UP AND DOWN THE RIVER WITH THE REAL ALICE.
We generally speak of Oxford-on-the-Thames. Indeed, if we were to journey
by water from London to Oxford, we would certainly go by way of the
Thames, and a pleasant journey that would be, too, gliding between
well-wooded, fertile shores with charming landscape towns on either side
and bits of history peeping out in unexpected places. But into the heart
of Oxford itself the Thames sends forth its tributaries in opposite
directions; the Isis on one side, the Cherwell on the other. The Cherwell
is what is called a "canoe river," the Isis is the race course of Oxford,
where all the "eights" (every racing crew consists of eight men) come to
practice for the great day and the great race, which takes place sometimes
at Henley, sometimes at Oxford itself, when the Isis is gay with bunting
and flags.
On one side of Christ Church Meadow is a long line of barges which have
been made stationary and which are used as boathouses by the various
college clubs; these are situated just below what is known as Folly
Bridge, a name familiar to all Oxford men, and the goal of many pleasant
trips. The original bridge was destroyed in 1779, but tradition tells us
that the first bridge was capped by a tower which was the study or
observatory of Roger Bacon, the Franciscan Friar who invented the
telescope, gunpowder, and many other things unknown to the people of his
time. It was even hinted that he had cunningly built this tower that it
might fall instantly on anyone passing beneath it who proved to be more
learned than himself. One could see it from Christ Church Meadow, and
doubtless Lewis Carroll pointed it out to his small companions, as they
strolled across to the water's edge, where perhaps a boat rocked lazily at
its moorings.
It was the work of a moment to steady it so that the eager youngsters
could scramble in, then he stepped in himself, pushing off with his oar,
and a few long, steady strokes brought them in midstream. This was an
ordinary afternoon occurrence, and the children alone knew the delights of
being the chosen companions of Lewis Carroll. He would let them row, while
he would lounge among the cushions and "spin yarns" that brought peals of
merry laughter that rippled over the surface of the water. He knew by
heart every story and tradition of Oxford, from the time the Romans
reduced it from a city of some importance to a mere "ford for oxen to pass
over," which, indeed, was the origin of its name, long before the
Christian era.
He had a story or a legend about every place they passed, but most of all
they loved the stories he "made up" as he went along. He had a low,
well-pitched voice, with the delightful trick of dropping it in moments of
profound interest, sometimes stopping altogether and closing his eyes in
pretended sleep, when his listeners were truly thrilled. This, of course,
produced a stampede, which he enjoyed immensely, and sometimes he would
"wake up," take the oars himself, and pull for some green shady nook that
loomed invitingly in the distance; here they would land and under the
friendly trees they would have their tea, perhaps, and then they _might_
induce him to finish the story--if they were _ever_ so good.
It was on just such an occasion that he chanced to find the golden key to
Wonderland. The time was midsummer, the place on the way up the river
toward Godstow Bridge; the company consisted of three winsome little
girls, Lorina, Alice, and Edith Liddell, or _Prima_, _Secunda_, and
_Tertia_, as he called them by number in Latin. He tells of this himself
in the following dainty poem--the introduction to "Alice in Wonderland":
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 ever 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 pilgrims' withered wreath of flowers
Plucked in a far-off land.
It was a very hot day, the fourth of July, 1862, that this special little
picnic party set out for its trip up the river. Godstow Bridge was a
quaint old-fashioned structure of three arches. In the very middle it was
broken by a tiny wooded island, and guarding the east end was a
picturesque inn called _The Trout_. Through the middle arch they could
catch a distant glimpse of Oxford, with Christ Church spire quite plainly
to be seen. They had often gone as far as the bridge and had their tea in
the ruins of the old nunnery near by, a spot known to history as the
burial-place of Fair Rosamond, that beautiful lady who was supposed to
have been poisoned by Queen Eleanor, the jealous wife of Henry II. But
this day the sun streamed down on the little party so pitilessly that they
landed in a cool, green meadow and took refuge under a hayrick. Lewis
Carroll stretched himself out at full length in the protecting shade,
while the expectant little girls grouped themselves about him.
"Now begin it," demanded Lorina, who was called _Prima_ in the poem.
_Secunda_ [Alice] probably knew the story-teller pretty well when she
asked for nonsense, while tiny _Tertia_, the youngest, simply clamored for
"more, more, more," as the speaker's breath gave out.
Now, as Lewis Carroll lay there, a thousand odd fancies elbowing one
another in his active brain, his hands groping in the soft moist earth
about him, his fingers suddenly closed over that magic Golden Key. It was
a queer invisible key, just the kind that fairies use, and neither Lorina,
Alice, nor Edith would have been able to find it if they had hunted ever
so long. He must have found it on the water and brought it ashore quite by
accident, for there was the gleam of sunlight still upon it, and it was
very shady under the hayrick. Perhaps there was a door somewhere that the
key might fit; but no, there was only the hayrick towering above him, and
only the brown earth stretching all about him. Perhaps a white rabbit
_did_ whisk by, perhaps the real Alice _really_ fell asleep, at any rate
when _Prima_ said "Begin it," that is how he started. The Golden Key
opened the brown earth--in popped the white rabbit--down dropped the
sleeping Alice--down--down--down--and while she was falling, clutching at
things on the way, Lewis Carroll turned, with one of his rare sweet
smiles, to the eager trio and began the story of "Alice's Adventures
Underground."
The whole of that long afternoon he held the children spellbound. He did
not finish the story during that one sitting. Summer has many long days,
and the quiet, prudent young "don" was not reckless enough to scatter
_all_ his treasures at once; and, besides, all the queer things that
happened to Alice would have lost half their interest in the shadow of a
hayrick, and how could one conjure up _Mock Turtles_ and _Lorys_ and
_Gryphons_ on the dry land? Lewis Carroll's own recollection of the
beginning of "Alice" is certainly dated from that "golden afternoon" in
the boat, and any idea of publishing the web of nonsense he was weaving
never crossed his mind. Indeed, if he could have imagined that his small
audience of three would grow to be as many millions in the years to come,
the book would have lost half its charm, and the real child that lay
hidden under the cap and gown of this grave young Student of thirty might
never have been known to the world.
Into his mind, with all the freshness of unbidden thought, popped this
story of _Alice_ and her strange adventures, and while he chose the name
of Alice in seeming carelessness, there is no doubt that the little maid
who originally owned the name had many points in common with the Rev.
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, never suspected save by the two most concerned.
To begin with, the real Alice had an Imagination; any child who demands
nonsense in a story has an Imagination. Nothing was too impossible or
absurd to put into a story, for one could always "make believe" it was
something else you see, and a constant "make believe" made everything seem
quite real. Dearly as he loved this posy of small girls, Lewis Carroll
could not help being just the _least_ bit partial to Alice, because, as he
himself might have quaintly expressed it, she understood everything he
said, even before he said it.
She was a dear little round, chubby child, a great camera favorite and
consequently a frequent visitor to his rooms, for he took her picture on
all occasions. One, as a beggar child, has become quite famous. She is
pictured standing, with her ragged dress slipping from her shoulders and
her right hand held as if begging for pennies; the other hand rests upon
her hip, and her head is bent in a meek fashion; but the mouth has a
roguish curve, and there is just the shadow of a laugh in the dark eyes,
for of course it's only "make believe," and no one knows it better than
Alice herself. Lewis Carroll liked the little bit of acting she did in
this trifling part. A child's acting always appealed to him, and many of
his youngest and best friends were regularly on the stage.
He took another picture of the children perched upon a sofa; Lorina in the
center, a little sister nestling close to her on either side, making a
pretty pyramid of the three dark heads. Yet in studying the faces one can
understand why it was Alice who inspired him. Lorina's eyes are looking
straight ahead, but the lids are dropped with a little conscious air, as
if the business of having one's picture taken was a very serious matter,
to say nothing of the responsibility of keeping two small sisters in
order. Edith is staring the camera out of countenance, uncertain whether
to laugh or to frown, a pretty child with curls drooping over her face;
but Alice, with the elf-locks and the straight heavy "bang," is looking
far away with those wonderful eyes of hers; perhaps she was even then
thinking of Wonderland, perhaps even then a light flashed from her to
Lewis Carroll in the shape of a promise to take her there some day. At any
rate, if it hadn't been for Alice there would have been no Wonderland, and
without Wonderland, childhood is but a tale half-told, and even to this
day, nearly fifty years since that "golden afternoon," every little girl
bearing the name of Alice who has read the book and has anything of an
imagination, firmly believes that _she_ is the sole and only Alice who
could venture into Lewis Carroll's Wonderland.
After he had told the story and the original Alice had expressed her
approval, he promised to write it out for her to keep. Of course this took
time, because, in the first place, his writing was not quite plain enough
for a child to read easily, so every letter was carefully printed. Then
the illustrations were troublesome, and he drew as many as he could,
consulting a book on natural history for the correct forms of the queer
animals _Alice_ found. The _Mock Turtle_ was his own invention, for there
never _was_ such an animal on land or sea.
This book was handed over to the small Alice, who little dreamed at that
time of the treasure she was to have in her keeping. Over twenty years
later, when Alice had become Mrs. Reginald Hargreaves, the great
popularity of "Alice in Wonderland" tempted the publishers to bring out a
reproduction of the original manuscript. This could not be done without
borrowing the precious volume from the original Alice, who was willing to
trust it in the hands of her old friend, knowing how over-careful he would
be, and, as he resolved that he would not allow any workman to touch it,
he had some funny experiences.
To reproduce a book it must first be photographed, and of course Lewis
Carroll consulted an expert. He offered to bring the book to London, to go
daily to his studio and hold it in position to be photographed, turning
over the pages one by one, but the photographer wished to do all that
himself. Finally, a man was found who was willing to come to Oxford and do
the work in Lewis Carroll's own way, while he stood near by turning over
the pages himself rather than let him touch them.
The photographer succeeded in getting a fine set of negatives, and in
October, 1880, Lewis Carroll sent the book in safe custody back to its
owner, thinking his troubles were over. The next step was to have plates
made from the pictures, and these plates in turn could pass into print.
The photographer was prompt at first in delivering the plates as they were
made, but, finally, like the _Baker_ in "The Hunting of the Snark," he
"softly and suddenly vanished away," holding still twenty-two of the fine
blocks on which the plates were made, leaving the book so far--incomplete.
There ensued a lively search for the missing photographer. This lasted for
months, thereby delaying the publication of the book, which was due
Christmas. Then, as suddenly as he had disappeared, he reappeared like a
ghost at the publishers, left eight of the twenty-two zinc blocks, and
again vanished. Finally, when a year had passed and poor Lewis Carroll, at
his wits' end, had resolved to borrow the book again in order to
photograph the remaining fourteen pages, the man was frightened by threats
of arrest, and delivered up the fourteen negatives which he had not yet
transferred to the blocks.
The distracted author was glad to find them, even though he had to pay a
second time for getting the blocks done properly. However, the book was
finished in time for the Christmas sale of 1886, just twenty-one years
after "Alice" made her first bow, and the best thing about it was that
all the profits were given to the Children's Hospitals and Convalescent
Homes for Sick Children. It was thoroughly illustrated with thirty-seven
of the author's own drawings, and the grown-up "Alice" received a
beautiful special copy bound in white vellum; but pretty as it was, it
could not take the place of that other volume carefully written out for
the sole pleasure of one little girl. Nothing was too much trouble if it
succeeded in giving pleasure to any little girl whom Lewis Carroll knew
and loved; even those he did not really know, and consequently could not
love, he sought to please, just because they were "little girls."
Alice was among the chosen few who retained his friendship through the
years. She was his first favorite, and she was indirectly the source of
his good luck, and we may be sure there was a certain winsomeness about
her long after the elf-locks were gathered into decorous coils of dark
hair.
True, the formal old bachelor came forward in their later association, and
the numerous letters he wrote her always began "My dear Mrs. Hargreaves,"
but his fondness for her outlived many other passing affections.
To go back to the little Alice and the fair smiling river, and that wizard
Lewis Carroll, who told the wonder tales so long ago. Once the children
had a taste of "Alice," she grew to be a great favorite; sometimes a
chapter was told on the river, sometimes in his study, often in the
garden or after tea in Christ Church Meadows--in fact, wherever they
caught a glimpse of the grave young man in cap and gown, the trio of small
Liddells fell upon him, and in this fashion, as he tells us himself, "the
quaint events were hammered out."
When he presented the promised copy it might have passed forever from his
mind, which was full of the higher mathematics he was teaching to the
young men of Christ Church, but he chanced one day to show the manuscript
to George Macdonald, the well-known writer, who was so charmed with it
that he advised his friend to send it to a publisher. He accordingly
carried it to London, and Macmillan & Co. took it at once. This was a
great surprise. He never dreamed of his nonsense being considered
seriously, and growing suddenly about as young as a great, big, bashful
boy, he refused to allow his own rough illustrations to appear in print,
so he hunted over the long list of his artist friends, for the genius who
could best illustrate the adventures of his dream-child. At last his
friend, Tom Taylor, a well-known dramatist, suggested Mr. Tenniel, the
clever cartoonist for _Punch_, who was quite willing to undertake this
rather odd bit of work, and on July 4, 1865, exactly three years since
that memorable afternoon, Alice Liddell received the first printed copy of
"Alice in Wonderland," the name the author finally selected for his book.
His first idea, as we know, was "Alice's Adventures Underground," the
second was "Alice's Hour in Elfland," but the last seemed best of all, for
Wonderland might mean any place where wonderful things could happen. And
this was Lewis Carroll's idea; anywhere the dream "Alice" chose to go
would be Wonderland, and none knew better than he did how eagerly the
child-mind paints its own fairy nooks and corners.
He was not at all excited about his first big venture; no doubt Alice
herself took much more interest. To feel that you are about to be put into
print is certainly a great experience, almost as great as being
photographed; and, knowing how conscientious Lewis Carroll was about
little things, we may be quite sure that her suggestions crept into many
of the pictures, while it is equally certain that the few additions he
made to the original "Alice" were carefully considered and firmly insisted
upon by this critical young person.
The first edition of two thousand copies was a great disappointment; the
pictures were badly printed, and all who had bought them were asked to
send them back with their names and addresses, as a new edition would be
printed immediately and they would then receive perfect copies. The old
copies Lewis Carroll gave away to various homes and hospitals, while the
new edition, upon which he feared a great loss, sold so rapidly that he
was astonished, and still more so when edition after edition was demanded
by the public, and far from being a failure, "Alice in Wonderland"
brought her author both fame and money.
From that time forward, fortune smiled upon him; there were no strenuous
efforts to increase his income. "Alice" yielded him an abundance each
year, and he was beset by none of the cares and perplexities which are the
dragons most writers encounter with their literary swords. He welcomed the
fortune, not so much for the good it brought to him alone, but for the
power it gave him to help others. His countless charities are not recorded
because they were swallowed up in the "little things" he did, not in the
great benefits which are trumpeted over the world. His own life, so
simple, so full of purpose, flowed on as usual; he was not one to change
his habits with the turn of Fortune's wheel, no matter what it brought
him.
Of course, everyone knew that a certain Lewis Carroll had written a
clever, charming book of nonsense, called "Alice in Wonderland"; that he
was an Oxford man, very much of a scholar, and little known outside of the
University. What people did not know was that this same Lewis Carroll had
for a double a certain "grave and reverend" young "don," named Charles
Lutwidge Dodgson, who, while "Alice" was making the whole world laugh,
retired to his sanctum and wrote in rapid succession the following learned
pamphlets: "The Condensation of Determinants," "An Elementary Treatise on
Determinants," "The Fifth Book of Euclid, treated Algebraically," "The
Algebraic Formulae for Responsions."
Now, whatever these may be, they certainly did not interest children in
the least, and Charles Lutwidge Dodgson did not care in the least, so long
as he could smooth the thorny path of mathematics for his struggling
undergraduates. But Lewis Carroll was quite a different matter. So long as
the children were pleased, little he cared for algebra or geometry.
A funny tale is told about Queen Victoria. It seems that Lewis Carroll
sent the second presentation copy of "Alice in Wonderland" to Princess
Beatrice, the Queen's youngest daughter. Her mother was so pleased with
the book that she asked to have the author's other works sent to her, and
we can imagine her surprise when she received a large package of learned
treatises by the mathematical lecturer of Christ Church College.
Who can tell through what curious byways the thought of the dream-child
came dancing across the flagstones of the great "Tom Quad." Yet across
those same flagstones danced the little Liddells when they thought there
was any possibility of a romp or a story; for Lewis Carroll lived in the
northwest angle, while the girls lived in the beautiful deanery in the
northeast angle, and it was only a "puss-in-the-corner" game to get from
one place to the other.
"Alice" was written on the ground floor of this northwest angle, and it
was in this sunny room that Lewis Carroll and the real Alice held many a
consultation about the new book.
All true fame is to a certain extent due to accident; an act of heroism is
generally performed on the spur of the moment; a great poem is an
inspiration; a great invention, though preceded possibly by years of
study, is born of a single moment's inspiration; so "Alice" came to Lewis
Carroll on the wings of inspiration. His study of girls and their varying
moods has left its impress on a world of little girls, and there is
scarcely a home to-day, in England or America, where there is not a
special niche reserved for "Alice in Wonderland," while this interesting
young lady has been served up in French, German, Italian, and Dutch, and
the famous poem of _Father William_ has even been translated into Arabic.
Whether the Chinese or the Japanese have discovered this funny little
dream-child we cannot tell, but perhaps in time she may journey there and
amuse the little maids with the jet-black hair, the creamy skin, and the
slanting eyes. Perhaps she may even stir them to laughter.
Surely all must agree that the _Gryphon_ himself bears a strong
resemblance to the Chinese dragons, and it _might_ be, such are the
wonders of Wonderland, that the _Mock Turtle_ can be found in Japan. Who
knows! At any rate the little English Alice never thought of the
consequences of that "golden afternoon"; it was good to be in the boat, to
pull through the rippling waters and stir a faint breeze as the oars
"with little skill--
By little arms are plied";
then to gather under the friendly shade of the hayrick and listen to the
wonder tale "with lots of nonsense in it."
Dear little Alice of Long Ago! To you we owe a debt of gratitude. All the
little Alices of the past and all the little Alices of the future will
have their Wonderland because, while floating up and down the river with
the real Alice, Lewis Carroll found the Golden Key.