gentleman"He's not a gentleman," she said.—p. 401.
"He's not a gentleman," she said.—p. 401.
"He's not a gentleman," she said.—p. 401.
"Yes, my grandfather was dreadfully extravagant, and since father came into power the agricultural depression was the finishing stroke. It was cruelly hard to leave the dear old place, but the mortgagees foreclosed, and we all had to turn out. Dad and mother went to live in Cornwall, where she owns a tiny cottage. Harold passed as a doctor, Jack's at Johannesburg, and Ted's in Australia. Then Connie, my youngest sister, is companion to an old lady, and Esther and I share a cupboard of a flat with an old schoolfellow, Mabel Bryan, whose partner I am in a typewriting office. Esther, who's awfully clever, as well as handsome, and knows several languages, iscorresponding clerk to a firm of shippers. She gets a hundred a year, and I manage to make about a pound a week; but I'm not clever, and have to do the best I can. We work awfully hard, but I really think we are happier than if we had nothing to do."
"I'm sure you are," sighed May, as her eye fell upon her own dearly purchased finery. "I must say, I think it very plucky of you to take it as you do."
Lulu opened her eyes, for she was not accustomed to pity. "I'm proud to be a working-woman, and even if I were rich like you, Mrs. Burnside, I couldn't bear to sit with my hands folded."
"Rich like me!" May echoed drearily. "I'm not rich; I owe everything I possess to my aunt."
"But she's rich, so it must be the same thing," persisted Lulu.
Just then Harold came hurrying in. "I was as quick as I could be, Mrs. Burnside," he began, manifestly pleased to find May still there. With an alarmed glance at the clock, she arose to go, and said cordially—
"I should be so pleased, Dr. Inglis, if you would bring your sister to see me on Tuesday afternoon."
"Many thanks, Mrs. Burnside, but I must return by the excursion train on Tuesday morning," returned Lulu; and May dared not urge the point. To invite the Inglises to any meal but afternoon tea was out of her power, for Miss Waller disapproved of promiscuous guests at luncheon and dinner. So, bidding a cordial farewell to Lulu, May set forth with Doris to Victoria Square, escorted by happy Harold.
"I call her a beautiful anomaly!" Lulu observed later on to her brother, when he asked what she thought of Mrs. Burnside. "At first, seeing how she was dressed, I concluded she was only a fashionable butterfly, caring for nothing but amusement. But from her talk I could see I had been unjust, and that there's nothing she would like better than being useful and independent. Poor thing! Her face is one of the saddest I ever saw."
"I believe she has a very uncomfortable time of it with Miss Waller, who is a Tartar, from all accounts."
"Then why does she stay with her?"
"What else can she do, with that child?"
An unpleasant quarter of an hour awaited May within her aunt's door, which she entered with a sinking heart. Doris was instantly bundled off to bed, after which Miss Waller—in thin, high tones, very different from her suave society accents—moralised on May's enormities in absenting herself without notice, whilst Mr. Lang vainly awaited her return. He had just gone, evidently vexed at her non-appearance.
"Mr. Lang has no jurisdiction over me!" May was irritated into retorting at last, whereupon her aunt's frown became portentous.
"Mr. Lang is my friend, and, as such, I insist that you treat him with respect! Pray, who are you, to set your will against mine? I paid for the very dress you have on, and every article you possess, and but for me you and Doris would be in the workhouse!"
May would not trust herself to reply, but went away to her own room, there to shed some very bitter tears. As she eyed her tall figure in the glass, arrayed in the beautiful garments for which she had to pay so dearly, she heartily envied the three happy girls in their flat, as described by Lulu. How fortunate they were, to be able to do as they pleased, and indebted to no living soul for anything! "Oh, to be free!—to be free!" she panted, realising her slavery as she had never realised it before.
When bright-faced Lulu had returned home, brief though her visit had been, Harold missed her inexpressibly. To vary the monotony of his dreary rooms, he paid his promised call in Victoria Square, to find himself promptly relegated to the background by Miss Waller, who perfectly understood how to snub people without being unladylike. May, who made tea, hardly uttered a word; and the lion of the occasion was Mr. Lang, who expatiated on the riches of South Africa and his own importance on the Randt.
"You're nowhere unless you've got money nowadays," he confidently asserted.
"Oh, but"—expostulated a meek little clergyman's wife, looking rather shocked, "surely culture goes for something—and descent—and——"
"Culture, descent, my dear madam! We haven't time to bother about such things at Johannesburg! They'd be no use to a man there!"
"I'm sorry to hear it," Harold was provoked into saying. "My brother Jack is out there, and I shouldn't like him to come back less of a gentleman than he went!"
"What's he doing?" disdainfully drawled the plutocrat.
"He is in the office of the Victorina Mine."
"Ah! a good property that—not equal to the Springkloof, though. I know the Victorina manager; perhaps next time I go out, I may look your brother up."
"How kind of you, Mr. Lang!" gushed Miss Waller; but Harold never said a word.
"Well now, Miss Waller," said Mr. Lang, "it's time I was returning to London, and don't you think you ought to give Mrs. Burnside a little taste of dissipation before the season closes?"
"I should have taken her to London before, but dear May always says she doesn't like town," answered the spinster, who always posed as a most affectionate aunt in public. "I must leave you to tryyourpersuasions." As she spoke, she darted a glance at her niece which plainly said, "Refuse to go, if you dare!"
"London is so hot now—and Doris——" faltered the girl in manifest dismay. The clergyman's wife took her departure, but Harold sat doggedly on, determined to hear the result.
"Doris could be left behind perfectly well," rejoined Mr. Lang, who disliked the child as much as she disliked him.
"We shall be very pleased to see a little of London under your auspices, Mr. Lang," interrupted Miss Waller, in a sub-acid tone. "I know of some nice rooms near Hyde Park, which will be quieter than a hotel, and I'll write about them to-night."
May said no more; but Harold perceived an expression of absolute despair flit over her features for a moment, and his heart swelled with pity for her.
He paced his lonely sitting-room many times that evening, lamenting his own impotence. A few patients, poor people to whom he was at home for an hour, mornings and evenings, came to consult him for a fee of one shilling, medicine included; but even these were few in number. He had the very deepest sympathy with the poor; but to be wasting his time here when, in a few days, Mrs. Burnside would be staying close to that man in Palace Gardens!
grey"Harold! Here's that pretty girl in grey."—p. 402.
"Harold! Here's that pretty girl in grey."—p. 402.
"Harold! Here's that pretty girl in grey."—p. 402.
There was a ring at the bell, and the landlady entered, announcing, with a smile, "Miss Geare and Miss Pepper." A little, round-faced, white-haired lady, with curiously wandering light-blue eyes, then tripped into theroom, carrying something carefully in her arms; followed by a forbidding, tall, dark-haired female, to whom Harold took an instant and hearty dislike.
"Oh, doctor!" began the little lady, in a breathless, excited way, with hardly any stops, "I saw your plate on the door, and I've come to see if you can cure my darling little Bijon; a great cruel cabman has just driven over him, and I'm afraid his poor leg's broken. Will you look?"
Harold could hardly restrain a smile. "I am not a veterinary surgeon, madam."
despairHarold perceived an expression of despair flit over her features.—p. 405.
Harold perceived an expression of despair flit over her features.—p. 405.
Harold perceived an expression of despair flit over her features.—p. 405.
"I told you it was no use coming here," growled Miss Pepper, the companion, in a voice as unamiable as her face.
"Oh, but poor Bijou is in such pain!"
With that Miss Geare burst into passionate tears and again entreated Harold's aid. To end the tiresome scene, he examined the dog, unprofessional though it might be, and, finding one of its legs was broken, improvised splints and set it carefully. Miss Geare's gratitude was excessive.
"And youwillcome and see Bijou, won't you?" implored the old lady. "He must have attention until he gets well, and I live at Lyndhurst Lodge, Murray Road."
Harold demurred, as being unprofessional.
"Then come to attendme," eagerly responded Miss Geare. "I'm often rather ailing; and you can give Bijou a look at the same time."
She looked at him so pleadingly that he could not find it in his heart to say no. She brightened up at his consent, and asked for a cab, in which to take home her injured darling, and then laid a sovereign and a shilling on the table.
"I don't think I am entitled to charge for attending the dog," said Harold, crimsoning. "Certainly, this is far too much."
"Watson, the veterinary surgeon,neverwould have charged a guinea," indignantly added Miss Pepper; but Miss Geare was resolute, and when she had departed, it was certainly pleasant to see the gold piece on the table, sovereigns being sadly scarce with him, poor fellow!
He instituted inquiries, and learnt that Miss Geare belonged to a good family, and was well-off, but somewhat "queer." In early youth she was engaged to an officer, who was killed at Delhi, and had become gradually more and more eccentric, until now she only lived for her dogs and cats. Miss Pepper, it was added, tyrannised over her shamefully, as though she were the mistress and Miss Geare the companion.
The old lady was warm-hearted, though rather fickle, and, having taken a fancy to Harold, contrived to secure him several fresh and welcome patients. Miss Geare herself was far from strong, and afforded a legitimate exercise for Harold's skill, which salved his conscience in the matter of Bijou. But Miss Pepper remained, from first to last, distinctly hostile.
[END OF CHAPTER SIX.]
So many children will grieve over the sad event—the death that deprived them of one of the best and kindest friends that children ever came across—the children who have followed "Alice" through all the wonderful adventures of "Wonderland" will be saddened by the thought that the hand which held the pen that gave them such amusement is now still for ever; and the children now grown up who knew Lewis Carroll personally will look back into the years agone and remember his delightful stories, and his never-ceasing kindness towards them in their youthful days.
LewisLEWIS CARROLL.(At the age of 8.)
LEWIS CARROLL.(At the age of 8.)
LEWIS CARROLL.
(At the age of 8.)
To my mind Oxford will never be quite the same again, now that so many of the dear old friends of one's childhood have "gone over to the great majority." My poor old father, though always wishing to go for little excursions back to the old University town where so many years of his life had been spent, came back to his country rectory in the Cotswold Hills bemoaning the loss of the "many who had gone before," and how the familiar forms of his old college friends were, alas! no more to be seen.
Often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the old wainscoted wall, have we—father and I—chatted over the old Oxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together in Long-Wall Street. I was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child, and, for some years, I might say, I was quite alone in the nursery, my small, fat baby-brother being much more appreciated than myself. I was left almost entirely to the kind and gentle mercy of Mary Pearson, my own particular attendant, and though father, of course, had commenced his friendship with Mr. Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) long before, I only remember him first when I was about seven, and from that time until we went to live in Gloucestershire, he was one of my most delightful friends.
father(From a Photo by Lewis Carroll.)THE AUTHOR AND HER FATHER (THE REV. E. A. LITTON).
(From a Photo by Lewis Carroll.)THE AUTHOR AND HER FATHER (THE REV. E. A. LITTON).
(From a Photo by Lewis Carroll.)
THE AUTHOR AND HER FATHER (THE REV. E. A. LITTON).
I shall never forget when, sitting on a rustic seat with Mr. Dodgson under a dear old tree in the Botanical Gardens, I heard for the first time the delightful and ever-entertaining story of Hans Andersen's "Ugly Duckling." I was devoted to books, and could read quite well for so small a child, but I cannot explain the delightful way in which Mr. Dodgson read and told his stories: as he read, the characters were real flesh and blood—living figures. This particular story made a great impression on me, and, being very sensitive about my ugly little self, it greatly interested me. I remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good, truthful, and to try not to think of self, than to be a pretty, selfish child, spoilt anddisagreeable, and he, from that story, gave me the name of "Ducky," which name clung to me for many years; in fact, from that day Mary Pearson always called me "Miss Ducky."
Alice(From a Photo by Lewis Carroll.)THE ORIGINAL OF "ALICE IN WONDERLAND."
(From a Photo by Lewis Carroll.)THE ORIGINAL OF "ALICE IN WONDERLAND."
(From a Photo by Lewis Carroll.)
THE ORIGINAL OF "ALICE IN WONDERLAND."
Many a time has Mr. Dodgson said, "Never mind, little Ducky; perhaps some day you will turn out a swan."
I always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of Mr. Dodgson: his stories of animal life, his knowledge of their lives and histories, his enthusiasm about birds and butterflies, passed many a tiresome hour away. The monkeys in the Botanical Gardens were our special pets, and, oh! the nuts and biscuits we used to give them! He entered into the spirit of the fun as much as "Ducky" did.
Then there were the mornings spent in the Christ Church and Merton meadows: Mary and I took our daily walks abroad there. Years have passed since then, and I have travelled in many climes, but I always think that the recollections of the days of one's childhood never fade. One's views of life, persons, and things were so fresh, so different from the judgment of things in later years.
Those meadows were, to me, full of the loveliest field-flowers—daisies, the beautiful "snake-flower"—so rare, I understand now—the golden buttercups, the masses of dandelions with the added, never-failing fun of blowing the downy seeds away.
Nurse Mary always took thread and a needle in her pocket; these were for the making of daisy-chains, and, oh! the wreaths we strung as we sat in the soft grass, with the dear old Broad Walk quite close, and when we raised our eyes the lovely vision of Merton College, with its covered walls of Virginian creeper! It all comes back to me so vividly, though it is now far away in the past years. And how delighted we were to see the well-known figure in his cap and gown coming, so swiftly, with his kind smile ready to welcome the "Ugly Duckling" sitting in the grass! I knew, as he sat beside me, that a fairy-tale book was hidden in his pocket, or that I should hear something nice—perhaps a new game or a puzzle—and he would gravely accept a tiny daisy bouquet for his coat with as much courtesy as if it had been the finest hot-houseboutonnière. I was very proud when, between us, we had made a chain of cuckoo-flowers and daisy heads long enough to twine round my hat.
These meadows and the walk along the wall were remarkable then for the quantity of snails of all kinds that, on fine days and damp days, came out to take the air, and to me they were objects of great dislike and horror. Mr. Dodgson so gently and patiently showed me how silly I was, how harmless the poor snails were, and told me so much about the shells they carried on their backs, and showed me how wonderfully they were made, that I soon got over the fright and made quite a collection of discarded shells; which collection finally took up its abode in a little crimson-paper trunk that Mr. Dodgson found at old Mrs. Green's toyshop and bought for me.
About this time also father had added to my nursery literature "Ministering Children," "Sandford and Merton," and "Rosamund; or, The Purple Jar." All these were shown in great glee to my kind friend, who (as I knew he would) read to me from them.
Two or three times I went fishing with him from the bank, near the Old Mill opposite Addison's Walk (Oxford), and he entered quite into my happiness when a small fish came wriggling up on the end of my crooked pin and line, just ready for the dinner of the little white kitten, "Lily," he had given me.
In those days Addison's Walk had, in season, its banks covered with pretty periwinkles—white and blue—and there were strict laws not to pick them. I, childlike, could not resist the temptation, and one day, Mary being seated at work near by, "Ducky," left to play alone, gathered a bunch of the coveted beauties, hid them under her little spencer (a small coat of those days), and trotted by Mary's side, half-frightened, to the lodge of the gruff old porter, who sat reading his paper, glancing always at the passers through his doorway. Nothing escaped his notice. Mary went through andthen I, half-trembling, with the periwinkles closely clasped to my side. The street gained, I was safe, but (alas! there is always a "but"), Mr. Dodgson, going to see a friend in the college, came up to me, saying, "Why so flushed, little Alice? And what is that hanging below your jacket?"
The flowers had not gained anything by their hot pressure under my jacket, and it was a very much ashamed, sad little girl who stood convicted of flower-theft!
"Ducky, come with me"; and, taking my unwilling hand, he led me back to the grim old custodian of the cloisters, to whom I had to deliver up the now faded periwinkles, and promise future goodness and "never to do so any more." Then Mary took me in hand, and the quiet little "weep" I indulged in while going home was much enhanced by the sound of Mary's voice telling me: "Miss Ducky, you are an awful naughty child; you have quite disgusted Mr. Dodgson, and you shall go to your bed without supper." This threat she carried out.
On Sunday afternoons father used to take me for a walk to St. John's College gardens, or, perhaps, New College gardens, and as they—father and Mr. Dodgson—were great friends, he often joined us. And how I enjoyed all the bright sunshine and the shade of the mulberry-trees! And then father, tired from his morning services, snatched a "forty-winks." I revelled in stories of small men and maidens, stories so entertaining that I thought I could never read "line upon line" any more; and then there were the stories of the other little Alice who bore the same initials as myself, and who was so pretty and behaved so well; who sat before the wonderful photographing machine and came out a pretty little beggar girl! I am afraid I was rather envious of this child and a tiny bit jealous, but I took the greatest interest in what she did and said. And I remember all this perfectly.
Before me, as I write, is a likeness of Mr. Dodgson; in fact, two photographs. These are just as I remember him. It was his sweet smile and face that endeared him so much to his youthful friends, his never-failing interest in their childlike joys and sorrows. Mr. Dodgson was a very quiet, reserved man, and cared little for society, such as large parties and receptions; but to come and go as he liked in the homes of those with whom he was intimate, these visits were some of the pleasures he allowed himself. He also made very welcome the visits of his child-friends, and it was a great treat to go to see him in his rooms in Christ Church College.
My dear father (the Rev. E. A. Litton, a very well known man in the old Oxford days of sixty years ago) was much attached to Mr. Dodgson, and they used to meet frequently to discuss points that interested them both. I was always allowed, if I bore a good record in the nursery, to join father when he went to Christ Church, and I knew that, sooner or later during the visit, something good would be for me. The delicious slices of cake and bread-and-butter, the glass of creamy milk; the soft pile of cushions on the sofa if I felt tired, and the glittering little glass balls of his wonderful game of "Solitaire," for me to play with; the lovely picture-books which I was so careful not to tear or hurt in any way; and then to be allowed to look at the portraits of other little friends who knew and visited him as I did!
earringTHE FIRST EARRING.(From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll.)
THE FIRST EARRING.(From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll.)
THE FIRST EARRING.
(From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll.)
Mr. Dodgson was a great admirer of photography and he inspired father with a like enthusiasm, and I am the happy possessor of a photograph (reproduced on page 407) that our dear friend took at Christ Church of father and me. Such a good likeness of father and me, such a lanky, long-legged,shy child, with very short petticoats, low shoes, and a huge flap hat! More than forty years has this been taken—the two dear friends gone for ever and only the photograph remaining as souvenir of the dear old past—it is almost as fresh as the day it was taken!
Other likenesses were taken, but, though I have hunted about, I cannot find them. Also, to my great sorrow, I have lost several long, illustrated letters written to me with the hope of shaming me out of several bad habits and faults. One in particular was the sucking of my thumb, and this Mr. Dodgson always teased me about very much. One day I received a long letter with funny little pictures of a small family of birds who would suck their thumbs (claws). They looked so comical in a row, on a branch, with their claws in their beaks, and the father- and mother-birds below with a pot of bitter aloes, a birch-rod, and long muslin bags to tie up the claws in. The next picture showed the little birds weeping, with their claws in bags, the father and mother enjoying a good repast, and the naughty little birds "had none"! And so on all the way through this most interesting pictorial letter, till the little birds had no claws left. All sucked away! The story was quite as interesting as the pictures, and I think it did me good, as Mary Pearson always read this letter to me whenever I sucked my thumb more than usual, and protested my thumbs were disappearing as the birds' claws did, and I was terribly frightened; for Mr. Dodgson used to say Mary was quite right, and I should be spoken of as "the little girl without thumbs."
My hair was a great trouble to me as a child, for it would tangle and Mary was not over and above patient as I twisted and turned when she wished to dress it. So one day I received a long, blue envelope addressed to myself (letters are always so delightful to children—they raise them almost to the ranks of the "grown-ups"), and there was a story-letter, all full of drawings, from Mr Dodgson. The first picture was of a little girl—hat off and tumbled hair very muchen évidence—asleep on a rustic bench under a big tree by the side of a river (supposed to be the dear old seat in the Botanical Gardens), and two birds holding an evidently most important conversation above in the branches, their heads on one side, eyeing the sleeping child. The next picture, the two birds, flying with twigs and straw, preparing to build a nest; the child still sleeping and the birds chirping and twittering with the delight of building their nest in the tangled hair of the child. Next came the awakening. The work complete, the mother-bird on her nest, the father-bird flying round the frightened child. And then, lastly, hundreds of birds—the air thick with them; the child fleeing; small boys with tin trumpets raised to their lips, and Nurse Mary, with a basket of brushes and combs, bringing up the rear! All this, with the well-drawn-out story, cured me of this fault, and Mary, in after-life, told me she "had no more trouble; just to open the letter and show the unhappy child in the picture, and I was 'passive as a lamb.'" Sometimes father would say, patting my head, "Any more nests to-day, Ducky? Birds would not have a chance now with this smooth little head."
CarrollLEWIS CARROLL.(The Rev. C. L. Dodgson.)
LEWIS CARROLL.(The Rev. C. L. Dodgson.)
LEWIS CARROLL.
(The Rev. C. L. Dodgson.)
I have grieved greatly that these picture-stories are no more, and, from several letters which I have seen from other littlegirls—now grown up and far away in different parts of the world, their letters of a like kind have also gone astray and been lost amidst the movings, changings, and chances of life.
In after years my father often told me another story of Mr. Dodgson, which I, being so young, had forgotten. In the very early part of the time in which I knew him, he one day called in Long-Wall Street to fetch father to go with him to "The Union" to look into some particular subject together. Mr. Dodgson was anxious I should go as well, as, perhaps, we might all take a walk, and as I promised to be most obedient and good, I was told to go and get my hat. I trotted along, and, "The Union" reached, was put in a comfortable chair to wait till they were ready to go on the proposed walk. It was hot, and I was tired, and the crackling of papers turning over and the hum of voices lulled me to sleep. I slept on, oblivious of all, and, I suppose, the two friends, talking intently, forgot my existence and, in earnest conversation, left "The Union"—and me, sleeping quietly, quite alone.
Mr. Dodgson left father in Long-Wall Street, and then went to his rooms in Christ Church. Suddenly, so the story goes, he thought, "We went out three; we came back two; where is three?"
And then it flashed across him that there had been no "three" left in Long-Wall Street—only his friend—and so "three" must have been left somewhere on the road. Though it was just the hour of dinner, this good friend trudged back to "The Union," intent upon finding the lost lamb, and there I was still asleep, coiled up, as he expressed it, "like a dormouse." I was taken home tired and a little cross; it was past my supper-time; I was hungry, and quite ready for the white sheets and pillows that lead to dreamland. But, always thoughtful for others, Mr. Dodgson strayed into the ever-famous and delightful shop of Boffins in "The High," and a sugared Bath-bun and a glass of jelly revived my drooping spirits and raised my courage to meet Mary. I was soon given into her care, and my adventures, as told by Mr. Dodgson, made me quite a heroine, and I felt myself a person of some importance with a history.
I had a daily governess, a dear old soul, who used to come every morning to instruct my youthful mind. I disliked particularly the large-lettered copies in my writing-book, and, as I confided this to Mr. Dodgson, he came and set me some copies himself. I remember two were, "Patience and water-gruel cure gout." (I wondered what "gout" could be.) "Little girls should be seen and not heard." (This I thought unkind.) These were written many times over, and I had to present the pages at the end of the week to him without one blot or smudge.
HumptyALICE AND HUMPTY DUMPTY.(From a Photograph.)
ALICE AND HUMPTY DUMPTY.(From a Photograph.)
ALICE AND HUMPTY DUMPTY.
(From a Photograph.)
Magdalen College always, to my childish mind, was a most lovely and beautiful place, and my favourite walking ground in hot weather because of the splendid trees. I also had a great admiration for the many and brilliant-flowered balconies of some of the Fellows of the College, which looked into High Street just before the Bridge of Magdalen commenced. One particularly was the show window of the set, flaming with the most varied colours—vivid geraniums, lobelias, mignonette, and two tiny mirrors, cleverly inserted amongst the flowers, so that the person inside could see who was passing, either way, up or down the street, without being seen himself.
I was quite at home in these rooms, as they also belonged to a friend of my father, a Mr. Saul; he was a Fellow of Magdalen, and I always admired him so much, andthought he could never be unhappy living in such charming rooms. I can see him now, with his cheery laugh and white hair, and his very portly figure, and, oh! the musical instruments that were here, there, and everywhere! Mr. Dodgson and father and myself all went one afternoon to pay him a visit. At that time Mr. Saul was very much interested in the study of the big drum, and, with books before him and a much heated face, he was in full practice when we arrived. Nothing would do but that all the party must join in the concert. Father undertook the 'cello, Mr. Dodgson took a comb and paper, and, amidst much fun and laughter, the walls echoed with the finished roll, or shake, of the big drum—a roll that was Mr. Saul's delight. All this went on till some other Oxford Dons (mutual friends) came in to see "if everybody had gone suddenly cracked." I meanwhile, perched amongst the flowers and mirrors, joined in the fun by singing and clapping my hands with delight at the drum, comb, and 'cello. When all had quieted down, a large musical-box was wound up for my edification; such a treat it was for me to listen to the beautiful airs!
innocenceTHE AGE OF INNOCENCE.(From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll.)
THE AGE OF INNOCENCE.(From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll.)
THE AGE OF INNOCENCE.
(From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll.)
Music is, and always has been, the chief delight of my life, and father always greatly encouraged this taste in me. Many a time, in our walks amongst the Cotswolds in the long years after, father would say, "Ducky, do you remember poor old Saul and his big drum? And the fun we all had together, and how Dr. Bully thought we had all gone in for Littlemore Asylum? Oh, the dear old days, child! The dear old days!" And then we would walk on quite silently, father wrapped in the past, till we reached the ivy-covered rectory and the lights, and the daily routine of life was taken up once more.
One more story of my childhood, and then I shall have to write "Finis" to what to me is so delightful—the shutting of one's eyes in the twilight and the wandering back into the past with the many near and dear friends—some now scattered far and wide, others gone into the "weird unknown." Gone, but ever present in the loving memories of friends.
Not very far away from Wadham College (in my remembrance) was a road leading to "The Parks"; this was also a very nice walk, and the hedges, when I was a small girl, were full of "ragged robin," wild roses, and other field flowers. Yellow butterflies and, sometimes, "peacock" butterflies, could also be found there. So, to the mind of eight years old, it was a "happy hunting ground" for "eyes that could see and look for things," and my pockets were generally filled with great treasures on returning—which treasures, alas! Mary Pearson always dubbed "Miss Ducky's aggravating rubbish."
Now father had a great friend living near Park Crescent, and one of the bonds of sympathy (and a great one it was) between father, Mr. Dodgson, and the little old gentleman, was mathematics. This friend, whose name I have forgotten, lived in one of a row of houses at the top of Park Crescent, and many were the times we all three took this particular walk together to see the old scholar. My delight was resting in the pleasant little parlour of the housekeeper, into whose charge I was always given. She had very beady black eyes, a bunch of keys at her waist, and a most wonderful cap with bouquets of flowers intermixed with lace at each of her ears, and funny little grey curls and combs (like those of the present day) to fasten them back. I always was most polite to her and put on my very best manners. To me she was a most potential personage, and her coltsfoot wine and old-fashioned rock cakes, with which she always regaled mewith no sparing hand, were so delicious! Nowhere else did these particular dainties seem to me so good. Perhaps hunger (which is always the best sauce) had something to do with it; but I know I munched the cakes and gazed intently at the swaying grasses and flowers on her head, as she told me that she made all the cakes herself, and also could sometimes make, when little girls were "extra good," "almond toffee" of the most appetising description.
stick56. THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY.Ch. 6.Hush! The Baron slumbers! Two men with stealthy steps are removing his strong-box.[2]It is very heavy and their knees tremble, partly with the weight, partly with fear. He snores and they both start; the box rattles, not a moment is to be lost; they hasten from the room. It was very, very hard to get the box out of the window but they did it at last; though not without making noise enough to waken ten ordinary sleepers: the Baron, luckily for them, was anextraordinary sleeper.At a safe distance from the castle, they sat down the box, and proceeded to force off the lid. Four mortal hours[3]did MrMillon Smith and his mysterious companion labor thereat; at sun rise it flew off with a noise louder than theA PAGE FROM THE "UMBRELLA BOOK."(Written and Drawn by Lewis Carroll.)
56. THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY.Ch. 6.Hush! The Baron slumbers! Two men with stealthy steps are removing his strong-box.[2]It is very heavy and their knees tremble, partly with the weight, partly with fear. He snores and they both start; the box rattles, not a moment is to be lost; they hasten from the room. It was very, very hard to get the box out of the window but they did it at last; though not without making noise enough to waken ten ordinary sleepers: the Baron, luckily for them, was anextraordinary sleeper.At a safe distance from the castle, they sat down the box, and proceeded to force off the lid. Four mortal hours[3]did MrMillon Smith and his mysterious companion labor thereat; at sun rise it flew off with a noise louder than theA PAGE FROM THE "UMBRELLA BOOK."(Written and Drawn by Lewis Carroll.)
56. THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY.
Ch. 6.
Hush! The Baron slumbers! Two men with stealthy steps are removing his strong-box.[2]
It is very heavy and their knees tremble, partly with the weight, partly with fear. He snores and they both start; the box rattles, not a moment is to be lost; they hasten from the room. It was very, very hard to get the box out of the window but they did it at last; though not without making noise enough to waken ten ordinary sleepers: the Baron, luckily for them, was anextraordinary sleeper.
At a safe distance from the castle, they sat down the box, and proceeded to force off the lid. Four mortal hours[3]did MrMillon Smith and his mysterious companion labor thereat; at sun rise it flew off with a noise louder than the
A PAGE FROM THE "UMBRELLA BOOK."
(Written and Drawn by Lewis Carroll.)
I was always ready to go this walk with father, and I well remember one occasion on which we went. It must have been about July, for it was very hot, and the roses and other flowers were all out. Mr. Dodgson and father enjoyed a chat, while I—with a mind full of rock cakes, the bright sunshine and all the pretty things of nature in the hedges, and (oh! happy thought!) perhaps the wonderful toffee at the walk's end—danced along till the little garden gate was reached and we all passed through. I always shared my goodies with other people when I could, and I had promised to save some rock cakes for father and Mr. Dodgson, for upstairs they were always much too intent on conversation to think about "refreshments of life," and these things of which I am writing happened before "afternoon teas" of four o'clock were ever thought of.
The toffee was there—rather sticky, owing to the hot weather, but the almonds looked white and cool; and the green plate of cakes and the jug with a dog's face for a spout—all were there just ready for the flushed, tired, little girl. I quite remember the cap that day, for it had bunches of pink May with "Quaker" grass, and the old lady told me it was her best summer cap and had cost six shillings at Oliver's in Corn Market Street. I thought she must be a very rich woman indeed, and told Mr. Dodgson sothat afternoon, when we were once more together. I remember his laugh as he said, "The female mind is full of vanity." I wondered what a "female mind" meant, and father said little girls asked too many questions (he often told me this part of the story afterwards, when I was grown up), and that I should not know what it was, even if I were told. Mr. Dodgson said, "Alice, all things come to those who wait; some time, if God spares you to grow up, you you will learn many things."
StudyLEWIS CARROLL IN HIS STUDY AT CHRIST CHURCH.
LEWIS CARROLL IN HIS STUDY AT CHRIST CHURCH.
LEWIS CARROLL IN HIS STUDY AT CHRIST CHURCH.
But the pleasant hour spent with the old housekeeper came to an end, and the bell was rung, which meant that I had to gather myself together and go home. Two small parcels of toffee and cakes were given into my willing, open, little hands; a towel was hastily found to wipe away my general stickiness; and then I went away from this dear little home into "The Parks" with Mr. Dodgson and father, homewards.
It was hot, and I was tired: I am sorry to say that father said I was "very cross." My little blue shoes, fastened with straps and tiny pearl buttons, would come undone, and all the brightness and flowery hedges had lost their charm for the now overdone "Ducky."
Mr. Dodgson lagged behind, and I saw him looking intently in the hedges and all about, as if he were searching for something. This aroused my curiosity. At length, stooping down, he gathered up something in his handkerchief. I could not see what he had found, but I felt very much interested. Holding the tied-up handkerchief above my head, he said, "This is for my other little Alice; she is a brave girl, and does not cry like a baby at being a wee bit tired. Oh! such a curious, lovely little flower is tied up here!"
At this he waved the handkerchief above my head, and I, so anxious to see what was in it, skipped after him, forgetting the tears and the tired legs. "Tell me what it is," was my breathless request.
No answer. Mr. Dodgson danced on, and I followed, father laughing at the two of us. When we were near dear old Wadham College (not a great distance from Long-Wall Street), Mr. Dodgson said to me, with much solemnity, "Alice, did you ever hear of a 'Bella perennis,' most wonderfully and beautifully made?"
I was awestruck, and whispered, "Never. Is that it?"
He nodded, and we went on again till the steps of our house came in view. By this time I was quiet and wondering, and hoping I should be allowed to see inside the handkerchief, and look at this wonderful, mysterious creation.
Inside our hall was an old oaken bench, and there Mr. Dodgson sat down; I in front of him, in my favourite attitude, with my long, skinny arms clasped behind my back. I dare not speak as the knots were very, very slowly untied, and—oh! only a tiny, withered, half-dead, little daisy appeared to my astonished view! "Where is the beautiful 'Bella something?'" I cried, with a half-sob rising in my throat; I was so bitterly disappointed.
"This is the 'Bella perennis,' child. See how beautifully and carefully it is made: one of God's fairest small field-flowers."
I took it in my hand, and, giving Mr. Dodgson a big hug, I passed through the baize door, leaving my dear, kind friend with father.
I never forgot that walk! It made a very deep impression on my childish mind, not easily effaced in the long after-years. If people only knew what the sympathy of a "real, grown-up friend" is to a shy child, what courage it gives to the trembling little heart! How few children would be set down as shy and stupid, and be thoroughly misunderstood (as some are now), if only there were more like Mr. Dodgson, who, though one of the cleverest of men, could yet stoop to win the love and confidence and enter into the joys and sorrows of his numerous child friends!
Perhaps I have wearied many who may read this, and it is time I should close these past chapters of my "childish memories," shut up the book, and lay down the pen; but it has been an inexpressible pleasure to recall, as far as I can, all Mr. Dodgson's kindness to me and father. Alas! alas! that life should change—on and on—all the dear, old, familiar places and faces disappear. "Old Tom" still chimes his daily hours; but the dear footsteps will never more be heard turning in at the door of the old staircase leading to his rooms in Christ Church College. Those cheerful rooms, where so many delightful hours were spent, will know him no more. All is gone now: only the memory, and the deep respect and love his child friends bore him, remain.
Father died on August 27th, 1897, and Mr. Dodgson on January 14th, 1898; and we, who are left behind, can only hope we may meet them once more in the realms that never change.
Edith Alice Maitland.
chestnutsTHE CHESTNUTS, GUILDFORD.(Where Lewis Carroll died on January 14th, 1898.)
THE CHESTNUTS, GUILDFORD.(Where Lewis Carroll died on January 14th, 1898.)
THE CHESTNUTS, GUILDFORD.
(Where Lewis Carroll died on January 14th, 1898.)
anniversaries
IN MARCH
WesleyTHE REV. JOHN WESLEY.(From the Portrait by G. Romney.)
THE REV. JOHN WESLEY.(From the Portrait by G. Romney.)
THE REV. JOHN WESLEY.
(From the Portrait by G. Romney.)
The March calendar is rich in great names; let us take a selection in pairs, beginning with illustrious divines.
There died at Longleat on March 19th, 1710, Thomas Ken, some-time Bishop of Bath and Wells. The English-speaking world is not likely altogether to forget him, so long at least as his Morning and Evening Hymns are sung. He is one of the uncanonised saints of the English Church, as well as one of the prelates whose names enter into English history. For Ken was amongst the seven bishops sent to the Tower by James II., and one of the Non-jurors deprived under William of Orange. The goodness of the man in an age of sore temptation has been felt by every generation since his death. On March 2nd, 1791, John Wesley died. His life is one of the most astonishing in the religious history of the English people. In its contrasts (such, for example, as between his life as a College Don at Oxford and during his mission to Georgia), in its multitudinous labours, in its immediate influence upon religion in England, and in the far-reaching results of his work both in America and in Great Britain, it is without parallel. He is a figure in the religious history not so much of our own land as of the whole world, wherever the Anglo-Saxon race has set its foot.
NewtonSIR ISAAC NEWTON.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON.
From divines let us pass to men of science. Sir Isaac Newton, one of the most illustrious natural philosophers, and one of those for whom room must always be found in even the briefest list of the greatest Englishmen, died on March 20th, 1727. There is no more distinguished name amongst the sons of Cambridge University. It was by the choice of the University that he came into touch with the political life of the nation, for in 1688 he was sent by it to the Convention Parliament. Newton's name will never seem amiss in such company as that of Ken and Wesley, for he was a profound believer in the Christian faith and a diligent student of the Bible. Newton was Master of the Mint; and this office was also held by Sir John Herschel, who was born on March 7th, 1792. His fame is not dimmed in comparison with that of his father, Sir William Herschel. Although the son's career was not so striking as that of the "Hanoverian fiddler," his scientific acquirements were of singular breadth. At Cambridge, as a very young man, he agreed with two other undergraduates that they would "do their best to leave the world wiser than they found it." The compact seemed presumptuous, but in the case of Herschel it was well kept.