True, the formal old bachelor came forward in their later association, and the numerous letters he wrote her always began “My dear Mrs. Hargreaves,” but his fondness for her outlived many other passing affections.
To go back to the little Alice and the fair smiling river, and that wizard Lewis Carroll, who told the wonder tales so long ago. Once the children had a taste of “Alice,” she grew to be a great favorite; sometimes a chapter was told on the river,sometimes in his study, often in the garden or after tea in Christ Church Meadows—in fact, wherever they caught a glimpse of the grave young man in cap and gown, the trio of small Liddells fell upon him, and in this fashion, as he tells us himself, “the quaint events were hammered out.”
When he presented the promised copy it might have passed forever from his mind, which was full of the higher mathematics he was teaching to the young men of Christ Church, but he chanced one day to show the manuscript to George Macdonald, the well-known writer, who was so charmed with it that he advised his friend to send it to a publisher. He accordingly carried it to London, and Macmillan & Co. took it at once. This was a great surprise. He never dreamed of his nonsense being considered seriously, and growing suddenly about as young as a great, big, bashful boy, he refused to allow his own rough illustrations to appear in print, so he hunted over the long list of his artist friends, for the genius who could best illustrate the adventures of his dream-child. At last his friend, Tom Taylor, a well-known dramatist, suggested Mr. Tenniel, the clever cartoonist forPunch, who was quite willing to undertake this rather odd bit of work, and on July 4, 1865, exactly three years since that memorable afternoon, Alice Liddell received the first printed copy of “Alice in Wonderland,” the name the author finally selected for his book.
His first idea, as we know, was “Alice’sAdventures Underground,” the second was “Alice’s Hour in Elfland,” but the last seemed best of all, for Wonderland might mean any place where wonderful things could happen. And this was Lewis Carroll’s idea; anywhere the dream “Alice” chose to go would be Wonderland, and none knew better than he did how eagerly the child-mind paints its own fairy nooks and corners.
He was not at all excited about his first big venture; no doubt Alice herself took much more interest. To feel that you are about to be put into print is certainly a great experience, almost as great as being photographed; and, knowing how conscientious Lewis Carroll was about little things, we may be quite sure that her suggestions crept into many of the pictures, while it is equally certain that the few additions he made to the original “Alice” were carefully considered and firmly insisted upon by this critical young person.
The first edition of two thousand copies was a great disappointment; the pictures were badly printed, and all who had bought them were asked to send them back with their names and addresses, as a new edition would be printed immediately and they would then receive perfect copies. The old copies Lewis Carroll gave away to various homes and hospitals, while the new edition, upon which he feared a great loss, sold so rapidly that he was astonished, and still more so when edition after edition was demanded by the public, and far from being afailure, “Alice in Wonderland” brought her author both fame and money.
From that time forward, fortune smiled upon him; there were no strenuous efforts to increase his income. “Alice” yielded him an abundance each year, and he was beset by none of the cares and perplexities which are the dragons most writers encounter with their literary swords. He welcomed the fortune, not so much for the good it brought to him alone, but for the power it gave him to help others. His countless charities are not recorded because they were swallowed up in the “little things” he did, not in the great benefits which are trumpeted over the world. His own life, so simple, so full of purpose, flowed on as usual; he was not one to change his habits with the turn of Fortune’s wheel, no matter what it brought him.
Of course, everyone knew that a certain Lewis Carroll had written a clever, charming book of nonsense, called “Alice in Wonderland”; that he was an Oxford man, very much of a scholar, and little known outside of the University. What people did not know was that this same Lewis Carroll had for a double a certain “grave and reverend” young “don,” named Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, who, while “Alice” was making the whole world laugh, retired to his sanctum and wrote in rapid succession the following learned pamphlets: “The Condensation of Determinants,” “An Elementary Treatise on Determinants,” “The Fifth Book of Euclid, treatedAlgebraically,” “The Algebraic Formulæ for Responsions.”
Now, whatever these may be, they certainly did not interest children in the least, and Charles Lutwidge Dodgson did not care in the least, so long as he could smooth the thorny path of mathematics for his struggling undergraduates. But Lewis Carroll was quite a different matter. So long as the children were pleased, little he cared for algebra or geometry.
A funny tale is told about Queen Victoria. It seems that Lewis Carroll sent the second presentation copy of “Alice in Wonderland” to Princess Beatrice, the Queen’s youngest daughter. Her mother was so pleased with the book that she asked to have the author’s other works sent to her, and we can imagine her surprise when she received a large package of learned treatises by the mathematical lecturer of Christ Church College.
Who can tell through what curious byways the thought of the dream-child came dancing across the flagstones of the great “Tom Quad.” Yet across those same flagstones danced the little Liddells when they thought there was any possibility of a romp or a story; for Lewis Carroll lived in the northwest angle, while the girls lived in the beautiful deanery in the northeast angle, and it was only a “puss-in-the-corner” game to get from one place to the other.
“Alice” was written on the ground floor of thisnorthwest angle, and it was in this sunny room that Lewis Carroll and the real Alice held many a consultation about the new book.
All true fame is to a certain extent due to accident; an act of heroism is generally performed on the spur of the moment; a great poem is an inspiration; a great invention, though preceded possibly by years of study, is born of a single moment’s inspiration; so “Alice” came to Lewis Carroll on the wings of inspiration. His study of girls and their varying moods has left its impress on a world of little girls, and there is scarcely a home to-day, in England or America, where there is not a special niche reserved for “Alice in Wonderland,” while this interesting young lady has been served up in French, German, Italian, and Dutch, and the famous poem ofFather Williamhas even been translated into Arabic. Whether the Chinese or the Japanese have discovered this funny little dream-child we cannot tell, but perhaps in time she may journey there and amuse the little maids with the jet-black hair, the creamy skin, and the slanting eyes. Perhaps she may even stir them to laughter.
Surely all must agree that theGryphonhimself bears a strong resemblance to the Chinese dragons, and itmightbe, such are the wonders of Wonderland, that theMock Turtlecan be found in Japan. Who knows! At any rate the little English Alice never thought of the consequences of that “golden afternoon”; it was good to be in the boat, to pullthrough the rippling waters and stir a faint breeze as the oars
“with little skill—By little arms are plied”;
then to gather under the friendly shade of the hayrick and listen to the wonder tale “with lots of nonsense in it.”
Dear little Alice of Long Ago! To you we owe a debt of gratitude. All the little Alices of the past and all the little Alices of the future will have their Wonderland because, while floating up and down the river with the real Alice, Lewis Carroll found the Golden Key.
Acertain little girl who had been poring over “Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There” with eager interest, when asked which of the “Alices” she preferred, answered at once that she thought “Through the Looking-Glass” was “stupider” than “Alice in Wonderland,” and when people laughed she was surprised, for she had enjoyed both books.
Stupidwas certainly not the word she meant to use, nor yetsilly, which might have suggested itself if she had stopped to think.Nonsenseis really what she meant, and only very poor nonsense can be stupid or silly. Good nonsense is exceedingly clever; it takes clever people to write it and only clever people can understand and appreciate it, so when the real Alice hoped “there would be nonsense in it” she was only looking for what she was sure to find: something odd, bright, and funny, with a laugh tucked away in unexpected places.
Nonsense is very ancient and respectable, tracing its origin back to the days of the Court Fool, whose office it was to make merry for the king and courtiers. An undersized man was usually selected, one with some deformity being preferred, whereat the courtiers might laugh; one with sharp tongue and ready wit, to make the time fly. He was clothed in “motley”—that is, his dress, cut in the fashion of the times, was of many ill-assorted hues, while the fool’s cap with its bells, and the bauble or rattle which he held in his hand, completed his grotesque appearance.
To the Fool was allowed the freedom of the court and a close intimacy with his royal master, to whom he could say what he pleased without fear of offense; his duty was to amuse, and the sharper his wit the better. It was called nonsense, though a sword could not thrust with keener malice, and historic moments have often hung upon a fool’s jest. The history of the Court Fool is the history of mediæval England, France, Spain, and Italy, of a time when a quick figure of speech might turn the tide of war, and the Fool could reel off his “nonsense” when others dared not speak. No one was spared; the king himself was often the victim of the fool’s tongue, and under the guise of nonsense much wisdom lurked.
So it has been ever since; the Court Jester has passed away with other old court customs, but the nonsense that was “writ in books” lived afterthem, so good, so wholesome that we laugh at it with its old-time swing and sting.
The nonsense that we find in books to-day is of a higher order than that of the poor little Court Fool who, swaggering outwardly, trembled inwardly, as he sent his barbed shaft of wit against some lordly breast. The wisdom hides in the simple fun of everyday that makes life a thing of sunshine and holds the shadows back.
Lewis Carroll had this gift of nonsense more than any other writer of his time. Dickens and Thackeray possessed wit and humor of a high quality, but they could not command so large an audience, for children turn to healthy nonsense as sunflowers to the sun, and Lewis Carroll gave them all they wanted. “Grown-ups,” too, began to listen, detecting behind the fun much, perhaps, which had escaped even the author himself, until he put on his “grown-up” glasses and began to ponder.
Where the real charm lies in “Alice in Wonderland” would be very difficult to say. If a thousand children were asked to pick out their favorite parts, it is probable that not ten of them would think alike. A great many would say “I likeanypart,” and really with such a fascinating book how can one choose? The very opening is enough to cure any little girl of drowsiness on a summer day, and the picture of the pompous littleWhite Rabbitwith his bulging waistcoat and his imposing watch chain, for all the world like an everyday Englishman, is a typeno doubt that the lively little girls and the grave young “don” knew pretty well.
Every page gives one something to think about. To begin with, the fact thatAliceis dreaming, is plain from the beginning, and that very odd sensation of falling through space often comes during the first few moments of sleep. A busy dreamer can accomplish a great deal in a very short time, as we all know, and the most remarkable things happen in the simplest way. There is a story, for instance, of one little girl, who, after a nice warm bath, was carried to bed and tucked in up to her rosy chin. Her heavy eyes shut immediately and lo! in half a minute she was back in the big porcelain tub, splashing about like a little mermaid; then nurse pulled the stopper out, and through the waste-pipe went water, small girl, and all. When she opened her eyes with a start, she found she had been dreamingnot quite two minutes. So suppose the real Alice had been dreaming a half an hour; it was quite long enough to skip through “Wonderland,” and to have delightful and curious things constantly happening.
It was theWhite Rabbittalking to himself that first attracted her, but a short stay in “Wonderland” got her quite used to all sorts of animals and their funny talk, and the wayshehad of growing larger or smaller on the shortest notice was very puzzling and amusing. How like real people was this dream-child; how many everyday folks findthemselves too small for great places, and too great for the small ones, and how many experiments they try to make themselves larger or smaller! You see Lewis Carroll thought of all this, though he did not spoil his story by stopping to explain. It is, indeed, poor nonsense that has to be explained every step of the way.
The dream “Alice” just at first was apt to cry if anything unusual or unpleasant happened; a bad habit with some children, therealAlice was given to understand. At any rate, when she drank out of the bottle that tasted of “cherry tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffy, and hot buttered toast,” and found herself growing smaller and smaller, she cried, because she was only ten inches high and could not possibly reach the Golden Key on the glass table. Then she took herself to task very sharply, saying: “Come, there’s no use in crying like that! I advise you to leave off this minute!”
“She generally gave herself very good advice (though she seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes, and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. ‘But it’s no use now,’ thought poor Alice, ‘to pretend to be two people, when there’s hardly enough left of me to makeonerespectable person.’”
Then when she found the little glass box with acake in it marked “Eat Me” in currants, she decided that if she ate it something different might happen, for otherwise she would go out like a candle if she grew any smaller. Of course, as soon as she swallowed the whole cake, she took a start and soon stood nine feet high in her slippers.
“‘Curiouser and curiouser!’ cried Alice (she was so surprised that for the moment she quite forgot to speak good English), ‘now I’m opening out like the largest telescope that ever was. Good-bye, feet!’ (for when she looked down at her feet they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off.) ‘Oh, my poor little feet! I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I’m sureIshan’t be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you; you must manage the best way you can; but I must be kind to them,’ thought Alice, ‘or perhaps they won’t walk the way I want to go! Let me see: I’ll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas.’”
“And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. ‘They must go by the carrier,’ she thought; ‘and how funny it’ll seem, sending presents to one’s own feet, and how odd the directions will look!
Alice’s Right Foot, Esq.,Hearthrug,near the Fender,(with Alice’s love).
Oh, dear, what nonsense I’m talking.’”
Perhaps it was just here that the children’s merriment broke forth; the idea ofAlicebeing nine feet high wastooridiculous, but the poor dream “Alice” didn’t think so, for she sat down and began to cry again.
“‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ said Alice, ‘a great girl like you’ (she might well say this) ‘to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment I tell you!’ But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears until there was a large pool all around her about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall.”
This change she found more puzzling still: everything seemed mixed up, the Multiplication Table, Geography, even the verses which had been familiar to her from babyhood. She tried to say “How doth the little busy bee,” but the words would not come right; instead she began repeating, in a hoarse, strange voice, the following noble lines:
“How doth the little crocodileImprove his shining tail,And pour the waters of the NileOn every golden scale!“How cheerfully he seems to grin,How neatly spreads his claws,And welcomes little fishes in,With gently smiling jaws!”
Naturally this produced a sensation, for where is the child who speaks English who does notknow that the busy bee “improves the shining hours!”
When the book was translated into French, however, this odd little rhyme not being known to the French children, the translator, M. Henri Bué, had to substitute something else which they could understand—one of their own French rhymes made into a parody of La Fontaine’s “Maître Corbeau” (Master Raven).
WhenAlicebegan to shrink again, she went suddenlysplashinto that immense pool of tears she had shed when she was nine feet high.Nowshe was only two feet high and the water was up to her chin. It was so salty, being tear-water, that she thought she had fallen into the sea, and in this sly fashion Lewis Carroll managed to smuggle in a timely word about the sad way some little girls have of shedding “oceans of tears” on the most trifling occasion.
It was on this briny trip that she fell in with the numbers of queer animals who had also taken refuge in the “Pool of Tears,” from theMouseto theLory, who had all fallen into the water and were eagerly swimming toward the shore. They gained it at last and sat there, “the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable,” includingAliceherself, whose long hair hung wet and straggling on her shoulders.
TheLory, of all the odd animals, was probably the oddest.Alicefound herself talking familiarly with them all, and entering into quite a lengthy argument with theLoryin particular about how to get dry. But theLory“turned sulky and would only say: ‘I am older than you and must know better,’ and this ‘Alice’ would not allow without knowing how old it was, and as the ‘Lory’ positively refused to tell its age, there was nothing more to be said.”
Lewis Carroll himself made some interesting notes on the life history of this remarkable animal, which were first produced inThe Rectory Umbrellalong before he thought of popping it into “Wonderland.” “This creature,” he writes, “is, we believe, a species of parrot. Southey informs us that it is a bird of gorgeous plumery [plumage], and it is our private opinion that there never existed more than one, whose history, as far as practicable, we will now lay before our readers.”
“The time and place of the Lory’s birth is uncertain; the egg from which it was hatched was most probably, to judge from the color of the bird, one of those magnificent Easter eggs which our readers have doubtless seen. The experiment of hatching an Easter egg is at any rate worth trying.”
After a lengthy and confusing description he winds up as follows:
“Having thus stated all we know and a greatdeal we don’t know on this interesting subject, we must conclude.”
Alicelooked upon this domineering old bird of uncertain age quite as a matter of course, as, indeed, she looked upon everything that happened in Wonderland.
There is fun bubbling over in every situation. Sir John Tenniel has given us a clever picture of the wet, woe-begone animals, all clustering around theMouse, who had undertaken to make them dry. “Ahem!” said the Mouse, with an important air, “are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know,” and off he rambled into some dull corner of English history, most probably taken out ofAlice’sown lesson book, not unknown to Lewis Carroll.
The Caucas race was suggested by theDodoas an excellent method for getting dry, and as it was a race in which everyone came in ahead, everyone of course was satisfied, and in the distribution of prizes no one was forgotten.Aliceherself received her own thimble, which she fished out of her pocket, and which theDodosolemnly handed back to her, “saying: ‘We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble,’ and when it had finished this short speech they all cheered.”
Dinah, the real Alice’s real cat, plays an important part in the drama of Wonderland, although she was left at home dozing in the sun;Alicemortally offended theMouse, and frightened many of herbird friends almost to death, simply by bringing her into the conversation.
It is certainly delightful to follow in the footsteps of this dream-child of Lewis Carroll’s; we lose ourselves in the mazes of Wonderland, and even as we grow older we do not feel that we have to stoop in the least to pass through the portals.
There was a certain air of sociability in Wonderland that pleasedAliceimmensely, for her visiting-list was quite astonishing, and she was continually meeting new—well, not exactly people, but experiences. Her talk with a caterpillar during one of those periods when she was barely tall enough to peep over the mushroom on which he was sitting is “highly amusing and instructive.”
“‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.
“This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied rather shyly: ‘I—I hardly know, sir, just at present: at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have changed several times since then.’
“‘What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar sternly. ‘Explain yourself!’
“‘I can’t explainmyself, I’m afraid, sir,’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself, you see.’
“‘I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar.
“‘I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied, very politely, ‘for I can’t understand it myself to begin with, and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.’
“‘It isn’t,’ said the Caterpillar.
“‘Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,’ said Alice, ‘but when you have to turn into a chrysalis—you will some day, you know—and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?’
“‘Not a bit,’ said the Caterpillar.
“‘Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,’ said Alice; ‘all I know is, it would feel very queer tome.’
“‘You!’ said the Caterpillar, contemptuously, ‘Who areyou?’ Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation.”
It was theCaterpillarwho asked her to recite “You are old, Father William,” andAlicebegan in this fashion:
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,“And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think at your age it is right?”“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,“I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again.”“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,And have grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back somersault in at the door—Pray, what is the reason of that?”“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,“I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—Allow me to sell you a couple.”“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—Pray, how did you manage to do it?”“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength which it gave to my jawHas lasted the rest of my life.”“You are old,” said the youth; “one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—What made you so awfully clever?”“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”Said his father; “don’t give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I’ll kick you downstairs!”
NowAliceknew well enough that she had given an awful twist to a pretty and old-fashioned piece of poetry, but for the life of her the old words refused to come. It seemed that with her power to grow large or small on short notice, her memory performed queer antics; she was never sure of it for two minutes together.
One odd thing about her change of size was thatshe never grew up or dwindled away unless she ate something or drank something. Now every little girl has had similar experience when it came to eating and drinking. “Eat so and so,” says a “grown-up,” “and you will be tall and strong,” and “if youdon’teat this thing or that, you will be little all your life,” soAlicewas only going through the same trials in Wonderland.
Her meeting with theDuchessand the pepperyCook, and the screamingBaby, and the grinningCheshire Cat, occupied some thrilling moments. She found theDuchessconversational but cross, and theCooksprinkling pepper lavishly intothesoup she was stirring, andoutof it for the matter of that, so that everybody was sneezing. TheCatwas the sole exception; it sat on the hearth and grinned from ear to ear.Aliceopened the conversation by asking theDuchess, who was holding theBabyand jumping it up and down so roughly that it howled dismally, why theCatgrinned in that absurd way.
“‘It’s a Cheshire Cat,’ said the Duchess, and that’s why. ‘Pig!’ She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the Baby and not to her, so she took courage and went on again:
“‘I didn’t know that Cheshire Cats always grinned—in fact I didn’t know that Catscouldgrin.’
“‘They all can,’ said the Duchess, ‘and most of ’em do.’
“‘I don’t know of any that do,’ said Alice, very politely, feeling quite pleased to have got into a conversation.
“‘You don’t know much,’ said the Duchess; ‘and that’s a fact.’
“Alice did not like the tone of this remark and thought it would be well to introduce some other subject of conversation.”
Then theCookbegan throwing things about, and theDuchess, to quiet the howlingBaby, sang the following beautiful lullaby, which she emphasized by a violent shake at the end of every line. Considering Lewis Carroll’s rather strong feeling on the boy question, they were most appropriate lines, indeed.
Speak roughly to your little boy,And beat him when he sneezes;He only does it to annoy,Because he know it teases.Chorus.(In which the Cook and the Baby joined.)Wow! wow! wow!I speak severely to my boy,I beat him when he sneezes,For he can thoroughly enjoyThe pepper when he pleases!Chorus.Wow! wow! wow!
Imagine the quiet “don” beating time to this beautiful measure, his blue eyes gleaming with fun, his expressive voice shaded to just the right tones to give color to the chorus, while the little girls chimed in at the proper moment. It was no trouble for him to make rhymes, being endowed with this wonderful gift of nonsense, and in conversation he was equally clever. He gave theDuchessquite the air of a learned lady, even though she did not know that mustard was a vegetable. WhenAlicesuggested that it was a mineral, she was quite ready to agree. “‘There’s a large mustard mine near here,’ she observed, ‘and the moral of that is’ [the Duchess had a moral for everything], ‘The more there is of mine—the less there is of yours.’ ‘Oh, I know!’ exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, ‘it’s a vegetable. It doesn’t look like one but it is.’
“‘I quite agree with you,’ said the Duchess, ‘and the moral of that is, “Be what you would seem to be,” or if you’d like to put it more simply, “Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.”’
“‘I think I should understand that better,’ said Alice, very politely, ‘if I had it written down, but I can’t quite follow it as you say it.’
“‘That’s nothing to what I could say if I chose,’” the Duchess replied in a pleasant tone.
Alice’stalk with theCheshire Cat, which had the remarkable power of appearing and vanishing in portions, the table gossip at the Mad Tea Party, to which she was an uninvited guest, are too well-known to quote. Many a time the Mad Tea Party has been the theme of some nursery play or school entertainment. TheMad Hatterand theMarch Harewere certainly the maddest things that ever were. When theHattercomplained of his watch being two days wrong, he turned angrily to theMarch Hare, saying:
“‘I told you butter wouldn’t suit the works.’
“‘It was thebestbutter,’ the March Hare meekly replied.
“‘Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,’ the Hatter grumbled; ‘you shouldn’t have put it in with the bread knife.’
“The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily; then he dipped it into his cup of tea and looked at it again; but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, ‘It was thebestbutter you know.’”
Surely nothing could be more amusing that this party of mad ones, and the sleepyDormouse, who sat between theMarch Hareand theHatter, contributed his share to the fun, while theHatter’ssongs, which he sang at the concert given by theQueen of Hearts, was certainly very familiar toAlice. It began:
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat—How I wonder what you’re at!Up above the world you fly,Like a tea tray in the sky.Twinkle, twinkle.
Who but Lewis Carroll could invent such a scene? Who could better plan the little sparkling sentences which gave the nonsense just the glitter which children found so fascinating and so laughable. Yet what did they laugh at after all? What do we laugh at even to-day in glancing over the familiar pages? What is it in the mysterious depths of childhood which Lewis Carroll has caught in his golden web? Perhaps, it is not all mere childhood; we are ourselves but “children of a larger growth,” and deep down within us at some time or other fancy runs riot and imagination does the rest. So it was with Lewis Carroll, onlyhisfancy soared into genius, carrying with it, as someone has said, “a suggestion of clear and yet soft laughing sunshine. He never made us laughatanything, but alwayswithhim and his knights and queens and heroes of the nursery rhymes.”
Behind much of the world’s laughter tears may be hiding, but not so in the case of Lewis Carroll; all is pure mirth that flows from him to us, and above all he possesses that indescribable thingcalled charm. It lurks in the quaint conversations, in the fluent measure of the songs, in the fantastic scenes so full of ideas that seem to vanish before we quite grasp them—like theCheshire Cat—leaving only the smile behind.
To those of us—the world in short—who were denied the privilege of hearing Lewis Carroll tell his own story, the Tenniel pictures bring Wonderland very close. Our natural history alone would not help us in the least when it came to classifying the many strange animalsAlicemet on her journey. TheMock Turtle, theGryphon, theLory, theDodo, theCheshire Cat, theFishandFrogfootmen—how could we imagine them without the Tenniel “guidebook”? The numberless transformations ofAlicecould hardly be understood without photographs of her in the various stages. And certainly at the croquet party, given by theQueen of Hearts, how could anyone imagine a game played with bent-over soldiers for wickets, hedgehogs for croquet balls, and flamingoes for mallets, unless there were accompanying illustrations?
One specially interesting picture shows theGryphonin the foreground; he andAlicepaid a visit to theMock Turtle, who, by way of entertaining his guests, gave the following description of the Lobster Quadrille. With tears running down his cheeks he began:
“‘You have never lived much under the sea’(‘I haven’t,’ said Alice) ‘and perhaps you were never introduced to a lobster—’ (Alice began to say ‘I once tasted—’ but she checked herself hastily, and said, ‘No, never’), ‘so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!’
“‘No, indeed,’ said Alice. ‘What sort of a dance is it?’
“‘Why,’ said the Gryphon, ‘you first form into a line along the seashore.’
“‘Two lines!’ cried the Mock Turtle. ‘Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then when you’ve cleared all the jellyfish out of the way—’
“‘Thatgenerally takes some time,’ interrupted the Gryphon.
“‘You advance twice.’
“‘Each with a lobster as a partner!’ cried the Gryphon.
“‘Of course,’ the Mock Turtle said; ‘advance twice, set to partners—’
“‘Change lobsters and retire in same order,’ continued the Gryphon.
“‘Then, you know,’ the Mock Turtle went on, ‘you throw the—’
“‘The lobsters!’ shouted the Gryphon with a bound into the air.
“‘As far out to sea as you can—’
“‘Swim after them!’ screamed the Gryphon.
“‘Turn a somersault in the sea!’ cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about.
“‘Change lobsters again!’ yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.
“‘Back to land again, and—that’s all the first figure,’ said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice, and the two creatures who had been jumping about like mad things all this time sat down again, very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice.”
Who could read this without laughing, with no reason for the laugh but sheer delight and sympathy with the story-teller, and with dancing and motion and all the rest of it. If anyone begins to hunt for the reasons why we like “Alice in Wonderland” that person is either very, very sleepy, or she has left her youth so far behind her that, like theLory, she absolutely refuses to tell her age, in which case she must be as old as the hills.
Then the dance, which the two gravely performed for the little girl, and who can forget the song of theMock Turtle?
“Will you walk a little faster!” said a whiting to a snail,“There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance?Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?“You can really have no notion how delightful it will beWhen they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!”But the snail replied, “Too far, too far!” and gave a look askance—Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.“What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied,“There is another shore, you know, upon the other side,The farther off from England the nearer is to France;Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?”
ThenAlicetried to repeat “’Tis the voice of the Sluggard,” but she was so full of the Lobster Quadrille that the words came like this:
’Tis the voice of the lobster, I heard him declare,“You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.”As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his noseTrims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
The whole time she was in Wonderland she never by any chance recited anything correctly,and through all of her wanderings she never met anything in the shape of a little boy, except the infant son of theDuchess, who after all turned out to be a pig and vanished in the woods. The “roundabouts” played no parts in “Alice in Wonderland,” and yet—to a man—they love it to this day.
When at lastAlicebade farewell to theMock Turtle, she left it sobbing of course, and singing with much emotion the following song, entitled:
TURTLE SOUP.Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,Waiting in a hot tureen!Who for such dainties would not stoop?Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,Beautiful, beautiful Soup!Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,Game, or any other dishWho would not give all else for twopennyworth only of beautiful Soup?Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,Beautiful, beauti—ful Soup!
We might spend a whole chapter over the great trial scene of theKnave of Hearts. We all knowthat the wretched fellow stole some tarts upon a summer’s day, and that he was brought in chains before theKingandQueen, to face the charges. What we did not know was that it was the fourth of July, and thatAlicewas one of the witnesses.
This, in a certain way, is the cleverest chapter in the book, for all the characters in Wonderland take part in the proceedings, which are so like, and yet so comically unlike, a real court. We forget, asAlicedid, that all these royalties are but a pack of cards, and follow all the evidence with the greatest interest, including the piece of paper which theWhite Rabbithad just found and presented to the Court. It contained the following verses:
They told me you had been to her,And mentioned me to him:She gave me a good character,But said I could not swim.He sent them word I had not gone(We know it to be true):If she should push the matter on,What would become of you?I gave her one, they gave him two,You gave us three or more:They all returned from him to you,Though they were mine before.If I or she should chance to beInvolved in this affair,He trusts to you to set them free,Exactly as we were.My notion was that you had been(Before she had this fit)An obstacle that came betweenHim, and ourselves, and it.Don’t let him know she liked them best,For this must ever beA secret, kept from all the rest,Between yourself and me.
This truly clear explanation touches theQueen of Heartsso closely that the outsider is led to believe that she is indirectly responsible for the theft, that the poor knave is but the tool of her Majesty, whose fondness for tarts led her into temptation. Lewis Carroll had a keen eye for the dramatic climax—the packed court room, the rambling evidence, the mystifying scrap of paper, andAlice’sdefiance of theKingandQueen.
“‘Off with her head!’ the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved. ‘Who cares for you?’ said Alice (she had grown to her full size by this time), ‘you’re nothing but a pack of cards.’
“At this, the whole pack rose up in the air and came flying down upon her; she gave a little scream, half of fright, half of anger, and tried to beat them off and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees on to her face....”
And so Alice woke up, shook back the elf-locks, and laughed as she rubbed her eyes.
“Such a curious dream!” she said, as the wonder of it all came back to her, and she told her sister of the queer things she had seen and heard, and long after she had run away, this big sister sat with closed eyes, dreaming and wondering.
“The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by; the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighboring pool; she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution. Once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it; once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate pencil, and the choking of the suppressed Guinea Pigs filled the air, mixed up with the distant sob of the miserable Mock Turtle.”
Yet when she opened her eyes she knew that Wonderland must go. In reality “the grass would only be rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds, the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep bells and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy, and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises would change ... to the confused clamor of the busy farmyard, while the lowing of the cattle in thedistance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.”
Sowehave dreamed of Wonderland from that time till now, when Lewis Carroll looks out from the pages of his book and says:
“That’s all—for to-night—there may be more to-morrow.”
The popularity of “Alice in Wonderland” was a never-ending source of surprise to the author, who had only to stand quietly by and rake in his profits, as edition after edition was swallowed up by a public incessantly clamoring for more, and Lewis Carroll was not too modest to enjoy the sensation he was creating in the literary world. His success came to him unsought, and was all the more lasting because the seeds of it were planted in love and laughter. Let us see what he says in the preface to “Alice Underground,” the forerunner, as we know, of “Alice in Wonderland.”
“The ‘why’ of this book cannot and need not be put into words. Those for whom a child’s mind is a sealed book, and who see no divinity in a child’s smile, would read such words in vain; while for any one who has ever loved one true child, no words are needed. For he will have known the awe that falls on one in the presence of a spirit, fresh from God’s hands, on whom no shadow of sin, and but theoutermost fringe of the shadow of sorrow, has yet fallen; he will have felt the bitter contrast between the haunting selfishness that spoils his best deeds and the life that is but an overflowing love—for I think a child’s first attitude to the world is a simple love for all living things—and he will have learned that the best work a man can do is when he works for love’s sake only, with no thought of name or gain or earthly reward. No deed of ours, I suppose, on this side of the grave is really unselfish, yet if one can put forth all one’s powers in a task where nothing of reward is hoped for but a little child’s whispered thanks, and the airy touch of a little child’s pure lips, one seems to have come somewhere near to this.”
In the appendix to the same book he writes regarding laughter:
“I do not believe God means us to divide life into two halves—to wear a grave face on Sunday, and to think it out of place even so much as to mention Him on a week-day.... Surely the children’s innocent laughter is as sweet in His ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from ‘the dim religious light’ of some solemn cathedral; and if I have written anything to add to those stores of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the children I love so well, it is surely something I may hope to look back upon without shame or sorrow ... when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows.”
Such was the man who filled the world with laughter, and wrote “nonsense” books; a man of such deeply religious feeling that a jest that touched upon sacred things, however innocent in itself, was sure to bring down his wrath upon the head of the offender. There is a certain strain of sadness in those quoted words of his, which surely never belonged to those “golden summer days” when he made merry with the three little Liddells. We must remember that twenty-one years had passed between the telling of the story and the reprint of the original manuscript, and Lewis Carroll was just a little graver and considerably older than on that eventful day when theWhite Rabbitlooked at his watch as if to say: “Oh—my ears and whiskers! What will the Duchess think!” as he popped down the hole withAliceat his heels.
But we are going a little too far ahead. After the writing of “Alice,” with the accompanying excitement of seeing his first-born win favor, Lewis Carroll went quietly forward in his daily routine. He had already become quite a famous lecturer, being, indeed, the only mathematical lecturer in Christ Church College, so Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was not completely overshadowed by the glory of Lewis Carroll.
From the beginning he was careful to separate these two sides of his life, and the numbers of letters which soon began to pour in upon the latter were never recognized by the grave, precise “don,”whose thoughts flowed in numbers, and so it was all through his life. When anyone wrote to him, addressing him by his real name, and praising him for the “Alice” books, he sent a printed reply which he kept “handy,” saying that as C. L. Dodgson was so often approached as the author of books bearing another name, it must be understood that Mr. Dodgson never acknowledged the authorship of a book which did not bear his name. He was most careful in the wording of this printed form, that it should bear no shadow of untruth. It was only his shy way of avoiding the notice of strangers, and it succeeded so well that very few people knew that the Rev. Charles Dodgson and Lewis Carroll were one and the same person. It was also hinted, and very broadly, too, that many of the queer charactersAlicemet on her journey through Wonderland were very dignified and stately figures in the University itself, who posed unconsciously as models. TheHatteris an acknowledged portrait, and no doubt there were many other sly caricatures, for Lewis Carroll was a born humorist.
“Alice” has been given to the public in many ways besides translations. There have been lectures, plays, magic lantern slides of Tenniel’s wonderful pictures, tableaux; and many scenes find their way, even at this day, in the nursery wall-paper covered over with Gryphons and Mock Turtles and the whole Court of Cards—a most imposing array. It has been truly stated that, with the exception ofShakespeare’s plays, no books have been so often quoted as the two “Alices.”
After the publication of “Alice in Wonderland,” Lewis Carroll contributed short stories to the various periodicals which were eager for his work. As early as 1867, he sent toAunt Judy’s Magazinea short story called “Bruno’s Revenge,” the foundation of “Sylvie and Bruno,” which was never published in book form until 1889, twenty-two years after.
The editor of the magazine, Mrs. Gatty, in accepting the story, gave the author some wholesome advice wrapped up in a bundle of praise for the dainty little idyll. She reminded him that mathematical ability such as he possessed was also the gift of hundreds of others, but his story-telling talent, so full of exquisite touches, was peculiarly his own, and whatever of fame might come to him would be on the wings of the fairies, and not from the lecture room.
In “Bruno’s Revenge” we have, for the first time in any of his stories, a little boy. It was a sort of unwilling tribute Lewis Carroll paid to the poor despised “roundabouts,” and for all the winsome fairy ways and merry little touches,Brunowas neverquitethe real thing; at any rate the story was put away to simmer, and as the long years passed, it was added to bit by bit until—butthatis another story.
Between the publication of “Alice” and the summervacation of 1867 he wrote several very learned mathematical works that earned him much distinction among the Christ Church undergraduates, who found it hard to believe that Mr. Dodgson and Lewis Carroll were so closely connected. It was during this summer (1867) that he and Dr. Liddon took a short tour on the Continent.
The two men had much in common and were firm friends. Both had the true Oxford spirit, both were churchmen, Dr. Liddon being quite a famous preacher, and both were men of high intelligence with a good supply of humor; consequently the prospect of a trip to Russia together was a very delightful one. Lewis Carroll kept a journal which was such a complete record of his experiences that at one time he thought of publishing it, though it was never done.
He went up to London on July 12th, remarking in his characteristic way that he and the Sultan of Turkey arrived on the same day,hisentrance being at Paddington station—the Sultan’s at Charing Cross, where, he was forced to admit, the crowd was much greater. He met Dr. Liddon at Dover and they crossed to Calais, finding the passage unusually smooth and uneventful, feeling in some way that they had paid their money in vain, for the trip across the channel is generally one of storm and stress.
All such tours have practically the same object—to see and to enjoy—and the young “don” cameout of his den for this express purpose. It had been impossible in the busy years since his graduation to take his holidays far away from home, but at the age of thirty-five he felt that he had earned the right, and proceeded to use it in his own way. Their route lay through Germany, stopping at Cologne, Danzig, Berlin and Königsberg, among other places, and he feasted on the beauties which these various cities had to offer him; the architecture and paintings, the pageantry of strange religions, the music in the great cathedrals, and last, but not least, the foreign drama interested him greatly. The German acting was easy enough to follow, as he knew a little of the language; but the Russian tongue was beyond him, and he could only rely upon the gestures and expression.
Their special object in going to Russia was to see the great fair at Nijni-Novgorod. This fair brought all the corners of the earth together; Chinese, Persians, Tartars, native Russians, mingled in the busy, surging life about them, and lent color and variety to every step. The two friends spent their time pleasantly, for the fame of Dr. Liddon’s preaching had reached Russia, and the clergy opened their doors to the travelers and took them over many churches and monasteries, which otherwise they might never have seen. They stopped in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kronstadt, Warsaw, taking in Leipzig, Giessen, Ems, and many smaller places on the homeward road.
They visited a famous monastery while in Moscow, and were even shown the subterranean cells of the hermits. At Kronstadt they had a most amusing experience. They went to call upon a friend, and Dr. Liddon, forgetting his scanty knowledge of the Russian language, rashly handed his overcoat to one of the servants. When they were ready to leave there was a waiting-maid in attendance—but no overcoat. The damsel spoke no English, the gentleman spoke no Russian, so Dr. Liddon asked for his overcoat with what he considered the most appropriate gesture. Intelligence beamed upon the maiden’s face; she ran from the room, returning with a clothes brush. No, Dr. Liddon did not want his coat brushed; he tried other gestures, succeeding so beautifully that the girl was convinced that he wanted to take a nap on the sofa, and brought a cushion and a pillow for that purpose. Still no overcoat, and Dr. Liddon was in despair until Lewis Carroll made a sketch of his friend with one coat on, in the act of putting on another, in the hands of an obliging Russian peasant. The drawing was so expressive that the maid understood at once; the mystery was solved—and the coat recovered.
With this gift of drawing a situation, it is remarkable that Lewis Carroll never became an artist. With all his artistic ideas, and with his real knowledge of art, it seems a pity that he could not have gratified his ambition, but after serious consultation with John Ruskin, who as critic and friendexamined his work, he decided that his natural gift was not great enough to push, and sensibly resolved not to waste so much precious time. Still, to the end of his life, he drew for amusement’s sake and for the pleasure it gave his small friends.
Altogether their tour was a very pleasant one, and their return was through Germany, that most interesting country of hills and valleys and pretty white villages nestling among the trees. What Lewis Carroll specially liked was the way the old castles seemed to spring out of the rock on which they had been built, as if they had grown there without the aid of bricks and mortar. He admired the spirit of the old architects, which guided them to plan buildings naturally suited to their surroundings, and was never tired of the beautiful hills, so densely covered with small trees as to look moss-grown in the distance.
On his return to Oxford, he plunged at once into very active work. The new term was beginning—there were lectures to prepare and courses to plan, and undergraduates to interview, all of which kept him quite busy for a while, though it did not interfere with certain cozy afternoon teas, when he related his summer adventures to his numerous girl friends, and kept them in a gale of laughter over his many queer experiences.
But these same little girls were clamoring for another book, and a hundred thousand others were alike eager for it, to judge by the heavy budgets ofmail he received, so he cast about in that original mind of his for a worthy sequel to “Alice in Wonderland.” He was willing to write a sequel then, for “Alice” was still fresh and amusing to a host of children, and its luster had been undimmed as yet by countless imitations. To be sure “Alice in Blunderland” had appeared inPunch, the well-known English paper of wit and humor, but thenPunchwasPunch, and spared nothing which might yield a ripple of laughter.
When it was known that he had finally determined to write the book, a leading magazine offered him two guineas a page (a sum equal to about ten dollars in our money) for the privilege of printing it as a serial. This story as we know was called “Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There,” though few people take time to use the full title. It is usually read by youngsters right “on top” of “Alice in Wonderland.” They speak of the two books as the “Alices,” and some of the best editions are even bound together, so closely are the stories connected.
With Lewis Carroll’s aptness for doing things backward, is it any wonder that he pushed Alice through the Looking-Glass? And so full of grace and beauty and absurd situations is the story he has given us, we quite forget that it was written for the public, and not entirely for three little girls “all on a summer’s day.” No doubt they heard the chapters for they were right there across “Tom Quad”and could be summoned by a whistle, if need be, along with some other little girls who had sprung up within the walls of Christ Church.
At any rate the story turned out far beyond his expectations and he was again fortunate in securing Tenniel as his illustrator. It was no easy task to illustrate for Lewis Carroll, who criticised every stroke, and being quite enough of an artist to know exactly what he wanted, he was never satisfied until he had it. This often tried the patience of those who worked with him, but his own good humor and unfailing courtesy generally won in the end.
In the midst of this pleasant work came the greatest sorrow of his life, the death of his father, Archdeacon Dodgson, on June 21, 1868. Seventeen years had passed since his mother’s death, which had left him stunned on the very threshold of his college life; but he was only a boy in spite of his unusual gravity, and his youth somehow fought for him when he battled with his grief. In those intervening years, he and his father had grown very close together. One never took a step without consulting the other. Christ Church and all it meant to one of them was alike dear to the other. The archdeacon took the keenest interest in his son’s outside work, and we may be quite sure that “Alice” was as much read and as thoroughly enjoyed by this grave scholar as by any other member of his household. It was the suddenness of his death which leftits lasting mark on Lewis Carroll, and the fact that he was summoned too late to see his father alive. It was a terrible shock, and a grief of which he could neverspeak. He wrote some beautiful letters about it, but those who knew him well respected the wall of silence he erected.
In truth, our quiet, self-contained “don” was a man of deep emotions; the quiet, the poise, had come through years of inward struggle, and he maintained it at the cost of being considered a little cold by people who never could know the trouble it had been to smother the fire. He put away his sorrow with other sacred things, and on his return to Oxford went to work in his characteristic way on a pamphlet concerning the Fifth Book of Euclid, written principally to aid the students during examinations, and which was considered an excellent bit of work.
In November, 1868, he moved into new quarters in Christ Church and, as he occupied these rooms for the rest of his life, a little description of them just here would not be out of place.
“Tom Quad,” we must not forget, was the Great Quadrangle of Christ Church, where all the masters and heads of the college lived with their families. This was called beingin residence, and a pretty sight it was to see the great stretch of green, and its well-kept paths gay with the life that poured from the doors and peeped through the windows of this wonderful place; a sunny day brought out all theyoung ones, and just here Lewis Carroll’s closest ties were formed.
The angles of “Tom Quad” were the choice spots for a lodging, and Lewis Carroll lived in the west angle, first on the ground floor, where, as we know, “Alice in Wonderland” was written; then, when he made his final move, it was to the floor above, which was brighter and sunnier, giving him more rooms and more space. This upper floor looked out upon the flat roof of the college, an excellent place for photography, to which he was still devoted, and he asked permission of those in charge to erect a studio there. This was easily obtained, and could the walls tell tales they would hum with the voices of the celebrated “flies” this clever young “spider” lured into his den. For he took beautiful photographs at a time when photography was not the perfect system that it is now, and nothing pleased him better than posing well-known people. All the big lights of Oxford sat before his camera, including Lord Salisbury, who was Chancellor at that time. Artists, sculptors, writers, actors of note had their pleasant hour in Lewis Carroll’s studio.
Our “don” was very partial to great people, that is, the truly great, the men and women who truly counted in the world, whether by birth and breeding or by some accomplished deed or high aim. Being a cultured gentleman himself, he had a vast respect for culture in other people—not a bad trait when allis told, and setting very naturally upon an Englishman born of gentle stock, with generations of ladies and gentlemen at his back. One glance into the sensitive, refined face of Charles Dodgson would convince us at once that no friendship he ever formed had anything but the highest aim for him. He might have chosen for his motto—
“Only what thou art in thyself, not what thou hast, determines thy value.”
Even among his girl friends, the “little lady,” no matter how poor or plain, was his first object; that was a strong enough foundation. The rest was easy.
But here we have been outside in the studio soaring a bit in the sky, when our real destination is that suite of beautiful big rooms where Lewis Carroll lived and wrote and entertained his many friends, for hospitality was one of his greatest pleasures, and his dining-room and dinner parties are well remembered by every child friend he knew, to say nothing of those privileged elders who were sometimes allowed to join them. He was very particular about his dinners and luncheons, taking care to have upon the table only what his young guests could eat.
He had four sitting rooms and quite as many bedrooms, to say nothing of store-rooms, closets and so forth. His study was a great room, full of comfortable sofas and chairs, and stools and tables, and cubby-holes and cupboards, where many wonderfullyinteresting things were hidden from view, to be brought forth at just the right moment for special entertainment.
Lewis Carroll had English ideas about comfortable surroundings. He loved books, and his shelves were well filled with volumes of his own choosing; a rare and valuable library, where each book was a tried friend.
A man with so many sitting rooms must certainly have had use for them all, and knowing how methodical he was we may feel quite sure that the room where he wrote “Through the Looking-Glass” was not the sanctum where he prepared his lectures and wrote his books on Logic and Higher Mathematics; itmighthave served for an afternoon frolic or a tea party of little girls;thatwould have been in keeping, as probably he received the undergraduates in his sanctum.
As for the other two sitting rooms, “let’s pretend,” as Alice herself says, that one was dedicated to the writing of poetry, and the other to the invention of games and puzzles; he had quite enough work of all kinds on hand to keep every room thoroughly aired. We shall hear about these rooms again from little girls whose greatest delight it was to visit them. What we want to do now is to picture Lewis Carroll in his new quarters, energetically pushing Alice through the Looking-Glass, while at the same time he was busily writing “Phantasmagoria,” a queer ghost poem which attractedmuch attention. It was published with a great many shorter poems in the early part of 1869, preceding the publication of the new “Alice,” on which he was working chapter by chapter with Sir John Tenniel.
It was wonderful how closely the artist followed the queer mazes of Lewis Carroll’s thought. He was able to draw the strange animals and stranger situations just as the author wished to have them, but there came a point at which the artist halted and shook his head.