HOME LIFE DURING THE HOLIDAYS.
When Charles came home on his holiday visits, he was undoubtedly the
busiest person at Croft Rectory. We must remember there were ten eager
little brothers and sisters who wanted the latest news from "the front,"
meaning Rugby of course, and Charles found many funny things to tell of
the school doings, many exciting matches to recount, many a thrilling
adventure, and, alas! many a tale of some popular hero's downfall and
disgrace. He had sketches to show, and verses to read to a most
enthusiastic audience, the girls giggling over his funny tales, the boys
roaring with excitement as in fancy they pictured the scene at "Big-side"
during some great football scrimmage, for Charles's descriptions were so
vivid, indeed he was such a good talker always, that a few quaint
sentences would throw the whole picture on the canvas.
Vacation time was devoted to literary schemes of all kinds. From little
boyhood until he was way up in his "teens," he was the editor of one
magazine or another of home manufacture, chiefly, indeed, of his own
composition, or drawn from local items of interest to the young people of
Croft Rectory. While he was still at Richmond School, _Useful and
Instructive Poetry_ was born and died in six months' time, and many others
shared the same fate; but the young editor was undaunted.
This was the age of small periodicals and he had caught the craze; it was
also the age when great genius was burning brightly in England. Tennyson
was in his prime; Dickens was writing his stories, and Macaulay his
history of England. There were many other geniuses who influenced his
later years, Carlyle, Browning and others, but the first three caught his
boyish fancy and were his guides during those early days of editorship.
_Punch_, the great English magazine of wit and humor, attracted him
immensely, and many a time his rough drawings caught the spirit of some of
the famous cartoons. He never imagined, as he laughed over the broad humor
of John Tenniel, that the great cartoonist would one day stand beside him
and share the honors of "Alice in Wonderland."
One of his last private efforts in the editorial line was _The Rectory
Umbrella_, a magazine undertaken when he was about seventeen or eighteen
years old, on the bridge, one might say, between boyhood and his
approaching Oxford days. His mind had developed quickly, though his views
of life did not go far beyond the rectory grounds. He evidently took his
title out of the umbrella-stand in the rectory hall, the same stand
doubtless which furnished him with "The Walking Stick of Destiny," a story
of the lurid, exciting sort, which made his readers' hair rise. The
magazine also contained a series of sketches supposed to have been copied
from paintings by Rembrandt, Sir Joshua Reynolds and others whose works
hang in the Vernon Gallery. One specially funny caricature of Sir Joshua
Reynolds's "Age of Innocence" represents a baby hippopotamus smiling
serenely under a tree not half big enough to shade him.
Another sketch ridicules homeopathy and is extremely funny. Homeopathy is
a branch of medical science which believes in _very_ small doses of
medicine, and this picture represents housekeeping on a homeopathic plan;
a family of six bony specimens are eating infinitesimal grains of food,
which they can only see through the spectacles they all wear, and their
table talk hovers round millionths and nonillionths of grains.
But the cleverest poem in _The Rectory Umbrella_ is the parody on
"Horatius," Macaulay's famous poem, which is supposed to be a true tale of
his brothers' adventures with an obdurate donkey. It is the second of the
series called "Lays of Sorrow," in imitation of Macaulay's "Lays of
Ancient Rome," and the tragedy lies in the sad fact that the donkey
succeeds in getting the better of the boys.
"Horatius" was a great favorite with budding orators of that day. The
Rugby boys declaimed it on every occasion, and reading it over in these
modern times of peace, one is stirred by the martial note in it. No wonder
boys like Charles Dodgson loved Macaulay, and it is pretty safe to say
that he must have had it by heart, to have treated it in such spirited
style and with such pure fun. Indeed, fun bubbled up through everything he
wrote; wholesome, honest fun, which was a safety valve for an over-serious
lad.
This period was his halting time, and the humorous skits he dashed off
were done in moments of recreation. He was mapping out his future in a
methodical way peculiarly his own. Oxford was to be his goal, divinity and
mathematics his principal studies, and he was working hard for his
examinations. The desire of the eldest son to follow in his father's
footsteps was strengthened by his own natural inclination, for into the
boy nature crept a rare golden streak of piety. The reverence for holy
things was a beautiful trait in his character from the beginning to the
end of his life; it never pushed itself aggressively to the front, but it
sweetened the whole of his intercourse with people, and was perhaps the
secret of the wonderful power he had with children.
The intervening months between Rugby and Oxford were also the
boundary-line between boyhood and young manhood, that most important
period when the character shifts into a steadier pose, when the young
eyes try vainly to pierce the mists of the future, and the young
heart-throbs are sometimes very painful. Between those Rugby school-days
and the more serious Oxford ones, something happened--we know not
what--which cast a shadow on our Boy's life. He was young enough to live
it down, yet old enough to feel keenly whatever sorrow crossed his path,
and as he never married, we naturally suspect that some unhappy love
affair, or death perhaps, had cut him off from all the joys so necessary
to a young and deep-feeling man. Whatever it was--and he kept his own
secret--it did not mar the sweetness of his nature, it did not kill his
youth, nor deaden the keen wit which was to make the world laugh one day.
It drew some pathetic lines upon his face, a wistful touch about mouth and
eyes, as we can see in all his portraits.
A slight reserve hung as a veil between him and people of his own age, but
it opened his heart all the wider to the children, whose true knight he
became when, as "Lewis Carroll" he went forth to conquer with a laugh. We
say "children," but we mean "girls." The little boy might just as well
have been a caged animal at the Zoo, for all the notice he inspired. Of
course, there were some younger brothers of his own to be considered, but
he had such a generous provision of sisters that he didn't mind, and then,
besides, one's own people are different somehow; we know well enough we
wouldn't change _our_ brothers and sisters for the finest little paragons
that walk. So with Lewis Carroll; he strongly objected to everybody else's
little brothers but his own, and it is even true that in later years there
were some small nephews and boy cousins, to whom he was extremely kind.
But as yet there is no Lewis Carroll, only a grave and earnest Charles
Lutwidge Dodgson, reading hard to enter Christ Church, Oxford, that grand
old edifice steeped in history, where his own father had "blazed a trail."
Mathematics absorbed many hours of each day, and Latin and Greek were
quite as important. English as a "course" was not thought of as it is
to-day; the classics were before everything else, although ancient and
modern history came into use.
For lighter reading, Dickens was a never-failing source of supply. All
during this holiday period "David Copperfield" was coming out in monthly
instalments, and though the hero was "only a boy," there was something in
the pathetic figure of lonely little _David_, irresistibly appealing to
the young fellow who hated oppression and injustice of any kind, and was
always on the side of the weak. While the dainty picture of _Little Em'ly_
might have been his favorite, he was keenly alive to the absurdities of
_Mrs. Gummidge_, the doglike devotion of _Peggotty_, and the horrors of
the "cheap school," which turned out little shivering cowards instead of
wholesome hearty English boys.
Later on, he visited the spot on which Dickens had founded _Dotheboys
Hall_ in "Nicholas Nickleby." "Barnard's Castle" was a most desolate
region in Yorkshire. He tells of a trip by coach, over a land of dreary
hills, into Bowes, a Godforsaken village where the original of _Dotheboys
Hall_ was still standing, though in a very dilapidated state, actually
falling to pieces. As we well know, after the writing of "Nicholas
Nickleby," government authorities began to look into the condition of the
"cheap schools" and to remedy some of the evils. Even the more expensive
schools, where the tired little brains were crammed to the brim until the
springs were worn out and the minds were gone, were exposed by the great
novelist when he wrote "Dombey and Son" and told of _Dr. Blimber's_
school, where poor little _Paul_ studied until his head grew too heavy for
his fragile body. The victims of these three schools--_David_, _Smike_,
and _Little Paul_--twined themselves about the heartstrings of the
thoughtful young student, and many a humorous bit besides, in the works of
Lewis Carroll, bears a decided flavor of those dips into Dickens.
Macaulay furnished a more solid background in the reading line. His
history, such a complete chronicle of England from the fall of the Stuarts
to the reign of Victoria, appealed strongly to the patriotism of the
English boy, and the fact that Macaulay was not only a _writer_ of English
history, but at the same time a _maker_ of history, served to strengthen
this feeling.
If we compare the life of Lord Macaulay with the life of Lewis Carroll,
we will see that there was something strangely alike about them. Both were
unmarried, living alone, but with strong family ties which softened their
lives and kept them from becoming crusty old bachelors. It is very
probable, indeed, that the younger man modeled his life somewhat along the
lines of the older, whom he greatly admired. Both were parts of great
institutions; Macaulay stood out from the background of Parliament, as
Lewis Carroll did from Oxford or more particularly Christ Church, and both
names shone more brilliantly outside the routine of daily life.
But the influence that crept closer to the heart of this boy was that of
Tennyson. The great poet with the wonderful dark face, the piercing eyes,
the shaggy mane, sending forth clarion messages to the world in waves of
song, was the inspiration of many a quaint phrase and poetic turn of
thought which came from the pen of Lewis Carroll. For Tennyson became to
him a thing of flesh and blood, a friend, and many a pleasant hour was
spent in the poet's home in later years, when the fame of "Alice" had
stirred his ambition to do other things. Many a verse of real poetry could
trace its origin to association with the great man, who was quick to
discover that there were depths in the soul of his young friend where
genius dwelt.
Meantime Charles Dodgson read his poems over and over, in the seclusion of
Croft Rectory, during that quiet pause in his life before he went up to
Oxford.
There was a village school of some importance in Croft, and members of the
Dodgson family were interested in its welfare, often lending a hand with
the teaching, and during those months, no doubt, Charles took his turn.
For society, his own family seemed to be sufficient. If he had any boy
friends, there are no records of their intercourse; indeed, the only
friend mentioned is T. Vere Bayne, who in childish days was his playfellow
and who later became, like himself, a Student of Christ Church. This
association cemented a lasting friendship. One or two Rugbeans claimed
some intimacy, but his true friendships were formed when Lewis Carroll
grew up and really became young.
Walking was always a favorite pastime; the woods were full of the things
he loved, the wild things whose life stirred in the rustling of the leaves
or the crackle of a twig, as some tiny animal whisked by. The squirrels
were friendly, the hares lifted up their long ears, stared at him and
scurried out of sight. Turtles and snails came out of the river to sun
themselves on the banks; the air was full of the hum of insects and the
chirp of birds.
As he lay under the friendly shelter of some great tree, he thought of
this tree as a refuge for the teeming life about it; the beauty of its
foliage, its spreading branches, were as nothing to its convenience as a
home for the birds and chipmunks and the burrowing things that lived
beneath its roots or in the hollows of its trunk.
These creatures became real companions in time. He studied their ways and
habits, he looked them up in the Natural History, and noting their
peculiarities, tucked them away in that quaint cupboard of his which he
called his memory.
How many things were to come out of that cupboard in later days! He
himself did not know what was hidden there. It reminded one of a chest
which only a special key could open, and he did not even know there _was_
a key, until on a certain "golden afternoon" he found it floating on the
surface of the river. He grasped it, thrust it into the rusty lock, and
lo!--but dear me, we are going too far ahead, for that is quite another
chapter, and we have left Charles Dodgson lying under a tree, watching the
lizards and snails and ants at their work or play, weaving his quaint
fancies, dreaming perhaps, or chatting with some little sister or other
who chanced to be with him. There was always a sister to chat with, which
in part accounted for his liking for girls.
So, through a long vista of years, we have the picture of our Boy, between
eighteen and nineteen, when he was about to put boyhood by forever and
enter the stately ranks of the Oxford undergraduates. As he stands before
us now, young, ardent, hopeful, and inexperienced, we can see no glimmer
of the fairy wand which turned him into a wizard.
We see only a boy, somewhat old for his years, very manly in his ways,
with a well-formed head, on which the clustering dark hair grew thick; a
sensitive mouth and deep blue eyes, full of expression. He was clever,
imitative, and consequently a good actor in the little plays he wrote and
dramatized; he was very shy, but at his best in the home circle. He
enjoyed nothing so much as an argument, always holding his ground with
great obstinacy; a fine student, frank and affectionate, brimful of wit
and humor, fond of reading, with a quiet determination to excel in
whatever he undertook. With such weapons he was well equipped to "storm
the citadel" at Oxford.
On May 23, 1850, he went up to matriculate--that is, to register his name
and go through some examinations and the formality of becoming a student.
Christ Church was to be his college, as it had been his father's before
him. Archdeacon Dodgson was much gratified by the many letters he received
congratulating him on the fact that he had a son worthy to succeed him,
for he was well remembered in the college, where he had left a brilliant
record behind him.
It certainly sounds a little queer to have the name of a church attached
to one of the colleges of a university, but our colleges in America are
comparatively so new that we cannot grasp the vastness and the antiquity
of the great English universities. Under the shelter of Oxford, and
covering an area of at least five miles, twenty colleges or more were
grouped, each one a community in itself, and all under the rule of the
Chancellor of Oxford. Christ Church received as students those most
interested in the divinity courses, though in other respects the
undergraduates could take up whatever studies they pleased, and Charles
Dodgson put most of his energy into mathematics and the necessary study of
the classics.
Seven months intervened between his matriculation and his real entrance
into Oxford; these seven months we have just reviewed, full of study and
pleasant family associations, with youthful experiments in literature,
full of promise for the future--and something deeper still--which must
have touched him just here, "where the brook and river meet."
Into all our lives at some time or other comes a solemn silence; it may
spring from many causes, from a joy which cannot be spoken, or from a
sorrow too deep for utterance, but it comes, and we cover it gently and
hide it away, as something too sacred for the common light of every day.
This was the silence which came to Lewis Carroll on the threshold of his
career; but lusty youth was with him as he stood before the portal of a
brilliant future, and there was courage and high hope in his heart as he
knocked for entrance.