Chapter I: Foreword: 1

THE LADY OF THE LADLE 21

CORONACH 24

LAYS OF SORROW 26

MY FANCY 29

A SEA DIRGE 31

LIMERICK 34

A BACCHANALIAN ODE 35

A LESSON IN LATIN 36

THE TWO BROTHERS 38

POETRY FOR THE MILLION 44

THE DEAR GAZELLE 45

THE MOUSE’S TAIL 46

RHYMED CORRESPONDENCE 47

ACROSTICS 49

MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD 51

WILHELM VON SCHMITZ 57

THE THREE CATS 71

THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND 74

PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY 81

HINTS FOR ETIQUETTE; OR, DINING OUT MADE EASY 86

A HEMISPHERICAL PROBLEM 89

THE TWO CLOCKS 91

THE IDEAL MATHEMATICAL SCHOOL 93

LOVE AND LOCI 95

MORNING DRESS AND EVENING DRESS 97

KISSING BY POST 98

A BIRTHDAY WISH 101

A FEW OF THE THINGS I LIKE 102

MYSELF AND ME 103

MY STYLE OF DANCING 105

GLOVES FOR KITTENS 106

ART IN POTSDAM 109

ON WAITERS 110

LEWIS CARROLL AS A RACONTEUR 113

A LEWIS CARROLL PROVERB 119

_FOREWORD_

This present collection of writings by Lewis Carroll--the King of “Nonsense Literature”--is particularly opportune. Most, if not all, the matter in it will be new to the present generation; some of it, indeed, has never appeared in print before.

Apart from other material, more than one hundred and fifty letters have been examined. Lewis Carroll was a prolific correspondent, and his letters, especially to his child friends, reflected his joyous personality and characteristic humour in no uncommon degree. In this connection, and for some of the biographical details in his introduction, the editor wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to Mr. Stuart Dodgson Collingwood’s “Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll” (a fascinating book long out of print), and to Miss Vera Beringer, Mrs. Barclay, Mrs. Spens, and Mrs. Morton (formerly the three little Miss Bowmans), four ladies who, when children, were among the most intimate of Lewis Carroll’s juvenile comrades. The courtesy of the proprietors of “The Whitby Gazette” in giving permission for the inclusion of “The Lady of the Ladle” and “Wilhelm von Schmitz” must be acknowledged.

THE REAL LEWIS CARROLL

Lewis Carroll’s real name, as most of his adult admirers are aware, was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, and he was born on January 27, 1832, in the Cheshire village of Daresbury, where his father was the local parson.

In this secluded hamlet young Dodgson spent the first eleven years of his life, and in his quaint diversions and hobbies gave promise of the whimsical and bizarre genius which was destined to make him famous.

His biographer has left it on record that he made pets of snails and other queer creatures, and endeavoured to encourage organised warfare among insects by supplying them with pieces of stick with which they might fight, if so disposed.

He also showed early signs of mathematical and scientific talent which, if not rare enough to make the name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson as imperishably and as internationally illustrious as that of Lewis Carroll, rendered it well known in his own generation among his own countrymen, and proved that he was one of those singular geniuses whom, in his own quaint phraseology, he would have described as a “portmanteau” man--that is to say, one man packed with several individualities!

Of the delightful surroundings of his birthplace he has left the following impression in his serious poem, “The Three Sunsets” (first published in “All the Year Round” in 1860):

I watch the drowsy night expire,
And Fancy paints at my desire
Her magic pictures in the fire.
An island farm, ’midst seas of corn
Swayed by the wandering breath of morn,
The happy spot where I was born.

In 1843 the Rev. Mr. Dodgson became rector of Croft, a Durham village near Darlington, with a quaint old church which contains a Norman porch and an elaborate covered-in pew resembling a four-post bedstead. Soon after the transference he was appointed examining chaplain to the Bishop of Ripon, and later became Archdeacon of Richmond (Yorkshire), and one of the Canons of Ripon Cathedral.

“Young Dodgson at this time,” says the authority already quoted, “was very fond of inventing games for the amusement of his brothers and sisters; he constructed a home-made train out of a wheelbarrow, a barrel, and a small truck, which used to convey passengers from one ‘station’ in the rectory gardens to another. At each of these stations there was a refreshment room, and the passengers had to purchase tickets from him before they could enjoy the ride. The boy was also a clever conjuror, and arrayed in a brown wig and a long white robe, used to cause no little wonder to his audience by his sleight of hand tricks. With the assistance of various members of the family and the village carpenter he made a troupe of marionettes and a small theatre for them to act in. He wrote all the plays himself and he was very clever at manipulating the innumerable strings by which the movements of his puppets were regulated.”

A PROPHECY THAT CAME TRUE

It was in 1844, at the mature age of twelve, when he was a pupil at Richmond School, that he wrote his first story. It was called “The Unknown One,” and appeared in the school magazine.

That the headmaster anticipated that his young pupil might one day astonish the world may be gathered by the following extract from his first report upon him:

“I do not hesitate to express my opinion that he possesses, along with other and excellent natural endowments, a very uncommon share of genius; he is capable of acquirements and knowledge far beyond his years, while his reason is so clear and so zealous of error, that he will not rest satisfied without a most exact solution of whatever appears to him obscure. You may fairly anticipate for him a bright career.”

At the age of fourteen Charles was sent to Rugby School, becoming a pupil a few years after the death of the great Dr. Arnold, immortalised in “Tom Brown’s Schooldays.” The headmaster was Dr. A. C. Tait, who afterwards became Archbishop of Canterbury. His opinion of his pupil’s ability was thus expressed in a letter to Archdeacon Dodgson:

“I must not allow your son to leave school without expressing to you the very high opinion I entertain of him. His mathematical knowledge is great for his age, and I doubt not he will do himself credit in classics; his examination for the Divinity Prize was one of the most creditable exhibitions I have ever seen.”

Young Dodgson’s literary activities appear to have definitely commenced about the year 1845, when the first of a series of amateur magazines, which he edited during the holidays for the benefit of the inmates of Croft Rectory made its appearance. The most ambitious of these home-made journals was “The Rectory Umbrella,” for which, in addition to editing, he wrote most of the matter and made all the illustrations.

In the spring of 1850 he matriculated, and in January, 1851, following in the footsteps of his father, he became a student at Christ Church College, Oxford, and commenced a personal association with it which lasted until the day of his death, forty-seven years later. Scholastic honours and distinctions were his almost from the very first, for he soon won a Boulter Scholarship and obtained First Class Honours in Mathematics and Second in Classical Moderations. The degrees of Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts followed.

In 1853, during a stay at Ripon, he met a singular person who identified with remarkable accuracy the qualities and characteristics which were to make him famous. This was a Miss Anderson, who professed to have clairvoyant powers, and by merely holding a folded paper containing writing by a person unknown to her to be able to describe his or her character. This was her delineation of young Dodgson’s:

“Very clever head, a great deal of imitation; he would make a good actor; diffident; rather shy in general society; comes out in the home circle; rather obstinate, very clever; a great deal of concentration; very affectionate; a great deal of wit and humour; not much faculty for remembering events; fond of deep reading; imaginative; fond of reading poetry; may compose.”

The following year he contributed the poem and short story to “The Whitby Gazette” which are included in this present volume.

His love of the theatre alluded to by the psychical lady was an early one. In his diary for June 22, 1853, he thus refers to an evening spent at the Princess’s Theatre, London:

“Then came the great play ‘Henry VIII.,’ the greatest theatrical treat I have ever had or expect to have. I had no idea that anything so superb as the scenery and dresses was ever to be seen on the stage. Kean was magnificent as Cardinal Wolsey, Mrs. Kean a worthy successor to Mrs. Siddons as Queen Catherine, and all the accessories without exception were good--but oh, that exquisite vision of Queen Catherine! I almost held my breath to watch, the illusion is perfect, and I felt as if in a dream the whole time it lasted. It was like a delicious reverie or most beautiful poetry. This is the true end and object of acting--to raise the mind above itself and out of its petty cares.”

Another entry is full of the diffidence about himself and his work which was characteristic of the man. It read as follows:

“I am sitting alone in my bedroom this last night of the old year (1857) waiting for midnight. It has been the most eventful year of my life: I began it as a poor bachelor student, with no definite plans or expectations; I end it as a master and tutor in Christ Church, with an income of more than £300 a year, and the course of mathematical tuition marked out by God’s providence for at least some years to come. Great mercies, great failings, time lost, talent misapplied--such has been the past year.”

At Christmas he became the editor of a college publication called “College Rhymes,” in which first appeared “A Sea Dirge” and “My Fancy,” both of which are included in this present volume. About the same period he contributed several poems to “The Comic Times,” and later to “The Train.” Edmund Yates, the editor of both publications, expressed the warmest appreciation of his work.

THE “BIRTH” OF “LEWIS CARROLL”

It was during young Dodgson’s association with the latter journal that the pseudonym, which is to-day world-famous, originated. It was selected by Edmund Yates from the names Edgar Cuthwellis,[1] Edgar W. C. Westhall, Louis Carroll, and Lewis Carroll. The first two were formed from letters of his Christian names, Charles Lutwidge; the others are merely variant forms of them. Thus Lewis is developed from Ludovicus and Ludovicus from Luteridge, while Charles develops into Carolus and thence to Carroll.

The first effort from his pen to which the new pseudonym was appended was “The Path of Roses,” a serious poem which appeared in “The Train” in 1856.

Mr. Dodgson was ordained a deacon of the Church of England in 1861, but never undertook regular duties as a priest, although he preached occasionally at the University Church and elsewhere. Despite the slight stammer which marred his diction his sermons--models of earnestness, lucidity, and reasoning--were always impressive, especially those on the subject of Eternal Punishment, in which devilish and anti-Christian doctrines he was, of course an emphatic disbeliever.

His literary activities and personal charm gained him the friendship of eminent writers in various fields of artistic and professional endeavour, including Tennyson, Ruskin, Thackeray, the Rossetti Family, Tom Taylor the dramatist (author of “Still Waters Run Deep,” etc.), Frank Smedley (author of that admirable novel “Frank Fairleigh”), Stuart Calverley, Coventry Patmore, Mrs. Charlotte the novelist, Millais, Holman Hunt, Val Prinsep, Watts, the Terry family, Lord Salisbury, the Bishop of Oxford, Canon King (afterwards Bishop of Lincoln), Canon Liddon, Dr. Scott (Dean of Rochester), Dr. Liddell (Dean of Christ Church), Professor Faraday, Mr. Justice Denman, Sir George Baden-Powell, Mr. Frederick Harrison, etc.

Most of these distinguished people were photographed by him, for this man of many talents had a flair for artistic photography which undoubtedly would have made him successful as a professional photographer had he been compelled to depend upon it for a living. Photographing from life, particularly photographing children, was, indeed, his principal hobby, and in his rooms at Christ Church he kept a large and varied assortment of fancy costumes in which to attire his little friends for picturesque effect.

THE BEGINNING OF “ALICE”

It was on July 4, 1862, that there occurred that epochal expedition up the river to Godstow with the three small daughters of Dr. Liddell, Dean of Christ Church, which was destined to have such important and far-reaching results. The first inception of the resultant masterpiece has been charmingly described in the beautiful verses which preface it:

All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide,
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied.
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.

Ah, cruel three! In such an hour
Beneath such dreamy weather
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather!
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?

Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict “to begin it”--
In gentler tone Secunda hopes
“There will be nonsense in it!”--
While Tertia interrupts the tale
Not _more_ than once a minute.

Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new.
In friendly chat with bird or beast--
And half believe it true.

And even, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by,
“The rest next time”--“It _is_ next time!”
The happy voices cry.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out--
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.

Alice! a childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it where childhood’s dreams are twined
In Memory’s mystic band,
Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers
Pluck’d in a far-off land.

If the final verse is not proof enough that sweet Alice Liddell was Lewis Carroll’s favourite of the three, and that for _her_ he fashioned his immortal fantasy, the opening verses from the exquisite poem which precedes the sequel to the story, “Alice through the Looking Glass,” will dispel all doubt:

Child of the pure unclouded brow
And dreaming eyes of wonder!
Though time be fleet and I and thou
Are half a life asunder,
Thy loving smile will surely hail
The love gift of a fairy-tale.

I have not seen thy sunny face,
Nor heard thy silver laughter;
No thought of me shall find a place
In thy young life’s hereafter--
Enough that now thou wilt not fail
To listen to my fairy-tale.

A tale begun in other days,
When summer suns were glowing--
A simple chime that served to time
The rhythm of our rowing--
Whose echoes live in memory yet,
Though envious years would say “forget.”

It is pleasant to reflect that Lewis Carroll was wrong in his assumption that his little comrade would forget him. She remained his lifelong friend, and many years after the trip to Godstow, when she had become Mrs. Reginald Hargreaves, she wrote the following account of the scene:

“I believe the beginning of ‘Alice’ was told me one summer afternoon when the sun was so hot that we had landed in the meadows down the river, deserting the boat to take refuge in the only bit of shade to be found, which was under a new-made hay-rick. Here from all three came the old petition of ‘Tell us a story,’ and so began the ever-delightful tale. Sometimes to tease us--perhaps being really tired--Mr. Dodgson would stop suddenly and say, ‘And that’s all till next time.’ ‘Ah, but it is next time,’ would be the exclamation from all three; and after some persuasion the story would start afresh. Another day, perhaps, the story would begin in the boat, and Mr. Dodgson, in the middle of telling a thrilling adventure, would pretend to go fast asleep, to our great dismay....”

The original title of the story, which its creator took the trouble to write out in manuscript and have specially bound for the living Alice, was “Alice’s Adventures Underground”; later it became “Alice’s Hour in Elfland.” It was not until June 18, 1864, that its author finally decided upon “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” and it was a year later before it was published. He had no thought of publication at first, and it was his friend Mr. George Macdonald who persuaded him to submit the story to Messrs. Macmillan, who immediately appreciated its value.

Few books have met with such unequivocal praise from the critics and such instantaneous favour from the public, and the writer of these notes feels sure that in any public enquiry conducted into the popularity of children’s books to-day, either in Great Britain or America, “Alice in Wonderland” would come at easy first. His own little daughter, Joan, ætat. nine, never tires of the wonderful adventures, and thinks it “the very best story in the world,” and this opinion is probably typical of nine children out of ten.

The story has been translated into French, German, Italian, and Dutch--tasks which the peculiarly Anglo-Saxon character of its appeal must have rendered very difficult.

Four years after the publication of his masterpiece there appeared its author’s collection of poems grave and gay, known under the general title of “Phantasmagoria,” followed two years later by “Alice through the Looking Glass.”

Soon after this he commenced to work out the story of “Sylvie and Bruno,” and on the last night of 1872 related a great deal of it to several children, including Princess Alice, who were members of a party at Hatfield, where Mr. Dodgson was the guest of Lord Salisbury.

In 1871 appeared his “Notes by an Oxford Chiel,” a collection of whimsical papers dealing with Oxford controversies; and in March, 1879, “The Hunting of the Snark” was published. According to its creator, the first idea for the whole poem was suggested by its last line, “For the Snark was a Boojum, you see,” which came into his mind, apparently without reason, while he was enjoying a country walk. Many of his admirers have contended that “The Hunting of the Snark” is an allegory, but Lewis Carroll himself always declared it had no meaning at all, which, however, is very different from saying it had no point, for the meticulous skill with which each effect is achieved shows the master-hand throughout.

All this time Mr. Dodgson, in addition to his professional duties, was writing mathematical and technical and other serious works, for which he was responsible for more than a dozen books alone, including “Euclid and his Modern Rivals” (1882), which ran into eight editions.

INVENTOR OF CROSS WORD PUZZLES

In addition, he invented many ingenious table games and puzzles, and an examination of some of these has suggested to the editor that in all probability he was the real inventor of “Cross Word Puzzles.”

As, however, this introduction is concerned principally with the humorous literary achievements and characteristics of Lewis Carroll, anything more than a passing reference to matters outside that scope would be inappropriate, particularly since time has to a great extent already endorsed the uncompromising prophecy which appeared at the end of a wonderful laudation of Lewis Carroll in “The National Review” a few days after his death, which stated: “Future generations will not waste a single thought upon the Rev. C. L. Dodgson.”

In 1855 appeared “A Tangled Tale,” in which Mr. Carroll successfully combined mathematics and nonsense in a series of ingenious problems; and at the end of 1889 “Sylvie and Bruno,” on which he had been engaged for several years. “Sylvie and Bruno Concluded” followed in 1893.

Neither of these stories achieved anything approaching the success of the “Alice” books or “The Hunting of the Snark,” for in them he made the mistake of endeavouring to combine a fairy-tale with a serious and controversial novel full of religious and political arguments; and commendable though this may have been from the Christian and ethical standpoint, it made neither for unity nor clarity. Mingled with this extraneous matter, however, is some delightful nonsense, equal to anything in the “Alice” books, particularly in respect of the Mad Gardener and his weird optic delusions; while his heroine, Sylvie, is an idealistic and entrancing creature who appeals to the very best that is in humanity, which brings me to the question: “What is it precisely which delights and amuses us in Lewis Carroll’s fantasies?”

It is a difficult question to answer, for his humour is of that rare quality that is intangible and, so to speak, incomplete. It approximates to that of Shakespeare in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and Barrie in “Peter Pan.” I can think of no others. His quaint conversations and fantastic scenes abound in ideas that seem to vanish before we can quite grasp them--like the Cheshire Cat, leaving only the smile behind, or like our conception of his immortal Snark, that was not strictly a Snark because it was a Boojum! He never makes the mistake of less responsible and less “designing” writers of satiating us with good things; on completing a story by him we are always left with the impression that, had he felt so disposed, he could have added another chapter or two as alluring as the previous matter. And, more than any other writer, he has fathomed the mysterious depths of childhood that lie within us--even within the hearts of those of us who are but children of a longer growth. It is these various propensities, together with his command of language and “technique”--noticeable even when his imagination and fancy run at their most preposterous riot--which surely provide the answer to the question as to what are the constituent factors responsible for Lewis Carroll’s popularity; and I disagree emphatically with the opinion in a recent anthology compiled by a distinguished and charming foreign writer who considers that “the poetry of nonsense as Carroll understood it is entirely irresponsible, and the main point about it is that there is no point.”

This gentleman has, I venture to think, made the mistake of attempting to regard Lewis Carroll from a literal point of view (which, of course, cannot be done) instead of from a literary one, for such a description, if true, would reduce his work to the level of the “eenar deenar dinar doe” gibberish of the nursery, or to the unconscious nonsense babblings of idiocy. To carry the argument a step further, any combination of words picked haphazard from the dictionary might be called a nonsense story!

The present writer agrees that legitimate Nonsense Verse and Prose appears to be entirely irresponsible, but surely that is one of the phrases of paradox which make the fantasies of Carroll and Barrie so elusive and so charming to every individual between seven and seventy who retains anything of the divine spark of childhood within his heart, whether he realises the reason for his enchantment or not.

LEWIS CARROLL’S TECHNIQUE

Actually the Nonsense writings of Lewis Carroll are a highly technical form of conscious and responsible humour, which, when analysed, are found to contain plot (or “idea”), achievements, climax, and, in the case of his poems, rhyme and rhythm. “Jabberwocky” offers excellent proof of this. Rhyme and rhythm, indeed, are absolutely essential to good Nonsense Verse, which the further removed it is from rules of sense must conform the more closely to rules of sound. It is these factors and the others mentioned in conjunction with them which render Nonsense Poetry so superior to the nonsense rhymes of the nursery and the folk song, including the sea chanty. One type is Nonsense, the other D---- Nonsense. Then, of course, there is sheer Nonsense; but as this is principally confined to the speeches and writings of politicians, we need not enlarge on that aspect of the question here.

So responsible and conscious a literary jester was Lewis Carroll that it is doubtful if there has ever been a more meticulous precisian in the use and intentional misuse of words, including those coined by himself. Every word, every comma, had to be printed exactly as he had planned in his development of the spontaneous idea upon which the particular story or poem was based, and no author took more trouble to ensure that the illustrations to his books exactly corresponded to his conception of the subject. He would send back drawings again and again, no matter how distinguished the artist might be, until some little defect in suggestion, as he saw it, was remedied, and was equally fastidious with regard to the style in which his books were produced. Thus, “Sylvie and Bruno Concluded” appears on announcement which states:

“For over twenty-five years I have made it my chief object, with regard to my books, that they should be of the best workmanship obtainable at the price. And I am deeply annoyed to find that the last issue of ‘Through the Looking Glass,’ consisting of the Sixtieth Thousand, has been put on sale without its being noticed that most of the pictures have failed so much in the printing as to make the book not worth buying. I request all holders of copies to send them to Messrs. ---- with their names and addresses, and copies of the new issue shall be sent them in exchange.”

Undoubtedly he has his limitations, particularly in his best and most characteristic work. This may appear paradoxical, but the writer of these notes is strongly of the opinion that one of the most fascinating qualities about Lewis Carroll’s work is that its popularity is never likely to be universal. His humour is essentially “Anglo-Saxon,” and its “psychology” also, which explains why Carroll’s “immortality” as a genius is founded on British and American appreciation, and why the various foreign translations of his works were comparative failures. A remarkable endorsement of the American popularity of his works appeared on July 14th, this year, in the London papers. The account in “The Daily News” read as follows:

“In the handbook of the American students who will be touring England this summer, issued by the National Union of Students, a number of books are recommended as calculated to give young Americans ‘some comprehension of English life and thought.’

“Among them I observe: ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ Chesterton’s ‘The Flying Inn,’ ‘The Forsyte Saga,’ ‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles,’ ‘A Shropshire Lad,’ ‘Major Barbara,’ and ‘Man and Superman.’”

THE GOLDEN AGE OF LITERATURE

It may be contended of Lewis Carroll (as of all the Victorian writers), that he lived in the “golden age” in respect of opportunity for literary achievement. In his day, life flowed on smoothly and uneventfully for the great majority of people. Our fathers laboured and loved, or did the reverse, with a freedom from worry and responsibility that may not have been very stimulating, but must have been decidedly comfortable. Those were the days when “gaunt tragedy,” transpontine melodrama, and “crescendos” of horror and gloom were more popular than humour; indeed, thoughtful people turned towards them as a relief and “inspiration” when compared with the uneventful and prosaic tenor of life. It says much, therefore, for Lewis Carroll’s unique genius that he was able to achieve immediate fame in an altogether different medium.

It must be admitted that the argument that his love for children was partial, inasmuch as boys were excluded from it, rests upon a great deal of truth. Though essentially a manly man himself, who did not fear to use his fists at school against attempted aggression by other boys, or in defence of the weak, he has left it on record that he did not understand boys, and felt shy in their presence, while the only literary tribute he paid to boy-nature was in his creation of “Bruno.” Nor has the compiler of this volume been able to discover any record of friendship between him and a small member of his own sex.

The fact that he had eight sisters and only two brothers may have contributed something to this partiality, which, however, is a very natural one. Nearly all normal men prefer little girls to little boys, just as most women would prefer to make a pet of one of the latter, rather than of a miniature specimen of their own adorable sex. Is it not proverbial that the small daughter is “daddy’s darling,” and the small son mother’s? And if Lewis Carroll has typified this characteristic in his idealistic “Alice,” has not a famous woman writer on the other side of the Atlantic made equivalent representation in her “Little Lord Fauntleroy”?

In his natural preference for the feminine side of humanity it is remarkable that Lewis Carroll apparently never had a love affair. He does not seem to have had any flirtations even, although he must have known many charming young ladies whose friendship he had first gained as children. How emphatic was his resolve to maintain his bachelor freedom may be gathered from the following extract from a letter, written when he was fifty-two years old, to an old college friend: “So you have been for twelve years a married man, while I am still a lonely old bachelor! And mean to keep so for the matter of that. College life is by no means an unmixed misery, though married life has no doubt many charms to which I am a stranger.”

Mr. Dodgson died at Guildford on January 14, 1898, following a few days’ illness from influenza, which had attacked him at his sister’s house, “The Chestnuts,” where, in accordance with his usual custom, he had gone to spend Christmas. He was hard at work at the time upon the second volume of his “Symbolic Logic.”

He was buried in the old portion of Guildford Cemetery, and on June 14th of the present year the writer of these notes and his wife visited the spot. A plain white cross and a triple pediment, “erected in loving memory by his brothers and sisters,” record that--

CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON
(LEWIS CARROLL)
Fell asleep, January 14, 1898,
Age 65 years,

together with the following inscriptions, singularly appropriate to one whose whole life was one of service:

“Where I am, there shall also My servant be.”

“His servants shall serve Him.”

“Father, in Thy gracious keeping
Leave we now Thy servant sleeping.”

A grave as modest and unpretentious as the man himself, surmounted by no “immortelles,” or other examples of the undertaker’s art, as was the case, at the time of our visit, with adjacent graves. Nature, however, has paid a more graceful tribute than any which could be made by the hand of man. A drooping and beautiful yew tree stands sentinel at the head of the tomb, its foliage sheltering it lovingly from storms and heat, and its trunk entwined with little heart-shaped ivy leaves, just as the genius sleeping there attracted the hearts of little children a generation ago and his works will continue to do for all time.

On the other side the white blossoms of a verdant syringa were scattering themselves across the foot of the grave as if in votive offering to the white spirit which once tenanted the mortal reliquiæ within it.

The cemetery is beautifully situated on the slopes of that famous and picturesque Surrey hill known as “The Hog’s Back,” and though the steep and toilsome ascent must be very trying to mourners who make it on foot, of such travail is your true pilgrimage made. Few if any of the people of Guildford make it for the purpose of visiting the last resting-place of Lewis Carroll, however. Indeed, it seems extremely improbable that more than a tiny minority of them are aware that he is buried there.

Three local ladies of whom we made enquiries in the cemetery were astonished when we informed them that it contained the last resting-place of the author of “Alice in Wonderland,” and listened with the greatest interest to a discursive and aged sexton whom we contrived to “unearth,” who had not only buried him, but had been acquainted with him in life. He told us that not many people visited the grave, but those that did were nearly all Americans! How surprised some of these Transatlantic enthusiasts must be when they find that “The Chestnuts,” where Lewis Carroll died and spent so much of his time during the last twenty years or so of his life, is without the usual plaque to distinguish it as a habitation of the Great!

They do these things better in Copenhagen, where, it seems, a Hans Christian Andersen Memorial Park has been planned, which is to contain statues of the Danish author’s most charming characters, set among leafy bowers and flower gardens, the latter to be tended by teams of children from the various Council Schools.

Besides, such a memorial plaque on “The Chestnuts” would be a very small tribute materially, and yet as a mark of spiritual recognition it would be sufficient. Assuredly Lewis Carroll would not wish for more, for the fact that his works will never be forgotten he would consider remembrance enough.

All the same, there is something fine and exultant in the feeling which inspires people to pay reverence to one who by achieving honour and fame himself has brought honour and fame to his country, whether the “departed” be symbolical of “collective achievement,” as in the case of the “unknown soldier,” or whether he be a great poet, writer, inventor, scientist, general, king or president, or even a politician or commercial magnate.

LANGFORD REED.

HAMPSTEAD,
LONDON.

[1] Actually used by Mr. Dodgson in his story, “The Legend of Scotland,” included in this volume.

FURTHER NONSENSE
VERSE AND PROSE

THE LADY OF THE LADLE[2]

(From “The Whitby Gazette” of August 31, 1854)

The Youth at Eve had drunk his fill,
Where stands the “Royal” on the Hill,
And long his mid-day stroll had made,
On the so called “Marine Parade”--
(Meant, I presume, for Seamen brave,
Whose “march is on the Mountain wave”;
’Twere just the bathing-place for him
Who stays on land till he can swim--)
And he had strayed into the Town,
And paced each alley up and down,
Where still so narrow grew the way,
The very houses seemed to say,
Nodding to friends across the Street,
“One struggle more and we shall meet.”
And he had scaled that wondrous stair
That soars from earth to upper air
Where rich and poor alike must climb,
And walk the treadmill for a time.
That morning he had dressed with care,
And put Pomatum in his hair;
He was, the loungers all agreed,
A very heavy swell indeed:
Men thought him, as he swaggered by,
Some scion of nobility,
And never dreamed, so cold his look,
That he had loved--and loved a Cook.
Upon the beach he stood and sighed,
Unheedful of the treacherous tide;
Thus sang he to the listening main,
And soothed his sorrow with the strain!

[2] It has given the editor much pleasure to “discover” this poem and the story “Wilhelm von Schmitz” on p. 57, for since their original appearance in print seventy-two years ago neither has been published, or even quoted, and it is extremely doubtful whether more than two or three people know of their existence. So that if not “new and unpublished matter by Lewis Carroll” in fact, they are certainly so in effect--so far as every one younger than eighty is concerned! Mr. Dodgson composed them during the Oxford Long Vacation of 1854, which he spent at Whitby reading for Mathematics. He stayed at 5, East Terrace, from July 20th to September 21st. He was twenty-two at the time, and this early work from his pen, although somewhat periphrastic, gives promise, in its appreciation of the preposterous and the calculated precision of its phraseology, of the genius which was destined to make the name of Lewis Carroll immortal. The “Hilda” and the “Goliath” were local pleasure craft of the period, and the “wondrous stair” refers presumably to that steep and picturesque ascent known as “Jacob’s Ladder,” which is still a Whitby wonder.

CORONACH

“She is gone by the Hilda,
She is lost unto Whitby,
And her name is Matilda,
Which my heart it was smit by;
Tho’ I take the Goliah,
I learn to my sorrow
That ‘it won’t,’ says the crier,
‘Be off till to-morrow.’

“She called me her ‘Neddy,’
(Tho’ there mayn’t be much in it,)
And I should have been ready,
If she’d waited a minute;
I was following behind her,
When, if you recollect, I
Merely ran back to find a
Gold pin for my neck-tie.

“Rich dresser of suit!
Prime hand at a sausage!
I have lost thee, I rue it,
And my fare for the passage!
Perhaps _she_ thinks it funny,
Aboard of the Hilda,
But I’ve lost purse and money,
And thee, oh, my ’Tilda!”

His pin of gold the youth undid
And in his waistcoat-pocket hid,
Then gently folded hand in hand,
And dropped asleep upon the sand.
B. B.[3]

[3] What these initials stand for the editor has not the vaguest notion. It was not until nearly two years after the publication of the above verses that Mr. Dodgson used the pseudonym of “Lewis Carroll,” which he appended to his poem, “The Path of Roses,” published in “The Train” in May, 1856.

LAYS OF SORROW

(From “The Rectory Umbrella,”[4] 1849-50 with footnotes by the author)

The day was wet, the rain fell souse
Like jars of strawberry jam,[5] a
Sound was heard in the old hen house,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it,
Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry
At a hundred strokes a minute.[6]

The work is done, the hen has taken
Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon,[7]
(Or I am very much mistaken)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all’s well,
Looks into the straw
To see there’s no flaw,
Goes once round the house,[8]
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.

Time rolled away, and so did every shell,
“Small by degrees and beautifully less,”
As the sage mother with a powerful spell[9]
Forced each in turn its contents to “express,”[10]
But ah! “imperfect is expression,”
Some poet said, I don’t care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you’re willing to hear,
He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I’m sure that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers
And as to his name it is pretty clear
That is wasn’t me and it wasn’t you!

And so it fell upon a day,
(That is, it never rose again,)
A chick was found upon the hay,
Its little life had ebbed away,
No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run and play.
“And must we, chicken, must we part?”
Its master[11] cried with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain.

So one whose ticket’s marked “Return,”[12]
When to the lonely roadside station
He flies in fear and perturbation,
Thinks of his home--the hissing urn--
Then runs with flying hat and hair,
And, entering, finds to his despair
He’s missed the very latest train.[13]

Too long it were to tell of each conjecture,
Of chicken suicide and poultry victim,
The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,
The timid guess, “perhaps some needle’s pricked him,”
The din of voice, the words both loud and many,
The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,
Till all agreed, “a shilling to a penny
It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!”
Scarce was the verdict spoken,
When that still calm was broken,
A childish form hath burst into the throng,
With tears and looks of sadness,
That bring no news of gladness;
But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!
“The sight that I have come upon
The stoutest heart[14] would sicken,
That nasty hen has been and gone
And killed another chicken!”

[4] This was one of the best of the many “family” magazines with the editing of which young Dodgson used to amuse himself during his holidays. The whole of the matter was written in manuscript, in the neat and formal handwriting characteristic of him. He was about seventeen years old at the time he composed this poem, in which the talent for nonsense rhyming of the future creator of the inimitable “Jabberwocky” is already suggested.

[5] _I.e._, the jam without the jars; observe the beauty of this rhyme.

[6] At the rate of a stroke and two-thirds in a second.

[7] Unless the hen was a poacher, which is unlikely.

[8] The hen’s house.

[9] Beak and claw.

[10] Press out.

[11] Probably one of the two stalwart youths.

[12] The system of return tickets is an excellent one. People are conveyed on particular days there and back for one fare.

[13] An additional vexation would be that his “Return” ticket would be no use the next day.

[14] Perhaps even the bursting heart of its master.

MY FANCY

(From “College Rhymes”[15])

I painted her a gushing thing,
With years perhaps a score;
I little thought to find they were
At least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly auburn head:
I came to find the blue a green,
The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning,
They tingled very much;
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them _added to_,
But just a few _removed_!

She has the bear’s ethereal grace,
The bland hyena’s laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of the giraffe;
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides;
“She’s all my fancy painted her,”
But oh! _how much besides!_

[15] This was a Christ Church journal edited by Lewis Carroll during his Varsity days. “A Sea Dirge” (see next poem) first appeared in it.

A SEA DIRGE[16]

There are certain things--as a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three--
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the Sea.

Pour some salt water over the floor--
Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
_That’s_ very like the Sea.

Beat a dog till it howls outright--
Cruel, but all very well for a spree:
Suppose that he did so day and night,
_That_ would be like the Sea.

I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me--
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the Sea.

Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could--
Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With “thoughts as boundless, and souls as free”;
But suppose you are very unwell in the boat,[17]
How do you like the Sea?

There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb “to flee”),
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the Sea.

If you like coffee with sand for dregs,
A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs--
By all means choose the Sea.

And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
Then--I recommend the Sea.

For _I_ have friends who dwell by the coast--
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I am with them I wonder most
That any one likes the Sea.

They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
To climb the heights I madly agree:
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the Sea.

I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee,
As I heavily slip into every pool
That skirts the cold, cold Sea.

[16] One is impelled to suspect that the satire in these verses is intended wholly for effect, and was not at all representative of the author’s feelings. Most of his summer holidays were spent by the sea, and his letters contain complimentary references to Whitby, Sandown, Margate, Eastbourne, and other seaside resorts. His particular favourite was Eastbourne, where he seems to have spent most of his summer vacations during the last thirty years of his life.

[17] Mr. Dodgson himself was an exceptionally good sailor. In his diary for July 13, 1867, describing a Channel crossing, he says: “The pen refuses to describe the sufferings of some of the passengers ... my own sensations were those of extreme surprise, and a little indignation, at there being no other sensations; it was not for _that_ I paid my money.”

LIMERICK[18]

There was a young lady of station,
“I love man” was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried, “You flatter,”
She replied, “Oh! no matter,
Isle of Man is the true explanation.”

[18] The editor has received this Limerick from Miss Vera Beringer; it is probably the only one Lewis Carroll ever perpetrated. In common with the rest of the English theatre-going public, he was charmed with Miss Beringer’s acting as “Little Lord Fauntleroy” in the original London presentation of that play in 1890, and the little girl, as she then was, became one of his many child friends. He sent her the Limerick when she was spending a holiday in Manxland.

A BACCHANALIAN ODE[19]

Here’s to the Freshman of bashful eighteen!
Here’s to the Senior of twenty!
Here’s to the youth whose moustache can’t be seen!
And here’s to the man who has plenty!
Let the men Pass!
Out of the mass
I’ll warrant we’ll find you some fit for a Class!

Here’s to the Censors, who symbolise Sense,
Just as Mitres incorporate Might, Sir!
To the Bursar, who never expands the expense,
And the Readers who always do right, Sir.
Tutor and Don,
Let them jog on!
I warrant they’ll rival the centuries gone!

[19] From “The Vision of the Three T’s” (Oxford, 1873).

A LESSON IN LATIN

(From “The Jabberwock,”[20] June, 1888)

Our Latin books, in motley row,
Invite us to the task--
Gay Horace, stately Cicero;
Yet there’s one verb, when once we know,
No higher skill we ask:
This ranks all other lore above--
We’ve learned “amare” means “to love”!

So hour by hour, from flower to flower,
We sip the sweets of life:
Till ah! too soon the clouds arise,
And knitted brows and angry eyes
Proclaim the dawn of strife.
With half a smile and half a sigh,
“Amare! Bitter One!” we cry.

Last night we owned, with looks forlorn,
“Too well the scholar knows
There is no rose without a thorn”--
But peace is made! we sing this morn,
“No thorn without a rose!”
Our Latin lesson is complete:
We’ve learned that Love is “Bitter-sweet”!

[20] The magazine of the Girls’ Latin School, Boston, Mass. When asked for permission to use this title, the creator of the Jabberwock characteristically replied:

“Mr. Lewis Carroll has much pleasure in giving to the editors of the proposed magazine permission to use the title they wish for. He finds that the Anglo-Saxon word ‘wocer’ or ‘wocor’ signifies ‘offspring’ or ‘fruit.’ Taking ‘jabber’ in its ordinary acceptation of ‘excited and voluble discussion,’ this would give the meaning of ‘the result of much excited discussion.’ Whether this phrase will have any application to the projected periodical, it will be for the future historian of American literature to determine. Mr. Carroll wishes all success to the forthcoming magazine.”

THE TWO BROTHERS

(From “The Rectory Umbrella,” 1853)

There were two brothers at Twyford school,
And when they had left the place,
It was, “Will ye learn Greek and Latin?
Or will ye run me a race?
Or will ye go up to yonder bridge,
And there we will angle for dace?”

“I’m too stupid for Greek and for Latin,
I’m too lazy by half for a race,
So I’ll go up to yonder bridge,
And there we will angle for dace.”

He has fitted together two joints of his rod,
And to them he has added another,
And then a great hook he took from his book,
And ran it right into his brother.

Oh much is the noise that is made among boys
When playfully pelting a pig,
But a far greater pother was made by his brother
When flung from the top of the brigg.

The fish hurried up by the dozens,
All ready and eager to bite,
For the lad that he flung was so tender and young,
It quite gave them an appetite.

Said, “Thus shall he wallop about
And the fish take him quite at their ease,
For me to annoy it was ever his joy,
Now I’ll teach him the meaning of ‘Tees’!”

The wind to his ear brought a voice,
“My brother, you didn’t had ought ter!
And what have I done that you think it such fun
To indulge in the pleasure of slaughter?

“A good nibble or bite is my chiefest delight,
When I’m merely expected to _see_,
But a bite from a fish is not quite what I wish,
When I get it performed upon _me_;
And just now here’s a swarm of dace at my arm,
And a perch has got hold of my knee.

“For water my thirst was not great at the first,
And of fish I have quite sufficien----”
“Oh fear not!” he cried, “for whatever betide,
We are both in the selfsame condition!

“I’m sure that our state’s very nearly alike
(Not considering the question of slaughter),
For I have my perch on the top of the bridge,
And you have your perch in the water.

“I stick to my perch and your perch sticks to you,
We are really extremely alike!
I’ve a turn-pike up here, and I very much fear
You may soon have a turn with a pike.”

“Oh grant but one wish! If I’m took by a fish
(For your bait is your brother, good man!),
Pull him up if you like, but I hope you will strike
As gently as ever you can.”

“If the fish be a trout, I’m afraid there’s no doubt
I must strike him like lightning that’s greased;
If the fish be a pike, I’ll engage not to strike,
Till I’ve waited ten minutes at least.”

“But in those ten minutes to desolate Fate
Your brother a victim may fall!”
“I’ll reduce it to five, so _perhaps_ you’ll survive,
But the chance is exceedingly small.”

“Oh hard is your heart for to act such a part;
Is it iron, or granite, or steel?”
“Why, I really can’t say--it is many a day
Since my heart was accustomed to feel.

“’Twas my heart-cherished wish for to slay many fish,
Each day did my malice grow worse,
For my heart didn’t soften with doing it so often,
But rather, I should say, the reverse.”

“Oh would I were back at Twyford school,
Learning lessons in fear of the birch!”
“Nay, brother!” he cried, “for whatever betide,
You are better off here with your perch!

“I’m sure you’ll allow you are happier now,
With nothing to do but to play;
And this single line here, it is perfectly clear,
Is much better than thirty a day!

“And as to the rod hanging over your head,
And apparently ready to fall,
That, you know, was the case when you lived in that place,
So it need not be reckoned at all.

“Do you see that old trout with a turn-up nose snout?
(Just to speak on a pleasanter theme.)
Observe, my dear brother, our love for each other--
He’s the one I like best in the stream.

“To-morrow I mean to invite him to dine
(We shall all of us think it a treat),
If the day should be fine, I’ll just _drop him a line_,
And we’ll settle what time we’re to meet.

“He hasn’t been into society yet,
And his manners are not of the best,
So I think it quite fair that it should be _my care_,
To see that he’s properly dressed.

“I know there are people who prate by the hour
Of the beauty of earth, sky, and ocean;
Of the birds as they fly, of the fish darting by,
Rejoicing in Life and in Motion.

“As to any delight to be got from the sight,
It is all very well for a flat,
But _I_ think it gammon, for hooking a salmon
Is better than twenty of that!

“They say that a man of right-thinking mind
Will _love_ the dumb creatures he sees--
What’s the use of his mind, if he’s never inclined
To pull a fish out of the Tees?

“Take my friends and my home--as an outcast I’ll roam:
Take the money I have in the Bank:
It is just what I wish, but deprive me of _fish_,
And my life would indeed be a blank!”

* * * * *

Forth from the house his sister came,
Her brothers for to see,
But when she saw the sight of awe,
The tear stood in her e’e.

“Oh what’s that bait upon your hook,
My brother, tell to me?”
“It is but the fan-tailed pigeon,
He would not sing for me.”

“Whoe’er would expect a pigeon to sing,
A simpleton he must be!
But a pigeon-cote is a different thing
To the coat that there I see!

“Oh what’s that bait upon your hook,
Dear brother, tell to me?”
“It is my younger brother,” he cried,
Oh woe and dole is me!

“I’s mighty wicked, that I is!
Oh how could such things be?
Farewell, farewell, sweet sister,
I’m going o’er the sea.”

“And when will you come back again,
My brother, tell to me?”
“When chub is good for human food,
And that will never be!”

She turned herself right round about,
And her heart brake into three,
Said, “One of the two will be wet through and through,
And t’other’ll be late for his tea!”

POETRY FOR THE MILLION

(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)

The nineteenth century has produced a new school of music, bearing about the same relation to the genuine article which the hash or stew of Monday does to the joint of Sunday.[21]

We allude, of course, to the prevalent practice of diluting the works of earlier composers with washy modern variations, so as to suit the weakened and depraved taste of this generation; this invention is termed “setting” by some, who, scorning the handsome offer of Alexander Smith to “set this age to music,” have determined to set music to this age.

Sadly we admit the stern necessity that exists for such a change; with stern prophetic eye we see looming in the shadowy Future the downfall of the sister Fine Arts. The National Gallery have already subjected some of their finest pictures to this painful operation. Poetry must follow.

That we may not be behind others in forwarding the progress of Civilisation, we boldly discard all personal and private feelings, and with quivering pen and tear-dimmed eye we dedicate the following composition to the Spirit of the Age, and to that noble band of gallant adventurers who aspire to lead the van in the great march of reform.

[21] What _would_ Mr. Carroll have said with regard to the epileptic style in musical composition which is in vogue in this present year of grace? Possibly he would have been “inspired” to write a companion poem to “Jabberwocky,” with the Demon of Jazz as its “manxome foe.”

THE DEAR GAZELLE

Arranged with Variations

_expressive_
“I never loved a dear gazelle,”
Nor aught beside that cost me much:
High prices profit those that sell,
But why should _I_ be fond of such?

_pp._ _cresc._
“To glad me with his soft black eyes,”
My infant son, from Tooting School,
Thrashed by his bigger playmate, flies;
And serve him right, the little fool!
_con spirito_

_a tempo_
“But when he came to know me well,”
He kicked me out, her testy sire;
And when I stained my hair, that Bell
Might note the change, and that admire.
_dim._ D.C.

_cadenza_
“And love me, it was sure to die.”
A muddy green, or staring blue,
While one might trace, with half an eye,
The still triumphant carrot through.
_con dolore_

THE MOUSE’S TAIL

(From “Alice’s Adventures Underground”[22])

We lived beneath the mat
Warm and snug and fat
But one woe, and that
was the cat!
To our joys
a clog. In
our eyes a
fog, On our
hearts a log
Was the dog!
When the
cat’s away,
Then
the mice
will
play,
But, alas!
one day; (So they say)
Came the dog and
cat, Hunting
for a
rat,
Crushed
the mice
all flat,
Each one,
as he sat,
Under-
neath
the mat,
Warm &
snug
& fat.
Think
of
that!

[22] This was the story told on July 4, 1862, to the three Miss Liddells, which was afterwards developed into “Alice in Wonderland.” A facsimile of the story, as written in manuscript for Alice Liddell, was published in 1886. The above poem does not appear in “Alice in Wonderland,” its place being taken by an entirely different “Mouse Tail.”

RHYMED CORRESPONDENCE[23]

DEAR MAGGIE.--I found that the _friend_, that the little girl asked me to write to, lived at Ripon, and not at Land’s End--a nice sort of place to invite to! It looked rather suspicious to me--and soon after, by dint of incessant inquiries, I found out that _she_ was called Maggie, and lived in a Crescent! Of course I declared, “After that” (the language I used doesn’t matter), “I will _not_ address her, that’s flat! So do not expect me to flatter.”

No _carte_ has yet been done of me, that does real justice to my _smile_; and so I hardly like, you see, to send you one. However, I’ll consider if I will or not--meanwhile, I send a little thing to give you an idea of what I look like when I’m lecturing. The merest sketch, you will allow--yet still I think there’s something grand in the expression of the brow and in the action of the hand.

Have you read my fairy-tale in “Aunt Judy’s Magazine”? If you have you will not fail to discover what I mean when I say, “Bruno yesterday came to remind me that _he_ was my godson!”--on the ground that I “gave him a name”!

[23] From a letter written to Miss Maggie Cunningham in 1868. The fairy-tale referred to was “Bruno’s Revenge,” which, more than twenty years later, Lewis Carroll developed into “Sylvie and Bruno.”

ACROSTICS

Second only to Lewis Carroll’s stories in the delight they afforded his young friends were his acrostics, in the composition of which he showed a remarkable talent. There were few of his child favourites whose names he did not embody in verses of this kind; some, as in the case of Isa Bowman in “Sylvie and Bruno,” and Gertrude Chataway in “The Hunting of the Snark,” he recorded for posterity in acrostical dedications in his books, but most of these rhymes were composed merely for the amusement of the children concerned, with no thought of publication.

One of the best he wrote across the fly-leaf of a copy of “The Hunting of the Snark,” which he sent to Miss Adelaide Paine in 1876. It runs thus:

“A re you deaf, Father William?” the young man said.
“D id you hear what I told you just now?
“E xcuse me for shouting! Don’t waggle your head
“L ike a blundering, sleepy old cow!
“A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
“I s my friend, so I beg to remark:
“D o you think she’d be pleased if a book were sent down
“E ntitled ‘The Hunt of the Snark’?”

“P ack it up in brown paper!” the old man cried,
“A nd seal it with olive-and-dove.
“I command you to do it!” he added with pride,
“N or forget, my good fellow, to send her beside
“E aster Greetings, and give her my love.”

Very few of Mr. Carroll’s acrostics were in this nonsensical strain, however, the vast majority being either serious or quaintly complimentary, as in this example on the name of Miss Sarah Sinclair (1878):

LOVE AMONG THE ROSES

S eek ye Love, ye fairy-sprites?
A nd where reddest roses grow,
R osy fancies he invites,
A nd in roses he delights,
H ave ye found him? “No!”

S eek again, and find the boy
I n Childhood’s heart, so pure and clear.
N ow the fairies leap for joy,
C rying, “Love is here!”
L ove has found his proper nest;
A nd we guard him while he dozes
I n a dream of peace and rest
R osier than roses.

MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD[24]

(June 9th to 13th)

When Maggie once to Oxford came,
On tour as “Bootles’ Baby,”
She said, “I’ll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be.”

So with her friend she visited
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she popped her head
Inside the Christ Church kitchen.

The Cooks around that little child
Stood waiting in a ring:
And every time that Maggie smiled
Those Cooks began to sing--
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom![25]

“Roast, boil and bake,
For Maggie’s sake:
Bring cutlets fine
For _her_ to dine,
Meringues so sweet
For her to eat--
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!”

Then hand in hand in pleasant talk
They wandered and admired
The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk,
Till Maggie’s feet were tired:

To Worcester Garden next they strolled,
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St. John, a college old,
Their devious way they take.

In idle mood they sauntered round
Its lawn so green and flat,
And in that garden Maggie found
A lovely Pussy-Cat!

A quarter of an hour they spent
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went,
The Cat was sure to go--
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

“Maiow! Maiow!
Come, make your bow,
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy-Cats!
And purr and purr,
To welcome _her_,
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!”

So back to Christ Church, not too late
For them to go and see
A Christ Church undergraduate,[26]
Who gave them cake and tea.

Next day she entered with her guide
The garden called “Botanic,”
And there a fierce Wild Boar she spied,
Enough to cause a panic:

But Maggie didn’t mind, not she,
She would have faced, alone,
That fierce wild boar, because, you see,
The thing was made of stone.

On Magdalen walls they saw a face
That filled her with delight,
A giant face, that made grimace
And grinned with all its might.

A little friend, industrious,
Pulled upwards all the while
The corner of its mouth, and thus
He helped that face to smile!

“How nice,” thought Maggie, “it would be
If _I_ could have a friend
To do that very thing for _me_
And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end.”

In Magdalen Park the deer are wild
With joy, that Maggie brings
Some bread a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.

They flock round Maggie without fear:
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer--
Still, as they munch and munch
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

“Yes, Deer are we,
And dear is she!
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
We all rejoice
At Maggie’s voice:
We all are fed
With Maggie’s bread ...
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!”

They met a Bishop[27] on their way ...
A Bishop large as life,
With loving smile that seemed to say
“Will Maggie be my wife?”

Maggie thought _not_, because, you see,
She was so _very_ young,
And he was old as old could be ...
So Maggie held her tongue.

“My Lord, she’s Bootles’ Baby, we
Are going up and down,”
Her friend explained, “that she may see
The sights of Oxford Town.”

“Now say what kind of place it is,”
The Bishop gaily cried.
“The best place in the Provinces!”
That little maid replied.

Away, next morning, Maggie went
From Oxford town: but yet
The happy hours she had there spent
She could not soon forget.

The train is gone, it rumbles on:
The engine-whistle screams;
But Maggie deep in rosy sleep ...
And softly in her dreams,
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom.

“Oxford, good-bye!”
She seems to sigh.
“You dear old City,
With gardens pretty,
And lanes and flowers,
And college-towers,
And Tom’s great Bell ...
Farewell--farewell:
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!”

[24] These verses, never intended for publication, were written to amuse the child actress, little Maggie Bowman, when she visited Oxford to play the title-rôle in the stage version of John Strange Winter’s popular novel, “Bootles’ Baby.”

[25] In a letter to the editor, the charming lady to whom these pleasing verses were sent says: “This line is introduced because he told me a story of some soldiers who could never remember the words of their marching song, except for the last line, so they used to sing the words of ‘Mary had a little lamb,’ finishing with ‘The lamb was sure to go--Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom’!”

[26] A nephew of Lewis Carroll.

[27] The then Bishop of Oxford.

WILHELM VON SCHMITZ[28]

(From “The Whitby Gazette,” September 7, 1854)