of “The Lady of
+the Ladle” and “Wilhelm von Schmitz” must be acknowledged.</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">The Real Lewis Carroll</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Lewis Carroll’s real name, as most of his adult admirers are
+aware, was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, and he was born on January 27,
+1832, in the Cheshire village of Daresbury, where his
+father was the local parson.</p>
+
+<p>In this secluded hamlet young Dodgson spent the first eleven
+years of his life, and in his quaint diversions and hobbies gave
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>promise of the whimsical and bizarre genius which was destined to
+make him famous.</p>
+
+<p>His biographer has left it on record that he made pets of snails
+and other queer creatures, and endeavoured to encourage organised
+warfare among insects by supplying them with pieces of stick with
+which they might fight, if so disposed.</p>
+
+<p>He also showed early signs of mathematical and scientific talent
+which, if not rare enough to make the name of Charles Lutwidge
+Dodgson as imperishably and as internationally illustrious as that
+of Lewis Carroll, rendered it well known in his own generation
+among his own countrymen, and proved that he was one of those
+singular geniuses whom, in his own quaint phraseology, he would
+have described as a “portmanteau” man—that is to say, one man
+packed with several individualities!</p>
+
+<p>Of the delightful surroundings of his birthplace he has left the
+following impression in his serious poem, “The Three Sunsets”
+(first published in “All the Year Round” in 1860):</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">I watch the drowsy night expire,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And Fancy paints at my desire</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Her magic pictures in the fire.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">An island farm, ’midst seas of corn</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Swayed by the wandering breath of morn,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">The happy spot where I was born.</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>In 1843 the Rev. Mr. Dodgson became rector of Croft, a Durham
+village near Darlington, with a quaint old church which contains
+a Norman porch and an elaborate covered-in pew resembling
+a four-post bedstead. Soon after the transference he was appointed
+examining chaplain to the Bishop of Ripon, and later became Archdeacon
+of Richmond (Yorkshire), and one of the Canons of Ripon
+Cathedral.</p>
+
+<p>“Young Dodgson at this time,” says the authority already quoted,
+“was very fond of inventing games for the amusement of his
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>brothers and sisters; he constructed a home-made train out of a
+wheelbarrow, a barrel, and a small truck, which used to convey
+passengers from one ‘station’ in the rectory gardens 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
+the 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 tricks. 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 and he was very clever at manipulating
+the innumerable strings by which the movements of his puppets
+were regulated.”</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">A Prophecy That Came True</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>It was in 1844, at the mature age of twelve, when he was a pupil
+at Richmond School, that he wrote his first story. It was called
+“The Unknown One,” and appeared in the school magazine.</p>
+
+<p>That the headmaster anticipated that his young pupil might one
+day astonish the world may be gathered by the following extract
+from his first report upon him:</p>
+
+<p>“I do not hesitate to express my opinion that he possesses, along
+with other and excellent natural endowments, a very uncommon
+share of genius; he is capable of acquirements and knowledge far
+beyond his years, while his reason is so clear and so zealous of error,
+that he will not rest satisfied without a most exact solution of whatever
+appears to him obscure. You may fairly anticipate for him
+a bright career.”</p>
+
+<p>At the age of fourteen Charles was sent to Rugby School, becoming
+a pupil a few years after the death of the great Dr. Arnold,
+immortalised in “Tom Brown’s Schooldays.” The headmaster was
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>Dr. A. C. Tait, who afterwards became Archbishop of Canterbury.
+His opinion of his pupil’s ability was thus expressed in a letter to
+Archdeacon Dodgson:</p>
+
+<p>“I must not allow your son to leave school without expressing to
+you the very high opinion I entertain of him. His mathematical
+knowledge is great for his age, and I doubt not he will do himself
+credit in classics; his examination for the Divinity Prize was one
+of the most creditable exhibitions I have ever seen.”</p>
+
+<p>Young Dodgson’s literary activities appear to have definitely commenced
+about the year 1845, when the first of a series of amateur
+magazines, which he edited during the holidays for the benefit of
+the inmates of Croft Rectory made its appearance. The most ambitious
+of these home-made journals was “The Rectory Umbrella,”
+for which, in addition to editing, he wrote most of the matter and
+made all the illustrations.</p>
+
+<p>In the spring of 1850 he matriculated, and in January, 1851,
+following in the footsteps of his father, he became a student at
+Christ Church College, Oxford, and commenced a personal association
+with it which lasted until the day of his death, forty-seven years
+later. Scholastic honours and distinctions were his almost from the
+very first, for he soon won a Boulter Scholarship and obtained First
+Class Honours in Mathematics and Second in Classical Moderations.
+The degrees of Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts followed.</p>
+
+<p>In 1853, during a stay at Ripon, he met a singular person who
+identified with remarkable accuracy the qualities and characteristics
+which were to make him famous. This was a Miss Anderson, who
+professed to have clairvoyant powers, and by merely holding a
+folded paper containing writing by a person unknown to her to be
+able to describe his or her character. This was her delineation of
+young Dodgson’s:</p>
+
+<p>“Very clever head, a great deal of imitation; he would make a
+good actor; diffident; rather shy in general society; comes out in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>the home circle; rather obstinate, very clever; a great deal of concentration;
+very affectionate; a great deal of wit and humour; not
+much faculty for remembering events; fond of deep reading; imaginative;
+fond of reading poetry; may compose.”</p>
+
+<p>The following year he contributed the poem and short story to
+“The Whitby Gazette” which are included in this present volume.</p>
+
+<p>His love of the theatre alluded to by the psychical lady was an
+early one. In his diary for June 22, 1853, he thus refers to an
+evening spent at the Princess’s Theatre, London:</p>
+
+<p>“Then came the great play ‘Henry VIII.,’ the greatest theatrical
+treat I have ever had or 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! I almost held my breath to watch, the illusion is perfect,
+and I felt as if in a dream the whole time it lasted. It was
+like a delicious reverie or most beautiful poetry. This is the true
+end and object of acting—to raise the mind above itself and out of
+its petty cares.”</p>
+
+<p>Another entry is full of the diffidence about himself and his work
+which was characteristic of the man. It read as follows:</p>
+
+<p>“I am sitting alone in my bedroom this last night of the old year
+(1857) waiting for midnight. It has been the most eventful year
+of my life: I began it as a poor bachelor student, with no definite
+plans or expectations; I end it as a master and tutor in Christ
+Church, with an income of more than £300 a year, and the course
+of mathematical tuition marked out by God’s providence for at
+least some years to come. Great mercies, great failings, time lost,
+talent misapplied—such has been the past year.”</p>
+
+<p>At Christmas he became the editor of a college publication called
+“College Rhymes,” in which first appeared “A Sea Dirge” and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>“My Fancy,” both of which are included in this present volume.
+About the same period he contributed several poems to “The Comic
+Times,” and later to “The Train.” Edmund Yates, the editor of
+both publications, expressed the warmest appreciation of his work.</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">The “Birth” of “Lewis Carroll”</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>It was during young Dodgson’s association with the latter journal
+that the pseudonym, which is to-day world-famous, originated. It
+was selected by Edmund Yates from the names Edgar Cuthwellis,<a id="FNanchor_1_1" href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>
+Edgar W. C. Westhall, Louis Carroll, and Lewis Carroll. The first
+two were formed from letters of his Christian names, Charles Lutwidge;
+the others are merely variant forms of them. Thus Lewis
+is developed from Ludovicus and Ludovicus from Luteridge, while
+Charles develops into Carolus and thence to Carroll.</p>
+
+<p>The first effort from his pen to which the new pseudonym was
+appended was “The Path of Roses,” a serious poem which appeared
+in “The Train” in 1856.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Dodgson was ordained a deacon of the Church of England
+in 1861, but never undertook regular duties as a priest, although he
+preached occasionally at the University Church and elsewhere. Despite
+the slight stammer which marred his diction his sermons—models
+of earnestness, lucidity, and reasoning—were always impressive,
+especially those on the subject of Eternal Punishment, in which
+devilish and anti-Christian doctrines he was, of course an emphatic
+disbeliever.</p>
+
+<p>His literary activities and personal charm gained him the friendship
+of eminent writers in various fields of artistic and professional
+endeavour, including Tennyson, Ruskin, Thackeray, the Rossetti
+Family, Tom Taylor the dramatist (author of “Still Waters Run
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>Deep,” etc.), Frank Smedley (author of that admirable novel
+“Frank Fairleigh”), Stuart Calverley, Coventry Patmore, Mrs.
+Charlotte the novelist, Millais, Holman Hunt, Val Prinsep, Watts,
+the Terry family, Lord Salisbury, the Bishop of Oxford, Canon
+King (afterwards Bishop of Lincoln), Canon Liddon, Dr. Scott
+(Dean of Rochester), Dr. Liddell (Dean of Christ Church), Professor
+Faraday, Mr. Justice Denman, Sir George Baden-Powell,
+Mr. Frederick Harrison, etc.</p>
+
+<p>Most of these distinguished people were photographed by him,
+for this man of many talents had a flair for artistic photography
+which undoubtedly would have made him successful as a professional
+photographer had he been compelled to depend upon it for
+a living. Photographing from life, particularly photographing
+children, was, indeed, his principal hobby, and in his rooms at Christ
+Church he kept a large and varied assortment of fancy costumes in
+which to attire his little friends for picturesque effect.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p>
+
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">The Beginning of “Alice”</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>It was on July 4, 1862, that there occurred that epochal expedition
+up the river to Godstow with the three small daughters of Dr.
+Liddell, Dean of Christ Church, which was destined to have such
+important and far-reaching results. The first inception of the resultant
+masterpiece has been charmingly described in the beautiful
+verses which preface it:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">All in the golden afternoon</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Full leisurely we glide,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">For both our oars, with little skill,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">By little arms are plied.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">While little hands make vain pretence</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Our wanderings to guide.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Ah, cruel three! In such an hour</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Beneath such dreamy weather</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">To beg a tale of breath too weak</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To stir the tiniest feather!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Yet what can one poor voice avail</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Against three tongues together?</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Imperious Prima flashes forth</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Her edict “to begin it”—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">In gentler tone Secunda hopes</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">“There will be nonsense in it!”—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">While Tertia interrupts the tale</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Not <i>more</i> than once a minute.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Anon, to sudden silence won,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">In fancy they pursue</div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span><div class="verse indent0">The dream-child moving through a land</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Of wonders wild and new.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">In friendly chat with bird or beast—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And half believe it true.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">And even, as the story drained</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The wells of fancy dry,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And faintly strove that weary one</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To put the subject by,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“The rest next time”—“It <i>is</i> next time!”</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The happy voices cry.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Thus slowly, one by one,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Its quaint events were hammered out—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And now the tale is done,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And home we steer, a merry crew,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Beneath the setting sun.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Alice! a childish story take,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And with a gentle hand</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Lay it where childhood’s dreams are twined</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">In Memory’s mystic band,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Pluck’d in a far-off land.</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>If the final verse is not proof enough that sweet Alice Liddell was
+Lewis Carroll’s favourite of the three, and that for <i>her</i> he fashioned
+his immortal fantasy, the opening verses from the exquisite poem
+which precedes the sequel to the story, “Alice through the Looking
+Glass,” will dispel all doubt:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Child of the pure unclouded brow</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And dreaming eyes of wonder!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Though time be fleet and I and thou</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Are half a life asunder,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Thy loving smile will surely hail</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The love gift of a fairy-tale.</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">I have not seen thy sunny face,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Nor heard thy silver laughter;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">No thought of me shall find a place</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">In thy young life’s hereafter—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Enough that now thou wilt not fail</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To listen to my fairy-tale.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">A tale begun in other days,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">When summer suns were glowing—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">A simple chime that served to time</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The rhythm of our rowing—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Whose echoes live in memory yet,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Though envious years would say “forget.”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>It is pleasant to reflect that Lewis Carroll was wrong in his
+assumption that his little comrade would forget him. She remained
+his lifelong friend, and many years after the trip to Godstow, when
+she had become Mrs. Reginald Hargreaves, she wrote the following
+account of the scene:</p>
+
+<p>“I believe the beginning of ‘Alice’ was told me one summer
+afternoon when the sun was so hot 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 hay-rick.
+Here from all three came the old petition of ‘Tell us a story,’
+and so began the ever-delightful tale. Sometimes to tease us—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....”</p>
+
+<p>The original title of the story, which its creator took the trouble
+to write out in manuscript and have specially bound for the living
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>Alice, was “Alice’s Adventures Underground”; later it became
+“Alice’s Hour in Elfland.” It was not until June 18, 1864, that
+its author finally decided upon “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,”
+and it was a year later before it was published. He had no
+thought of publication at first, and it was his friend Mr. George
+Macdonald who persuaded him to submit the story to Messrs.
+Macmillan, who immediately appreciated its value.</p>
+
+<p>Few books have met with such unequivocal praise from the
+critics and such instantaneous favour from the public, and the
+writer of these notes feels sure that in any public enquiry conducted
+into the popularity of children’s books to-day, either in Great
+Britain or America, “Alice in Wonderland” would come at easy
+first. His own little daughter, Joan, ætat. nine, never tires of the
+wonderful adventures, and thinks it “the very best story in the
+world,” and this opinion is probably typical of nine children out of
+ten.</p>
+
+<p>The story has been translated into French, German, Italian, and
+Dutch—tasks which the peculiarly Anglo-Saxon character of its
+appeal must have rendered very difficult.</p>
+
+<p>Four years after the publication of his masterpiece there appeared
+its author’s collection of poems grave and gay, known under the
+general title of “Phantasmagoria,” followed two years later by
+“Alice through the Looking Glass.”</p>
+
+<p>Soon after this he commenced to work out the story of “Sylvie
+and Bruno,” and on the last night of 1872 related a great deal of it
+to several children, including Princess Alice, who were members
+of a party at Hatfield, where Mr. Dodgson was the guest of Lord
+Salisbury.</p>
+
+<p>In 1871 appeared his “Notes by an Oxford Chiel,” a collection
+of whimsical papers dealing with Oxford controversies; and in
+March, 1879, “The Hunting of the Snark” was published.
+According to its creator, the first idea for the whole poem was
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>suggested by its last line, “For the Snark was a Boojum, you see,”
+which came into his mind, apparently without reason, while he was
+enjoying a country walk. Many of his admirers have contended
+that “The Hunting of the Snark” is an allegory, but Lewis Carroll
+himself always declared it had no meaning at all, which, however,
+is very different from saying it had no point, for the meticulous skill
+with which each effect is achieved shows the master-hand throughout.</p>
+
+<p>All this time Mr. Dodgson, in addition to his professional duties,
+was writing mathematical and technical and other serious works,
+for which he was responsible for more than a dozen books alone,
+including “Euclid and his Modern Rivals” (1882), which ran into
+eight editions.</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">Inventor of Cross Word Puzzles</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>In addition, he invented many ingenious table games and puzzles,
+and an examination of some of these has suggested to the editor
+that in all probability he was the real inventor of “Cross Word
+Puzzles.”</p>
+
+<p>As, however, this introduction is concerned principally with the
+humorous literary achievements and characteristics of Lewis
+Carroll, anything more than a passing reference to matters outside
+that scope would be inappropriate, particularly since time has to a
+great extent already endorsed the uncompromising prophecy which
+appeared at the end of a wonderful laudation of Lewis Carroll in
+“The National Review” a few days after his death, which stated:
+“Future generations will not waste a single thought upon the Rev.
+C. L. Dodgson.”</p>
+
+<p>In 1855 appeared “A Tangled Tale,” in which Mr. Carroll successfully
+combined mathematics and nonsense in a series of ingenious
+problems; and at the end of 1889 “Sylvie and Bruno,” on which
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>he had been engaged for several years. “Sylvie and Bruno Concluded”
+followed in 1893.</p>
+
+<p>Neither of these stories achieved anything approaching the success
+of the “Alice” books or “The Hunting of the Snark,” for in
+them he made the mistake of endeavouring to combine a fairy-tale
+with a serious and controversial novel full of religious and political
+arguments; and commendable though this may have been from the
+Christian and ethical standpoint, it made neither for unity nor
+clarity. Mingled with this extraneous matter, however, is some
+delightful nonsense, equal to anything in the “Alice” books, particularly
+in respect of the Mad Gardener and his weird optic delusions;
+while his heroine, Sylvie, is an idealistic and entrancing
+creature who appeals to the very best that is in humanity, which
+brings me to the question: “What is it precisely which delights and
+amuses us in Lewis Carroll’s fantasies?”</p>
+
+<p>It is a difficult question to answer, for his humour is of that rare
+quality that is intangible and, so to speak, incomplete. It approximates
+to that of Shakespeare in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”
+and Barrie in “Peter Pan.” I can think of no others. His quaint
+conversations and fantastic scenes abound in ideas that seem to
+vanish before we can quite grasp them—like the Cheshire Cat, leaving
+only the smile behind, or like our conception of his immortal
+Snark, that was not strictly a Snark because it was a Boojum! He
+never makes the mistake of less responsible and less “designing”
+writers of satiating us with good things; on completing a story by
+him we are always left with the impression that, had he felt so disposed,
+he could have added another chapter or two as alluring as
+the previous matter. And, more than any other writer, he has
+fathomed the mysterious depths of childhood that lie within us—even
+within the hearts of those of us who are but children of a
+longer growth. It is these various propensities, together with his
+command of language and “technique”—noticeable even when his
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>imagination and fancy run at their most preposterous riot—which
+surely provide the answer to the question as to what are the constituent
+factors responsible for Lewis Carroll’s popularity; and I
+disagree emphatically with the opinion in a recent anthology compiled
+by a distinguished and charming foreign writer who considers
+that “the poetry of nonsense as Carroll understood it is entirely
+irresponsible, and the main point about it is that there is no point.”</p>
+
+<p>This gentleman has, I venture to think, made the mistake of
+attempting to regard Lewis Carroll from a literal point of view
+(which, of course, cannot be done) instead of from a literary one,
+for such a description, if true, would reduce his work to the level
+of the “eenar deenar dinar doe” gibberish of the nursery, or to the
+unconscious nonsense babblings of idiocy. To carry the argument
+a step further, any combination of words picked haphazard from
+the dictionary might be called a nonsense story!</p>
+
+<p>The present writer agrees that legitimate Nonsense Verse and
+Prose appears to be entirely irresponsible, but surely that is one of
+the phrases of paradox which make the fantasies of Carroll and
+Barrie so elusive and so charming to every individual between seven
+and seventy who retains anything of the divine spark of childhood
+within his heart, whether he realises the reason for his enchantment
+or not.</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">Lewis Carroll’s Technique</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Actually the Nonsense writings of Lewis Carroll are a highly
+technical form of conscious and responsible humour, which, when
+analysed, are found to contain plot (or “idea”), achievements,
+climax, and, in the case of his poems, rhyme and rhythm.
+“Jabberwocky” offers excellent proof of this. Rhyme and rhythm,
+indeed, are absolutely essential to good Nonsense Verse, which
+the further removed it is from rules of sense must conform
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>the more closely to rules of sound. It is these factors and the others
+mentioned in conjunction with them which render Nonsense Poetry
+so superior to the nonsense rhymes of the nursery and the folk song,
+including the sea chanty. One type is Nonsense, the other D——
+Nonsense. Then, of course, there is sheer Nonsense; but as this is
+principally confined to the speeches and writings of politicians, we
+need not enlarge on that aspect of the question here.</p>
+
+<p>So responsible and conscious a literary jester was Lewis Carroll
+that it is doubtful if there has ever been a more meticulous precisian
+in the use and intentional misuse of words, including those coined
+by himself. Every word, every comma, had to be printed exactly as
+he had planned in his development of the spontaneous idea upon
+which the particular story or poem was based, and no author took
+more trouble to ensure that the illustrations to his books exactly corresponded
+to his conception of the subject. He would send back
+drawings again and again, no matter how distinguished the artist
+might be, until some little defect in suggestion, as he saw it, was
+remedied, and was equally fastidious with regard to the style in
+which his books were produced. Thus, “Sylvie and Bruno Concluded”
+appears on announcement which states:</p>
+
+<p>“For over twenty-five years I have made it my chief object, with
+regard to my books, that they should be of the best workmanship
+obtainable at the price. And I am deeply annoyed to find that the
+last issue of ‘Through the Looking Glass,’ consisting of the Sixtieth
+Thousand, has been put on sale without its being noticed that most
+of the pictures have failed so much in the printing as to make the
+book not worth buying. I request all holders of copies to send them
+to Messrs. —— with their names and addresses, and copies of
+the new issue shall be sent them in exchange.”</p>
+
+<p>Undoubtedly he has his limitations, particularly in his best and
+most characteristic work. This may appear paradoxical, but the
+writer of these notes is strongly of the opinion that one of the most
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>fascinating qualities about Lewis Carroll’s work is that its popularity
+is never likely to be universal. His humour is essentially “Anglo-Saxon,”
+and its “psychology” also, which explains why Carroll’s
+“immortality” as a genius is founded on British and American
+appreciation, and why the various foreign translations of his works
+were comparative failures. A remarkable endorsement of the
+American popularity of his works appeared on July 14th, this year,
+in the London papers. The account in “The Daily News” read as
+follows:</p>
+
+<p>“In the handbook of the American students who will be touring
+England this summer, issued by the National Union of Students,
+a number of books are recommended as calculated to
+give young Americans ‘some comprehension of English life and
+thought.’</p>
+
+<p>“Among them I observe: ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ ‘Pride and
+Prejudice,’ Chesterton’s ‘The Flying Inn,’ ‘The Forsyte Saga,’
+‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles,’ ‘A Shropshire Lad,’ ‘Major Barbara,’
+and ‘Man and Superman.’”</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">The Golden Age of Literature</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>It may be contended of Lewis Carroll (as of all the Victorian
+writers), that he lived in the “golden age” in respect of opportunity
+for literary achievement. In his day, life flowed on smoothly and
+uneventfully for the great majority of people. Our fathers
+laboured and loved, or did the reverse, with a freedom from worry
+and responsibility that may not have been very stimulating, but must
+have been decidedly comfortable. Those were the days when
+“gaunt tragedy,” transpontine melodrama, and “crescendos” of
+horror and gloom were more popular than humour; indeed,
+thoughtful people turned towards them as a relief and “inspiration”
+when compared with the uneventful and prosaic tenor of life. It
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>says much, therefore, for Lewis Carroll’s unique genius that he was
+able to achieve immediate fame in an altogether different medium.</p>
+
+<p>It must be admitted that the argument that his love for children
+was partial, inasmuch as boys were excluded from it, rests upon a
+great deal of truth. Though essentially a manly man himself, who
+did not fear to use his fists at school against attempted aggression by
+other boys, or in defence of the weak, he has left it on record that
+he did not understand boys, and felt shy in their presence, while the
+only literary tribute he paid to boy-nature was in his creation of
+“Bruno.” Nor has the compiler of this volume been able to discover
+any record of friendship between him and a small member of
+his own sex.</p>
+
+<p>The fact that he had eight sisters and only two brothers may
+have contributed something to this partiality, which, however, is a
+very natural one. Nearly all normal men prefer little girls to little
+boys, just as most women would prefer to make a pet of one of the
+latter, rather than of a miniature specimen of their own adorable
+sex. Is it not proverbial that the small daughter is “daddy’s darling,”
+and the small son mother’s? And if Lewis Carroll has typified
+this characteristic in his idealistic “Alice,” has not a famous
+woman writer on the other side of the Atlantic made equivalent
+representation in her “Little Lord Fauntleroy”?</p>
+
+<p>In his natural preference for the feminine side of humanity it is
+remarkable that Lewis Carroll apparently never had a love affair.
+He does not seem to have had any flirtations even, although he must
+have known many charming young ladies whose friendship he had
+first gained as children. How emphatic was his resolve to maintain
+his bachelor freedom may be gathered from the following extract
+from a letter, written when he was fifty-two years old, to an old
+college friend: “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 an unmixed misery,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>though married life has no doubt many charms to which I am a
+stranger.”</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Dodgson died at Guildford on January 14, 1898, following
+a few days’ illness from influenza, which had attacked him at his
+sister’s house, “The Chestnuts,” where, in accordance with his usual
+custom, he had gone to spend Christmas. He was hard at work at
+the time upon the second volume of his “Symbolic Logic.”</p>
+
+<p>He was buried in the old portion of Guildford Cemetery, and on
+June 14th of the present year the writer of these notes and his wife
+visited the spot. A plain white cross and a triple pediment, “erected
+in loving memory by his brothers and sisters,” record that—</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON<br>
+(<span class="smcap">Lewis Carroll</span>)<br>
+Fell asleep, January 14, 1898,<br>
+Age 65 years,
+</p>
+
+<p>together with the following inscriptions, singularly appropriate to
+one whose whole life was one of service:</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+<br>
+“Where I am, there shall also My servant be.”
+<br><br>
+“His servants shall serve Him.”
+<br><br>
+“Father, in Thy gracious keeping
+Leave we now Thy servant sleeping.”
+<br><br>
+</p>
+
+<p>A grave as modest and unpretentious as the man himself, surmounted
+by no “immortelles,” or other examples of the undertaker’s
+art, as was the case, at the time of our visit, with adjacent
+graves. Nature, however, has paid a more graceful tribute than
+any which could be made by the hand of man. A drooping and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>beautiful yew tree stands sentinel at the head of the tomb, its foliage
+sheltering it lovingly from storms and heat, and its trunk entwined
+with little heart-shaped ivy leaves, just as the genius sleeping there
+attracted the hearts of little children a generation ago and his works
+will continue to do for all time.</p>
+
+<p>On the other side the white blossoms of a verdant syringa were
+scattering themselves across the foot of the grave as if in votive
+offering to the white spirit which once tenanted the mortal reliquiæ
+within it.</p>
+
+<p>The cemetery is beautifully situated on the slopes of that famous
+and picturesque Surrey hill known as “The Hog’s Back,” and
+though the steep and toilsome ascent must be very trying to mourners
+who make it on foot, of such travail is your true pilgrimage
+made. Few if any of the people of Guildford make it for the purpose
+of visiting the last resting-place of Lewis Carroll, however.
+Indeed, it seems extremely improbable that more than a tiny minority
+of them are aware that he is buried there.</p>
+
+<p>Three local ladies of whom we made enquiries in the cemetery
+were astonished when we informed them that it contained the last
+resting-place of the author of “Alice in Wonderland,” and listened
+with the greatest interest to a discursive and aged sexton whom we
+contrived to “unearth,” who had not only buried him, but had been
+acquainted with him in life. He told us that not many people
+visited the grave, but those that did were nearly all Americans!
+How surprised some of these Transatlantic enthusiasts must be
+when they find that “The Chestnuts,” where Lewis Carroll died
+and spent so much of his time during the last twenty years or so of
+his life, is without the usual plaque to distinguish it as a habitation
+of the Great!</p>
+
+<p>They do these things better in Copenhagen, where, it seems, a
+Hans Christian Andersen Memorial Park has been planned, which
+is to contain statues of the Danish author’s most charming
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>characters, set among leafy bowers and flower gardens, the latter to be
+tended by teams of children from the various Council Schools.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, such a memorial plaque on “The Chestnuts” would be a
+very small tribute materially, and yet as a mark of spiritual recognition
+it would be sufficient. Assuredly Lewis Carroll would not wish
+for more, for the fact that his works will never be forgotten he
+would consider remembrance enough.</p>
+
+<p>All the same, there is something fine and exultant in the feeling
+which inspires people to pay reverence to one who by achieving
+honour and fame himself has brought honour and fame to his country,
+whether the “departed” be symbolical of “collective achievement,”
+as in the case of the “unknown soldier,” or whether he be a
+great poet, writer, inventor, scientist, general, king or president, or
+even a politician or commercial magnate.</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+<span class="smcap">Langford Reed.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<span class="smcap">Hampstead,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><span class="smcap">London.</span></span>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1_1" href="#FNanchor_1_1" class="label">[1]</a> Actually used by Mr. Dodgson in his story, “The Legend of Scotland,”
+included in this volume.</p></div>
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<br><br>
+<p class="p20 center"><strong>
+FURTHER NONSENSE<br>
+VERSE AND PROSE
+</strong></p>
+<hr class="r50h">
+<hr class="r50"><br><br>
+
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe25_6875" id="image029">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image029.png" alt="My Fancy">
+</figure>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe32_6875" id="image021">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image021.png" alt="The Lady of the Ladle">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_01">THE LADY OF THE LADLE<a id="FNanchor_2_2" href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></h2></div>
+<br><p class="center">(From “The Whitby Gazette” of August 31, 1854)</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">The Youth at Eve had drunk his fill,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Where stands the “Royal” on the Hill,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And long his mid-day stroll had made,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">On the so called “Marine Parade”—</div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span><div class="verse indent0">(Meant, I presume, for Seamen brave,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Whose “march is on the Mountain wave”;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">’Twere just the bathing-place for him</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Who stays on land till he can swim—)</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And he had strayed into the Town,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And paced each alley up and down,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Where still so narrow grew the way,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">The very houses seemed to say,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Nodding to friends across the Street,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“One struggle more and we shall meet.”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And he had scaled that wondrous stair</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">That soars from earth to upper air</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Where rich and poor alike must climb,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And walk the treadmill for a time.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">That morning he had dressed with care,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And put Pomatum in his hair;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">He was, the loungers all agreed,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">A very heavy swell indeed:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Men thought him, as he swaggered by,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Some scion of nobility,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And never dreamed, so cold his look,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">That he had loved—and loved a Cook.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Upon the beach he stood and sighed,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Unheedful of the treacherous tide;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Thus sang he to the listening main,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And soothed his sorrow with the strain!</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2_2" href="#FNanchor_2_2" class="label">[2]</a> It has given the editor much pleasure to “discover” this poem and the
+story “Wilhelm von Schmitz” on p. 57, for since their original appearance
+in print seventy-two years ago neither has been published, or even quoted,
+and it is extremely doubtful whether more than two or three people
+know of their existence. So that if not “new and unpublished matter by
+Lewis Carroll” in fact, they are certainly so in effect—so far as every one
+younger than eighty is concerned! Mr. Dodgson composed them during
+the Oxford Long Vacation of 1854, which he spent at Whitby reading for
+Mathematics. He stayed at 5, East Terrace, from July 20th to September
+21st. He was twenty-two at the time, and this early work from his pen,
+although somewhat periphrastic, gives promise, in its appreciation of the
+preposterous and the calculated precision of its phraseology, of the genius
+which was destined to make the name of Lewis Carroll immortal. The
+“Hilda” and the “Goliath” were local pleasure craft of the period, and
+the “wondrous stair” refers presumably to that steep and picturesque ascent
+known as “Jacob’s Ladder,” which is still a Whitby wonder.</p></div>
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[Pg 24]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_02">CORONACH</h2></div>
+
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“She is gone by the Hilda,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">She is lost unto Whitby,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And her name is Matilda,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Which my heart it was smit by;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Tho’ I take the Goliah,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">I learn to my sorrow</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">That ‘it won’t,’ says the crier,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">‘Be off till to-morrow.’</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“She called me her ‘Neddy,’</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">(Tho’ there mayn’t be much in it,)</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And I should have been ready,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">If she’d waited a minute;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I was following behind her,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">When, if you recollect, I</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Merely ran back to find a</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Gold pin for my neck-tie.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Rich dresser of suit!</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Prime hand at a sausage!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I have lost thee, I rue it,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And my fare for the passage!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Perhaps <i>she</i> thinks it funny,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Aboard of the Hilda,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But I’ve lost purse and money,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And thee, oh, my ’Tilda!”</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">His pin of gold the youth undid</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And in his waistcoat-pocket hid,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Then gently folded hand in hand,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And dropped asleep upon the sand.</div>
+<div class="verse indent30">B. B.<a id="FNanchor_3_3" href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3_3" href="#FNanchor_3_3" class="label">[3]</a> What these initials stand for the editor has not the vaguest notion. It
+was not until nearly two years after the publication of the above verses
+that Mr. Dodgson used the pseudonym of “Lewis Carroll,” which he
+appended to his poem, “The Path of Roses,” published in “The Train” in
+May, 1856.</p></div>
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_03">LAYS OF SORROW</h2></div>
+
+<p class= "center">(From “The Rectory Umbrella,”<a id="FNanchor_4_4" href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> 1849-50
+with footnotes by the author)</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">The day was wet, the rain fell souse</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Like jars of strawberry jam,<a id="FNanchor_5_5" href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> a</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Sound was heard in the old hen house,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">A beating of a hammer.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Of stalwart form, and visage warm,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Two youths were seen within it,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">At a hundred strokes a minute.<a id="FNanchor_6_6" href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">The work is done, the hen has taken</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Possession of her nest and eggs,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Without a thought of eggs and bacon,<a id="FNanchor_7_7" href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></div>
+<div class="verse indent4">(Or I am very much mistaken)</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">She turns over each shell,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">To be sure that all’s well,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Looks into the straw</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">To see there’s no flaw,</div>
+<div class="verse indent3">Goes once round the house,<a id="FNanchor_8_8" href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Half afraid of a mouse,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Then sinks calmly to rest</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">On the top of her nest,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">First doubling up each of her legs.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent2">Time rolled away, and so did every shell,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">“Small by degrees and beautifully less,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">As the sage mother with a powerful spell<a id="FNanchor_9_9" href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></div>
+<div class="verse indent3">Forced each in turn its contents to “express,”<a id="FNanchor_10_10" href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></div>
+<div class="verse indent2">But ah! “imperfect is expression,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Some poet said, I don’t care who,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">If you want to know you must go elsewhere,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">One fact I can tell, if you’re willing to hear,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">He never attended a Parliament Session,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">For I’m sure that if he had ever been there,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And as to his name it is pretty clear</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">That is wasn’t me and it wasn’t you!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent2">And so it fell upon a day,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">(That is, it never rose again,)</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">A chick was found upon the hay,</div>
+<div class="verse indent1">Its little life had ebbed away,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">No longer frolicsome and gay,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">No longer could it run and play.</div>
+<div class="verse indent1">“And must we, chicken, must we part?”</div>
+<div class="verse indent1">Its master<a id="FNanchor_11_11" href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> cried with bursting heart,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">And voice of agony and pain.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">So one whose ticket’s marked “Return,”<a id="FNanchor_12_12" href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></div>
+<div class="verse indent2">When to the lonely roadside station</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">He flies in fear and perturbation,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Thinks of his home—the hissing urn—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Then runs with flying hat and hair,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And, entering, finds to his despair</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">He’s missed the very latest train.<a id="FNanchor_13_13" href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent2">Too long it were to tell of each conjecture,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Of chicken suicide and poultry victim,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">The timid guess, “perhaps some needle’s pricked him,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The din of voice, the words both loud and many,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Till all agreed, “a shilling to a penny</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!”</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Scarce was the verdict spoken,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">When that still calm was broken,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">A childish form hath burst into the throng,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">With tears and looks of sadness,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">That bring no news of gladness;</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">“The sight that I have come upon</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">The stoutest heart<a id="FNanchor_14_14" href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> would sicken,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">That nasty hen has been and gone</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">And killed another chicken!”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_4_4" href="#FNanchor_4_4" class="label">[4]</a> This was one of the best of the many “family” magazines with the
+editing of which young Dodgson used to amuse himself during his holidays.
+The whole of the matter was written in manuscript, in the neat and formal
+handwriting characteristic of him. He was about seventeen years old at
+the time he composed this poem, in which the talent for nonsense rhyming
+of the future creator of the inimitable “Jabberwocky” is already suggested.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_5_5" href="#FNanchor_5_5" class="label">[5]</a> <i>I.e.</i>, the jam without the jars; observe the beauty of this rhyme.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_6_6" href="#FNanchor_6_6" class="label">[6]</a> At the rate of a stroke and two-thirds in a second.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_7_7" href="#FNanchor_7_7" class="label">[7]</a> Unless the hen was a poacher, which is unlikely.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_8_8" href="#FNanchor_8_8" class="label">[8]</a> The hen’s house.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_9_9" href="#FNanchor_9_9" class="label">[9]</a> Beak and claw.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_10_10" href="#FNanchor_10_10" class="label">[10]</a> Press out.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_11_11" href="#FNanchor_11_11" class="label">[11]</a> Probably one of the two stalwart youths.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_12_12" href="#FNanchor_12_12" class="label">[12]</a> The system of return tickets is an excellent one. People are conveyed
+on particular days there and back for one fare.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_13_13" href="#FNanchor_13_13" class="label">[13]</a> An additional vexation would be that his “Return” ticket would be
+no use the next day.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_14_14" href="#FNanchor_14_14" class="label">[14]</a> Perhaps even the bursting heart of its master.</p></div>
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_04">MY FANCY</h2></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “College Rhymes”<a id="FNanchor_15_15" href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a>)
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">I painted her a gushing thing,</div>
+<div class="verse indent3">With years perhaps a score;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I little thought to find they were</div>
+<div class="verse indent3">At least a dozen more;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">My fancy gave her eyes of blue,</div>
+<div class="verse indent3">A curly auburn head:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I came to find the blue a green,</div>
+<div class="verse indent3">The auburn turned to red.</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe25_6875" id="image029_2">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image029.png" alt="My Fancy">
+</figure>
+
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p><div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">She boxed my ears this morning,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">They tingled very much;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I own that I could wish her</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">A somewhat lighter touch;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And if you ask me how</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Her charms might be improved,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I would not have them <i>added to</i>,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">But just a few <i>removed</i>!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">She has the bear’s ethereal grace,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The bland hyena’s laugh,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">The footstep of the elephant,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The neck of the giraffe;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I love her still, believe me,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Though my heart its passion hides;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“She’s all my fancy painted her,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">But oh! <i>how much besides!</i></div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_15_15" href="#FNanchor_15_15" class="label">[15]</a> This was a Christ Church journal edited by Lewis Carroll during his
+Varsity days. “A Sea Dirge” (see next poem) first appeared in it.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_05">A SEA DIRGE<a id="FNanchor_16_16" href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">There are certain things—as a spider, a ghost,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Is a thing they call the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Pour some salt water over the floor—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Suppose it extended a mile or more,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2"><i>That’s</i> very like the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Beat a dog till it howls outright—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Cruel, but all very well for a spree:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Suppose that he did so day and night,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2"><i>That</i> would be like the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">I had a vision of nursery-maids;</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Tens of thousands passed by me—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">All leading children with wooden spades,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And this was by the Sea.</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Who invented those spades of wood?</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Who was it cut them out of the tree?</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">None, I think, but an idiot could—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Or one that loved the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">With “thoughts as boundless, and souls as free”;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But suppose you are very unwell in the boat,<a id="FNanchor_17_17" href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></div>
+<div class="verse indent2">How do you like the Sea?</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">There is an insect that people avoid</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">(Whence is derived the verb “to flee”),</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Where have you been by it most annoyed?</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">In lodgings by the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">If you like coffee with sand for dregs,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">A decided hint of salt in your tea,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And a fishy taste in the very eggs—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">By all means choose the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And a chronic state of wet in your feet,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Then—I recommend the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">For <i>I</i> have friends who dwell by the coast—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Pleasant friends they are to me!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">It is when I am with them I wonder most</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">That any one likes the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To climb the heights I madly agree:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">They kindly suggest the Sea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">I try the rocks, and I think it cool</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">That they laugh with such an excess of glee,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">As I heavily slip into every pool</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">That skirts the cold, cold Sea.</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe97_9375" id="image033_2">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image033.jpg" alt="A Sea Dirge">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_16_16" href="#FNanchor_16_16" class="label">[16]</a> One is impelled to suspect that the satire in these verses is intended
+wholly for effect, and was not at all representative of the author’s feelings.
+Most of his summer holidays were spent by the sea, and his letters contain
+complimentary references to Whitby, Sandown, Margate, Eastbourne, and
+other seaside resorts. His particular favourite was Eastbourne, where he
+seems to have spent most of his summer vacations during the last thirty
+years of his life.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_17_17" href="#FNanchor_17_17" class="label">[17]</a> Mr. Dodgson himself was an exceptionally good sailor. In his diary
+for July 13, 1867, describing a Channel crossing, he says: “The pen refuses
+to describe the sufferings of some of the passengers ... my own sensations
+were those of extreme surprise, and a little indignation, at there being
+no other sensations; it was not for <i>that</i> I paid my money.”</p></div>
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[Pg 34]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_06">LIMERICK<a id="FNanchor_18_18" href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">There was a young lady of station,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">“I love man” was her sole exclamation;</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">But when men cried, “You flatter,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">She replied, “Oh! no matter,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Isle of Man is the true explanation.”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+<br>
+<figure class="figcenter illowe80_0625" id="image034">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image034.jpg" alt="Limerick">
+</figure>
+<br>
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_18_18" href="#FNanchor_18_18" class="label">[18]</a> The editor has received this Limerick from Miss Vera Beringer; it is
+probably the only one Lewis Carroll ever perpetrated. In common with
+the rest of the English theatre-going public, he was charmed with Miss
+Beringer’s acting as “Little Lord Fauntleroy” in the original London
+presentation of that play in 1890, and the little girl, as she then was, became
+one of his many child friends. He sent her the Limerick when she was
+spending a holiday in Manxland.</p></div>
+
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_07">A BACCHANALIAN ODE<a id="FNanchor_19_19" href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Here’s to the Freshman of bashful eighteen!</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Here’s to the Senior of twenty!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Here’s to the youth whose moustache can’t be seen!</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And here’s to the man who has plenty!</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Let the men Pass!</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Out of the mass</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I’ll warrant we’ll find you some fit for a Class!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Here’s to the Censors, who symbolise Sense,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Just as Mitres incorporate Might, Sir!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">To the Bursar, who never expands the expense,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And the Readers who always do right, Sir.</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Tutor and Don,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Let them jog on!</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">I warrant they’ll rival the centuries gone!</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_19_19" href="#FNanchor_19_19" class="label">[19]</a> From “The Vision of the Three T’s” (Oxford, 1873).</p></div>
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_08">A LESSON IN LATIN</h2></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “The Jabberwock,”<a id="FNanchor_20_20" href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a> June, 1888)
+</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Our Latin books, in motley row,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Invite us to the task—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Gay Horace, stately Cicero;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Yet there’s one verb, when once we know,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">No higher skill we ask:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">This ranks all other lore above—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">We’ve learned “amare” means “to love”!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">So hour by hour, from flower to flower,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">We sip the sweets of life:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Till ah! too soon the clouds arise,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And knitted brows and angry eyes</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Proclaim the dawn of strife.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">With half a smile and half a sigh,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">“Amare! Bitter One!” we cry.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Last night we owned, with looks forlorn,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">“Too well the scholar knows</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">There is no rose without a thorn”—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But peace is made! we sing this morn,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">“No thorn without a rose!”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Our Latin lesson is complete:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">We’ve learned that Love is “Bitter-sweet”!</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_20_20" href="#FNanchor_20_20" class="label">[20]</a> The magazine of the Girls’ Latin School, Boston, Mass. When asked
+for permission to use this title, the creator of the Jabberwock characteristically
+replied:</p>
+
+<p>“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.”</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[Pg 38]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_09">THE TWO BROTHERS</h2></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “The Rectory Umbrella,” 1853)
+</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe37_5000" id="image039">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image039.png" alt="The Two Brothers">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">There were two brothers at Twyford school,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And when they had left the place,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">It was, “Will ye learn Greek and Latin?</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Or will ye run me a race?</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Or will ye go up to yonder bridge,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And there we will angle for dace?”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“I’m too stupid for Greek and for Latin,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">I’m too lazy by half for a race,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">So I’ll go up to yonder bridge,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And there we will angle for dace.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">He has fitted together two joints of his rod,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And to them he has added another,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And then a great hook he took from his book,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And ran it right into his brother.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Oh much is the noise that is made among boys</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">When playfully pelting a pig,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But a far greater pother was made by his brother</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">When flung from the top of the brigg.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">The fish hurried up by the dozens,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">All ready and eager to bite,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">For the lad that he flung was so tender and young,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">It quite gave them an appetite.</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Said, “Thus shall he wallop about</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And the fish take him quite at their ease,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">For me to annoy it was ever his joy,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Now I’ll teach him the meaning of ‘Tees’!”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">The wind to his ear brought a voice,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">“My brother, you didn’t had ought ter!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And what have I done that you think it such fun</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To indulge in the pleasure of slaughter?</div></div>
+
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span><div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“A good nibble or bite is my chiefest delight,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">When I’m merely expected to <i>see</i>,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But a bite from a fish is not quite what I wish,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">When I get it performed upon <i>me</i>;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And just now here’s a swarm of dace at my arm,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And a perch has got hold of my knee.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“For water my thirst was not great at the first,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And of fish I have quite sufficien——”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“Oh fear not!” he cried, “for whatever betide,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">We are both in the selfsame condition!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“I’m sure that our state’s very nearly alike</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">(Not considering the question of slaughter),</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">For I have my perch on the top of the bridge,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And you have your perch in the water.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“I stick to my perch and your perch sticks to you,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">We are really extremely alike!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I’ve a turn-pike up here, and I very much fear</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">You may soon have a turn with a pike.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Oh grant but one wish! If I’m took by a fish</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">(For your bait is your brother, good man!),</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Pull him up if you like, but I hope you will strike</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">As gently as ever you can.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“If the fish be a trout, I’m afraid there’s no doubt</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">I must strike him like lightning that’s greased;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">If the fish be a pike, I’ll engage not to strike,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Till I’ve waited ten minutes at least.”</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“But in those ten minutes to desolate Fate</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Your brother a victim may fall!”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“I’ll reduce it to five, so <i>perhaps</i> you’ll survive,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">But the chance is exceedingly small.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Oh hard is your heart for to act such a part;</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Is it iron, or granite, or steel?”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“Why, I really can’t say—it is many a day</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Since my heart was accustomed to feel.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“’Twas my heart-cherished wish for to slay many fish,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Each day did my malice grow worse,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">For my heart didn’t soften with doing it so often,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">But rather, I should say, the reverse.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Oh would I were back at Twyford school,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Learning lessons in fear of the birch!”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“Nay, brother!” he cried, “for whatever betide,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">You are better off here with your perch!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“I’m sure you’ll allow you are happier now,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">With nothing to do but to play;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And this single line here, it is perfectly clear,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Is much better than thirty a day!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“And as to the rod hanging over your head,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And apparently ready to fall,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">That, you know, was the case when you lived in that place,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">So it need not be reckoned at all.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Do you see that old trout with a turn-up nose snout?</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">(Just to speak on a pleasanter theme.)</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Observe, my dear brother, our love for each other—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">He’s the one I like best in the stream.</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“To-morrow I mean to invite him to dine</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">(We shall all of us think it a treat),</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">If the day should be fine, I’ll just <i>drop him a line</i>,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And we’ll settle what time we’re to meet.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“He hasn’t been into society yet,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And his manners are not of the best,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">So I think it quite fair that it should be <i>my care</i>,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To see that he’s properly dressed.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“I know there are people who prate by the hour</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Of the beauty of earth, sky, and ocean;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Of the birds as they fly, of the fish darting by,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Rejoicing in Life and in Motion.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“As to any delight to be got from the sight,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">It is all very well for a flat,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But <i>I</i> think it gammon, for hooking a salmon</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Is better than twenty of that!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“They say that a man of right-thinking mind</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Will <i>love</i> the dumb creatures he sees—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">What’s the use of his mind, if he’s never inclined</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To pull a fish out of the Tees?</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Take my friends and my home—as an outcast I’ll roam:</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Take the money I have in the Bank:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">It is just what I wish, but deprive me of <i>fish</i>,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And my life would indeed be a blank!”</div></div>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Forth from the house his sister came,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Her brothers for to see,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But when she saw the sight of awe,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The tear stood in her e’e.</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Oh what’s that bait upon your hook,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">My brother, tell to me?”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“It is but the fan-tailed pigeon,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">He would not sing for me.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Whoe’er would expect a pigeon to sing,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">A simpleton he must be!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But a pigeon-cote is a different thing</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To the coat that there I see!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Oh what’s that bait upon your hook,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Dear brother, tell to me?”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“It is my younger brother,” he cried,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Oh woe and dole is me!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“I’s mighty wicked, that I is!</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Oh how could such things be?</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Farewell, farewell, sweet sister,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">I’m going o’er the sea.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“And when will you come back again,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">My brother, tell to me?”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“When chub is good for human food,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And that will never be!”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">She turned herself right round about,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And her heart brake into three,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Said, “One of the two will be wet through and through,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And t’other’ll be late for his tea!”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_10">POETRY FOR THE MILLION</h2></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>The nineteenth century has produced a new school of music,
+bearing about the same relation to the genuine article which the
+hash or stew of Monday does to the joint of Sunday.<a id="FNanchor_21_21" href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></p>
+
+<p>We allude, of course, to the prevalent practice of diluting the
+works of earlier composers with washy modern variations, so as to
+suit the weakened and depraved taste of this generation; this invention
+is termed “setting” by some, who, scorning the handsome offer
+of Alexander Smith to “set this age to music,” have determined to
+set music to this age.</p>
+
+<p>Sadly we admit the stern necessity that exists for such a change;
+with stern prophetic eye we see looming in the shadowy Future the
+downfall of the sister Fine Arts. The National Gallery have
+already subjected some of their finest pictures to this painful operation.
+Poetry must follow.</p>
+
+<p>That we may not be behind others in forwarding the progress of
+Civilisation, we boldly discard all personal and private feelings,
+and with quivering pen and tear-dimmed eye we dedicate the following
+composition to the Spirit of the Age, and to that noble band
+of gallant adventurers who aspire to lead the van in the great march
+of reform.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_21_21" href="#FNanchor_21_21" class="label">[21]</a> What <i>would</i> Mr. Carroll have said with regard to the epileptic style
+in musical composition which is in vogue in this present year of grace?
+Possibly he would have been “inspired” to write a companion poem to
+“Jabberwocky,” with the Demon of Jazz as its “manxome foe.”</p></div>
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_11">THE DEAR GAZELLE</h2></div>
+<br>
+<p class="center">
+Arranged with Variations
+</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe37_5000" id="image045">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image045.png" alt="The Dear Gazelle">
+</figure><br>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent10"><i>expressive</i></div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“I never loved a dear gazelle,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Nor aught beside that cost me much:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">High prices profit those that sell,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But why should <i>I</i> be fond of such?</div></div>
+
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent4"><i>pp.</i>            <i>cresc.</i></div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“To glad me with his soft black eyes,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">My infant son, from Tooting School,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Thrashed by his bigger playmate, flies;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And serve him right, the little fool!</div>
+<div class="verse indent12"><i>con spirito</i></div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent6"><i>a tempo</i></div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“But when he came to know me well,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">He kicked me out, her testy sire;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And when I stained my hair, that Bell</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Might note the change, and that admire.</div>
+<div class="verse indent6"><i>dim.</i>                   D.C.</div></div>
+
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent18"><i>cadenza</i></div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“And love me, it was sure to die.”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">A muddy green, or staring blue,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">While one might trace, with half an eye,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">The still triumphant carrot through.</div>
+<div class="verse indent14"><i>con dolore</i></div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_12">THE MOUSE’S TAIL</h2></div>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “Alice’s Adventures Underground”<a id="FNanchor_22_22" href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a>)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+<span style="margin-left: 0.0em;" class="p15">We lived beneath the mat</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;" class="p15">Warm and snug and fat</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 5.0em;" class="p15">But one woe, and that</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;" class="p15">was the cat!</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 14.5em;" class="p125">To our joys</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 16.5em;" class="p125">a clog. In</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 14.5em;" class="p125">our eyes a</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 12.0em;" class="p125">fog, On our</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 10.0em;" class="p125">hearts a log</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 8.0em;" class="p125">Was the dog!</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.0em;">When the</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 5.0em;">cat’s away,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 3.0em;">Then</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the mice</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">will</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">play,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 5.0em;" class="p075">But, alas!</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;" class="p075">one day; (So they say)</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 9.0em;" class="p075">Came the dog and</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;" class="p075">cat, Hunting</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 16.0em;" class="p075">for a</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 14.0em;" class="p075">rat,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;" class="p05">Crushed</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 11.0em;" class="p05">the mice</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 9.0em;" class="p05">all flat,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;" class="p05">Each one,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 3.0em;" class="p05">as he sat,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 5.0em;" class="p05">Under-</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;" class="p025">neath</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 9.0em;" class="p025">the mat,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 9.0em;" class="p025">Warm &amp;</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;" class="p025">snug</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 8.0em;" class="p025">&amp; fat.</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.0em;" class="p02">Think</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;" class="p02">of</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;" class="p02">that!</span>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_22_22" href="#FNanchor_22_22" class="label">[22]</a> This was the story told on July 4, 1862, to the three Miss Liddells,
+which was afterwards developed into “Alice in Wonderland.” A facsimile
+of the story, as written in manuscript for Alice Liddell, was published in
+1886. The above poem does not appear in “Alice in Wonderland,” its
+place being taken by an entirely different “Mouse Tail.”</p></div>
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_13">RHYMED CORRESPONDENCE<a id="FNanchor_23_23" href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Maggie.</span>—I found that the <i>friend</i>, 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 <i>she</i> was
+called Maggie, and lived in a Crescent! Of course I declared,
+“After that” (the language I used doesn’t matter), “I will <i>not</i>
+address her, that’s flat! So do not expect me to flatter.”</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe39_4375" id="image047">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image047.png" alt="Rhymed Correspondence">
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span></p><p>No <i>carte</i> has yet been done of me, that does real justice to my
+<i>smile</i>; 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.</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe24_5000" id="image048">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image048.png" alt="Rhymed Correspondence">
+</figure>
+
+<p>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 <i>he</i> was my godson!”—on
+the ground that I “gave him a name”!</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_23_23" href="#FNanchor_23_23" class="label">[23]</a> From a letter written to Miss Maggie Cunningham in 1868. The
+fairy-tale referred to was “Bruno’s Revenge,” which, more than twenty
+years later, Lewis Carroll developed into “Sylvie and Bruno.”</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_14">ACROSTICS</h2></div>
+
+
+<p>Second only to Lewis Carroll’s stories in the delight they afforded
+his young friends were his acrostics, in the composition of which he
+showed a remarkable talent. There were few of his child favourites
+whose names he did not embody in verses of this kind; some, as in
+the case of Isa Bowman in “Sylvie and Bruno,” and Gertrude Chataway
+in “The Hunting of the Snark,” he recorded for posterity in
+acrostical dedications in his books, but most of these rhymes were
+composed merely for the amusement of the children concerned,
+with no thought of publication.</p>
+
+<p>One of the best he wrote across the fly-leaf of a copy of “The
+Hunting of the Snark,” which he sent to Miss Adelaide Paine in
+1876. It runs thus:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“A re you deaf, Father William?” the young man said.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“D id you hear what I told you just now?</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“E xcuse me for shouting! Don’t waggle your head</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“L ike a blundering, sleepy old cow!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“I s my friend, so I beg to remark:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“D o you think she’d be pleased if a book were sent down</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“E ntitled ‘The Hunt of the Snark’?”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“P ack it up in brown paper!” the old man cried,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“A nd seal it with olive-and-dove.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“I command you to do it!” he added with pride,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“N or forget, my good fellow, to send her beside</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“E aster Greetings, and give her my love.”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>
+<p>Very few of Mr. Carroll’s acrostics were in this nonsensical strain,
+however, the vast majority being either serious or quaintly complimentary,
+as in this example on the name of Miss Sarah Sinclair
+(1878):</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">Love among the Roses</span>
+</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">S eek ye Love, ye fairy-sprites?</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">A nd where reddest roses grow,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">R osy fancies he invites,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">A nd in roses he delights,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">H ave ye found him? “No!”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">S eek again, and find the boy</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I n Childhood’s heart, so pure and clear.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">N ow the fairies leap for joy,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">C rying, “Love is here!”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">L ove has found his proper nest;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">A nd we guard him while he dozes</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I n a dream of peace and rest</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">R osier than roses.</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_15">MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD<a id="FNanchor_24_24" href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></h2></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(June 9th to 13th)
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">When Maggie once to Oxford came,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">On tour as “Bootles’ Baby,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">She said, “I’ll see this place of fame,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">However dull the day be.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">So with her friend she visited</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The sights that it was rich in:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And first of all she popped her head</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Inside the Christ Church kitchen.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">The Cooks around that little child</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Stood waiting in a ring:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And every time that Maggie smiled</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Those Cooks began to sing—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!<a id="FNanchor_25_25" href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a></div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent6">“Roast, boil and bake,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">For Maggie’s sake:</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Bring cutlets fine</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">For <i>her</i> to dine,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Meringues so sweet</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">For her to eat—</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">For Maggie may be</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Bootles’ Baby!”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Then hand in hand in pleasant talk</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">They wandered and admired</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Till Maggie’s feet were tired:</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">To Worcester Garden next they strolled,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Admired its quiet lake:</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Then to St. John, a college old,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Their devious way they take.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">In idle mood they sauntered round</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Its lawn so green and flat,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And in that garden Maggie found</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">A lovely Pussy-Cat!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">A quarter of an hour they spent</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">In wandering to and fro:</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And everywhere that Maggie went,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The Cat was sure to go—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent6">“Maiow! Maiow!</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Come, make your bow,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Take off your hats,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Ye Pussy-Cats!</div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span><div class="verse indent6">And purr and purr,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">To welcome <i>her</i>,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">For Maggie may be</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Bootles’ Baby!”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">So back to Christ Church, not too late</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">For them to go and see</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">A Christ Church undergraduate,<a id="FNanchor_26_26" href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a></div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Who gave them cake and tea.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Next day she entered with her guide</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The garden called “Botanic,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And there a fierce Wild Boar she spied,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Enough to cause a panic:</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">But Maggie didn’t mind, not she,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">She would have faced, alone,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">That fierce wild boar, because, you see,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The thing was made of stone.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">On Magdalen walls they saw a face</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">That filled her with delight,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">A giant face, that made grimace</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And grinned with all its might.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">A little friend, industrious,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Pulled upwards all the while</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">The corner of its mouth, and thus</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">He helped that face to smile!</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“How nice,” thought Maggie, “it would be</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">If <i>I</i> could have a friend</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">To do that very thing for <i>me</i></div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And make my mouth turn up with glee,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">By pulling at one end.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">In Magdalen Park the deer are wild</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">With joy, that Maggie brings</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Some bread a friend had given the child,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To feed the pretty things.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">They flock round Maggie without fear:</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">They breakfast and they lunch,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">They dine, they sup, those happy deer—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Still, as they munch and munch</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent6">“Yes, Deer are we,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">And dear is she!</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">We love this child</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">So sweet and mild:</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">We all rejoice</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">At Maggie’s voice:</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">We all are fed</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">With Maggie’s bread ...</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">For Maggie may be</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Bootles’ Baby!”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">They met a Bishop<a id="FNanchor_27_27" href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> on their way ...</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">A Bishop large as life,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">With loving smile that seemed to say</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">“Will Maggie be my wife?”</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Maggie thought <i>not</i>, because, you see,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">She was so <i>very</i> young,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And he was old as old could be ...</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">So Maggie held her tongue.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“My Lord, she’s Bootles’ Baby, we</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Are going up and down,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Her friend explained, “that she may see</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The sights of Oxford Town.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Now say what kind of place it is,”</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The Bishop gaily cried.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">“The best place in the Provinces!”</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">That little maid replied.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Away, next morning, Maggie went</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">From Oxford town: but yet</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">The happy hours she had there spent</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">She could not soon forget.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">The train is gone, it rumbles on:</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">The engine-whistle screams;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">But Maggie deep in rosy sleep ...</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">And softly in her dreams,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent6">“Oxford, good-bye!”</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">She seems to sigh.</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">“You dear old City,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">With gardens pretty,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">And lanes and flowers,</div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span><div class="verse indent6">And college-towers,</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">And Tom’s great Bell ...</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Farewell—farewell:</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">For Maggie may be</div>
+<div class="verse indent6">Bootles’ Baby!”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_24_24" href="#FNanchor_24_24" class="label">[24]</a> These verses, never intended for publication, were written to amuse
+the child actress, little Maggie Bowman, when she visited Oxford to play
+the title-rôle in the stage version of John Strange Winter’s popular novel,
+“Bootles’ Baby.”</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_25_25" href="#FNanchor_25_25" class="label">[25]</a> In a letter to the editor, the charming lady to whom these pleasing
+verses were sent says: “This line is introduced because he told me a story
+of some soldiers who could never remember the words of their marching
+song, except for the last line, so they used to sing the words of ‘Mary
+had a little lamb,’ finishing with ‘The lamb was sure to go—Shouting the
+Battle-cry of Freedom’!”</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_26_26" href="#FNanchor_26_26" class="label">[26]</a> A nephew of Lewis Carroll.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_27_27" href="#FNanchor_27_27" class="label">[27]</a> The then Bishop of Oxford.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_16">WILHELM VON SCHMITZ<a id="FNanchor_28_28" href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “The Whitby Gazette,” September 7, 1854)
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<p class="center">
+CHAPTER ONE
+</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+“’Twas ever thus.”<br>
+<br>
+(<i>Old Play.</i>)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>The sultry glare of noon was already giving place to the cool of
+a cloudless evening, and the lulled ocean was washing against the
+Pier with a low murmur, suggestive to poetical minds of the kindred
+ideas of motion and lotion, when two travellers might have been
+seen, by such as chose to look that way, approaching the secluded
+town of Whitby by one of those headlong paths, dignified by the
+name of road, which serve as entrances into the place, and which
+were originally constructed, it is supposed, on the somewhat fantastic
+model of pipes running into a water-butt. The elder of the two
+was a sallow and careworn man; his features were adorned with
+what had been often at a distance mistaken for a moustache, and
+were shaded by a beaver hat, of doubtful age, and of appearance
+which, if not respectable, was at least venerable. The younger, in
+whom the sagacious reader already recognises the hero of my tale,
+possessed a form which, once seen, could scarcely be forgotten: a
+slight tendency to obesity proved but a trifling drawback to the
+manly grace of its contour, and though the strict laws of beauty
+might perhaps have required a somewhat longer pair of legs to
+make up the proportion of his figure, and that his eyes should match
+rather more exactly than they chanced to do, yet to those critics who
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>are untrammelled with any laws of taste, and there are many such,
+to those who could close their eyes to the faults in his shape, and
+single out its beauties, though few were ever found capable of the
+task, to those above all who knew and esteemed his personal character,
+and believed that the powers of his mind transcended those
+of the age he lived in, though alas! none such has as yet turned up—to
+those he was a very Apollo.</p>
+
+<p>What though it had not been wholly false to assert that too much
+grease had been applied to his hair, and too little soap to his hands?
+that his nose turned too much up, and his shirt collars too much
+down? that his whiskers had borrowed all the colour from his
+cheeks, excepting a little that had run down into his waistcoat?
+Such trivial criticisms were unworthy the notice of any who laid
+claim to the envied title of the connoisseur.</p>
+
+<p>He had been christened William, and his father’s name was
+Smith, but though he had introduced himself to many of the higher
+circles in London under the imposing name of “Mr. Smith, of
+Yorkshire,” he had unfortunately not attracted so large a share of
+public notice as he was confident he merited: some had asked him
+how far back he traced his ancestry; others had been mean enough
+to hint that his position in society was not entirely unique; while the
+sarcastic enquiries of others touching the dormant peerage in his
+family, to which, it was suggested, he was about to lay claim, had
+awakened in the breast of the noble-spirited youth an ardent longing
+for that high birth and connection which an adverse Fortune
+had denied him.</p>
+
+<p>Hence he had conceived the notion of that fiction, which perhaps
+in his case must be considered merely as a poetical licence,
+whereby he passed himself off upon the world under the sounding
+appellation which heads this tale. This step had already occasioned
+a large increase in his popularity, a circumstance which his friends
+spoke of under the unpoetical simile of a bad sovereign fresh gilt,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>but which he himself more pleasantly described as, “... a violet
+pale, At length discovered in its mossy dale, And borne to sit with
+kings”: a destiny for which, as it is generally believed, violets are
+not naturally fitted.</p>
+
+<p>The travellers, each buried in his own thoughts, paced in silence
+down the steep, save when an unusually sharp stone, or an unexpected
+dip in the road, produced one of those involuntary exclamations
+of pain, which so triumphantly demonstrate the connection
+between Mind and Matter. At length the young traveller, rousing
+himself with an effort from his painful reverie, broke upon the
+meditations of his companion with the unexpected question, “Think
+you she will be much altered in feature? I trust me not.” “Think
+who?” testily rejoined the other: then hastily correcting himself,
+with an exquisite sense of grammar, he substituted the expressive
+phrase, “Who’s the she you’re after?” “Forget you then,” asked
+the young man, who was so intensely poetical in soul that he never
+spoke in ordinary prose, “forget you the subject we conversed on
+but now? Trust me, she hath dwelt in my thoughts ever since.”
+“But now!” his friend repeated, in sarcastic tone, “it is an hour
+good since you spoke last.” The young man nodded assent; “An
+hour? true, true. We were passing Lyth, as I bethink me, and lowly
+in thine ear was I murmuring that touching sonnet to the sea I writ
+of late, beginning, ‘Thou roaring, snoring, heaving, grieving main
+which——’” “For pity’s sake!” interrupted the other, and there
+was real earnestness in that pleading tone, “don’t let us have it all
+again! I have heard it with patience once already.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thou hast, thou hast,” the baffled poet replied: “well then, she
+shall again be the topic of my thoughts,” and he frowned and bit
+his lip, muttering to himself such words as cooky, hooky, and crooky,
+as if he were trying to find a rhyme to something. And now the
+pair were passing near a bridge, and shops were on their left and
+water on their right; and from beneath uprose a confused hubbub
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>of sailors’ voices, and, wafted on the landward breeze, came an
+aroma, dimly suggestive of salt herring, and all things from the
+heaving waters in the harbour to the light smoke that floated gracefully
+above the housetops, suggested nought but poetry to the mind
+of the gifted youth.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_28_28" href="#FNanchor_28_28" class="label">[28]</a> See footnote to “The Lady of the Ladle.”</p></div>
+
+
+
+
+<p class="center">
+CHAPTER TWO
+</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+“And I, for one.”<br>
+<br>
+(<i>Old Play.</i>)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>“But about she,” resumed the man of prose, “what’s her name?
+You never told me that yet.” A faint flush crossed the interesting
+features of the youth; could it be that her name was unpoetical,
+and did not consort with his ideas of the harmony of nature? He
+spoke reluctantly and indistinctly; “Her name,” he faintly gasped,
+“is Sukie.”</p>
+
+<p>A long, low whistle was the only reply; thrusting his hands deep
+in his pockets, the elder speaker turned away, while the unhappy
+youth, whose delicate nerves were cruelly shaken by his friend’s
+ridicule, grasped the railing near to him to steady his tottering feet.
+Distant sounds of melody from the Cliff at this moment reached
+their ears, and while his unfeeling comrade wandered in the direction
+of the Music, the distressed poet hastily sought the Bridge, to
+give his pent-up feelings vent, unnoticed by the passers-by.</p>
+
+<p>The Sun was setting as he reached the spot, and the still surface
+of the waters below, as he crossed on to the Bridge, calmed his
+perturbed spirit, and sadly leaning his elbows on the rail, he pondered.
+What visions filled that noble soul, as, with features that
+would have beamed with intelligence, had they only possessed an
+expression at all, and a frown that only needed dignity to be
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>appalling, he fixed upon the sluggish tide those fine though bloodshot
+eyes?</p>
+
+<p>Visions of his early days; scenes from the happy time of pinafores,
+treacle, and innocence; through the long vista of the past
+came floating spectres of long-forgotten spelling-books, slates
+scrawled thick with dreary sums, that seldom came out at all, and
+never came out right; tingling and somewhat painful sensations returned
+to his knuckles and the roots of his hair; he was a boy once
+more.</p>
+
+<p>“Now, young man there!” so broke a voice upon the air, “tak
+whether o’ the two roads thou likes, but thou can’t stop in’t middle!”
+The words fell idly on his ears, or served but to suggest new trains
+of reverie; “Roads, aye, roads,” he whispered low, and then louder,
+as the glorious idea burst upon him, “Aye, and am I not the Colossus
+of Rhodes?” he raised his manly form erect at the thought, and
+planted his feet with a firmer stride.</p>
+
+<p>... Was it but a delusion of his heated brain? or stern reality?
+slowly, slowly yawned the bridge beneath him, and now his footing
+is already grown unsteady, and now the dignity of his attitude is
+gone: he recks not, come what may; is he not a Colossus?</p>
+
+<p>... The stride of a Colossus is possibly equal to any emergency;
+the elasticity of fustian is limited: it was at this critical juncture
+that “the force of nature could no further go,” and therefore deserted
+him, while the force of gravity began to operate in its stead.</p>
+
+<p>In other words, he fell.</p>
+
+<p>And the “Hilda” went slowly on its way, and knew not that it
+passed a poet under the Bridge, and guessed not whose were those
+two feet, that disappeared through the eddying waters, kicking with
+spasmodic energy; and men pulled into a boat a dripping, panting
+form, that resembled a drowned rat rather than a Poet; and spoke
+to it without awe, and even said, “young feller,” and something
+about “greenhorn,” and laughed; what knew they of Poetry?</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p>
+<p>Turn we to other scenes: a long, low room, with high-backed
+settees, and a sanded floor: a knot of men drinking and gossiping:
+a general prevalence of tobacco; a powerful conviction that spirits
+existed somewhere: and she, the fair Sukie herself, gliding airily
+through the scene, and bearing in those lily hands—what? Some
+garland doubtless, wreathed of the most fragrant flowers that grow?
+Some cherished volume, morocco-bound and golden-clasped, the
+works immortal of the bard of eld, whereon she loveth oft to ponder?
+Possibly, “The Poems of William Smith,” that idol of her
+affections, in two volumes quarto, published some years agone,
+whereof one copy only has as yet been sold, and that he bought
+himself—to give to Sukie. Which of these is it that the beauteous
+maiden carries with such tender care? Alas none: it is but those
+two “goes of arf-and-arf, warm without,” which have just been
+ordered by the guests in the tap-room.</p>
+
+<p>In a small parlour hard by, unknown, untended, though his Sukie
+was so near, wet, moody, and dishevelled, sat the youth: the fire had
+been kindled at his desire, and before it he was now drying himself,
+but as “the cheery blaze, Blithe harbinger of wintry days,” to use
+his own powerful description, consisted at present of a feeble, spluttering
+faggot, whose only effect was to half-choke him with its
+smoke, he may be pardoned for not feeling, more keenly than he
+does, that “... fire of Soul, When gazing on the kindling coal,
+A Britain feels that, spite of fone, He wots his native hearth his
+own!” we again employ his own thrilling words on the subject.</p>
+
+<p>The waiter, unconscious that a Poet sat before him, was talking
+confidingly; he dwelt on various themes, and still the youth sat
+heedless, but when at last he spoke of Sukie, those dull eyes flashed
+with fire, and cast upon the speaker a wild glance of scornful defiance,
+that was unfortunately wasted, as its object was stirring
+the fire at the moment and failed to notice it. “Say, oh say those
+words again!” he gasped. “I surely heard thee not aright!” The
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>waiter looked astonished, but obligingly repeated his remark, “I
+were merely a saying, sir, that she’s an uncommon clever girl, and
+as how I were ’oping some day to hacquire her Hart, if so be
+that——” He said no more, for the Poet, with a groan of anguish,
+had rushed distractedly from the room.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<p class="center">
+CHAPTER THREE
+</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+“Nay, ’tis too much!”<br>
+<br>
+(<i>Old Play.</i>)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>Night, solemn night.</p>
+
+<p>On the present occasion the solemnity of night’s approach was
+rendered far more striking than it is to dwellers in ordinary towns,
+by that time-honoured custom observed by the people of Whitby,
+of leaving their streets wholly unlighted: in thus making a stand
+against the deplorably swift advance of the tide of progress and
+civilisation, they displayed no small share of moral courage and
+independent judgement. Was it for a people of sense to adopt every
+new-fangled invention of the age, merely because their neighbours
+did? It might have been urged, in disparagement of their conduct,
+that they only injured themselves by it, and the remark would have
+been undeniably true; but it would only have served to exalt, in the
+eyes of an admiring nation, their well-earned character of heroic
+self-denial and uncompromising fixity of purpose.</p>
+
+<p>Headlong and desperate, the lovelorn Poet plunged through the
+night; now tumbling up against a doorstep, and now half down in
+a gutter, but ever onward, onward, reckless where he went.</p>
+
+<p>In the darkest spot of one of those dark streets (the nearest lighted
+shop window being about fifty yards off), chance threw into his
+way the very man he fled from, the man whom he hated as a successful
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>rival, and who had driven him to this pitch of frenzy. The
+waiter, not knowing what was the matter, had followed him to see
+that he came to no harm, and to bring him back, little dreaming of
+the shock that awaited him.</p>
+
+<p>The instant the Poet perceived who it was, all his pent-up fury
+broke forth: to rush upon him, to grasp him by the throat with both
+hands, to dash him to the ground, and there to reduce him to the
+extreme verge of suffocation—all this was the work of a moment.</p>
+
+<p>“Traitor! villain! malcontent! regicide!” he hissed through his
+closed teeth, taking any abusive epithet that came into his head,
+without stopping to consider its suitability. “Is it thou? Now
+shalt thou feel my wrath!” And doubtless the waiter did experience
+that singular sensation, whatever it may have been, for he
+struggled violently with his assailant, and bellowed “murder” the
+instant he recovered his breath.</p>
+
+<p>“Say not so,” the Poet sternly answered, as he released him; “it is
+thou that murderest me.” The waiter gathered himself up, and
+began in great surprise, “Why, I never——” “’Tis a lie!” the
+Poet screamed; “she loves thee not! Me, me alone.” “Who ever
+said she did?” the other asked, beginning to perceive how matters
+stood. “Thou! thou saidst it,” was the wild reply, “what, villain?
+acquire her heart? thou never shalt.”</p>
+
+<p>The waiter calmly explained himself: “My ’ope were, Sir, to
+hacquire her Hart of waiting at table, which she do perdigious well,
+sure-ly: seeing that I were thinking of happlying for to be ’ead-waiter
+at the ’otel.” The Poet’s wrath instantly abated, indeed, he
+looked rather crestfallen than otherwise; “Excuse my violence,” he
+gently said, “and let us take a friendly glass together.” “I agree,”
+was the waiter’s generous answer, “but man halive, you’ve ruinated
+my coat!”</p>
+
+<p>“Courage,” cried our hero gaily, “thou shalt have a new one
+anon: aye, and of the best cashmere.” “H’m,” said the other,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>hesitatingly, “wouldn’t hany other stuff——” “I will not buy thee one
+of any other stuff,” returned the Poet, gently but decidedly, and the
+waiter gave up the point.</p>
+
+<p>Arrived once more at the friendly tavern, the Poet briskly ordered
+a jorum of Punch, and, on its being furnished, called on his friend
+for a toast. “I’ll give you,” said the waiter, who was of a sentimental
+turn, however little he looked like it, “I’ll give you—Woman!
+She doubles our sorrows and ’alves our joy.” The Poet
+drained his glass, not caring to correct his companion’s mistake, and
+at intervals during the evening the same inspiring sentiment was
+repeated. And so the night wore away, and another jorum of
+Punch was ordered, and another.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>“And now hallow me,” said the waiter, attempting for about the
+tenth time to rise on his feet and make a speech, and failing even
+more signally than he had yet done, “to give a toast for this ’appy
+hoccasion. Woman! she doubles——” but at this moment, probably
+in illustration of his favourite theory, he “doubled” himself up,
+and so effectually, that he instantly vanished under the table.</p>
+
+<p>Occupying that limited sphere of observation, it is conjectured
+that he fell to moralising on human ills in general, and their remedies,
+for a solemn voice was presently heard to issue from his retreat,
+proclaiming feelingly though rather indistinctly, that “when the
+’art of man is hopressed with care——,” here came a pause, as if he
+wished to leave the question open to discussion, but as no one present
+seemed competent to suggest the proper course to be taken in that
+melancholy contingency, he attempted to supply the deficiency himself
+with the remarkable statement “she’s hall my fancy painted
+’er.”</p>
+
+<p>Meanwhile the Poet was sitting, smiling quietly to himself, as
+he sipped his punch: the only notice he took of his companion’s
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>abrupt disappearance was to help himself to a fresh glass, and say,
+“your health!” in a cordial tone, nodding to where the waiter ought
+to have been. He then cried, “hear, hear!” encouragingly, and
+made an attempt to thump the table with his fist, but missed it. He
+seemed interested in the question regarding the heart oppressed with
+care, and winked sagaciously with one eye two or three times, as if
+there were a good deal he could say on that subject, if he chose;
+but the second quotation roused him to speech, and he at once broke
+into the waiter’s subterranean soliloquy with an ecstatic fragment
+from the poem he had been just composing:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“What though the world be cross and crooky?</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Of Life’s fair flowers the fairest bouquet</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I plucked, when I chose <i>thee</i>, my Sukie!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Say, could’st thou grasp at nothing greater</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Than to be wedded to a waiter?</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And did’st thou deem thy Schmitz a traitor?</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Nay! the fond waiter was rejected,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">And thou, alone, with flower-bedecked head,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Sitting, did’st sing of one expected.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“And while the waiter, crazed and silly,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Dreamed he had won that precious lily,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">At length he came, thy wished-for Willie.</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“And then thy music took a new key,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">For whether Schmitz be boor or duke, he</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Is all in all to faithful Sukie!”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>He paused for a reply, but a heavy snoring from beneath the table
+was the only one he got.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<p class="center">
+CHAPTER FOUR
+</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+“Is this the hend?”<br>
+<br>
+(“<i>Nicholas Nickleby.</i>”)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>Bathed in the radiance of the newly-risen Sun, the billows are
+surging and bristling below the Cliff, along which the Poet is
+thoughtfully wending his way. It may possibly surprise the reader
+that he should not ere this have obtained an interview with his beloved
+Sukie: he may ask the reason: he will ask in vain: to record
+with rigid accuracy the progress of events is the sole duty of the
+historian: were he to go beyond that, and attempt to dive into the
+hidden causes of things, the why and the wherefore, he would be
+trespassing on the province of the metaphysician.</p>
+
+<p>Presently the Poet reached a small rising ground at the end of
+the gravel walk, where he found a seat commanding a view of the
+sea, and here he sunk down wearily.</p>
+
+<p>For a while he gazed dreamily upon the expanse of ocean, then,
+struck by a sudden thought, he opened a small pocket book, and
+proceeded to correct and complete his last poem. Slowly to himself
+he muttered the words “death—saith—breath,” impatiently tapping
+the ground with his foot. “Ah, that’ll do,” he said at last, with an
+air of relief, “breath”:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“His barque had perished in the storm,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Whirled by its fiery breath</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">On sunken rocks, his stalwart form</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Was doomed to watery death.”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>“That last line’s good,” he continued exaltingly, “and on Coleridge’s
+principle of alliteration, too—W. D., W. D.—was doomed
+to watery death.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p>
+<p>“Take care,” growled a deep voice in his ear, “what you say will
+be used in evidence against you—now it’s no use trying that, we’ve
+got you tight,” this last remark being caused by the struggles of the
+Poet, naturally indignant at being unexpectedly collared by two
+men from behind.</p>
+
+<p>“He’s confessed to it, constable? you heard him?” said the first
+speaker (who rejoiced in the euphonious title of Muggle, and
+whom it is almost superfluous to introduce to the reader as the elder
+traveller of Chapter One)! “it’s as much as his life is worth.”</p>
+
+<p>“I say, stow that——” warmly responded the other; “seems to
+me the gen’leman was a spouting potry.”</p>
+
+<p>“What—what’s the matter?” here gasped our unfortunate hero,
+who had recovered his breath; “you—Muggle—what do you mean
+by it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Mean by it!” blustered his quondam friend, “what do <i>you</i> mean
+by it, if you comes to that? You’re an assassin, that’s what you are!
+Where’s the waiter you had with you last night? answer me that!”</p>
+
+<p>“The—the waiter?” slowly repeated the Poet, still stunned by
+the suddenness of his capture, “why, he’s dr——”</p>
+
+<p>“I knew it!” cried his friend, who was at him in a moment, and
+choked up the unfinished word in his throat, “drowned, Constable!
+I told you so—and who did it?” he continued, loosing his grip a
+moment to obtain an answer.</p>
+
+<p>The Poet’s answer, so far as it could be gathered, (for it came
+out in a very fragmentary state, and as it were by crumbs, in intervals
+of choking) was the following: “It was my—my—you’ll kill
+me—fault—I say, fault—I—I—gave him—you—you’re suffoca—I
+say—I gave him——” “a push I suppose,” concluded the other,
+who here “shut off” the slender supply of breath he had hitherto
+allowed his victim “and he fell in: no doubt. I heard some one
+had fallen off the Bridge last night,” turning to the Constable; “no
+doubt this unfortunate waiter. Now mark my words! from this
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>moment I renounce this man as my friend: don’t pity him, constable!
+don’t think of letting him go to spare <i>my</i> feelings!”</p>
+
+<p>Some convulsive sounds were heard at this moment from the
+Poet, which, on attentive consideration, were found to be “the punch—was—was
+too much—for him—quite—it—quite——” “Miserable
+man!” sternly interposed Muggle; “can you jest about it?
+You gave him a punch, did you? and what then?”</p>
+
+<p>“It quite—quite—upset him,” continued the unhappy Schmitz,
+in a sort of rambling soliloquy, which was here cut short by the
+impatience of the Constable, and the party set forth on their return
+to the town.</p>
+
+<p>But an unexpected character burst upon the scene and broke into
+a speech far more remarkable for energetic delivery than for grammatical
+accuracy: “I’ve only just ’erd of it—I were hasleep under
+table—’avin’ taken more punch than I could stand—he’s as hinnocent
+as I am—dead indeed! I’m more alive than you, a precious
+sight!”</p>
+
+<p>This speech produced various effects on its hearers: the Constable
+calmly released his man, the bewildered Muggle muttered “Impossible!
+conspiracy—perjury—have it tried at assizes”: while the
+happy Poet rushed into the arms of his deliverer crying in a broken
+voice: “No, never from this hour to part. We’ll live and love so
+true!” a sentiment which the waiter did not echo with the cordiality
+that might have been expected.</p>
+
+<p>Later in the day, Wilhelm and Sukie were sitting conversing with
+the waiter and a few friends, when the penitent Muggle suddenly
+entered the room, placed a folded paper on the knees of Schmitz,
+pronounced in a hollow tone the affecting words “be happy!” vanished,
+and was seen no more.</p>
+
+<p>After perusing the paper, Wilhelm rose to his feet; in the excitement
+of the moment he was roused into unconscious and extempore
+verse:</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p>
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“My Sukie! He hath bought, yea, Muggle’s self,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Convinced at last of deeds unjust and foul,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">The licence of a vacant public-house.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">We are licensed here to sell to all,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Spirits, porter, snuff, and ale!”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>So we leave him: his after happiness who dare to doubt? has he
+not Sukie? and having her, he is content.</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+B. B.
+</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_17">THE THREE CATS<a id="FNanchor_29_29" href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<p>A very curious thing 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?</p>
+
+<p>You’ll never guess.</p>
+
+<p>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 pancakes!</p>
+
+<p>“If <i>you</i> come knocking at my door,” I said, “I shall come knocking
+at your heads.”</p>
+
+<p>That was fair, wasn’t it?</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>quite</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>You know I have <i>three</i> dinner-bells—the first (which is the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>largest) is rung when dinner is <i>nearly</i> 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. And I told them they must ring if they happened to want
+anything. And, as they rung <i>all</i> the bells <i>all</i> night, I suppose they
+did want something or other, only I was too sleepy to attend to
+them.</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe50_3750" id="image072">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image072.png" alt="The Three Cats">
+</figure>
+
+<p>In the morning I gave them some rat-tail jelly and buttered mice
+for breakfast and they were as discontented as they could be. And,
+do you know, when I had gone out for a walk, they got <i>all</i> my books
+out of the bookcase, and opened them on the floor to be ready for me
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>to read. They opened them 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).
+They accidentally 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!</p>
+
+<p>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 the most dreadful faces. But, of course, as it was
+given them for a treat, they had to drink it. One of them has
+turned black since: it was a white cat to begin with.</p>
+
+<p>They wanted some boiled pelican, but, of course, I knew it
+wouldn’t be good for them. So all I said was “Go to Agnes Hughes,
+and if it’s <i>really</i> good for you she’ll give you some.”</p>
+
+<p>Then I shook hands with them all, and wished them good-bye,
+and drove them up the chimney. They seemed very sorry to go.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_29_29" href="#FNanchor_29_29" class="label">[29]</a> This fascinating little fantasy ran through a series of letters which
+Lewis Carroll wrote to two little friends of his named Agnes and Amy
+Hughes. Without altering a word of the original and merely by extracting
+the extraneous matter, the editor has been able to reproduce the complete
+story, and to present what is, in effect, a new “wonder-tale” in miniature
+by the author of “Alice in Wonderland,” which, in his opinion, is in
+his best and most characteristic vein.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_18">THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND<a id="FNanchor_30_30" href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>Being a true and terrible report touching the rooms of Auckland
+Castell, called Scotland, and of the things there endured by Matthew
+Dixon, Chaffer, and of a certain Ladye, called Gaunless of
+some, there apparent, and how that none durst in these days sleep
+therein (belike through fear,) all which things fell out in ye days
+of Bishop Bec, of chearfull memorie, and were writ down by mee
+in the Yeere One Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Five, in
+the Month February, on a certayn Tuesday and other days.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class="right">
+<span class="smcap">Edgar Cuthwellis.</span>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>Now the said Matthew Dixon, having fetched wares unto that
+place, my Loords commended the same, and bade that hee should be
+entertained for that night, (which in sooth hee was, supping with
+a grete Appetite,) and sleep in a certayn roome of that apartment
+now called Scotland—From whence at Midnight hee rushed forth
+with so grete a Screem, as awaked all men, and hastily running into
+those Passages, and meeting him so screeming, hee presentlie faynted
+away.</p>
+
+<p>Whereon they hadde hym into my Loorde’s parlour, and with
+much ado set hym on a Chaire, wherefrom hee three several times
+split even to the grounde, to the grete admiration of all men.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span></p>
+<p>But being stayed with divers Strong Liquors, (and, chifest, wyth
+Gin,) he after a whyle gave foorth in a lamentable tone these following
+particulars, all which were presentlie sworn to by nine painful
+and stout farmers, who lived hard by, which witness I will
+heare orderlie set downe.</p>
+
+<p>Witness of Matthew Dixon, Chaffer, being in my right minde,
+and more than Fortie Yeeres of Age, though sore affrighted by reason
+of Sightes and Sounds in This Castell endured by mee, as touching
+the Vision of Scotland, and the Ghosts, all two of them, therein
+contayned, and of A certayn straunge Ladye, and of the lamentable
+thyngs by her uttered, with other sad tunes and songs, by her and
+by other Ghosts devised, and of the coldness and shakyng of my
+Bones (through sore grete feer,) and of other things very pleasant
+to knowe, cheefly of a Picture hereafter suddenlie to bee taken, and
+of what shall befall thereon, (as trulie foreshowne by Ghosts,) and
+of Darkness, with other things more terrible than Woordes, and
+of that which Men call Chimera.</p>
+
+<p>Matthew Dixon, Chaffer, deposeth: “that hee, having supped
+well over Night on a Green Goose, a Pasty, and other Condiments
+of the Bishop’s grete bountie provided, (looking, as he spake, at my
+Loorde, and essaying toe pull offe hys hatte untoe hym, but missed
+soe doing, for that hee hadde yt not on hys hedde,) soe went untoe
+hys bedde, where of a long tyme hee was exercysed with sharp and
+horrible Dreems. That hee saw yn hys Dreem a young Ladye,
+habited, (not as yt seemed) yn a Gaun, but yn a certayn sorte of
+Wrapper, perchance a Wrap-Rascal.” (Hereon a Mayde of the
+House affirmed that noe Ladye woold weare such a thing, and hee
+answered, “I stand corrected,” and indeed rose from hys chaire, yet
+fayled to stand.)</p>
+
+<p>Witness continued: “that ye sayde Ladye waved toe and froe a
+Grete Torche, whereat a thin Voyce shreeked ‘Gaunless! Gaunless!’
+and Shee standyng yn the midst of the floor, a grete Chaunge befell
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>her, her Countenance waxing ever more and more Aged, and her
+Hayr grayer, shee all that tyme saying yn a most sad Voyce, ‘Gaunless,
+now, as Ladyes bee: yet yn yeeres toe come they shall not lacke
+for Gauns.’ At whych her Wrapper seemed slowlie toe melte,
+chaunging into a gaun of sylk, which puckered up and down, yea,
+and flounced itself out not a lyttle”: (at thys mye Loorde, waxing
+impatient, smote hym roundlie onne the hedde, bydding hym finish
+hys tale anon.)</p>
+
+<p>Witness continued: “that the sayd Gaun thenne chaunged ytself
+into divers fashyons whych shall hereafter bee, loopyng ytself uppe
+yn thys place and yn that, soe gyving toe View are pettycote of a
+most fiery hue, even Crimson toe looke upon, at whych dismal and
+blode-thirstie sight he both groned and wepte. That at the laste the
+skyrt swelled unto a Vastness beyond Man’s power toe tell ayded,
+(as hee judged,) bye Hoops, Cartwheels, Balloons, and the lyke,
+bearing yt uppe within. That yt fylled alle that Chamber, crushing
+hym flat untoe hys bedde, tylle such as she appeared toe depart,
+fryzzling hys Hayre with her Torche as she went.</p>
+
+<p>“That hee, awakyng from such Dreems, herd thereon a Rush,
+and saw a Light.” (Hereon a Mayde interrupted hym, crying out
+that there was yndeed a Rush-Light burning yn that same room,
+and woulde have sayde more, but that my Loorde checkt her, and
+sharplie bade her stow that, meening thereby, that she shoulde holde
+her peece.)</p>
+
+<p>Witness continued: “that being muche affrited thereat, whereby
+hys Bones were, (as hee sayde,) all of a dramble, hee essayed to leep
+from hys bedde, and soe quit. Yet tarried hee some whyle, not, as
+might bee thought from being stout of Harte, but rather of Bodye;
+whych tyme she caunted snatches of old lays, as Maister Wil Shakespeare
+hath yt.”</p>
+
+<p>Hereon my Loorde questioned what lays, bydding hym syng the
+same, and saying hee knew but of two lays: “’Twas yn Trafalgar’s
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>bay wee saw the Frenchmen lay,” and “There wee lay all that
+day yn the Bay of Biscay-O,” whych hee forthwyth hummed aloud,
+yet out of tune, at whych somme smyled.</p>
+
+<p>Witness continued: “that hee perchaunce coulde chaunt the sayde
+lays wyth Music, but unaccompanied hee durst not.” On thys they
+hadde hym to the Schoolroom, where was a Musical Instrument,
+called a Paean-o-Forty, (meaning that yt hadde forty Notes, and
+was a Paean or Triumph or Art,) whereon two young ladyes, Nieces
+of my Loorde, that abode there, (lerning, as they deemed, Lessons;
+but, I wot, idlynge not a lyttle,) did wyth much thumpyng playe
+certyn Music wyth hys synging, as best they mighte, seeing that the
+Tunes were such as noe Man had herde before.</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Lorenzo dwelt at Heighington,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">(Hys cote was made of Dimity,)</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Least-ways yf not exactly there,</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Yet yn yts close proximity.</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Hee called on mee—hee stayed to tee—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Yet not a word hee ut-tered,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Untyl I sayd, “D’ye lyke your bread</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Dry?” and hee answered “But-tered.”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(Chorus whereyn all present joyned with fervour.)
+</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent4">Noodle dumb</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Has a noodle-head,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I hate such noodles, I do.</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Witness continued: “that shee then appeared unto hym habited
+yn the same loose Wrapper, whereyn hee first saw her yn hys Dreem,
+and yn a stayd and piercing tone gave forth her History as followeth.”</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+<span class="smcap">The Ladye’s History</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>“On a dewie autumn evening, mighte have been seen, pacing yn
+the grounds harde by Aucklande Castell, a yong Ladye of a stiff
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>and perky manner, yet not ill to look on, nay, one mighte saye, faire
+to a degree, save that haply that hadde been untrue.</p>
+
+<p>“That yong Ladye, O miserable Man, was I” (whereon I demanded
+on what score shee held mee miserable, and shee replied,
+yt mattered not.) “I plumed myself yn those tymes on my exceeding
+not soe much beauty as loftiness of Figure, and gretely
+desired that some Painter might paint my picture; but they ever
+were too high, not yn skyll I trow, but yn charges.” (At thys I most
+humbly enquired at what charge the then Painters wrought, but
+shee loftily affirmed that money-matters were vulgar and that she
+knew not, no, nor cared.)</p>
+
+<p>“Now yt chaunced that a certyn Artist, hight Lorenzo, came toe
+that Quarter, having wyth hym a merveillous machine called by
+men a Chimera (that ys, a fabulous and wholy incredible thing;)
+where wyth hee took manie pictures, each yn a single stroke of
+Tyme, whiles that a Man might name ‘John, the son of Robin’ (I
+asked her, what might a stroke of Tyme bee, but shee, frowning,
+answered not).</p>
+
+<p>“He yt was that undertook my Picture: yn which I mainly required
+one thyng, that yt shoulde bee at full-length, for yn none
+other way mighte my Loftiness bee trulie set forth. Nevertheless,
+though hee took manie Pictures, yet all fayled yn thys: for some,
+beginning at the Hedde reeched not toe the Feet; others, takyng yn
+the Feet, yet left out the Hedde; whereof the former were a grief
+unto myself, and the latter a Laughing-Stocke unto others.</p>
+
+<p>“At these thyngs I justly fumed, having at the first been frendly
+unto hym (though yn sooth hee was dull), and oft smote hym
+gretely on the Eares, rending from hys Hedde certyn Locks, whereat
+crying out hee was wont toe saye that I made hys lyfe a burden untoe
+hym, whych thyng I not so much doubted as highlie rejoyced yn.</p>
+
+<p>“At the last hee counselled thys, that a Picture shoulde bee made,
+showing so much skyrt as mighte reasonably bee gotte yn, and a
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>Notice set below toe thys effect: ‘Item, two yards and a Half Ditto,
+and then the Feet.’ Byt thys no Whit contented mee, and thereon I
+shut hym ynto the Cellar, where hee remaned three Weeks, growing
+dayly thinner and thinner, till at the last hee floted up and downe
+like a Feather.</p>
+
+<p>“Now yt fell at thys tyme, as I questioned hym on a certyn Day,
+yf hee woulde nowe take mee at full-length, and hee replying untoe
+mee, yn a little moning Voyce, lyke a Gnat, one chaunced to open
+the Door: whereat the Draft bore hym uppe ynto a Cracke of the
+Cieling, and I remaned awaytyng hym, holding uppe my Torche,
+until such time as I also faded ynto a Ghost, yet stickyng untoe the
+Wall.”</p>
+
+<p>Then did my Loorde and the Companie haste down ynto the
+Cellar, for to see thys straunge sight, to whych place when they
+came, my Loorde bravely drew hys sword, loudly crying “Death!”
+(though to whom or what he explained not); then some went yn,
+but the more part hung back, urging on those yn front, not soe
+largely bye example, as Words of cheer; yet at last all entered, my
+Loorde last.</p>
+
+<p>Then they removed from the wall the Casks and other stuff,
+and founde the sayd Ghost, dredful toe relate, yet extant on the
+Wall, at which horrid sight such screems were raysed as yn these
+days are seldom or never herde; some faynted, others bye large
+drafts of Beer saved themselves from that Extremity, yet were they
+scarcely alive for Feer.</p>
+
+<p>Then dyd the Layde speak unto them yn suchwise:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Here I bee, and here I byde,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Till such tyme as yt betyde</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">That a Ladye of thys place,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Lyke to mee yn name and face,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">(Though my name bee never known,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">My initials shall bee shown,)</div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span><div class="verse indent0">Shall be fotograffed aright—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Hedde and Feet bee both yn sight—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Then my face shall disappear,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Nor agayn affrite you heer.”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Then sayd Matthew Dixon unto her, “Wherefore holdest thou
+uppe that Torche?” to whych shee answered, “Candles Gyve
+Light”: but none understood her.</p>
+
+<p>After thys a thyn Voyce sayd from overhedde:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Yn the Auckland Castell cellar,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Long, long ago,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">I was shut—a brisk young feller—</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">Woe, woe, ah woe!</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">To take her at full-lengthe</div>
+<div class="verse indent2">I never hadde the strengthe</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Tempore (and soe I tell her)</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Practerito!”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>(Yn thys Chorus they durst none joyn, seeing that Latyn was
+untoe them a Tongue unknown.)</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“She was hard—oh, she was cruel—</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Long, long ago,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Starved mee here—not even gruel—</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">No, believe mee, no!—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Frae Scotland could I flee,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">I’d gie my last bawbee,—</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Arrah, bhoys, fair play’s a jhewel,</div>
+<div class="verse indent4">Lave me, darlints, goe!”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Then my Loorde, putting bye hys Sworde, (whych was layd
+up thereafter, yn memory of soe grete Bravery,) bade hys Butler
+fetch hym presentlie a Vessel of Beer, whych when yt was brought
+at hys nod, (nor, as hee merrily sayd, hys “nod, and Bec, and
+wreathed smyle,”) hee drank hugelie thereof: “for why?” quoth
+hee, “surely a Bec ys no longer a Bec, when yt ys Dry.”</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_30_30" href="#FNanchor_30_30" class="label">[30]</a> “The Legend of Scotland” was written by Lewis Carroll for the daughters
+of Archbishop Longley, while the latter, as Bishop of Durham, was
+living at Auckland Castle, and between the years 1856-1860. The legend
+was suggested by some markings upon the walls of a cellar in a part of the
+Castle which, from its remoteness and chilliness, was, and perhaps still is,
+called “Scotland.”</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_19">PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY</h2></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>The recent extraordinary discovery in Photography, as applied to
+the operations of the mind, has reduced the art of novel-writing to
+the merest mechanical labour. We have been kindly permitted by
+the artist to be present during one of his experiments; but as the
+invention has not yet been given to the world, we are only at liberty
+to relate the results, suppressing all details of chemicals and manipulation.</p>
+
+<p>The operator began by stating that the ideas of the feeblest intellect,
+when once received on properly prepared paper, could be
+“developed” up to any required degree of intensity. On hearing
+our wish that he would begin with an extreme case, he obligingly
+summoned a young man from an adjoining room, who appeared to
+be of the very weakest possible physical and mental powers. On
+being asked what we thought of him we candidly confessed that he
+seemed incapable of anything but sleep; our friend cordially assented
+to this opinion.</p>
+
+<p>The machine being in position, and a mesmeric rapport established
+between the mind of the patient and the object glass, the
+young man was asked whether he wished to say anything; he feebly
+replied “Nothing.” He was then asked what he was thinking of,
+and the answer, as before, was “Nothing.” The artist on this pronounced
+him to be in a most satisfactory state, and at once commenced
+the operation.</p>
+
+<p>After the paper had been exposed for the requisite time, it was
+removed and submitted to our inspection; we found it to be covered
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>with faint and almost illegible characters. A closer scrutiny revealed
+the following:</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe66_3750" id="image082">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image082.png" alt="Photography Extraordinary">
+</figure>
+
+<p>“The eve was soft and dewy mild; a zephyr whispered in the
+lofty glade, and a few light drops of rain cooled the thirsty soil.
+At a slow amble, along the primrose-bordered path rode a gentle-looking
+and amiable youth, holding a light cane in his delicate
+hand; the pony moved gracefully beneath him, inhaling as it went
+the fragrance of the roadside flowers; the calm smile, and languid
+eyes, so admirably harmonising with the fair features of the rider,
+showed the even tenor of his thoughts. With a sweet though feeble
+voice, he plaintively murmured out the gentle regrets that clouded
+his breast:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">‘Alas! she would not hear my prayer!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Yet it were rash to tear my hair;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Disfigured, I should be less fair.</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">‘She was unwise, I may say blind;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Once she was lovingly inclined;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Some circumstance has changed her mind.’</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>There was a moment’s silence; the pony stumbled over a stone in
+the path, and unseated his rider. A crash was heard among the
+dried leaves; the youth arose; a slight bruise on his left shoulder,
+and a disarrangement of his cravat, were the only traces that remained
+of this trifling accident.”</p>
+
+<p>“This,” we remarked, as we returned the paper, “belongs apparently
+to the milk-and-water School of Novels.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are quite right,” our friend replied, “and, in its present
+state, it is, of course, utterly unsaleable in the present day: we shall
+find, however, that the next stage of development will remove it
+into the strong-minded or Matter-of-Fact School.” After dipping
+it into various acids, he again submitted it to us: it had now become
+the following:</p>
+
+<p>“The evening was of the ordinary character, barometer at
+‘change’; a wind was getting up in the wood, and some rain was
+beginning to fall; a bad look-out for the farmers. A gentleman
+approached along the bridle-road, carrying a stout knobbed stick
+in his hand, and mounted on a serviceable nag, possibly worth some
+£40 or so; there was a settled business-like expression on the rider’s
+face, and he whistled as he rode; he seemed to be hunting for
+rhymes in his head, and at length repeated, in a satisfied tone, the
+following composition:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">‘Well! so my offer was no go!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">She might do worse, I told her so;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">She was a fool to answer “No.”</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">‘However, things are as they stood;</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Nor would I have her if I could,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">For there are plenty more as good.’</div></div>
+</div></div>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>
+<p>At this moment the horse set his foot in a hole, and rolled over; his
+rider rose with difficulty; he had sustained several severe bruises
+and fractured two ribs; it was some time before he forgot that
+unlucky day.”</p>
+
+<p>We returned this with the strongest expression of admiration,
+and requested that it might now be developed to the highest possible
+degree. Our friend readily consented, and shortly presented us
+with the result, which he informed us belonged to the Spasmodic
+or German School. We perused it with indescribable sensations of
+surprise and delight:</p>
+
+<p>“The night was wildly tempestuous—a hurricane raved through
+the murky forest—furious torrents of rain lashed the groaning
+earth. With a headling rush—down a precipitous mountain gorge—dashed
+a mounted horseman armed to the teeth—his horse
+bounded beneath him at a mad gallop, snorting fire from its distended
+nostrils as it flew. The rider’s knotted brows—rolling eyeballs—and
+clenched teeth—expressed the intense agony of his mind—weird
+visions loomed upon his burning brain—while with a mad
+yell he poured forth the torrent of his boiling passion:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">‘Firebrands and daggers! hope hath fled!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">To atoms dash the doubly dead!</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">My brain is fire—my heart is lead!</div></div>
+
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">‘Her soul is flint, and what am I?</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Scorch’d by her fierce, relentless eye,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Nothingness is my destiny!’</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>There was a moment’s pause. Horror! his path ended in a fathomless
+abyss.... A rush—a flash—a crash—all was over. Three
+drops of blood, two teeth, and a stirrup were all that remained to
+tell where the wild horseman met his doom.”</p>
+
+<p>The young man was now recalled to consciousness, and shown
+the result of the workings of his mind; he instantly fainted away.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p>
+<p>In the present infancy of the art we forbear from further comment
+on this wonderful discovery; but the mind reels as it contemplates
+the stupendous addition thus made to the powers of science.</p>
+
+<p>Our friend concluded with various minor experiments, such as
+working up a passage of Wordsworth into strong, sterling poetry:
+the same experiment was tried on a passage of Byron, at our request,
+but the paper came out scorched and blistered all over by the
+fiery epithets thus produced.</p>
+
+<p>As a concluding remark: <i>could</i> this art be applied (we put the
+question in the strictest confidence)—<i>could</i> it, we ask, be applied to
+the speeches in Parliament? It may be but a delusion of our heated
+imagination, but we will still cling fondly to the idea, and hope
+against hope.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_20">HINTS FOR ETIQUETTE; OR, DINING OUT MADE EASY</h2></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>As caterers for the public taste, we can conscientiously recommend
+this book to all diners-out who are perfectly unacquainted
+with the usages of society. However we may regret that our author
+has confined himself to warning rather than advice, we are bound in
+justice to say that nothing here stated will be found to contradict
+the habits of the best circles. The following examples exhibit a
+depth of penetration and a fullness of experience rarely met with:</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe55_5625" id="image086_2">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image086.png" alt="Hints for Etiquette">
+</figure>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+I
+</p>
+
+<p>In proceeding to the dining-room, the gentleman gives one arm
+to the lady he escorts—it is unusual to offer both.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span></p>
+
+<p class="center">
+II
+</p>
+
+<p>The practice of taking soup with the next gentleman but one is
+now wisely discontinued; but the custom of asking your host his
+opinion of the weather immediately on the removal of the first
+course still prevails.</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+III
+</p>
+
+<p>To use a fork with your soup, intimating at the same time to your
+hostess that you are reserving the spoon for the beefsteaks, is a practice
+wholly exploded.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p>
+
+<p class="center">
+IV
+</p>
+
+<p>On meat being placed before you, there is no possible objection
+to your eating it, if so disposed; still, in all such delicate cases, be
+guided entirely by the conduct of those around you.</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+V
+</p>
+
+<p>It is always allowable to ask for artichoke jelly with your boiled
+venison; however, there are houses where this is not supplied.</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+VI
+</p>
+
+<p>The method of helping roast turkey with two carving-forks is
+practicable, but deficient in grace.</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+VII
+</p>
+
+<p>We do not recommend the practice of eating cheese with a knife
+and fork in one hand, and a spoon and wine-glass in the other; there
+is a kind of awkwardness in the action which no amount of practice
+can entirely dispel.</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+VIII
+</p>
+
+<p>As a general rule, do not kick the shins of the opposite gentleman
+under the table, if personally unacquainted with him; your pleasantry
+is liable to be misunderstood—a circumstance at all times
+unpleasant.</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+IX
+</p>
+
+<p>Proposing the health of the boy in buttons immediately on the
+removal of the cloth is a custom springing from regard to his tender
+years, rather than from a strict adherence to the rules of etiquette.</p>
+
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe37_5000" id="image087">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image087.png" alt="Or Dining Out Made Easy">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_21">A HEMISPHERICAL PROBLEM</h2></div>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>Half of the world, or nearly so, is always in the light of the sun:
+as the world turns round, this hemisphere of light shifts round too,
+and passes over each part of it in succession.</p>
+
+<p>Supposing on Tuesday, it is morning at London; in another hour
+it would be Tuesday morning at the west of England; if the whole
+world were land we might go on tracing<a id="FNanchor_31_31" href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a> Tuesday morning, Tuesday
+morning all the way round, till in twenty-four hours we get to
+London again. But we <i>know</i> that at London twenty-four hours
+after Tuesday morning it is Wednesday morning. Where, then, in
+its passage round the earth, does the day change its name? Where
+does it lose its identity?</p>
+
+<p>Practically there is no difficulty in it, because a great part of the
+journey is over water, and what it does out at sea no one can tell:
+and besides there are so many different languages that it would be
+hopeless to attempt to trace the name of any one day all the year
+round. But is the case inconceivable that the same land and the
+same language should continue all round the world? I cannot see
+that it is: in that case either<a id="FNanchor_32_32" href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a> there would be no distinction at all
+between each successive day, and so week, month, etc., so that we
+should have to say, “The Battle of Waterloo happened to-day, about
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>two million hours ago,” or some line would have to be fixed where
+the change should take place, so that the inhabitants of one house
+would wake and say, “Heigh-ho,<a id="FNanchor_33_33" href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a> Tuesday morning!” and the
+inhabitants of the next (over the line), a few miles to the west
+would wake a few minutes afterwards and say, “Heigh-ho!
+Wednesday morning!” What hopeless confusion the people who
+happened to live <i>on</i> the line would be in, is not for me to say.
+There would be a quarrel every morning as to what the name of
+the day should be. I can imagine no third case, unless everybody
+was allowed to choose for themselves, which state of things would
+be rather worse than either of the other two.</p>
+
+<p>I am aware that this idea has been <ins id='cor_090'>stated</ins> before—namely, by
+the unknown author of that beautiful poem beginning, “If all the
+world were apple pie,” etc.<a id="FNanchor_34_34" href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a> The particular result here discussed,
+however, does not appear to have occurred to him, as he confines
+himself to the difficulties in obtaining drink which would certainly
+ensue.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_31_31" href="#FNanchor_31_31" class="label">[31]</a> The best way is to imagine yourself walking round with the sun and
+asking the inhabitants as you go, “What morning is this?” If you suppose
+them living all the way around, and all speaking one language, the difficulty
+is obvious.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_32_32" href="#FNanchor_32_32" class="label">[32]</a> This is clearly an impossible case, and is only put as an hypothesis.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_33_33" href="#FNanchor_33_33" class="label">[33]</a> The usual exclamation at waking, generally said with a yawn.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_34_34" href="#FNanchor_34_34" class="label">[34]</a></p>
+
+<p>
+“If all the world were apple pie,<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">And all the sea were ink,</span><br>
+And all the trees were bread and cheese,<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">What <i>should</i> we have to drink?”</span>
+</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_22">THE TWO CLOCKS</h2></div>
+
+<p>Which is better, a clock that is right only once a year, or a clock
+that is right twice every day? “The latter,” you reply, “unquestionably.”
+Very good, now attend.</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe27_7500" id="image091_2">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image091.png" alt="The Two Clocks">
+</figure>
+
+<p>I have two clocks: one doesn’t go <i>at all</i>, and the other loses a
+minute a day: which would you prefer? “The losing one,” you
+answer, “without a doubt.” Now observe: the one which loses a
+minute a day has to lose twelve hours, or seven hundred and twenty
+minutes before it is right again, consequently it is only right once in
+two years, whereas the other is evidently right as often as the time
+it points to <ins id='cor_091'>comes</ins> round, which happens twice a day.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p>
+<p>So you’ve contradicted yourself <i>once</i>.</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, but,” you say, “what’s the use of its being right twice a day,
+if I can’t tell when the time comes?”</p>
+
+<p>Why, suppose the clock points to eight o’clock, don’t you see that
+the clock is right <i>at</i> eight o’clock? Consequently, when eight
+o’clock comes round your clock is right.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I see <i>that</i>,” you reply.</p>
+
+<p>Very good, then you’ve contradicted yourself <i>twice</i>: now get out
+of the difficulty as best you can, and don’t contradict yourself again
+if you can help it.</p>
+
+<p>You <i>might</i> go on to ask, “How am I to know when eight o’clock
+<i>does</i> come? My clock will not tell me.” Be patient: you know that
+when eight o’clock comes your clock is right very good; then your
+rule is this: keep your eye fixed on your clock, and <i>the very moment
+it is right</i> it will be eight o’clock. “But——,” you say. There,
+that’ll do; the more you argue the farther you get from the point,
+so it will be as well to stop.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_23">THE IDEAL MATHEMATICAL SCHOOL<a id="FNanchor_35_35" href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+(From “Notes by an Oxford Chiel,” 1871)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>It has occurred to me to suggest for 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 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.</p>
+
+<p>It may be sufficient for the present to enumerate the following
+requisites—others might be added as funds permit:</p>
+
+<p>A. A very large room for calculating Greatest Common Measure.
+To this a small one might be added for Least Common Multiple:
+this, however, might be dispensed with.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p>
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.”</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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, etc., which affect the features
+during severe mathematical operations.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_35_35" href="#FNanchor_35_35" class="label">[35]</a> This whimsical skit burlesques the contents of a letter in which the
+Professor of Physics at Christ Church met an offer of the Clarendon
+Trustees by a detailed enumeration of the requirements in his own department
+of Natural Science.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_24">LOVE AND LOCI<a id="FNanchor_36_36" href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a></h2></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+(A Mathematical Courtship)
+</p>
+
+
+<p>It was a lovely Autumn evening, and the glorious effects of
+chromatic aberration were beginning to show themselves in the
+atmosphere as the earth revolved away from the great western luminary,
+when two lines might have been observed wending their weary
+way across a plain superficies. The elder of the two had, by long
+practice, acquired the art, so painful to young and impulsive loci,
+of lying evenly between her extreme points; but the younger, in her
+girlish impetuosity, was ever longing to diverge and become an
+hyperbola or some such romantic and boundless curve.</p>
+
+<p>“They had lived and loved: fate and the intervening superficies
+had hitherto kept them asunder, but this was no longer to be: <i>a line
+had intersected them, making the two interior angles together less
+than two right angles</i>. It was a moment never to be forgotten and
+they journeyed on, a whisper thrilled along the superficies in isochronous
+waves of sound, ‘Yes! We shall at length meet, if
+continually produced!’” (“Jacobi’s Course of Mathematics,”
+Chap. I.). We have commenced with the above quotation as a
+striking illustration of the advantage of introducing the human
+element into the hitherto barren region of Mathematics. Who
+shall say what germs of romance, hitherto not observed, may not
+underlie the subject? Who can tell whether the parallelogram,
+which in our ignorance we have defined and drawn, and the whole
+of whose properties we profess to know, may not be all the while
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>panting for exterior angles, sympathetic with the interior, or
+sullenly repining at the fact that it cannot be inscribed in a circle?</p>
+
+<p>What mathematician has ever pondered over an hyperbola,
+mangling the unfortunate curve with lines of intersection here and
+there, in his efforts to prove some property that perhaps after all is
+a mere calumny, who has not fancied at last that the ill-used locus
+was spreading out its asymptotes as a silent rebuke, or winking one
+focus at him in contemptuous pity?</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_36_36" href="#FNanchor_36_36" class="label">[36]</a> From “The Dynamics of a Parti-cle” (1865).</p></div>
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_25">MORNING DRESS AND EVENING DRESS<a id="FNanchor_37_37" href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a></h2></div>
+
+<p>Surely, if you go to morning parties in evening dress (which you
+<i>do</i>, you know), why not to evening parties in morning dress?</p>
+
+<p>You will say, “What morning parties do I go to in evening
+dress?”</p>
+
+<p>I reply, “Balls—most balls go on in the morning.”</p>
+
+<p>Anyhow, I have been invited to three evening parties in London
+this year, in each of which “Morning Dress” was specified.</p>
+
+<p>Again, doctors (not that I am a real one—only an amateur) must
+always be in trim for an instant summons to a patient. And when
+you invite a doctor to dinner (say), do you not always add “Morning
+Dress”? (I grant you it is done by initials in <i>this</i> case. And
+perhaps you will say you don’t understand M.D. to stand for
+“Morning Dress”? Then take a few lessons in elementary spelling.)
+Aye, and many and many a time have I received invitations
+to evening parties wherein the actual colours of the Morning Dress
+expected were stated!</p>
+
+<p>For instance, “Red Scarf: Vest, Pink.” That is a <i>very</i> common
+form, though it is usually (I grant you) expressed by initials.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_37_37" href="#FNanchor_37_37" class="label">[37]</a> From a letter to Miss Dora Abdy (1880).</p></div>
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_26">KISSING BY POST<a id="FNanchor_38_38" href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+
+<p>This really will <i>not</i> 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. “<i>Extra weight</i>, sir!” (I think he
+cheats a little, by the way. He often makes me pay two <i>pounds</i>,
+when I think it should be <i>pence</i>.)</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe54_1250" id="image098_2">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image098.png" alt="Kissing by Post">
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p>
+<p>“Oh, if you please, Mr. Postman!” I said, going down gracefully
+on one knee (I wish you could see me going 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!”</p>
+
+<p>“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 <i>that</i>. I
+mean, what’s the good of little girls when they send such heavy
+letters?” “Well, they’re not <i>much</i> good, certainly,” I said, rather
+sadly.</p>
+
+<p>“Mind you don’t get any more such letters,” he said, “at least,
+not from that particular little girl. <i>I know her well, and she’s a
+regular bad one!</i>”</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>very</i> few more letters. “Only two thousand four hundred
+and seventy, or so,” I said. “Oh!” said he, “a little number
+like <i>that</i> doesn’t signify. What I meant is, you mustn’t send <i>many</i>.”</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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
+<i>face</i>.” He looked a little grave, and said, “Oh, it’s your <i>nose</i> 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 <i>hair</i>.” Then
+he looked grave and said, “<i>Now</i> 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 <i>hair</i>: it’s more about the nose and the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>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?”</p>
+
+<p>“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 <i>one</i> kiss to a baby child,
+a little friend of mine.” “Think again,” he said, “are you sure it
+was only <i>one</i>?” I thought again, and said, “Perhaps it was eleven
+times.” Then the doctor said, “You must not give her <i>any</i> 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.”</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_38_38" href="#FNanchor_38_38" class="label">[38]</a> From letters written in 1875 and 1876 to Gertrude Chataway, a little
+child whom he met at Sandown, Isle of Wight, and to whom he dedicated
+“The Hunting of the Snark.”</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_27">A BIRTHDAY WISH<a id="FNanchor_39_39" href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p>You see, if I were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your
+tea, you wouldn’t like <i>that</i>, 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!”</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>no health at all</i>! I never saw such a thing in my life!”</p>
+
+<p>“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!”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, Mrs. Chataway,” he will say, “the only way to cure her
+is to wait till his next birthday, and then for <i>her</i> to drink <i>his</i> health.”</p>
+
+<p>And then we shall have changed healths. I wonder how you’ll
+like mine! Oh, Gertrude, I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense!</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_39_39" href="#FNanchor_39_39" class="label">[39]</a> From another letter to little Gertrude Chataway (1875).</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_28">A FEW OF THE THINGS I LIKE<a id="FNanchor_40_40" href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<p>I may as well just tell you a few of the things I like, and then
+whenever you want to give me a birthday present (my birthday
+comes once every seven years on the fifth Tuesday in April) you
+will know what to give me.</p>
+
+<p>Well, I like <i>very</i> much indeed, a little mustard with a bit of beef
+spread thinly under it; and I like brown sugar—only it should have
+some apple pudding mixed with it to keep it from being too sweet;
+but perhaps what I like best of all is salt, with some soup poured
+over it. The use of the soup is to hinder the salt from being too
+dry; and it helps to melt it. Then there are three other things I
+like; for instance, pins—only they should always have a cushion put
+round them to keep them warm. And I like two or three handfuls
+of hair; only they should always have a little girl’s head beneath
+them to grow on, or else whenever you open the door they get
+blown all over the room and then they get lost, you know.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_40_40" href="#FNanchor_40_40" class="label">[40]</a> From a letter to Miss Jessie Sinclair, 1878.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_29">MYSELF AND ME<a id="FNanchor_41_41" href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a></h2></div>
+
+<p>
+<span class="smcap">My Dear Magdalen</span>,
+</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe52_3750" id="image103">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image103.png" alt="Myself and Me">
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span></p>
+<p>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 telescope and it was a face! I thought it
+was rather 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.”</p>
+
+<p>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. 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,</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+<span class="smcap">Lewis Carroll</span> and <span class="smcap">C. L. Dodgson</span>.
+</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_41_41" href="#FNanchor_41_41" class="label">[41]</a> A letter written to a little child friend in 1875.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_30">MY STYLE OF DANCING<a id="FNanchor_42_42" href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<p>As to dancing, I <i>never</i> dance, unless I am allowed to do it <i>in my
+own peculiar way</i>. 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, <i>of my peculiar kind</i>, is to
+be done.</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe39_8750" id="image105">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image105.png" alt="My Style of Dancing">
+</figure>
+
+<p>Did you ever see the Rhinoceros and the Hippopotamus, at the
+Zoological Gardens, trying to dance a minuet together? It is a
+touching sight.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_42_42" href="#FNanchor_42_42" class="label">[42]</a> From a letter, written in 1873, to Gayner Simpson, a child friend at
+Guildford.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_31">GLOVES FOR KITTENS<a id="FNanchor_43_43" href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<p>Oh, you naughty, naughty little culprit!</p>
+
+<p>If only I could fly to Fulham with a handy little stick (ten feet
+long and four inches thick is my favourite size) how I would rap
+your wicked little knuckles. However, there isn’t much harm done,
+so I will sentence you to a very mild punishment—only one year’s
+imprisonment. If you’ll just tell the Fulham policeman about it,
+he’ll manage all the rest for you, and he’ll fit you with a nice comfortable
+pair of handcuffs, and lock you up in a nice cosy dark cell,
+and feed you on nice dry bread and delicious cold water.</p>
+
+<p>But how badly you <i>do</i> spell your words! I <i>was</i> so puzzled about
+the “sack full of love and basket full of kisses!” But at last I made
+out why, of course, you meant “a sack full of <i>gloves</i>, and a basket
+full of <i>kittens</i>!”</p>
+
+<p>Then I understood what you were sending me. And just then
+Mrs. Dyer came to tell me a large sack and a basket had come.
+There was such a miawing in the house, as if all the cats in Eastbourne
+had come to see me!</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, just open them please, Mrs. Dyer, and count the things in
+them.”</p>
+
+<p>So in a few minutes Mrs. Dyer came and said “500 pairs of
+gloves in the sack and 250 kittens in the basket.”</p>
+
+<p>“Dear me! That makes 1,000 gloves! four times as many
+gloves as kittens! It’s very kind of Maggie, but why did she send
+so many gloves? for I haven’t got 1,000 <i>hands</i>, you know, Mrs.
+Dyer.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span></p>
+<p>And Mrs. Dyer said, “No, indeed, you’re 998 hands short of
+that.”</p>
+
+<p>However, the next day I made out what to do, and I took the
+basket with me and walked off to the parish school—the <i>girls’</i>
+school, you know—and I said to the mistress:</p>
+
+<p>“How many little girls are there at school to-day?”</p>
+
+<p>“Exactly 250, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“And have they all been <i>very</i> good, all day?”</p>
+
+<p>“As good as gold, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>I waited outside the door with my basket, and as each little girl
+came out, I just popped a soft little kitten into her hands! Oh!
+what joy there was! The little girls went all dancing home, nursing
+their kittens, and the whole air was full of purring! Then, the
+next morning, I went to the school, before it opened, to ask the little
+girls how the kittens had behaved in the night. And they all arrived
+sobbing and crying, and their faces and hands were all covered with
+scratches, and they had the kittens wrapped up in their pinafores
+to keep them from scratching any more. And they sobbed out,
+“The kittens have been scratching us all night, all the night!”</p>
+
+<p>So then I said to myself, “What a nice little girl Maggie is.
+<i>Now</i> I see why she sent all those gloves, and why there are four
+times as many gloves as kittens!” And I said to the little girls,
+“Never mind, my dear children, do your lessons <i>very</i> nicely, and
+don’t cry any more, and when school is over, you’ll find me at the
+door, and you shall see what you shall see!”</p>
+
+<p>So, in the evening, when the little girls came running out, with
+the kittens still wrapped up in their pinafores, there was I, at the
+door, with a big sack! And, as each little girl came out, I just
+popped into her hand two pairs of gloves! And each little girl unrolled
+her pinafore and took out an angry little kitten, spitting and
+snarling, with its claws sticking out like a hedgehog.</p>
+
+<p>But it hadn’t time to scratch for, in one moment, it found all its
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>four claws popped into nice soft warm gloves! And then the kittens
+got quite sweet-tempered and gentle, and began purring again.</p>
+
+<p>So the little girls went dancing home again, and the next morning
+they came dancing back to school. The scratches were all
+healed, and they told me “The kittens <i>have</i> been good!”</p>
+
+<p>“And when any kitten wants to catch a mouse, it just takes off
+<i>one</i> of its gloves; and if it wants to catch two mice; it takes off <i>two</i>
+gloves; and if it wants to catch <i>three</i> mice, it takes off <i>three</i> gloves;
+and if it wants to catch <i>four</i> mice, it takes off all its gloves. But the
+moment they’ve caught the mice, they pop their gloves on again,
+because they know we can’t love them without their gloves. For,
+you see, ‘gloves’ have got ‘love’ <i>inside</i> them—there’s none outside.”</p>
+
+<p>So all the little girls said, “Please thank Maggie, and we send
+her 250 <i>loves</i> and 1,000 kisses in return for her 250 kittens and her
+1,000 gloves!”</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+Your loving old Uncle,<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.0em;">C. L. D.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Love and kisses to Nellie and Emsie.
+</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_43_43" href="#FNanchor_43_43" class="label">[43]</a> This whimsical and characteristic paper, which has never been published
+before, is from a letter written by Lewis Carroll on September 17, 1893,
+from 7, Lushington Road, Eastbourne, to Miss Maggie Bowman.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></p><h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_32">ART IN POTSDAM<a id="FNanchor_44_44" href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a></h2></div>
+
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_44_44" href="#FNanchor_44_44" class="label">[44]</a> This extract from Lewis Carroll’s diary, written during his Continental
+tour with Dr. Liddon in 1867, although obviously not coming within the
+category of “Nonsense,” is so sprightly and so whimsically apposite that
+the editor has ventured to include it in this volume as a characteristic
+fragment of Lewis Carroll’s humour that ought to be preserved.</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_33">ON WAITERS</h2></div>
+
+
+<p>(Extracts from Mr. Dodgson’s diary during his Continental tour with
+Canon Liddon in the summer of 1867)</p>
+
+
+<p>July 13th (Dover).  We breakfasted, as agreed, at eight, or at
+least we then sat down and nibbled bread and butter till such time
+as the chops could be done, which great event took place at 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 sideboards 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.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>August 6th (Nijni Novgorod).  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
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>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.</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe48_9375" id="image111">
+  <img class="w60" src="images/image111.jpg" alt="On Waiters">
+</figure>
+
+<p>September 4th (Giessen).  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.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span></p>
+<p>“Boiled?” the waiter repeated with an incredulous smile.</p>
+
+<p>“No, not <i>boiled</i>,” I explained—“<i>broiled</i>!” 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?”</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_34">LEWIS CARROLL AS A RACONTEUR<a id="FNanchor_45_45" href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a></h2></div>
+
+<p>An old lady I knew, once tried to check the military ardour of a
+little boy by showing him the picture of a battlefield and describing
+some of its horrors. But the only reply she got was, “I’ll be a soldier.
+Tell it again!”</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Another little boy, after having listened with great attention to
+the story of Lot’s wife, asked innocently, “Where does the salt come
+from that’s not made of ladies?”</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Dr. Paget (Dean of Christ Church) was conducting a school
+examination, and in the course of his questions he happened to ask
+a small boy the meaning of “average.” He was utterly bewildered
+by the reply, “The things that hens lay on,” until the youngster
+explained that he had read in a book that hens lay <i>on an average</i> so
+many eggs a year!</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span></p>
+<p>Have you heard the story of the dog who was sent into the sea
+after sticks? He brought them back properly for a time, and then
+returned swimming in a curious manner, and apparently in difficulties.
+On closer inspection it appeared that he had caught hold of
+his own tail in mistake and was bringing it to land in triumph!</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>On one occasion I was walking in Oxford with Maggie Bowman,<a id="FNanchor_46_46" href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a>
+then a mere child, when we met the Bishop of Oxford, to
+whom I introduced my little guest. His lordship asked her what
+she thought of Oxford, and was much amused when the little
+actress replied, with true professional aplomb, “I think it’s the best
+place in the provinces!”</p>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Three Stories from Mr. Dodgson’s Diary</span></p>
+
+<p>July 23, 1867 (when on holiday in Dantzig). 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 to escape.</p>
+
+<p>August, 1867 (on a visit to Kronstadt with Canon Liddon, of
+Oxford). Liddon had surrendered his overcoat early in the day,
+and we found it must be recovered from the waiting-maid, who
+talked only Russian, and as I had left the dictionary behind, and the
+little vocabulary did not contain <i>coat</i>, we were in some difficulty.
+Liddon began by exhibiting his coat, with much gesticulation,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>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.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>December 17, 1895. 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!<a id="FNanchor_47_47" href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a></p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Lewis Carroll had a nervous horror of infection that occasionally
+resulted in a good deal of unconscious humour. During a brief
+holiday which the two elder Miss Bowmans spent with him at
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>Eastbourne, the news came that their youngest sister had caught scarlet
+fever. After this, the two children had to read every letter which
+came from their mother as best they could from the other side of
+the room, while their host held the epistle aloft, his head averted
+so that he should not see what was not intended for his eyes.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>On the occasion of another Eastbourne visit the same little girls
+were taken by their friend for a steamer trip to Hastings. This was
+with the idea of accustoming them to sea-travelling, in view of the
+forthcoming professional visit of the little actresses to America.
+Their “rehearsal” was certainly instructive, for the sea was much
+rougher than at any time during their subsequent trip across the
+Atlantic, with the result that they suffered considerably. “Uncle
+Dodgson,” as they invariably called him, did his best to console
+them by continually repeating, “Crossing the Atlantic will be much
+worse than this!”</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>He (Lewis Carroll) 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.</p>
+
+<p>“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.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is very strange,” the other replied, “for I was your host
+last night!”</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>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
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>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.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>In Guildford there is (or was) an American confectioner’s, where
+the cakes are cooked by a very quick process before the public and
+handed to you smoking hot, direct from the cook. This preparation
+used to be a source of considerable interest to the juvenile population,
+who could watch the proceedings through the shop window.
+One afternoon, when Lewis Carroll was purchasing cakes for some
+of his child chums, seven small ragged youngsters formed an
+envious group outside. But they soon became a participatory one,
+for, purchasing seven of the choicest specimens of confectionery,
+the lover of children took them outside and distributed them to the
+eager little ones.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>“My first introduction”<a id="FNanchor_48_48" href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a> (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 stronghold 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.”</p>
+
+<p>Possibly the funniest story about Lewis Carroll is the rather well-known
+one which relates how Queen Victoria, being charmed by
+“Alice in Wonderland,” and hearing that the author was really the
+Rev. C. L. Dodgson, ordered the rest of his works. Her surprise
+at receiving a large parcel of mathematical and technical works
+may be imagined!</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_45_45" href="#FNanchor_45_45" class="label">[45]</a> No book of this kind would be comprehensive without reference to
+Lewis Carroll’s inimitable talent as a raconteur. Stored within his mind
+were numberless entertaining anecdotes, some true, some invented by himself,
+and some he had heard. As a matter of fact, he had heard so many
+that he was a difficult man to tell a story to—it was sure to be familiar to
+him. In selecting for reproduction some of the best Lewis Carroll anecdotes—both
+<i>by</i> him and <i>about</i> him—the editor has ventured to include several
+which do not come within the category of “Nonsense,” but trusts that their
+interest will excuse this deviation from the professed plan of this work. It
+is recorded that Mr. Carroll (or Mr. Dodgson, to be strictly accurate when
+dealing with this characteristic) was an excellent after-dinner speaker, and
+told stories exceedingly well with an effective stutter reminiscent of Charles
+Lamb.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_46_46" href="#FNanchor_46_46" class="label">[46]</a> Sister of Isa who so charmingly played the heroine in the stage version
+of “Alice,” after Miss Phœbe Carlo. The Bowman sisters were among the
+most intimate of Lewis Carroll’s friends.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_47_47" href="#FNanchor_47_47" class="label">[47]</a> In an earlier entry in the diary Mr. Dodgson refers to the clever acting
+of “Kate Tyndall and Sydney Fairbrother, whom I guess to be about fifteen
+and twelve,” in the sensational melodrama “Two Little Vagabonds” at the
+Princess’s Theatre.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_48_48" href="#FNanchor_48_48" class="label">[48]</a> This and the two succeeding anecdotes are from “The Life and Letters
+of Lewis Carroll.”</p></div>
+
+
+
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[Pg 119]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="ch_35">A LEWIS CARROLL PROVERB<a id="FNanchor_49_49" href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a></h2></div>
+
+<p>Remember the old proverb, “Cross-writing makes cross-reading.”</p>
+
+<p>“The <i>old</i> proverb?” you say enquiringly. “<i>How</i> old?” Well,
+not so <i>very</i> ancient, I must confess. In fact, I invented it while
+writing this paragraph. Still, you know, “old” is a <i>comparative</i>
+term. I think you would be <i>quite</i> justified in addressing a chicken,
+just out of the shell, as “old boy!” <i>when compared</i> with another
+chicken that was only half out!</p>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_49_49" href="#FNanchor_49_49" class="label">[49]</a> From “Eight or Nine Wise Words on Letter-Writing” (1888).</p></div>
+<br><br>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="transnote"><h2 class="nobreak" id="transnote">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:</h2>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>Printing errors such as partially printed
+letters have been silently fixed.</p>
+
+<p>The footnotes have been relocated to the end of each
+poem or text and renumbered to better fit the ebook format.</p>
+
+<p>Some images have been moved slightly within their poem or text
+to better fit the ebook format.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_45">Page 45:</a> The visual poem The Dear Gazelle has been included as an image
+in addition to the text to ensure the original look is preserved.</p>
+
+<p>
+The following alterations have been made:<br>
+In <i>A Hemispherical Problem</i>: <a href="#cor_090">started <i>to</i> stated</a><br>
+In <i>The Two Clocks</i>: <a href="#cor_091">come <i>to</i> comes</a>
+</p></div></div>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77627 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
author	www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org>	2026-01-06 13:45:22 -0800
committer	www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org>	2026-01-06 13:45:22 -0800
commit	2f68e7c1a249285133c7a22e183e712cf0685fec (patch)
tree	c3854c4f32ea5baedf8ebb14451aef630495e821 /77627-h/77627-h.htm