A MANY-SIDED GENIUS.
We have traveled over the years with some speed, from the time that little
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was christened by his proud papa to the moment
when the same proud father heard that his eldest son was made a student of
Christ College--a good large slice out of a birthday-cake--twenty
candles--if one counts birthdays by candles. It's a charming old German
fashion, for the older one grows the brighter the lights become, and if
you chance to get _real_ old--a fine "threescore and ten"--why, if there's
a candle for each year, there you are--in a perfect blaze of glory!
We have just passed over the very oldest part of our Boy's life; from the
time he became Lewis Carroll, Charles Dodgson began to go backward; he did
a lot of things backward, as we shall see later. He wrote letters
backward, he told stories backward, he spelled and counted backward--in
fact, he was so fond of doing things backward we do not wonder that he
stepped out from the circle of the years, and turned backward to find the
boyhood he had somehow missed before. This is when Lewis Carroll was born;
but that is a story in itself.
Outwardly the life of the young Student seemed unchanged, but that is all
we mortals know about it; the fairies were already at work. In moments of
leisure little poems went forth to the world--a world which at first
consisted of Croft Rectory--for there was another and last family
magazine, of which he was sole editor and composer. He named it
_Misch-Masch_, a curious old German word, which in our English means
Hodge-Podge, and everybody, young and old, knows what a jumble Hodge-Podge
is--something like New England succotash.
_Misch-Masch_ was started by this enterprising young editor during the
year after his graduation. He had become a person of vast experience
between _Misch-Masch_ and the days of _The Rectory Umbrella_, having been
editor of _College Rhymes_, his college paper. He also wrote stories for
the _Oxonian Advertiser_ and the _Whitby Gazette_, and this printed
matter, together with many new and original ideas and drawings, found a
place in his new home venture.
His mathematical genius blossomed forth in a wonderful labyrinth or maze,
a geometrical design within a given square form, of a tangle of
intersecting lines and angles containing a hidden pathway to the center.
These designs, that seem so remarkable to outsiders, were very simple to
the editor of _Misch-Masch_, who was always inventing puzzles of some
sort.
He also wrote a series of "Studies from the English Poets," which he
illustrated himself. One specially good drawing was of the following line
from one of Keats's poems. "She did so--but 'tis doubtful how or whence."
The picture represents a very fat old lady, with a capitally drawn placid
face, perched on a post marked "_Dangerous_," seemingly in midwater. In
her chubby hand is a basket with the long neck of a goose hanging out.
Mr. Stuart Collingwood, Lewis Carroll's nephew, gives a most interesting
account of these early editorial efforts, in an article written for the
_Strand_, an English magazine. Speaking of the above illustration he says:
"Keats is the author whom our artist has honored, and surely the shade of
that much neglected songster owes something to a picture which must
popularize one passage at least in his works.
"The only way I can account for the lady's hazardous position is by
supposing her to have attempted to cross a frozen lake after a thaw has
set in. The goose, whose long neck projects from her basket, proves that
she has just returned from market; probably the route across the lake was
her shortest way home. We are to suppose that for some time she proceeded
without any knowledge of the risk she was running, when suddenly she felt
the ice giving way under her. By frantic exertions she succeeded in
reaching the notice-board, to which she clung for days and nights
together, till the ice was all melted and a deluge of rain caused the
water to rise so many feet that at last she was compelled for dear life to
climb to the top of the post." We can now understand how well the
illustration fits in with the line:
"She did so, but 'tis doubtful how or whence."
Mr. Collingwood continues:
"Whether she sustained life by eating raw goose is uncertain. At least she
did not follow Father William's example by devouring the beak. The
question naturally suggests itself: Why was she not rescued? My answer is
that either such a dense fog enveloped the whole neighborhood that even
her bulky form was invisible, or that she was so unpopular a character
that each man feared the hatred of the rest if he should go to her
succor."
Mr. Collingwood concludes his article with the following riddle which the
renowned editor of _Misch-Masch_ presented to his readers; there must be
an answer, and it is therefore worth while guessing, for Lewis Carroll
would never have written a riddle without one:
A monument, men all agree--
Am I in all sincerity;
Half-cat, half-hindrance made
If head and tail removed shall be
Then, most of all you strengthen me.
Replace my head--the stand you see
On which my tail is laid.
_Misch-Masch_ had a short but brilliant career, for magazines with a wider
circulation than Croft Rectory began to claim his attention. _The Comic
Times_ was a small periodical very much on the order of _Punch_. Edmund
Yates was the editor, and among the writers and artists were some of the
best known in England. Charles Dodgson's poetry and sketches were too
clever to hide themselves from public view, and he became a regular
contributor. Later, _The Comic Times_ changed hands, and the old staff
started a new magazine called _The Train_, in 1856, and the quiet Oxford
"don" found his poetry in such demand that after talking it over with the
editor, he decided to adopt a suitable pen name. He first suggested
"Dares" in compliment to his birthplace, Daresbury, but the editor
preferred a _real_ name. Then he took his first two names, Charles
Lutwidge, and transposing them he got two names, Edgar Cuthwellis or Edgar
U. C. Westhill, neither of which sounded in the least interesting. Finally
he decided to take the two names and look at them backward--this very
queer young fellow always preferred to look at things backward--Lutwidge
Charles. That was certainly not promising. Then he took one name at a time
and analyzed it in his own quaint way. Lutwidge was surely derived from
the Latin word Ludovicus--which in good sound English meant Lewis--ah,
that was not bad! Now for Charles. Its Latin equivalent was Carolus--which
could be easily changed in Carroll. The whole thing worked out like one
of his own word puzzles, and Lewis Carroll he was, henceforth, whenever he
made his appearance in print.
There was not much ceremony at _this_ christening. Just two clever men put
their heads together and the result was--Lewis Carroll! Charles Lutwidge
Dodgson retired to his rooms at Christ Church College, where he prepared
his lectures on mathematics and wrote the most learned text-books for the
University; but Lewis Carroll peeped out into the world, which he found
full of light and laughter and happy childhood, and as Lewis Carroll he
was known to that world henceforth.
The first poem to appear with his new name was called "The Path of Roses,"
a very solemn, serious poem about half a yard long and not specially
interesting, save as a contribution to a most interesting little paper.
_The Train_ was really very ambitious, full, indeed, of the best talent of
the day. There were short stories and serials, poems, timely articles,
jokes, puns, anecdates--in short, all the attractions that help toward the
making of an attractive magazine, and though the illustrations were
nothing but old-fashioned woodcuts, the reading was quite as good, and in
many cases better than what we find in the average magazine of to-day.
Many of the little poems Lewis Carroll wrote at this time he tucked away
in some cubby-hole and made use of later in one or the other of his books.
One of his very earliest printed bits is called:
MY FANCY.
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 were to 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,
Tho' my heart its passion hides--
"She is all my fancy painted her,"
But, oh--_how much besides_!
The quoted line--"She is all my fancy painted her"--is the line upon which
he built the poem; he was very fond of doing this, and though no special
mention is made of the fact, it is highly probable that these three
telling verses found their way into _Misch-Masch_, among the "Studies
from the Poets." It is unfortunate, too, that we have not some funny
drawing of this wonderful "gushing thing" of the giraffe neck, "the bear's
ethereal grace," and the "footstep of the elephant," for Lewis Carroll's
drawings generally followed his thoughts; a pencil and bit of paper were
always ready in some inner pocket, for illustrating purposes, and it is
doubtful if any celebrated artist could produce more sketches on such a
variety of subjects. His power to make his pencil "talk" impressed his
sisters and brothers greatly; they caught every scrap of paper that
fluttered from his hands, treasured it, and if the drawing was distinct
enough, they colored it with crayons or touched it up in black and white,
for the use of _The Rectory Umbrella_ and the later publication of
_Misch-Masch_. In his secret soul he longed to be an artist; he certainly
possessed genius of a queer sort. A few strokes would tell the story,
usually a funny one or a quaint one, but all his art failed to make his
people look quite real or natural--just dolls stuffed with sawdust. But
they were fine caricatures, and the young artist had to content himself
with this smaller talent.
_The Train_ published many of his poems during 1856-57. "Solitude,"
"Novelty and Romancement," "The Three Voices," followed one another in
quick succession, but the best of all was decidedly "Hiawatha's
Photographing," and this for more reasons than one. In the first place,
from the time he went into residence at Christ Church photography was his
great delight; he "took" people whenever he could--canons, deacons, deans,
students, undergraduates and children. The "grown-ups" submitted with a
gentle sort of patience, but he made his camera such a point of attraction
for the youngsters that he could "take" them as often as he liked, and he
has left behind him a wonderful array of photographs, many of well-known,
even celebrated people, among whom we may find Tennyson, the Rossetti
family, Ellen and Kate Terry, John Ruskin, George Macdonald, Charlotte M.
Yonge, Sir John Millais, and many others known to fame; and considering
that photography had not reached its present perfection, Lewis Carroll's
photographs show remarkable skill. He would not have been Lewis Carroll if
he had not gone into this fascinating pastime with his whole soul.
Whenever he met a new face which interested him, we may be sure it was not
long before the busy camera was at work. There is no doubt that his
admiring family suffered agonies in posing, to say nothing of his friends
who were not always beautiful enough to produce "pretty pictures"; their
criticisms were often based entirely on their disappointment: hence the
poem,
HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING.
[_With no apology to Mr. Longfellow._]
From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together,
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the second book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod--
Crouched beneath its dusky cover--
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence--
Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.
All of which during the course of the poem succeeded in driving poor
Hiawatha to the verge of madness, until--
Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together
("Grouped" is not the right expression),
And, as happy chance would have it,
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.
Then they joined and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As "the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of."
* * * *
All together rang their voices,
Angry, loud, discordant voices,
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.
But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With the calm deliberation,
The intense deliberation,
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train received him:
Thus departed Hiawatha.
But perhaps the cleverest part of the poem is the seemingly innocent
paragraph of introduction which reads as follows:
"In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight
attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practiced writer,
with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in
the easy running meter of 'The Song of Hiawatha.' Having, then, distinctly
stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its
merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his
criticism to its treatment of the subject."
Notice how metrically this sounds. Tune up to the Hiawatha pitch and you
will have the same swinging measure in the above sentences.
Lewis Carroll's real acquaintance with Tennyson began in that eventful
year of 1856. The odd, shaggy man, with the fine head and the keen,
restless eyes, fascinated the young Student greatly. He went often to
Tennyson's home and did his best to be interested in the poet's two little
boys, Hallam and Lionel. Had they been girls there would have been no
difficulty, but he always had strained relations with boys; still, as
these "roundabouts" belonged to the little Tennysons, we find a sort of
armed truce kept up between them. He bargained with Lionel to exchange
manuscripts, and he got both boys to sign their names in his album; he
even condescended to play a game of chess with Lionel, checkmating him in
six moves, but he distinctly refused to allow that young gentleman to give
him a blow on the head with a mallet in exchange for some of his verses.
However, we may be pretty sure that Lewis Carroll's visits to the
Tennysons were much pleasanter when the "roundabouts" were not visible.
That same year he made the acquaintance of John Ruskin, and the great art
critic turned out to be a very valuable friend, as was also Sir James
Paget, the eminent surgeon, who gave him many hints on medicine and
surgery, in which Charles Dodgson was deeply interested. His medical
knowledge was quite remarkable, and the books he collected on the subject
would have been valuable additions to any physician's library. In the year
1857 he met Thackeray, who had come to Oxford to deliver his lecture on
George III, and liked him very much. The Oxford "dons" were certainly
fortunate in meeting all the "great ones" and seeing them generally at
their best.
The year 1858 was an uneventful year; college routine varied by much
reading, afternoons on the river or in the country, and evenings devoted
to preparations for the morrow's work. Lewis Carroll kept a diary which
harbored many fine thoughts and noble resolves, many doubts and fears,
many hopes, many plans for the future, for he was making up his mind to
the final step in the life of a Christ Church Student--that of taking
Holy Orders, in other words, of being ordained as a clergyman.
There were one or two points to be considered: first, regarding an
impediment in his speech which would make constant preaching almost
impossible. He stammered, not on all occasions, but quite enough to make
steady speaking an effort, painful to himself and his hearers. The other
objection lay in the fact that Christ Church had rigid laws for its clergy
concerning amusements. Charles Dodgson had no wish to be shut out of the
world; he was fond of theaters and operas, and he did not see that he was
doing any special good to his fellow-creatures by putting them out of his
life. But at last, after battling with his conscience, and earnest
consultation with a few wise friends, he decided that he would be
ordained, though he would not become a regular preaching clergyman.
It took him two years to reach this decision, for he was slow to act on
such occasions, but strong of purpose when the step was taken. On October
17, 1859, the young Prince of Wales (the late King Edward VII) came into
residence at Christ Church College. This was a mark of special favor to
Dean Liddell, who had for many years been chaplain to Queen Victoria and
her husband, the Prince Consort. Of course there was much ceremony
attending the arrival of his Royal Highness; the Dean went in person to
the station to meet him, and all the "dons" were drawn up in a body in
Tom Quadrangle to give him the proper sort of greeting. "Hiawatha" had
his camera along--"in its case it lay compactly," but his poor little
Highness had been "served up" on the camera to his utter disgust, and
nothing would induce him to be photographed.
Later in the season, the Queen, the Prince Consort, and several princes
and princesses came up to Oxford and surprised everybody. Christ Church
was certainly in a flutter, and the day was turned into a gala occasion.
There was a brilliant reception that evening at Dean Liddell's and
_tableaux vivants_, to which we may be sure our modest Lewis Carroll gave
much assistance. He was already on intimate terms with the three little
Liddells, Lorina, Alice, and Edith, and as the children were to pose in a
tableau, he was certainly there to help and suggest with a score of quaint
ideas.
He had a pleasant talk with the Prince of Wales, who shook hands cordially
and condescended to ask several questions of the young photographer,
praising the photographs which he had seen, and promised to choose some
for himself some day. He regarded the pleasant-looking, chatty young
fellow as just one of the college "dons"; he had never even heard of Lewis
Carroll, indeed that gentleman was too newly born to be known very well
anywhere outside of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson's study, and it is extremely
doubtful if the grave Student himself knew of half the fun and merriment
hidden away in the new name. As a result of his interview with the prince,
Lewis Carroll obtained his autograph, which was quite a gem among his
collection.
There is no doubt he had many fine autographs and also an album, as he
mentions several times. Autograph-hunting was not carried to the excess
that it was later on, and is to-day. It is, to put it mildly, a very bad
habit. Total strangers have no hesitancy in asking this favor of
celebrities, who, as a rule, object to the wholesale signing of their
names.
But the signatures in Lewis Carroll's album were those of friends, which
was quite another matter, and it was consequently most interesting to turn
the leaves of the precious volume, and see in what friendly esteem he was
held by the foremost men and women of his time. To him a letter or a
sentiment would have had no meaning nor value if not addressed personally
to himself; whereas, the autograph fiend of the present day would be
content with the signature no matter to whom addressed. Lewis Carroll
suffered from these pests in later years, as well as from the photograph
fiend, to him as malicious as a hornet, and from whom he fled in terror.
Yet we find many good pictures of him, notwithstanding, the one which we
have chosen for our frontispiece being the youngest and most
attractive--Lewis Carroll at the age of twenty-three. There is another
taken some two years later, when the dignity of the Oxford "don" set well
on the slim young figure. His face was always curiously youthful in
expression: the eyes, deep blue, looked childlike in their innocent trust;
a child had but to gaze into their depths and claim a friend. Little
girls, particularly, remembered their beauty, for they felt a thrill at
their youthful heartstrings when those eyes, brimful of kindliness, turned
upon them and warmed their childish souls. They were quick to feel the
gentle pressure of his hand, his touch upon their shoulders or on their
heads, which drew these little magnets close to his side where he loved to
have them, for behind the shyness and reserve of Lewis Carroll was a great
wealth of tenderness and love which only his girl friends understood,
because it was only to them that he cared to show this part of himself.
Of course in his own home this side of him expanded in the sunny
companionship of seven younger sisters. Naturally they did not look upon
him with the awe of the later generation, but they brought to the surface
many winning characteristics which might never have come to light but for
them.
It had been his delight from early boyhood to tackle problems and to solve
them; the "girl problem" he had studied from the very beginning, in all
its stages, and so it is small wonder that he knew girls quite as well as
he did mathematics, and loved them even better, if the truth must be
told, though they were often quite as puzzling.
On December 22, 1861, in spite of many doubts and misgivings as to his
worthiness, Charles Dodgson was ordained deacon by the Bishop of Oxford.
He did this partly from his duty as a Student of Christ Church, but more
because of the influence it would give him among the undergraduates, whose
welfare he had so much at heart. He preached often but he never became a
regular officiating clergyman, and his sermons were always delightful
because they were never what we call "preachy."
He was so truly good and religious, his faith was so simple, his desire to
do right was so unfailing, that in spite of the slight drawback in his
speech he had the gift of impressing his hearers deeply. His sermons were
dedicated to the service of God, and he was content if they bore good
fruit; he did not care what people said about them. He often preached at
the evening service for the college servants; but most of all he loved to
preach to children, to see the earnest young faces upturned to him, to
feel that they were following each word. It was then that he put his whole
heart into the task before him; the light grew in his eyes, he forgot to
stammer, forgot everything, save the young souls he was leading, in his
eagerness to show them the way.
Such was the character of Lewis Carroll up to the year 1862, that
momentous year in which he found the golden key of Fairyland. He had often
peeped through the closed gates but he had never been able to squeeze
through; he might have jumped over them, but that is forbidden in
Fairyland, where everything happens in the most natural way.
He had succeeded beyond his hopes in his efforts for independence; he was
establishing a brilliant record as a mathematical lecturer; he had several
scholarships which paid him a small yearly sum, and he was also
sublibrarian. His little poems were making their way into public notice
and his more serious work had been "Notes on the First Two Books of
Euclid," "Text-Books on Plane Geometry and Plane Trigonometry," and "Notes
on the First Part of Algebra."
Socially, the retiring "don" was scarcely known beyond the University. He
ran up to London whenever the theaters offered anything tempting; he
visited the studios of well-known artists, who were all fond of him, and
he cultivated the friendship of men of learning and letters. If these
gentlemen happened to have attractive little daughters, he cultivated
their acquaintance also. One special anecdote we have of a visit to the
studio of Mr. Munroe, where he found two of the children of George
Macdonald, the author of many books, among them "At the Back of the North
Wind," a most charming fairy tale. These two children, a boy and a girl,
instantly made friends with Lewis Carroll, who suggested to the boy,
Greville, that he thought a marble head would be such a useful thing, much
better than a real one because it would not have to be brushed and combed.
This appealed to the small boy, whose long hair was a torment, but after
consideration he decided that a marble head would not be able to speak,
and it was better to have his hair pulled and be able to cry out. In the
case of the general small boy Lewis Carroll preferred marble, but he was
overruled. Mr. Macdonald's two daughters, Lily and Mary, were, however,
great favorites of his; indeed, his girl friends were rapidly multiplying.
Sometimes they came to see him in the pleasant rooms at Christ Church
College, which were full of curious things that children love. Sometimes
they had tea with him or went for a stroll, for Oxford had many beautiful
walks about her colleges.
A visit to him was always a great event, but perhaps those who enjoyed him
most were his intimates in "Tom Quadrangle." The three little Liddell
girls were at that time his special favorites; their bright companionship
brought forth the many sides of his genius; under the spell of their
winsome chatter the long golden afternoon would glide happily by, while
under _his_ spell they would sit for hours listening to the wonder tales
he spun for them.