“Eastbourne.“My own darling Isa,—The value of a copy of the French ‘Alice’ is £45: but, as you want the ‘cheapest’ kind, and as you are a great friend of mine, and as I am of a very noble, generous disposition, I have made up my mind to agreatsacrifice,and have taken £3, 10s, 0d, off the price, so that you do not owe me more than £41, 10s, 0d, and this you can pay me, in gold or bank notes,as soon as you ever like. Oh, dear! I wonder why I write such nonsense! Can you explain to me, my pet, how it happens that when I take up my pen to write a letter toyou, it won’t write sense. Do you think the rule is that when the pen finds it has to write to a nonsensical, good-for-nothing child it sets to work to write a nonsensical, good-for-nothing letter? Well, now I’ll tell you the real truth. As Miss Kitty Wilson is a dear friend of yours, of course she’s asortof a friend of mine. So I thought (in my vanity) ‘perhaps she would like to have a copy “from the author” with her name written in it.’ So I sent her one—but I hope she’ll understand that I do it because she’syourfriend, for you see I had neverheardof her before; so I wouldn’t have any other reason.”
“Eastbourne.
“My own darling Isa,—The value of a copy of the French ‘Alice’ is £45: but, as you want the ‘cheapest’ kind, and as you are a great friend of mine, and as I am of a very noble, generous disposition, I have made up my mind to agreatsacrifice,and have taken £3, 10s, 0d, off the price, so that you do not owe me more than £41, 10s, 0d, and this you can pay me, in gold or bank notes,as soon as you ever like. Oh, dear! I wonder why I write such nonsense! Can you explain to me, my pet, how it happens that when I take up my pen to write a letter toyou, it won’t write sense. Do you think the rule is that when the pen finds it has to write to a nonsensical, good-for-nothing child it sets to work to write a nonsensical, good-for-nothing letter? Well, now I’ll tell you the real truth. As Miss Kitty Wilson is a dear friend of yours, of course she’s asortof a friend of mine. So I thought (in my vanity) ‘perhaps she would like to have a copy “from the author” with her name written in it.’ So I sent her one—but I hope she’ll understand that I do it because she’syourfriend, for you see I had neverheardof her before; so I wouldn’t have any other reason.”
When he published his last long story, “Sylvie and Bruno,” the dedication was to her, an acrostic on her name; but as “Sylvie and Bruno” will be spoken of later on, perhaps it will be more interesting to give the dainty little verses where they belong. He sent his pet a specially bound copy of the new book, with the following letter:
“Christ Church, May 16, ’90.“Dearest Isa:—I had this bound for you when the book first came out, and it’s been waiting hereever since Dec. 17, for I really didn’t dare to send it across the Atlantic—the whales aresoinconsiderate. They’d have been sure to want to borrow it to show to the little whales, quite forgetting that the salt water would be sure to spoil it.“Also I’ve been waiting for you to get back to send Emsie the ‘Nursery Alice.’ I give it to the youngest in a family generally, but I’ve given one to Maggie as well, because she travels about so much, and I thought she would like to have one to take with her. I hope Nellie’s eyes won’t getquitegreen with jealousy at two (indeed three) of her sisters getting presents, and nothing for her! I’ve nothing but my love to send her to-day, but she shall havesomething someday.—Ever your loving“Uncle Charles.”
“Christ Church, May 16, ’90.
“Dearest Isa:—I had this bound for you when the book first came out, and it’s been waiting hereever since Dec. 17, for I really didn’t dare to send it across the Atlantic—the whales aresoinconsiderate. They’d have been sure to want to borrow it to show to the little whales, quite forgetting that the salt water would be sure to spoil it.
“Also I’ve been waiting for you to get back to send Emsie the ‘Nursery Alice.’ I give it to the youngest in a family generally, but I’ve given one to Maggie as well, because she travels about so much, and I thought she would like to have one to take with her. I hope Nellie’s eyes won’t getquitegreen with jealousy at two (indeed three) of her sisters getting presents, and nothing for her! I’ve nothing but my love to send her to-day, but she shall havesomething someday.—Ever your loving
“Uncle Charles.”
The “Nursery Alice” he refers to was arranged by himself for children “from naught to five” as he quaintly puts it. It contained twenty beautiful colored drawings from the Tenniel illustrations, with a cover designed by E. Gertrude Thomson, of whose work he was very fond. The words were simplified for nursery readers.
In another letter to Isa he talks very seriously about “social position.”
“Ladies,” he writes, “have to bemuchmore particular in observing the distinctions of what is called ‘social position,’ and thelowertheir own position is (in the scale of ‘lady’ ship) the more jealousthey seem to be in guarding it.... Not long ago I was staying in a house with a young lady (about twenty years old I should think) with a title of her own, as she was an earl’s daughter. I happened to sit next to her at dinner, and every time I spoke to her she looked at me more as if she was looking down on me from about a mile up in the air, and as if she was saying to herself, ‘Howdareyou speak tome! Why you’re not good enough to black my shoes!’ It was so unpleasant that next day at luncheon I got as far from her as I could.
“Of course we are allquiteequal in God’s sight, but wedomake a lot of distinctions (some of them quite unmeaning) among ourselves!”
However, he was not always so unfortunate among great people, the “truly great” that is. In Lord Salisbury’s house he was always a welcome and honored guest, for in a letter to “his little girl” from Hatfield House he tells her of the Duchess of Albany and her two children.
“She is the widow of Prince Leopold (the Queen’s youngest son), so her children are a Prince and a Princess; the girl is Alice, but I don’t know the boy’s Christian name; they call him ‘Albany’ because he is the Duke of Albany.
“Now that I have made friends with a real live little Princess, I don’t intend ever tospeakto children who haven’t any titles. In fact, I’m so proud, and I hold my chin so high, that I shouldn’t evenseeyou if we met! No, darlings, you mustn’t believethat. If I made friends with adozenPrincesses, I would love you better than all of them together, even if I had them all rolled up into a sort of child-roly-poly.
“Love to Nellie and Emsie.—Your loving Uncle,
“C.L.D.“XXXXXXX“[kisses].”
Nothing could give us a better glimpse of the wholesome nature of this quiet “don” of ours than these letters to a little child; a wholesome child like himself, whose every emotion was to him like the page of some fairy book, to be read and read again. Isa Bowman could not know, child as she was,whatshe was to this man, who with all his busy life, and all his gifts and talents, and all his many friendships, was so curiously lonely. But later, when she was grown, and wrote the little book of memories from which we have drawn so many sweet lessons, she doubtless realized, as she rolled back the years, what they had been to her—and what to Lewis Carroll.
This beautiful dedication to little Isa Bowman, on the front page of “Sylvie and Bruno,” was much prized by her on account of the double acrostic cleverly woven in the lines. The first letter of each line read downward was one way she could see her name, and the first three letters in the first line of each verse was another, but naturally the light-hearted child missed the note of deep sadness underlying the tuneful words. Lewis Carroll had reached that milestone in a man’s life,notwhen he pauses to look backward, but when his one desire is to pressforward to the heights—to the goal. His thoughts were not so much colored by memories of earlier years as by anticipation, even dreams of what the future might hold. Therefore, in our trip withSylvieandBrunointo the realms of dreamland, we must bear in mind in reading the story that themanis the dreamer, and not thechildren, nor does he seequitethrough their eyes in his views of men and things. Children, as a rule, live in the present; neither the past nor the future perplexes them, and “Mister Sir,” as littleBrunocalled their friend, the Dreamer, looked on these fairy children, daintySylvieand gracefulBruno, as gleams of light in his shadowy way, little passing gleams, as elusive as they were brilliant.
The day of the irresponsible, bubbling nonsense is over; we catch flashes of it now and then, but the fun is forced, and however much of a dearSylviemay be, and however much of a darlingBrunomay be, they are notquitenatural.
In a very long and very serious preface, wholly unlike his usual style, the author tells us something of the history of the book. As early as 1867 the idea of “Sylvie and Bruno” first came to him in the shape of a little fairy tale which he wrote forAunt Judy’s Magazine, but it was not until long after the publication of “Alice Through the Looking-Glass” that he determined to turn the adventures of these fairy children into something more than stray stories. The public, at least, theinsatiable children, wanted something more from him, and as the second “Alice” had been so satisfactory, he decided to venture again into the dream-world; he would not hurry about it; he would take his time; he would pluck a flower here and there as the years passed, and press it for safe-keeping; he would create something poetic and beautiful in the way of children, culled from the best of all the children he ever knew. This work should be a gem, cut and polished until its luster eclipsed all other work of his.
And so from 1874 to 1889, a period of fifteen years, he jotted down quaint fancies and bits of dialogue which he thought would work well into the story. During this interval he passed from the prime of life into serious middle age, though there was so little change in his outward living and in his general appearance (he was always very boyish-looking) that even he himself failed to recognize the gulf of time between forty-two and fifty-seven.
In this interval he had become deeply interested in the study of logic and when he began to gather together the mass of material he had collected for his book, he found so much matter which stepped outside of childish realms that he decided to please both the “grown-ups” and the youngsters by weaving it all into a story, which he accordingly did, with the result that he pleased no one. The children would not take the trouble to wade through the interwoven love story, while their elders, who fromexperience had expected something fresh and breezy from the pen of Lewis Carroll, who longed to get away from the world of facts and logic and deep discussions which buzzed about them, were even more sorely disappointed.
All flights of genius are short and quick. Had our author sat down when the idea of a long story first came to him, and written it off in his natural style, “Sylvie and Bruno” might have been another of the world’s classics; but he put too much thought upon it, and the chapters show most plainly where the pen was laid down and where taken up again.
But for all that the book sold well, chiefly, indeed, because it was Lewis Carroll who wrote it; though its popularity died down in a short time. About six years ago, however (1904), the enterprising publishers brought forth a new edition of the book, leaving out all the grown-up part, and bringing the fairy children right before us in all their simple loveliness. The experiment, so far as the story went, was most successful, and to those who have not a previous acquaintance with “Sylvie and Bruno” this little volume would give much more pleasure than the big two-volume original.
One of Lewis Carroll’s special objects in writing this story was a sort of tardy appreciation of the much-despised boy. In the character ofBrunohe has given us a sweet little fellow, but we cannot get over the feeling that he is a girl in boy’s clothes,his bits of mischief are all so dainty and alluring; but we would like to beat him with, say, a spray of goldenrod for such a fairy child, every time he says politely and priggishly “Mister Sir” to his invisible companion. What boy waseverguilty of using such a term! The street urchin would naturally say “Mister,” but the well-bred home boy would say “Sir,” so the combination sounds absurd.
SylvieandBrunowere supposed to be the fairies that teach children to be good, and to do this they wandered pretty well over the earth in their fairy way. Somehow we miss the real children through all their dainty play and laughter, but the pictures of the two children, by Harry Furniss, are beautiful enough to make us really believe in fairies. There is a question Lewis Carroll asks quite gravely in his book—“What is the best time for seeing Fairies?” And he answers it in truly Lewis Carroll style:
“The first rule is, that it must be averyhot day—that we may consider as settled: and you must be alittlesleepy—but not too sleepy to keep your eyes open, mind. Well, and you ought to feel a little what one may call ‘fairyish’ the Scotch call it ‘eerie,’ and perhaps that’s a prettier word; if you don’t know what it means, I’m afraid I can hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a Fairy and then you’ll know.
“And the last rule is, that the crickets should not be chirping. I can’t stop to explain that; you must take it on trust for the present.
“So, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance of seeing a Fairy, or at least a much better chance than if they didn’t.”
Later on he tells us the rule about the crickets. “They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by, ... so whenever you’re walking out and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping you may be sure that they see a Fairy.”
Another dainty description isBruno’ssinging to the accompaniment of tuneful harebells, and the song was a regular serenade:
Rise, oh, rise! The daylight dies,The owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting!Wake, oh, wake! Beside the lakeThe elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting!Welcoming our Fairy King,We sing, sing, sing.Hear, oh, hear! From far and nearThe music stealing, ting, ting, ting!Fairy bells adorn the dellsAre merrily pealing, ting, ting, ting!Welcoming our Fairy King,We ring, ring, ring.See, oh, see! On every treeWhat lamps are shining, ting, ting, ting!They are eyes of fiery fliesTo light our dining, ting, ting, ting!Welcoming our Fairy King,They swing, swing, swing.Haste, oh, haste, to take and tasteThe dainties waiting, ting, ting, ting!Honey-dew is stored——
But hereBruno’ssong came to a sudden end and was never finished. Fairies have the oddest ways of doing things, but thenSylviewas coming through the long grass, that charming woodland child that littleBrunoloved and teased.
The artist put all his skill into the drawing of this tiny maiden, skill assisted by Lewis Carroll’s own ideas of what a fairy-girl should look like, and the fact that Mr. Furniss tookseven yearsto illustrate this book to the author’s satisfaction and his own, shows how very particular both were to get at the spirit of the story.
Indeed, the great trouble with the story is that it is all spirit; there is norealstory to it, and this the keen scent of everyday children soon discovered.
But in one thing it excels: the verses are every bit as charming as either the Wonderland or Looking-Glass verses, with all the old-time delicious nonsense. Take, for instance—
THE GARDENER’S SONG.He thought he saw an AlbatrossThat fluttered round the lamp;He looked again, and found it wasA Penny-Postage-Stamp.“You’d best be getting home,” he said:“The nights are very damp!”He thought he saw an ArgumentThat proved he was the Pope;He looked again, and found it wasA Bar-of-Mottled-Soap.“A fact so dread,” he faintly said,“Extinguishes all hope!”He thought he saw a Banker’s-ClerkDescending from the Bus;He looked again, and found it wasA Hippopotamus.“If this should stay to dine,” he said,“There won’t be much for us!”He thought he saw a BuffaloUpon the chimney-piece;He looked again, and found it wasHis Sister’s-Husband’s-Niece.“Unless you leave this house,” he said,“I’ll send for the police!”He thought he saw a Coach-and-FourThat stood beside his bed;He looked again, and found it wasA Bear without a head.“Poor thing!” he said, “poor, silly thing!It’s waiting to be fed!”He thought he saw a Garden-DoorThat opened with a key;He looked again, and found it wasA Double-Rule-of-Three.“And all its mystery,” he said,“Is clear as day to me!”He thought he saw a KangarooThat worked a coffee-mill;He looked again, and found it wasA Vegetable-Pill.“Were I to swallow this,” he said,“I should be very ill!”He thought he saw a RattlesnakeThat questioned him in Greek;He looked again, and found it wasThe Middle-of-Next-Week.“The one thing I regret,” he said,“Is that it cannot speak!”
The gardener was a very remarkable person, whose time was spent raking the beds and making up extra verses to this beautiful poem; the last one ran:
He thought he saw an ElephantThat practiced on a fife;He looked again, and found it wasA letter from his wife.“At length I realize,” he said,“The bitterness of Life!”
“What a wild being it was who sung these wild words! A gardener he seemed to be, yet surely a mad one by the way he brandished his rake, madder by the way he broke ever and anon into a frantic jig, maddest of all by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza.
“It was so far a description of himself that he had thefeetof an elephant, but the rest of him was skinand bone; and the wisps of loose straw that bristled all about him suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out.”
In “Sylvie and Bruno,” probably to a greater extent than in all his other books, are some clever caricatures of well-known people. The two professors are certainly taken from life, probably from Oxford. One is called “The Professor” and one “The Other Professor.” TheBaron, theVice-Wardenandmy Ladywere all too real, and as for the fatPrince Uggug, well, any kind feeling Lewis Carroll may have had toward boys when he fashionedBrunohad entirely vanished whenPrince Uggugcame upon the scene. All the ugly, rough, ill-mannered, bad boys Lewis Carroll had ever heard of were rolled into this wretched, fat, pig of a prince; but the story of this prince proved fascinating to thereallittle royalties to whom he told it during one Christmas week at Lord Salisbury’s. Most likely he selected this story with an object, in order to show how necessary it was that those of royal blood should behave like true princes and princesses if they would be truly loved. Our good “don” was fond of pointing a moral now and then.Uggug, with all his badness, somehow appeals to the human child, far more thanBruno, with his baby talk and his old-man wisdom and his odd little “fay” ways.Sylviewas much more natural.Bruno, however, was a sweet little songster; it needed no urging to sethim to music, and he always sang quite plainly when he had real rhymes to tackle. One of his favorites was called:
THE BADGERS AND THE HERRINGS.There be three Badgers on a mossy stone,Beside a dark and covered way.Each dreams himself a monarch on his throne,And so they stay and stay—Though their old Father languishes alone,They stay, and stay, and stay.There be three Herrings loitering around,Longing to share that mossy seat.Each Herring tries to sing what she has foundThat makes life seem so sweetThus, with a grating and uncertain sound,They bleat, and bleat, and bleat.The Mother-Herring, on the salt sea-wave,Sought vainly for her absent ones;The Father-Badger, writhing in a cave,Shrieked out, “Return, my sons!You shall have buns,” he shrieked, “if you’ll behave!Yea buns, and buns, and buns!”“I fear,” said she, “your sons have gone astray.My daughters left me while I slept.”“Yes’m,” the Badger said, “it’s as you say.They should be better kept.”Thus the poor parents talked the time away,And wept, and wept, and wept.
But the thoughtless young ones, who had wandered from home, are having a good time, a rollicking good time, for theHerringssing:
Oh, dear, beyond our dearest dreams,Fairer than all that fairest seems!To feast the rosy hours away,To revel in a roundelay!How blest would beA life so free—Ipwergis pudding to consumeAnd drink the subtle Azzigoom!And if in other days and hours,’Mid other fluffs and other flowers,The choice were given me how to dine—“Name what thou wilt: it shall be thine!”Oh, then I seeThe life for me—Ipwergis pudding to consumeAnd drink the subtle Azzigoom!The Badgers did not care to talk to Fish;They did not dote on Herrings’ songs;They never had experienced the dishTo which that name belongs.“And, oh, to pinch their tails” (this was their wish)“With tongs, yea, tongs, and tongs!”“And are not these the Fish,” the eldest sighed,“Whose mother dwells beneath the foam?”“Theyarethe Fish!” the second one replied,“And they have left their home!”“Oh, wicked Fish,” the youngest Badger cried,“To roam, yea, roam, and roam!”Gently the Badgers trotted to the shore—The sandy shore that fringed the bay.Each in his mouth a living Herring bore—Those aged ones waxed gay.Clear rang their voices through the ocean’s roar.“Hooray, hooray, hooray!’”
Most of Lewis Carroll’s best nonsense rhymes abounded with all sorts of queer animals. In earlier years he had made quite a study of natural history, so that he knew enough about the habits of the animals who figured in his verses to make humorous portraits of them. Yet we know, apart from the earth-worms and snails of “little boy” days, he never cared to cultivate their acquaintance except in a casual way. He was never unkind to them, and fought with all his might against vivisection (which in plain English means cutting up live animals for scientific purposes), as well as against the cruel pastime of English cross-country hunting, where one poor little fox is run to earth and torn in pieces by the savage hounds. Big hunting, where the object was a man-eating lion or some other animal which menaced human life, he heartily approved of, but wanton cruelty he could not abide. Yet the dog he might use every effort to save from the knife of science did not appeal to him as a pet; he preferred a nice, plump, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, ringleted little girl—ifsheliked dogs, why, very well, only none of them inhisrooms, thank you!
These fairy children,SylvieandBruno, travelmany leagues in the story, for good fairies must be able to go from place to place very quickly. We find them in Elfland, and Outland, and even Dogland.
A quaint episode in this book is the loss of Queen Titania’s baby.
“We put it in a flower,” Sylvie explained, with her eyes full of tears. “Only we can’t rememberwhich!” And there’s a real fairy hunt for the missing baby, which must have been found somewhere, for fairies are never completely lost. All through this fairy tale move real people doing real things, acting real parts, coming often in contact with their good fairies, but parting always on the borderland, bearing with them but a memory of the beautiful children, and an echo ofSylvie’ssong as it dies away in the distance.
Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping,That lures the bird home to her nest?Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,To cuddle and croon it to rest?What’s the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?’Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—And the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearningFor the brotherly hand-grip of peace?Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrillsAround us, beneath, and above?’Tis a secret; none knows how it comes, how it goes;But the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,Like a picture so fair to the sight?That decks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,Till the little lambs leap with delight?’Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,Though ’tis sung by the angels above,In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—And the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!
Love was indeed the keynote of Lewis Carroll’s life. It was his rule, which governed everything he did, whether it was a lecture on mathematics or a “nonsense” story to a group of little girls. It was, above all, his religion, and meant much more to him than mere church forms, though the beautiful services at Oxford always impressed him deeply. Living as he did, apart from the stir and bustle of a great city, in a beautiful old town, full of historic associations, the heart and center of English learning, where men had time for high thoughts and high deeds, it is no wonder that his ideals should soar beyond the limits of an everyday world, and no one who watched the daily routine of this quiet, self-contained, precise “don” could imagine how the great heart beneath the student’s clerical coat craved the love of those for whom he truly cared.
Outsiders saw only a busy scholar, absorbed in his work, to all appearances somewhat of a recluse. It is true, however, that his last busy years, devotedto a book on “Symbolic Logic,” kept him tied to his study during most of the Oxford term, and that in consequence he had little time for sociability, if he wished to complete his work.
The first part of “Symbolic Logic” was published in 1896, and although sixty-four years old at the time, his writing and his reasoning were quite as clear as in the earlier days. He never reached the point of “going down hill.” Everything that he undertook showed the vigorous strain in him, and though the end of his life was not far off, those who loved him were never tortured by a long and painful illness. As he said of himself, his life had been so singularly free from the cares and worries that assail most people, the current flowed so evenly that his mental and physical health endured till the last.
In later years the tall, slim figure, the clean-shaven, delicate, refined face, the quiet, courteous, rather distant manner, were much commented upon alike by friends and strangers. With “grown-ups” he had always the air of the absent-minded scholar, but no matter how occupied, the presence of a little girl broke down the crust of his reserve and he became immediately the sunny companion, the fascinating weaver of tales, the old, enticing Lewis Carroll.
But he was above all things what we would call “a settled old bachelor.” He had little “ways” essentially his own, little peculiarities in which nodoubt he took a secret and childish pride. With children these were always more or less amusing.
If he was going on a railway journey, for instance, he mapped out every minute of his time; then he would calculate the amount of money to be spent, and he always carried two purses, arranging methodically the sums for cabs, porters, newspapers, refreshments, and so forth, in different partitions, so he always had the correct change and always secured the best of service. In packing he was also very particular; everything in his trunk had to be separately wrapped up in a piece of paper, and his luggage (he probably traveled with several trunks) always preceded him by a day or so, while his only encumbrance was a well-known little black bag which he always carried himself.
In dress, he was also a trifle “odd.” He was scrupulously neat and very scholarly in appearance, with frock coat and immaculate linen, but he never wore an overcoat no matter how cold the weather, and in all seasons he wore a pair of gray and black cotton gloves and a tall hat.
He had a horror of staring colors, especially in little girls’ dresses. He loved pink and gray, but any child visiting him, who dared to bring with her a dress of startling hue, such as red or green or yellow, was forbidden to wear it in his company.
His appetite was unusually small, and he used to marvel at the good solid food his girl friends managed to consume. Once, when he took aspecial favorite out to dine, he warned his hostess to be careful in helping her as she ate far too much.
In writing, he seldom sat down; how he managed we are not told, but most likely his desk was a high one.
He was a great walker in all winds and weather. Sometimes he overdid it, and came home with blistered feet and aching joints, sometimes soaked to the skin when overtaken by an unexpected rain; but always elated over the distance he had traveled. He forgot, in the sheer delight of active exercise, that he was not absolutely proof against illness, and that added years needed added care; and as we find that the many severe colds which now constantly attacked him came usually in the winter, there is every reason to believe that human imprudence weakened a very strong constitution, and that Lewis Carroll minus an overcoat meant Lewis Carroll plus a very bad cold.
On one occasion (February, 1895) he was laid up with a ten days’ attack of influenza, with very high and alarming fever. Yet as late as December, 1897, a few weeks before his death, he boasted of sitting in his large room with no fire, an open window, and a temperature of 54°.
Another time he had a severe attack of illness which prevented him from spending his usual Christmas with his sisters at Guildford. He was a prisoner in his room for over six weeks, but in writingto one of his beloved child friends he joked over it all, his only regret being the loss of the Christmas plum pudding.
From the time of the publication of “Alice in Wonderland” Lewis Carroll was a man of independent means; had he wished, he might have lived in great style and luxury, but being simple and unassuming in his tastes, he was content with his spacious book-lined rooms, with their air of solid, old-fashioned comfort. The things around him, which he cared for most, were things endeared by association, from the pictures of his girl friends upon the walls to that delightful and mysterious cupboard in which generations of children had loved to rummage.
He was fond, too, of practicing little economies where one would least expect them. In giving those enjoyable dinners of his, he kept neatly cut pieces of cardboard to slip under the plates and dishes; table mats he considered a needless luxury and a mere waste of money, while the cardboard could be renewed from time to time, with little trouble or expense. But if he wished to buy books for himself or take some little girl pet off for a treat, he never seemed to count the cost, and he gave so generously that many a child of the old days has cause to remember. On one occasion he found a crowd of ragamuffins surrounding the window of a shop where they were cooking cakes. Something in the wistful glances of the little street urchins stirredhim strangely as he was passing by, a little girl on either side of him. Suddenly he darted into the shop, and before long came out, his arms piled with the freshly made cakes, which he passed around to the hungry, big-eyed little fellows, leaving the small girls inside the shop, where they could enjoy the pretty scene which stamped itself forever in their memories.
His charities were never known, save that he gave freely in many directions. He was opposed tolendingmoney, but if the case was worthy he was willing togivewhatever was necessary, and this he did with a kindliness and grace peculiarly his own. He was interested in hospitals, especially the children’s wards, and many a donation of books and pictures and games and puzzles found their way to these pathetic little sufferers, whose heavy hours were lightened by his thoughtfulness. Hundreds of the “Alice” books were given in this fashion and many a generous check anonymously sent eased the pain of a great big sorrowful world of sick children. After his death his old friends, wishing that something special should be done to honor his memory, subscribed a sum of money to endow a cot in the Children’s Hospital in Great Ormond Street. This was called the “Alice in Wonderland” cot, and is devoted to little patients connected with the stage, in which he had always shown such an interest.
Much has been said of Lewis Carroll’s reverencefor sacred things; from the days of his solemn little boyhood this was a most noticeable trait of his character. He had, as we have seen, no “cut and dried” notions regarding religion, but he was old-fashioned in many of his ideas, and while he did not believe in making the Sabbath a day of dull, monotonous ordeal, he set it apart from other days, and made of it a beautiful day of rest. He put from him the weekly cares and worries, brushing aside all work, and requiring others connected with him to do likewise. He wrote to Miss E. Gertrude Thomson, who was illustrating “The Three Sunsets”—his last collection of poems—(published in 1898), that she would oblige him greatly by making no drawings or photographs for him on a Sunday.
When he could, especially during the last years of his life, he gave a sermon, either at Guildford, Eastbourne, or at Oxford. It was through his influence that the Sunday dinner hour at the University was changed from seven to six o’clock, in order that the servants might be able to attend services. These he often conducted himself, and sometimes, in his direct and earnest talks, appealed to many who were hard to reach. Above all, however, a flock of children inspired his best efforts, and the simple fact that he always practiced what he preached made his words all the more impressive. In short, but for the impediment in his speech, he would have made a great preacher.
It was this simple, childlike faith of his that kept him always young—in touch with the youth about him. Old age was never associated with him, and constant exercise made him as lithe and active as a boy. There is an amusing tale of some distinguished personage who went to call on the Rev. Mr. Hatch, and while waiting for his host, he heard a great commotion under the dining table. Stooping down he saw children’s legs waving frantically below, and, diving down himself to join the fun, he came face to face with Lewis Carroll, who had been the foundation of this animated, wriggling mass.
On another occasion Lewis Carroll went to call upon a friend, and finding her out, was about to turn away, when the maid, who had come from the front door to answer the bell at the gate, gave a startled cry—for the door had blown shut, and she was locked out of the house. Lewis Carroll was, as usual, equal to the occasion; he borrowed a ladder from some kind neighbor, climbed in at the drawing-room window, and after performing numerous acrobatic feats of the “small boy” type, managed to open the front door for the anxious maid.
His constant association with children made his activity in many ways equal to theirs. He certainly could outwalk them, for eighteen to twenty miles could not daunt him, and many a small girl who was brave enough to accompany him on what he called“a short walk” had tired feet and aching joints when the walk was over.
On December 23, 1897, he made ready for his yearly visit to Guildford, where he spent the usual happy Christmas, but in the early part of the New Year a slight hoarseness heralded the return of his oldenemy—influenza. At first there seemed to be nothing alarming in his illness, but the disease spread very rapidly. The labored breathing, the short, painful gasps, quickly sapped his strength. On January 14, 1898, before his anxious family could quite realize it, the blow had fallen; the life which had meant so much to them, to everyone, went out, as Lewis Carroll folded his hands, closed his eyes, and said with that unquestioning faith, which had been his mainstay through the years: “Father, Thy will be done!”
Through the land there was mourning. Countless children bowed their sunny heads as the storm of grief passed over them, and it seemed as if, during the quiet funeral, a hush had come upon the world. They laid him to rest beneath the shadow of a tall pine, and a pure white cross bearing his own name and the name of “Lewis Carroll” rose to mark the spot, that the children who passed by might never forget their friend.
It seems, indeed, now that the years have passed, that the Angel of Death was very gentle with this fair soul. After all, does he not live in the happy fun and laughter he has left behind him, and willnot the coming generations of children find in the wonder tales the same fascination that held the children of long ago? While childhood lasts on earth, while the memory of him lives in millions of childish hearts, Lewis Carroll can never die.
THE END.
Transcriber’s Note:Punctuation has been corrected without note.