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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/77627-0.txt b/77627-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..94c335c --- /dev/null +++ b/77627-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3667 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77627 *** + + + + + FURTHER NONSENSE + VERSE AND PROSE + + [Illustration] + + + + + FURTHER NONSENSE + VERSE AND PROSE + + _BY_ + + LEWIS CARROLL + + (_EDITED BY_ LANGFORD REED) + + _ILLUSTRATED BY_ + H. M. BATEMAN + + + [Illustration] + + D. APPLETON AND COMPANY + NEW YORK * * * MCMXXVI + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY + D. APPLETON AND COMPANY + + [Illustration] + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + [Illustration] + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + FOREWORD 1 + + THE LADY OF THE LADLE 21 + + CORONACH 24 + + LAYS OF SORROW 26 + + MY FANCY 29 + + A SEA DIRGE 31 + + LIMERICK 34 + + A BACCHANALIAN ODE 35 + + A LESSON IN LATIN 36 + + THE TWO BROTHERS 38 + + POETRY FOR THE MILLION 44 + + THE DEAR GAZELLE 45 + + THE MOUSE’S TAIL 46 + + RHYMED CORRESPONDENCE 47 + + ACROSTICS 49 + + MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD 51 + + WILHELM VON SCHMITZ 57 + + THE THREE CATS 71 + + THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND 74 + + PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY 81 + + HINTS FOR ETIQUETTE; OR, DINING OUT MADE EASY 86 + + A HEMISPHERICAL PROBLEM 89 + + THE TWO CLOCKS 91 + + THE IDEAL MATHEMATICAL SCHOOL 93 + + LOVE AND LOCI 95 + + MORNING DRESS AND EVENING DRESS 97 + + KISSING BY POST 98 + + A BIRTHDAY WISH 101 + + A FEW OF THE THINGS I LIKE 102 + + MYSELF AND ME 103 + + MY STYLE OF DANCING 105 + + GLOVES FOR KITTENS 106 + + ART IN POTSDAM 109 + + ON WAITERS 110 + + LEWIS CARROLL AS A RACONTEUR 113 + + A LEWIS CARROLL PROVERB 119 + + + + + _FOREWORD_ + + +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. + +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. + + + THE REAL LEWIS CARROLL + +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. + +In this secluded hamlet young Dodgson spent the first eleven years of +his life, and in his quaint diversions and hobbies gave promise of the +whimsical and bizarre genius which was destined to make him famous. + +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. + +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! + +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): + + I watch the drowsy night expire, + And Fancy paints at my desire + Her magic pictures in the fire. + An island farm, ’midst seas of corn + Swayed by the wandering breath of morn, + The happy spot where I was born. + +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. + +“Young Dodgson at this time,” says the authority already quoted, “was +very fond of inventing games for the amusement of his 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.” + + + A PROPHECY THAT CAME TRUE + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +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 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: + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Very clever head, a great deal of imitation; he would make a good +actor; diffident; rather shy in general society; comes out in the home +circle; rather obstinate, very clever; a great deal of concentration; +very affectionate; a great deal of wit and humour; not much faculty for +remembering events; fond of deep reading; imaginative; fond of reading +poetry; may compose.” + +The following year he contributed the poem and short story to “The +Whitby Gazette” which are included in this present volume. + +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: + +“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.” + +Another entry is full of the diffidence about himself and his work +which was characteristic of the man. It read as follows: + +“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.” + +At Christmas he became the editor of a college publication called +“College Rhymes,” in which first appeared “A Sea Dirge” and “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. + + + THE “BIRTH” OF “LEWIS CARROLL” + +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,[1] 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + + + THE BEGINNING OF “ALICE” + +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: + + All in the golden afternoon + Full leisurely we glide, + For both our oars, with little skill, + By little arms are plied. + While little hands make vain pretence + Our wanderings to guide. + + Ah, cruel three! In such an hour + Beneath such dreamy weather + To beg a tale of breath too weak + To stir the tiniest feather! + Yet what can one poor voice avail + Against three tongues together? + + Imperious Prima flashes forth + Her edict “to begin it”-- + In gentler tone Secunda hopes + “There will be nonsense in it!”-- + While Tertia interrupts the tale + Not _more_ than once a minute. + + Anon, to sudden silence won, + In fancy they pursue + The dream-child moving through a land + Of wonders wild and new. + In friendly chat with bird or beast-- + And half believe it true. + + And even, as the story drained + The wells of fancy dry, + And faintly strove that weary one + To put the subject by, + “The rest next time”--“It _is_ next time!” + The happy voices cry. + + Thus grew the tale of Wonderland: + Thus slowly, one by one, + Its quaint events were hammered out-- + And now the tale is done, + And home we steer, a merry crew, + Beneath the setting sun. + + Alice! a childish story take, + And with a gentle hand + Lay it where childhood’s dreams are twined + In Memory’s mystic band, + Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers + Pluck’d in a far-off land. + +If the final verse is not proof enough that sweet Alice Liddell was +Lewis Carroll’s favourite of the three, and that for _her_ 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: + + Child of the pure unclouded brow + And dreaming eyes of wonder! + Though time be fleet and I and thou + Are half a life asunder, + Thy loving smile will surely hail + The love gift of a fairy-tale. + + I have not seen thy sunny face, + Nor heard thy silver laughter; + No thought of me shall find a place + In thy young life’s hereafter-- + Enough that now thou wilt not fail + To listen to my fairy-tale. + + A tale begun in other days, + When summer suns were glowing-- + A simple chime that served to time + The rhythm of our rowing-- + Whose echoes live in memory yet, + Though envious years would say “forget.” + +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: + +“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....” + +The original title of the story, which its creator took the trouble to +write out in manuscript and have specially bound for the living 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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + + + INVENTOR OF CROSS WORD PUZZLES + +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.” + +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.” + +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 he had been +engaged for several years. “Sylvie and Bruno Concluded” followed in +1893. + +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?” + +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 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.” + +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! + +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. + + + LEWIS CARROLL’S TECHNIQUE + +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 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. + +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: + +“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.” + +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 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: + +“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.’ + +“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.’” + + + THE GOLDEN AGE OF LITERATURE + +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 says much, therefore, for Lewis Carroll’s unique genius that +he was able to achieve immediate fame in an altogether different medium. + +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. + +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”? + +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, though married life has no doubt +many charms to which I am a stranger.” + +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.” + +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-- + + CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON + (LEWIS CARROLL) + Fell asleep, January 14, 1898, + Age 65 years, + +together with the following inscriptions, singularly appropriate to one +whose whole life was one of service: + + “Where I am, there shall also My servant be.” + + “His servants shall serve Him.” + + “Father, in Thy gracious keeping + Leave we now Thy servant sleeping.” + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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 characters, set among +leafy bowers and flower gardens, the latter to be tended by teams of +children from the various Council Schools. + +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. + +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. + + LANGFORD REED. + + HAMPSTEAD, + LONDON. + + +[1] Actually used by Mr. Dodgson in his story, “The Legend of +Scotland,” included in this volume. + + + + + FURTHER NONSENSE + VERSE AND PROSE + + [Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE LADY OF THE LADLE[2] + +(From “The Whitby Gazette” of August 31, 1854) + + + The Youth at Eve had drunk his fill, + Where stands the “Royal” on the Hill, + And long his mid-day stroll had made, + On the so called “Marine Parade”-- + (Meant, I presume, for Seamen brave, + Whose “march is on the Mountain wave”; + ’Twere just the bathing-place for him + Who stays on land till he can swim--) + And he had strayed into the Town, + And paced each alley up and down, + Where still so narrow grew the way, + The very houses seemed to say, + Nodding to friends across the Street, + “One struggle more and we shall meet.” + And he had scaled that wondrous stair + That soars from earth to upper air + Where rich and poor alike must climb, + And walk the treadmill for a time. + That morning he had dressed with care, + And put Pomatum in his hair; + He was, the loungers all agreed, + A very heavy swell indeed: + Men thought him, as he swaggered by, + Some scion of nobility, + And never dreamed, so cold his look, + That he had loved--and loved a Cook. + Upon the beach he stood and sighed, + Unheedful of the treacherous tide; + Thus sang he to the listening main, + And soothed his sorrow with the strain! + +[2] 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. + + + + + CORONACH + + + “She is gone by the Hilda, + She is lost unto Whitby, + And her name is Matilda, + Which my heart it was smit by; + Tho’ I take the Goliah, + I learn to my sorrow + That ‘it won’t,’ says the crier, + ‘Be off till to-morrow.’ + + “She called me her ‘Neddy,’ + (Tho’ there mayn’t be much in it,) + And I should have been ready, + If she’d waited a minute; + I was following behind her, + When, if you recollect, I + Merely ran back to find a + Gold pin for my neck-tie. + + “Rich dresser of suit! + Prime hand at a sausage! + I have lost thee, I rue it, + And my fare for the passage! + Perhaps _she_ thinks it funny, + Aboard of the Hilda, + But I’ve lost purse and money, + And thee, oh, my ’Tilda!” + + His pin of gold the youth undid + And in his waistcoat-pocket hid, + Then gently folded hand in hand, + And dropped asleep upon the sand. + B. B.[3] + +[3] 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. + + + + + LAYS OF SORROW + +(From “The Rectory Umbrella,”[4] 1849-50 with footnotes by the author) + + + The day was wet, the rain fell souse + Like jars of strawberry jam,[5] a + Sound was heard in the old hen house, + A beating of a hammer. + Of stalwart form, and visage warm, + Two youths were seen within it, + Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry + At a hundred strokes a minute.[6] + + The work is done, the hen has taken + Possession of her nest and eggs, + Without a thought of eggs and bacon,[7] + (Or I am very much mistaken) + She turns over each shell, + To be sure that all’s well, + Looks into the straw + To see there’s no flaw, + Goes once round the house,[8] + Half afraid of a mouse, + Then sinks calmly to rest + On the top of her nest, + First doubling up each of her legs. + + Time rolled away, and so did every shell, + “Small by degrees and beautifully less,” + As the sage mother with a powerful spell[9] + Forced each in turn its contents to “express,”[10] + But ah! “imperfect is expression,” + Some poet said, I don’t care who, + If you want to know you must go elsewhere, + One fact I can tell, if you’re willing to hear, + He never attended a Parliament Session, + For I’m sure that if he had ever been there, + Full quickly would he have changed his ideas, + With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers + And as to his name it is pretty clear + That is wasn’t me and it wasn’t you! + + And so it fell upon a day, + (That is, it never rose again,) + A chick was found upon the hay, + Its little life had ebbed away, + No longer frolicsome and gay, + No longer could it run and play. + “And must we, chicken, must we part?” + Its master[11] cried with bursting heart, + And voice of agony and pain. + + So one whose ticket’s marked “Return,”[12] + When to the lonely roadside station + He flies in fear and perturbation, + Thinks of his home--the hissing urn-- + Then runs with flying hat and hair, + And, entering, finds to his despair + He’s missed the very latest train.[13] + + Too long it were to tell of each conjecture, + Of chicken suicide and poultry victim, + The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture, + The timid guess, “perhaps some needle’s pricked him,” + The din of voice, the words both loud and many, + The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother, + Till all agreed, “a shilling to a penny + It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!” + Scarce was the verdict spoken, + When that still calm was broken, + A childish form hath burst into the throng, + With tears and looks of sadness, + That bring no news of gladness; + But tell too surely something hath gone wrong! + “The sight that I have come upon + The stoutest heart[14] would sicken, + That nasty hen has been and gone + And killed another chicken!” + +[4] 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. + +[5] _I.e._, the jam without the jars; observe the beauty of this rhyme. + +[6] At the rate of a stroke and two-thirds in a second. + +[7] Unless the hen was a poacher, which is unlikely. + +[8] The hen’s house. + +[9] Beak and claw. + +[10] Press out. + +[11] Probably one of the two stalwart youths. + +[12] The system of return tickets is an excellent one. People are +conveyed on particular days there and back for one fare. + +[13] An additional vexation would be that his “Return” ticket would be +no use the next day. + +[14] Perhaps even the bursting heart of its master. + + + + + MY FANCY + + (From “College Rhymes”[15]) + + + I painted her a gushing thing, + With years perhaps a score; + I little thought to find they were + At least a dozen more; + My fancy gave her eyes of blue, + A curly auburn head: + I came to find the blue a green, + The auburn turned to red. + + [Illustration] + + She boxed my ears this morning, + They tingled very much; + I own that I could wish her + A somewhat lighter touch; + And if you ask me how + Her charms might be improved, + I would not have them _added to_, + But just a few _removed_! + + She has the bear’s ethereal grace, + The bland hyena’s laugh, + The footstep of the elephant, + The neck of the giraffe; + I love her still, believe me, + Though my heart its passion hides; + “She’s all my fancy painted her,” + But oh! _how much besides!_ + +[15] This was a Christ Church journal edited by Lewis Carroll during +his Varsity days. “A Sea Dirge” (see next poem) first appeared in it. + + + + + A SEA DIRGE[16] + + + There are certain things--as a spider, a ghost, + The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three-- + That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most + Is a thing they call the Sea. + + Pour some salt water over the floor-- + Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be: + Suppose it extended a mile or more, + _That’s_ very like the Sea. + + Beat a dog till it howls outright-- + Cruel, but all very well for a spree: + Suppose that he did so day and night, + _That_ would be like the Sea. + + I had a vision of nursery-maids; + Tens of thousands passed by me-- + All leading children with wooden spades, + And this was by the Sea. + + Who invented those spades of wood? + Who was it cut them out of the tree? + None, I think, but an idiot could-- + Or one that loved the Sea. + + It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float + With “thoughts as boundless, and souls as free”; + But suppose you are very unwell in the boat,[17] + How do you like the Sea? + + There is an insect that people avoid + (Whence is derived the verb “to flee”), + Where have you been by it most annoyed? + In lodgings by the Sea. + + If you like coffee with sand for dregs, + A decided hint of salt in your tea, + And a fishy taste in the very eggs-- + By all means choose the Sea. + + And if, with these dainties to drink and eat, + You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, + And a chronic state of wet in your feet, + Then--I recommend the Sea. + + For _I_ have friends who dwell by the coast-- + Pleasant friends they are to me! + It is when I am with them I wonder most + That any one likes the Sea. + + They take me a walk: though tired and stiff, + To climb the heights I madly agree: + And, after a tumble or so from the cliff, + They kindly suggest the Sea. + + I try the rocks, and I think it cool + That they laugh with such an excess of glee, + As I heavily slip into every pool + That skirts the cold, cold Sea. + +[Illustration] + +[16] 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. + +[17] 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 _that_ I paid my money.” + + + + + LIMERICK[18] + + + There was a young lady of station, + “I love man” was her sole exclamation; + But when men cried, “You flatter,” + She replied, “Oh! no matter, + Isle of Man is the true explanation.” + +[Illustration] + +[18] 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. + + + + + A BACCHANALIAN ODE[19] + + + Here’s to the Freshman of bashful eighteen! + Here’s to the Senior of twenty! + Here’s to the youth whose moustache can’t be seen! + And here’s to the man who has plenty! + Let the men Pass! + Out of the mass + I’ll warrant we’ll find you some fit for a Class! + + Here’s to the Censors, who symbolise Sense, + Just as Mitres incorporate Might, Sir! + To the Bursar, who never expands the expense, + And the Readers who always do right, Sir. + Tutor and Don, + Let them jog on! + I warrant they’ll rival the centuries gone! + +[19] From “The Vision of the Three T’s” (Oxford, 1873). + + + + + A LESSON IN LATIN + + (From “The Jabberwock,”[20] June, 1888) + + + Our Latin books, in motley row, + Invite us to the task-- + Gay Horace, stately Cicero; + Yet there’s one verb, when once we know, + No higher skill we ask: + This ranks all other lore above-- + We’ve learned “amare” means “to love”! + + So hour by hour, from flower to flower, + We sip the sweets of life: + Till ah! too soon the clouds arise, + And knitted brows and angry eyes + Proclaim the dawn of strife. + With half a smile and half a sigh, + “Amare! Bitter One!” we cry. + + Last night we owned, with looks forlorn, + “Too well the scholar knows + There is no rose without a thorn”-- + But peace is made! we sing this morn, + “No thorn without a rose!” + Our Latin lesson is complete: + We’ve learned that Love is “Bitter-sweet”! + +[20] The magazine of the Girls’ Latin School, Boston, Mass. When +asked for permission to use this title, the creator of the Jabberwock +characteristically replied: + +“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.” + + + + + THE TWO BROTHERS + + (From “The Rectory Umbrella,” 1853) + +[Illustration] + + + There were two brothers at Twyford school, + And when they had left the place, + It was, “Will ye learn Greek and Latin? + Or will ye run me a race? + Or will ye go up to yonder bridge, + And there we will angle for dace?” + + “I’m too stupid for Greek and for Latin, + I’m too lazy by half for a race, + So I’ll go up to yonder bridge, + And there we will angle for dace.” + + He has fitted together two joints of his rod, + And to them he has added another, + And then a great hook he took from his book, + And ran it right into his brother. + + Oh much is the noise that is made among boys + When playfully pelting a pig, + But a far greater pother was made by his brother + When flung from the top of the brigg. + + The fish hurried up by the dozens, + All ready and eager to bite, + For the lad that he flung was so tender and young, + It quite gave them an appetite. + + Said, “Thus shall he wallop about + And the fish take him quite at their ease, + For me to annoy it was ever his joy, + Now I’ll teach him the meaning of ‘Tees’!” + + The wind to his ear brought a voice, + “My brother, you didn’t had ought ter! + And what have I done that you think it such fun + To indulge in the pleasure of slaughter? + + “A good nibble or bite is my chiefest delight, + When I’m merely expected to _see_, + But a bite from a fish is not quite what I wish, + When I get it performed upon _me_; + And just now here’s a swarm of dace at my arm, + And a perch has got hold of my knee. + + “For water my thirst was not great at the first, + And of fish I have quite sufficien----” + “Oh fear not!” he cried, “for whatever betide, + We are both in the selfsame condition! + + “I’m sure that our state’s very nearly alike + (Not considering the question of slaughter), + For I have my perch on the top of the bridge, + And you have your perch in the water. + + “I stick to my perch and your perch sticks to you, + We are really extremely alike! + I’ve a turn-pike up here, and I very much fear + You may soon have a turn with a pike.” + + “Oh grant but one wish! If I’m took by a fish + (For your bait is your brother, good man!), + Pull him up if you like, but I hope you will strike + As gently as ever you can.” + + “If the fish be a trout, I’m afraid there’s no doubt + I must strike him like lightning that’s greased; + If the fish be a pike, I’ll engage not to strike, + Till I’ve waited ten minutes at least.” + + “But in those ten minutes to desolate Fate + Your brother a victim may fall!” + “I’ll reduce it to five, so _perhaps_ you’ll survive, + But the chance is exceedingly small.” + + “Oh hard is your heart for to act such a part; + Is it iron, or granite, or steel?” + “Why, I really can’t say--it is many a day + Since my heart was accustomed to feel. + + “’Twas my heart-cherished wish for to slay many fish, + Each day did my malice grow worse, + For my heart didn’t soften with doing it so often, + But rather, I should say, the reverse.” + + “Oh would I were back at Twyford school, + Learning lessons in fear of the birch!” + “Nay, brother!” he cried, “for whatever betide, + You are better off here with your perch! + + “I’m sure you’ll allow you are happier now, + With nothing to do but to play; + And this single line here, it is perfectly clear, + Is much better than thirty a day! + + “And as to the rod hanging over your head, + And apparently ready to fall, + That, you know, was the case when you lived in that place, + So it need not be reckoned at all. + + “Do you see that old trout with a turn-up nose snout? + (Just to speak on a pleasanter theme.) + Observe, my dear brother, our love for each other-- + He’s the one I like best in the stream. + + “To-morrow I mean to invite him to dine + (We shall all of us think it a treat), + If the day should be fine, I’ll just _drop him a line_, + And we’ll settle what time we’re to meet. + + “He hasn’t been into society yet, + And his manners are not of the best, + So I think it quite fair that it should be _my care_, + To see that he’s properly dressed. + + “I know there are people who prate by the hour + Of the beauty of earth, sky, and ocean; + Of the birds as they fly, of the fish darting by, + Rejoicing in Life and in Motion. + + “As to any delight to be got from the sight, + It is all very well for a flat, + But _I_ think it gammon, for hooking a salmon + Is better than twenty of that! + + “They say that a man of right-thinking mind + Will _love_ the dumb creatures he sees-- + What’s the use of his mind, if he’s never inclined + To pull a fish out of the Tees? + + “Take my friends and my home--as an outcast I’ll roam: + Take the money I have in the Bank: + It is just what I wish, but deprive me of _fish_, + And my life would indeed be a blank!” + + * * * * * + + Forth from the house his sister came, + Her brothers for to see, + But when she saw the sight of awe, + The tear stood in her e’e. + + “Oh what’s that bait upon your hook, + My brother, tell to me?” + “It is but the fan-tailed pigeon, + He would not sing for me.” + + “Whoe’er would expect a pigeon to sing, + A simpleton he must be! + But a pigeon-cote is a different thing + To the coat that there I see! + + “Oh what’s that bait upon your hook, + Dear brother, tell to me?” + “It is my younger brother,” he cried, + Oh woe and dole is me! + + “I’s mighty wicked, that I is! + Oh how could such things be? + Farewell, farewell, sweet sister, + I’m going o’er the sea.” + + “And when will you come back again, + My brother, tell to me?” + “When chub is good for human food, + And that will never be!” + + She turned herself right round about, + And her heart brake into three, + Said, “One of the two will be wet through and through, + And t’other’ll be late for his tea!” + + + + + POETRY FOR THE MILLION + + (From “The Rectory Umbrella”) + + +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.[21] + +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. + +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. + +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. + +[21] What _would_ 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.” + + + + +THE DEAR GAZELLE + +Arranged with Variations + + +[Illustration] + + _expressive_ + “I never loved a dear gazelle,” + Nor aught beside that cost me much: + High prices profit those that sell, + But why should _I_ be fond of such? + + + _pp._ _cresc._ + “To glad me with his soft black eyes,” + My infant son, from Tooting School, + Thrashed by his bigger playmate, flies; + And serve him right, the little fool! + _con spirito_ + + _a tempo_ + “But when he came to know me well,” + He kicked me out, her testy sire; + And when I stained my hair, that Bell + Might note the change, and that admire. + _dim._ D.C. + + + _cadenza_ + “And love me, it was sure to die.” + A muddy green, or staring blue, + While one might trace, with half an eye, + The still triumphant carrot through. + _con dolore_ + + + + + THE MOUSE’S TAIL + + (From “Alice’s Adventures Underground”[22]) + + + We lived beneath the mat + Warm and snug and fat + But one woe, and that + was the cat! + To our joys + a clog. In + our eyes a + fog, On our + hearts a log + Was the dog! + When the + cat’s away, + Then + the mice + will + play, + But, alas! + one day; (So they say) + Came the dog and + cat, Hunting + for a + rat, + Crushed + the mice + all flat, + Each one, + as he sat, + Under- + neath + the mat, + Warm & + snug + & fat. + Think + of + that! + +[22] 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.” + + + + + RHYMED CORRESPONDENCE[23] + + +DEAR MAGGIE.--I found that the _friend_, that the little girl asked +me to write to, lived at Ripon, and not at Land’s End--a nice sort of +place to invite to! It looked rather suspicious to me--and soon after, +by dint of incessant inquiries, I found out that _she_ was called +Maggie, and lived in a Crescent! Of course I declared, “After that” +(the language I used doesn’t matter), “I will _not_ address her, that’s +flat! So do not expect me to flatter.” + +[Illustration] + +No _carte_ has yet been done of me, that does real justice to my +_smile_; and so I hardly like, you see, to send you one. However, I’ll +consider if I will or not--meanwhile, I send a little thing to give you +an idea of what I look like when I’m lecturing. The merest sketch, you +will allow--yet still I think there’s something grand in the expression +of the brow and in the action of the hand. + +[Illustration] + +Have you read my fairy-tale in “Aunt Judy’s Magazine”? If you have you +will not fail to discover what I mean when I say, “Bruno yesterday came +to remind me that _he_ was my godson!”--on the ground that I “gave him +a name”! + +[23] 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.” + + + + + ACROSTICS + + +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. + +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: + + “A re you deaf, Father William?” the young man said. + “D id you hear what I told you just now? + “E xcuse me for shouting! Don’t waggle your head + “L ike a blundering, sleepy old cow! + “A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town, + “I s my friend, so I beg to remark: + “D o you think she’d be pleased if a book were sent down + “E ntitled ‘The Hunt of the Snark’?” + + “P ack it up in brown paper!” the old man cried, + “A nd seal it with olive-and-dove. + “I command you to do it!” he added with pride, + “N or forget, my good fellow, to send her beside + “E aster Greetings, and give her my love.” + +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): + + LOVE AMONG THE ROSES + + S eek ye Love, ye fairy-sprites? + A nd where reddest roses grow, + R osy fancies he invites, + A nd in roses he delights, + H ave ye found him? “No!” + + S eek again, and find the boy + I n Childhood’s heart, so pure and clear. + N ow the fairies leap for joy, + C rying, “Love is here!” + L ove has found his proper nest; + A nd we guard him while he dozes + I n a dream of peace and rest + R osier than roses. + + + + + MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD[24] + + (June 9th to 13th) + + + When Maggie once to Oxford came, + On tour as “Bootles’ Baby,” + She said, “I’ll see this place of fame, + However dull the day be.” + + So with her friend she visited + The sights that it was rich in: + And first of all she popped her head + Inside the Christ Church kitchen. + + The Cooks around that little child + Stood waiting in a ring: + And every time that Maggie smiled + Those Cooks began to sing-- + Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom![25] + + “Roast, boil and bake, + For Maggie’s sake: + Bring cutlets fine + For _her_ to dine, + Meringues so sweet + For her to eat-- + For Maggie may be + Bootles’ Baby!” + + Then hand in hand in pleasant talk + They wandered and admired + The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk, + Till Maggie’s feet were tired: + + To Worcester Garden next they strolled, + Admired its quiet lake: + Then to St. John, a college old, + Their devious way they take. + + In idle mood they sauntered round + Its lawn so green and flat, + And in that garden Maggie found + A lovely Pussy-Cat! + + A quarter of an hour they spent + In wandering to and fro: + And everywhere that Maggie went, + The Cat was sure to go-- + Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom! + + “Maiow! Maiow! + Come, make your bow, + Take off your hats, + Ye Pussy-Cats! + And purr and purr, + To welcome _her_, + For Maggie may be + Bootles’ Baby!” + + So back to Christ Church, not too late + For them to go and see + A Christ Church undergraduate,[26] + Who gave them cake and tea. + + Next day she entered with her guide + The garden called “Botanic,” + And there a fierce Wild Boar she spied, + Enough to cause a panic: + + But Maggie didn’t mind, not she, + She would have faced, alone, + That fierce wild boar, because, you see, + The thing was made of stone. + + On Magdalen walls they saw a face + That filled her with delight, + A giant face, that made grimace + And grinned with all its might. + + A little friend, industrious, + Pulled upwards all the while + The corner of its mouth, and thus + He helped that face to smile! + + “How nice,” thought Maggie, “it would be + If _I_ could have a friend + To do that very thing for _me_ + And make my mouth turn up with glee, + By pulling at one end.” + + In Magdalen Park the deer are wild + With joy, that Maggie brings + Some bread a friend had given the child, + To feed the pretty things. + + They flock round Maggie without fear: + They breakfast and they lunch, + They dine, they sup, those happy deer-- + Still, as they munch and munch + Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom! + + “Yes, Deer are we, + And dear is she! + We love this child + So sweet and mild: + We all rejoice + At Maggie’s voice: + We all are fed + With Maggie’s bread ... + For Maggie may be + Bootles’ Baby!” + + They met a Bishop[27] on their way ... + A Bishop large as life, + With loving smile that seemed to say + “Will Maggie be my wife?” + + Maggie thought _not_, because, you see, + She was so _very_ young, + And he was old as old could be ... + So Maggie held her tongue. + + “My Lord, she’s Bootles’ Baby, we + Are going up and down,” + Her friend explained, “that she may see + The sights of Oxford Town.” + + “Now say what kind of place it is,” + The Bishop gaily cried. + “The best place in the Provinces!” + That little maid replied. + + Away, next morning, Maggie went + From Oxford town: but yet + The happy hours she had there spent + She could not soon forget. + + The train is gone, it rumbles on: + The engine-whistle screams; + But Maggie deep in rosy sleep ... + And softly in her dreams, + Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom. + + “Oxford, good-bye!” + She seems to sigh. + “You dear old City, + With gardens pretty, + And lanes and flowers, + And college-towers, + And Tom’s great Bell ... + Farewell--farewell: + For Maggie may be + Bootles’ Baby!” + +[24] 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.” + +[25] 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’!” + +[26] A nephew of Lewis Carroll. + +[27] The then Bishop of Oxford. + + + + + WILHELM VON SCHMITZ[28] + + (From “The Whitby Gazette,” September 7, 1854) + + + + + CHAPTER ONE + + “’Twas ever thus.” + + (_Old Play._) + + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, 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. + +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.” + +“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 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. + +[28] See footnote to “The Lady of the Ladle.” + + + + + CHAPTER TWO + + “And I, for one.” + + (_Old Play._) + + +“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.” + +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. + +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 appalling, he fixed upon +the sluggish tide those fine though bloodshot eyes? + +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. + +“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. + +... 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? + +... 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. + +In other words, he fell. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + + + + + CHAPTER THREE + + “Nay, ’tis too much!” + + (_Old Play._) + + +Night, solemn night. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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!” + +“Courage,” cried our hero gaily, “thou shalt have a new one anon: +aye, and of the best cashmere.” “H’m,” said the other, 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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +“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. + +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.” + +Meanwhile the Poet was sitting, smiling quietly to himself, as he +sipped his punch: the only notice he took of his companion’s 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: + + “What though the world be cross and crooky? + Of Life’s fair flowers the fairest bouquet + I plucked, when I chose _thee_, my Sukie! + + “Say, could’st thou grasp at nothing greater + Than to be wedded to a waiter? + And did’st thou deem thy Schmitz a traitor? + + “Nay! the fond waiter was rejected, + And thou, alone, with flower-bedecked head, + Sitting, did’st sing of one expected. + + “And while the waiter, crazed and silly, + Dreamed he had won that precious lily, + At length he came, thy wished-for Willie. + + “And then thy music took a new key, + For whether Schmitz be boor or duke, he + Is all in all to faithful Sukie!” + +He paused for a reply, but a heavy snoring from beneath the table was +the only one he got. + + + + + CHAPTER FOUR + + “Is this the hend?” + + (“_Nicholas Nickleby._”) + + +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. + +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. + +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”: + + “His barque had perished in the storm, + Whirled by its fiery breath + On sunken rocks, his stalwart form + Was doomed to watery death.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I say, stow that----” warmly responded the other; “seems to me the +gen’leman was a spouting potry.” + +“What--what’s the matter?” here gasped our unfortunate hero, who had +recovered his breath; “you--Muggle--what do you mean by it?” + +“Mean by it!” blustered his quondam friend, “what do _you_ 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!” + +“The--the waiter?” slowly repeated the Poet, still stunned by the +suddenness of his capture, “why, he’s dr----” + +“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. + +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 moment I renounce this man as my friend: +don’t pity him, constable! don’t think of letting him go to spare _my_ +feelings!” + +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?” + +“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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +After perusing the paper, Wilhelm rose to his feet; in the excitement +of the moment he was roused into unconscious and extempore verse: + + “My Sukie! He hath bought, yea, Muggle’s self, + Convinced at last of deeds unjust and foul, + The licence of a vacant public-house. + We are licensed here to sell to all, + Spirits, porter, snuff, and ale!” + +So we leave him: his after happiness who dare to doubt? has he not +Sukie? and having her, he is content. + + B. B. + + + + + THE THREE CATS[29] + + +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? + +You’ll never guess. + +Why, they were three cats! Wasn’t it curious? However, they all looked +so cross and disagreeable that I took up the first thing I could lay +my hand on (which happened to be the rolling pin) and knocked them all +down as flat as pancakes! + +“If _you_ come knocking at my door,” I said, “I shall come knocking at +your heads.” + +That was fair, wasn’t it? + +Of course I didn’t leave them lying flat on the ground, like dried +flowers: no, I picked them up, and I was as kind as I could be to +them. I lent them the portfolio for a bed--they wouldn’t have been +comfortable in a real bed, you know: they were too thin--but they were +_quite_ happy between the sheets of blotting paper--and each of them +had a pen-wiper for a pillow. Well, then I went to bed: but first I +lent them the three dinner-bells to ring if they wanted anything in the +night. + +You know I have _three_ dinner-bells--the first (which is the largest) +is rung when dinner is _nearly_ ready; the second (which is rather +larger) is rung when it is quite ready; and the third (which is as +large as the other two put together) is rung all the time I am at +dinner. And I told them they must ring if they happened to want +anything. And, as they rung _all_ the bells _all_ night, I suppose they +did want something or other, only I was too sleepy to attend to them. + +[Illustration] + +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 _all_ my books out of +the bookcase, and opened them on the floor to be ready for me 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! + +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. + +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 +_really_ good for you she’ll give you some.” + +Then I shook hands with them all, and wished them good-bye, and drove +them up the chimney. They seemed very sorry to go. + +[29] 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. + + + + + THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND[30] + + + 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. + + EDGAR CUTHWELLIS. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.) + +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 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.) + +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. + +“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.) + +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.” + +Hereon my Loorde questioned what lays, bydding hym syng the same, and +saying hee knew but of two lays: “’Twas yn Trafalgar’s 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. + +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. + + Lorenzo dwelt at Heighington, + (Hys cote was made of Dimity,) + Least-ways yf not exactly there, + Yet yn yts close proximity. + Hee called on mee--hee stayed to tee-- + Yet not a word hee ut-tered, + Untyl I sayd, “D’ye lyke your bread + Dry?” and hee answered “But-tered.” + + (Chorus whereyn all present joyned with fervour.) + + Noodle dumb + Has a noodle-head, + I hate such noodles, I do. + +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.” + + + THE LADYE’S HISTORY + +“On a dewie autumn evening, mighte have been seen, pacing yn the +grounds harde by Aucklande Castell, a yong Ladye of a stiff and perky +manner, yet not ill to look on, nay, one mighte saye, faire to a +degree, save that haply that hadde been untrue. + +“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.) + +“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). + +“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. + +“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. + +“At the last hee counselled thys, that a Picture shoulde bee made, +showing so much skyrt as mighte reasonably bee gotte yn, and a 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +Then dyd the Layde speak unto them yn suchwise: + + “Here I bee, and here I byde, + Till such tyme as yt betyde + That a Ladye of thys place, + Lyke to mee yn name and face, + (Though my name bee never known, + My initials shall bee shown,) + Shall be fotograffed aright-- + Hedde and Feet bee both yn sight-- + Then my face shall disappear, + Nor agayn affrite you heer.” + +Then sayd Matthew Dixon unto her, “Wherefore holdest thou uppe that +Torche?” to whych shee answered, “Candles Gyve Light”: but none +understood her. + +After thys a thyn Voyce sayd from overhedde: + + “Yn the Auckland Castell cellar, + Long, long ago, + I was shut--a brisk young feller-- + Woe, woe, ah woe! + To take her at full-lengthe + I never hadde the strengthe + Tempore (and soe I tell her) + Practerito!” + +(Yn thys Chorus they durst none joyn, seeing that Latyn was untoe them +a Tongue unknown.) + + “She was hard--oh, she was cruel-- + Long, long ago, + Starved mee here--not even gruel-- + No, believe mee, no!-- + Frae Scotland could I flee, + I’d gie my last bawbee,-- + Arrah, bhoys, fair play’s a jhewel, + Lave me, darlints, goe!” + +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.” + +[30] “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.” + + + + + PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY + + (From “The Rectory Umbrella”) + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +After the paper had been exposed for the requisite time, it was removed +and submitted to our inspection; we found it to be covered with +faint and almost illegible characters. A closer scrutiny revealed the +following: + +[Illustration] + +“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: + + ‘Alas! she would not hear my prayer! + Yet it were rash to tear my hair; + Disfigured, I should be less fair. + + ‘She was unwise, I may say blind; + Once she was lovingly inclined; + Some circumstance has changed her mind.’ + +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.” + +“This,” we remarked, as we returned the paper, “belongs apparently to +the milk-and-water School of Novels.” + +“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: + +“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: + + ‘Well! so my offer was no go! + She might do worse, I told her so; + She was a fool to answer “No.” + + ‘However, things are as they stood; + Nor would I have her if I could, + For there are plenty more as good.’ + +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.” + +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: + +“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: + + ‘Firebrands and daggers! hope hath fled! + To atoms dash the doubly dead! + My brain is fire--my heart is lead! + + ‘Her soul is flint, and what am I? + Scorch’d by her fierce, relentless eye, + Nothingness is my destiny!’ + +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.” + +The young man was now recalled to consciousness, and shown the result +of the workings of his mind; he instantly fainted away. + +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. + +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. + +As a concluding remark: _could_ this art be applied (we put the +question in the strictest confidence)--_could_ 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. + + + + + HINTS FOR ETIQUETTE; OR, DINING OUT + MADE EASY + + (From “The Rectory Umbrella”) + + +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: + +[Illustration] + + + I + +In proceeding to the dining-room, the gentleman gives one arm to the +lady he escorts--it is unusual to offer both. + + + II + +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. + + + III + +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. + +[Illustration] + + + IV + +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. + + + V + +It is always allowable to ask for artichoke jelly with your boiled +venison; however, there are houses where this is not supplied. + + + VI + +The method of helping roast turkey with two carving-forks is +practicable, but deficient in grace. + + + VII + +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. + + + VIII + +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. + + + IX + +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. + + + + + A HEMISPHERICAL PROBLEM + + (From “The Rectory Umbrella”) + + +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. + +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[31] Tuesday morning, Tuesday morning all the way +round, till in twenty-four hours we get to London again. But we _know_ +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? + +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[32] 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 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,[33] +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 _on_ 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. + +I am aware that this idea has been stated before--namely, by the +unknown author of that beautiful poem beginning, “If all the world were +apple pie,” etc.[34] 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. + +[31] 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. + +[32] This is clearly an impossible case, and is only put as an +hypothesis. + +[33] The usual exclamation at waking, generally said with a yawn. + +[34] + + “If all the world were apple pie, + And all the sea were ink, + And all the trees were bread and cheese, + What _should_ we have to drink?” + + + + + THE TWO CLOCKS + + +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. + +[Illustration] + +I have two clocks: one doesn’t go _at all_, 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 comes +round, which happens twice a day. + +So you’ve contradicted yourself _once_. + +“Ah, but,” you say, “what’s the use of its being right twice a day, if +I can’t tell when the time comes?” + +Why, suppose the clock points to eight o’clock, don’t you see that the +clock is right _at_ eight o’clock? Consequently, when eight o’clock +comes round your clock is right. + +“Yes, I see _that_,” you reply. + +Very good, then you’ve contradicted yourself _twice_: now get out of +the difficulty as best you can, and don’t contradict yourself again if +you can help it. + +You _might_ go on to ask, “How am I to know when eight o’clock _does_ +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 _the very moment it is right_ 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. + + + + + THE IDEAL MATHEMATICAL SCHOOL[35] + + (From “Notes by an Oxford Chiel,” 1871) + + +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. + +It may be sufficient for the present to enumerate the following +requisites--others might be added as funds permit: + +A. A very large room for calculating Greatest Common Measure. To this +a small one might be added for Least Common Multiple: this, however, +might be dispensed with. + +B. A piece of open ground for keeping Roots and practising their +extraction: it would be advisable to keep Square Roots by themselves, +as their corners are apt to damage others. + +C. A room for reducing Fractions to their Lowest Terms. This should be +provided with a cellar for keeping the Lowest Terms when found, which +might also be available to the general body of Undergraduates, for the +purpose of “keeping Terms.” + +D. A large room, which might be darkened, and fitted up with a magic +lantern, for the purpose of exhibiting circulating Decimals in the act +of circulation. This might also contain cupboards, fitted with glass +doors, for keeping the various Scales of Notation. + +E. A narrow strip of ground, railed off and carefully levelled, for +investigating the properties of Asymptotes, and testing practically +whether Parallel Lines meet or not: for this purpose it should reach, +to use the expressive language of Euclid, “ever so far.” + +This last process of “continually producing the lines” may require +centuries or more, but such a period, though long in the life of an +individual, is as nothing in the life of the University. + +As Photography is now very much employed in recording human +expressions, and might possibly be adapted to Algebraical Expressions, +a small photographic room would be desirable, both for general use +and for representing the various phenomena of Gravity, Disturbance of +Equilibrium, Resolution, etc., which affect the features during severe +mathematical operations. + +[35] 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. + + + + + LOVE AND LOCI[36] + + (A Mathematical Courtship) + + +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. + +“They had lived and loved: fate and the intervening superficies had +hitherto kept them asunder, but this was no longer to be: _a line had +intersected them, making the two interior angles together less than +two right angles_. 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 panting for exterior angles, sympathetic with the interior, or +sullenly repining at the fact that it cannot be inscribed in a circle? + +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? + +[36] From “The Dynamics of a Parti-cle” (1865). + + + + + MORNING DRESS AND EVENING DRESS[37] + + +Surely, if you go to morning parties in evening dress (which you _do_, +you know), why not to evening parties in morning dress? + +You will say, “What morning parties do I go to in evening dress?” + +I reply, “Balls--most balls go on in the morning.” + +Anyhow, I have been invited to three evening parties in London this +year, in each of which “Morning Dress” was specified. + +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 _this_ 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! + +For instance, “Red Scarf: Vest, Pink.” That is a _very_ common form, +though it is usually (I grant you) expressed by initials. + +[37] From a letter to Miss Dora Abdy (1880). + + + + + KISSING BY POST[38] + + +This really will _not_ do, you know, sending one more kiss every time +by post: the parcel gets so heavy it is quite expensive. When the +postman brought in the last letter, he looked quite grave. “Two pounds +to pay, sir!” he said. “_Extra weight_, sir!” (I think he cheats a +little, by the way. He often makes me pay two _pounds_, when I think it +should be _pence_.) + +[Illustration] + +“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!” + +“Only from a little girl!” he growled. “What are little girls made +of?” “Sugar and spice,” I began to say, “and all that’s ni----,” but +he interrupted me. “No! I don’t mean _that_. I mean, what’s the good +of little girls when they send such heavy letters?” “Well, they’re not +_much_ good, certainly,” I said, rather sadly. + +“Mind you don’t get any more such letters,” he said, “at least, not +from that particular little girl. _I know her well, and she’s a regular +bad one!_” + +That’s not true, is it? I don’t believe he ever saw you, and you’re not +a bad one, are you? However, I promised him we would send each other +_very_ few more letters. “Only two thousand four hundred and seventy, +or so,” I said. “Oh!” said he, “a little number like _that_ doesn’t +signify. What I meant is, you mustn’t send _many_.” + +So you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two thousand four +hundred and seventy, we mustn’t write any more, unless the postman +gives us leave. + +You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer +illness I have had ever since you went. I sent for the doctor, and +said, “Give me some medicine, for I’m tired.” He said, “Nonsense and +stuff! You don’t want medicine: go to bed!” I said, “No; it isn’t the +sort of tiredness that wants bed. I’m tired in the _face_.” He looked +a little grave, and said, “Oh, it’s your _nose_ that’s tired: a person +often talks too much when he thinks he nose a great deal.” I said, “No +it isn’t the nose. Perhaps it’s the _hair_.” Then he looked grave and +said, “_Now_ I understand: you’ve been playing too many hairs on the +piano-forte.” “No, indeed I haven’t!” I said, “and it isn’t exactly +the _hair_: it’s more about the nose and the chin.” Then he looked a +good deal graver, and said “Have you been walking much on your chin, +lately?” I said, “No.” “Well!” he said, “it puzzles me very much. Do +you think that it’s in the lips?” + +“Of course!” I said, “that’s exactly what it is!” Then he looked very +grave indeed, and said, “I think you must have been giving too many +kisses.” “Well,” I said, “I did give _one_ kiss to a baby child, a +little friend of mine.” “Think again,” he said, “are you sure it was +only _one_?” I thought again, and said, “Perhaps it was eleven times.” +Then the doctor said, “You must not give her _any_ more till your lips +are quite rested again.” “But what am I to do?” I said, “because, you +see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more.” Then he looked so grave +that the tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, “You may send them to +her in a box.” + +Then I remembered a little box that I once bought at Dover, and thought +I would some day give it to some little girl or other. So I have packed +them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe or if any are +lost on the way. + +[38] 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.” + + + + + A BIRTHDAY WISH[39] + + +I am writing this to wish you many and many a happy return of your +birthday to-morrow. I will drink your health if only I can remember, +and if you don’t mind--but perhaps you object? + +You see, if I were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your tea, +you wouldn’t like _that_, would you? You would say, “Boo! hoo! Here’s +Mr. Dodgson’s drunk all my tea and I haven’t got any left!” So I am +very much afraid, next time Sybil looks for you, she’ll find you +sitting by the sad sea-wave, and crying, “Boo! hoo! Here’s Mr. Dodgson +has drunk my health, and I haven’t got any left!” + +And how it will puzzle Dr. Maund, when he is sent for to see you! “My +dear Madam, I’m very sorry to say your little girl has got _no health +at all_! I never saw such a thing in my life!” + +“Oh, I can easily explain it!” your mother will say. “You see, she +would go and make friends with a strange gentleman, and yesterday he +drank her health!” + +“Well, Mrs. Chataway,” he will say, “the only way to cure her is to +wait till his next birthday, and then for _her_ to drink _his_ health.” + +And then we shall have changed healths. I wonder how you’ll like mine! +Oh, Gertrude, I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense! + +[39] From another letter to little Gertrude Chataway (1875). + + + + + A FEW OF THE THINGS I LIKE[40] + + +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. + +Well, I like _very_ 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. + +[40] From a letter to Miss Jessie Sinclair, 1878. + + + + + MYSELF AND ME[41] + + + MY DEAR MAGDALEN, + +I want to explain to you why I did not call yesterday. I was sorry to +miss you, but you see I had so many conversations on the way. I tried +to explain to the people in the street that I was going to see you, but +they wouldn’t listen; they said they were in a hurry, which was rude. + +[Illustration] + +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.” + +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, + + LEWIS CARROLL and C. L. DODGSON. + +[41] A letter written to a little child friend in 1875. + + + + + MY STYLE OF DANCING[42] + + +As to dancing, I _never_ dance, unless I am allowed to do it _in my own +peculiar way_. There is no use trying to describe it: it has to be seen +to be believed. The last house I tried it in, the floor broke through. +But then it was a poor sort of floor--the beams were only six inches +thick, hardly worth calling beams at all: stone arches are much more +sensible, when any dancing, _of my peculiar kind_, is to be done. + +[Illustration] + +Did you ever see the Rhinoceros and the Hippopotamus, at the Zoological +Gardens, trying to dance a minuet together? It is a touching sight. + +[42] From a letter, written in 1873, to Gayner Simpson, a child friend +at Guildford. + + + + + GLOVES FOR KITTENS[43] + + +Oh, you naughty, naughty little culprit! + +If only I could fly to Fulham with a handy little stick (ten feet +long and four inches thick is my favourite size) how I would rap your +wicked little knuckles. However, there isn’t much harm done, so I will +sentence you to a very mild punishment--only one year’s imprisonment. +If you’ll just tell the Fulham policeman about it, he’ll manage all +the rest for you, and he’ll fit you with a nice 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. + +But how badly you _do_ spell your words! I _was_ 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 _gloves_, and a basket full +of _kittens_!” + +Then I understood what you were sending me. And just then Mrs. Dyer +came to tell me a large sack and a basket had come. There was such a +miawing in the house, as if all the cats in Eastbourne had come to see +me! + +“Oh, just open them please, Mrs. Dyer, and count the things in them.” + +So in a few minutes Mrs. Dyer came and said “500 pairs of gloves in the +sack and 250 kittens in the basket.” + +“Dear me! That makes 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 _hands_, you know, Mrs. Dyer.” + +And Mrs. Dyer said, “No, indeed, you’re 998 hands short of that.” + +However, the next day I made out what to do, and I took the basket +with me and walked off to the parish school--the _girls’_ school, you +know--and I said to the mistress: + +“How many little girls are there at school to-day?” + +“Exactly 250, sir.” + +“And have they all been _very_ good, all day?” + +“As good as gold, sir.” + +I waited outside the door with my basket, and as each little girl +came out, I just popped a soft little kitten into her hands! Oh! what +joy there was! The little girls went all dancing home, nursing their +kittens, and the whole air was full of purring! Then, the next morning, +I went to the school, before it opened, to ask the little girls how +the kittens had behaved in the night. And they all arrived sobbing and +crying, and their faces and hands were all covered with scratches, +and they had the kittens wrapped up in their pinafores to keep them +from scratching any more. And they sobbed out, “The kittens have been +scratching us all night, all the night!” + +So then I said to myself, “What a nice little girl Maggie is. _Now_ I +see why she sent all those gloves, and why there are four times as many +gloves as kittens!” And I said to the little girls, “Never mind, my dear +children, do your lessons _very_ nicely, and don’t cry any more, and +when school is over, you’ll find me at the door, and you shall see what +you shall see!” + +So, in the evening, when the little girls came running out, with the +kittens still wrapped up in their pinafores, there was I, at the door, +with a big sack! And, as each little girl came out, I just popped +into her hand two pairs of gloves! And each little girl unrolled her +pinafore and took out an angry little kitten, spitting and snarling, +with its claws sticking out like a hedgehog. + +But it hadn’t time to scratch for, in one moment, it found all its +four claws popped into nice soft warm gloves! And then the kittens got +quite sweet-tempered and gentle, and began purring again. + +So the little girls went dancing home again, and the next morning they +came dancing back to school. The scratches were all healed, and they +told me “The kittens _have_ been good!” + +“And when any kitten wants to catch a mouse, it just takes off _one_ +of its gloves; and if it wants to catch two mice; it takes off _two_ +gloves; and if it wants to catch _three_ mice, it takes off _three_ +gloves; and if it wants to catch _four_ mice, it takes off all its +gloves. But the moment they’ve caught the mice, they pop their gloves +on again, because they know we can’t love them without their gloves. +For, you see, ‘gloves’ have got ‘love’ _inside_ them--there’s none +outside.” + +So all the little girls said, “Please thank Maggie, and we send her 250 +_loves_ and 1,000 kisses in return for her 250 kittens and her 1,000 +gloves!” + + Your loving old Uncle, + C. L. D. + + Love and kisses to Nellie and Emsie. + +[43] 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. + + + + + ART IN POTSDAM[44] + + +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. + +[44] 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. + + + + + ON WAITERS + +(Extracts from Mr. Dodgson’s diary during his Continental tour with +Canon Liddon in the summer of 1867) + + +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. + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +[Illustration] + +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. + +“Boiled?” the waiter repeated with an incredulous smile. + +“No, not _boiled_,” I explained--“_broiled_!” The waiter put aside this +distinction as trivial. “Yes, yes, ham,” he repeated, reverting to his +favourite idea. “Yes, ham,” I said, “but how cooked?” + +“Yes, yes, how cooked,” the waiter replied with the careless air of one +who assents to a proposition more from good nature than from a real +conviction of its truth. + + + + + LEWIS CARROLL AS A RACONTEUR[45] + + +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!” + + * * * * * + +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?” + + * * * * * + +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 _on an average_ so many eggs a year! + +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! + + * * * * * + +On one occasion I was walking in Oxford with Maggie Bowman,[46] 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!” + + +THREE STORIES FROM MR. DODGSON’S DIARY + +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. + +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 _coat_, we were in some difficulty. Liddon began by exhibiting +his coat, with much gesticulation, including the taking it half off. +To our delight, she appeared to understand at once, left the room, and +returned in a minute with--a large clothes brush. On this Liddon tried +a further and more energetic demonstration; he took off his coat and +laid it at her feet, pointed downwards (to intimate that in the lower +regions was the object of his desire), smiled with an expression of +the joy and gratitude with which he would receive it, and put the coat +on again. Once more a gleam of intelligence lighted up the plain but +expressive features of the young person; she was absent much longer +this time, and when she returned, she brought, to our dismay, a large +cushion and a pillow, and began to prepare the sofa for the nap that +she now saw clearly was the thing the dumb gentleman wanted. A happy +thought occurred to me, and I hastily drew a sketch representing +Liddon, with one coat on, receiving a second and larger one from the +hands of a benignant Russian peasant. The language of hieroglyphics +succeeded where all other means had failed, and we returned to St. +Petersburg with the humiliating knowledge that our standard of +civilisation was now reduced to the level of ancient Nineveh. + + * * * * * + +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![47] + + * * * * * + +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 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. + + * * * * * + +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!” + + * * * * * + +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. + +“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Dodgson, “but you have the advantage of +me. I have no remembrance of having ever seen you before this moment.” + +“That is very strange,” the other replied, “for I was your host last +night!” + + * * * * * + +Tight boots were a great aversion of his, especially for children. One +little girl who was staying with him at Eastbourne had occasion to buy +a new pair of boots. Lewis Carroll gave instructions to the bootmaker +as to how they were to be made, so as to be thoroughly comfortable, +with the result that when they came home they were more useful than +ornamental, being very nearly as broad as they were long! Which shows +that even hygienic principles may be pushed too far. + + * * * * * + +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. + + * * * * * + +“My first introduction”[48] (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.” + +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! + +[45] 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 _by_ him and _about_ 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. + +[46] 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. + +[47] 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. + +[48] This and the two succeeding anecdotes are from “The Life and +Letters of Lewis Carroll.” + + + + + A LEWIS CARROLL PROVERB[49] + + +Remember the old proverb, “Cross-writing makes cross-reading.” + +“The _old_ proverb?” you say enquiringly. “_How_ old?” Well, not so +_very_ ancient, I must confess. In fact, I invented it while writing +this paragraph. Still, you know, “old” is a _comparative_ term. I think +you would be _quite_ justified in addressing a chicken, just out of the +shell, as “old boy!” _when compared_ with another chicken that was only +half out! + +[49] From “Eight or Nine Wise Words on Letter-Writing” (1888). + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: + + +Printing errors such as partially printed letters have been silently +fixed. + +The footnotes have been relocated to the end of each poem or text and +renumbered to better fit the ebook format. + +Some images have been moved slightly within their poem or text to +better fit the ebook format. + +Page 45: The visual poem The Dear Gazelle has been included as an image +in addition to the text to ensure the original look is preserved. + +The following alterations have been made: + + In _A Hemispherical Problem_: started _to_ stated + In _The Two Clocks_: come _to_ comes +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77627 *** 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%; 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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 &</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;" class="p025">snug</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 8.0em;" class="p025">& 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> diff --git a/77627-h/images/cover.jpg b/77627-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2fc8fc8 --- /dev/null +++ b/77627-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/77627-h/images/gimgaw.png b/77627-h/images/gimgaw.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b995bf8 --- /dev/null +++ b/77627-h/images/gimgaw.png diff --git a/77627-h/images/image021.png b/77627-h/images/image021.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5eaa707 --- /dev/null +++ b/77627-h/images/image021.png diff --git a/77627-h/images/image029.png b/77627-h/images/image029.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e539dc8 --- 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