commanded a large sale. The nature of the subject would be against it,
as most students whose aim is to get as good a place as possible in
the class lists cannot afford the luxury of a separate work, and have
to be content with the few chapters devoted to "Determinants" in works
on Higher Algebra or the Theory of Equations, supplemented by
references to Mr. Dodgson's work which can be found in the College
libraries.
The general acceptance of the book would be rather restricted by the
employment of new words and symbols, which, as the author himself
felt, "are always a most unwelcome addition to a science already
burdened with an enormous vocabulary." But the work itself is largely
original, and its arrangement and style are, perhaps, as attractive as
the nature of the subject will allow. Such a book as this has little
interest for the general reader, yet, amongst the leisured few who are
able to read mathematics for their own sake, the treatise has found
warm admirers.
In the Summer Vacation of 1867 he went for a tour on the Continent,
accompanied by Dr. Liddon, whom I have already mentioned as having
been one of his most intimate friends at this time. During the whole
of this tour Mr. Dodgson kept a diary, more with the idea that it
would help him afterwards to remember what he had seen than with any
notion of publication. However, in later years it did occur to him
that others might be interested in his impressions and experiences,
though he never actually took any steps towards putting them before
the public. Perhaps he was wise, for a traveller's diary always
contains much information that can be obtained just as well from any
guide-book. In the extracts which I reproduce here, I hope that I have
not retained anything which comes under that category.
[Illustration: Dr. Liddon. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]
_July 12th_.--The Sultan and I arrived in London almost
at the same time, but in different quarters--_my_ point
of entry being Paddington, and _his_ Charing Cross. I
must admit that the crowd was greatest at the latter place.
Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Liddon met at Dover, and passed the night at one
of the hotels there:--
_July 13th_.--We breakfasted, as agreed, at eight, or
at least we then sat down and nibbled bread and butter till
such time as the chops should be done, which great event
took place about half past. We tried pathetic appeals to the
wandering waiters, who told us, "They are coming, sir," in a
soothing tone, and we tried stern remonstrance, and they
then said, "They are coming, sir," in a more injured tone;
and after all such appeals they retired into their dens, and
hid themselves behind side-boards and dish-covers, and still
the chops came not. We agreed that of all virtues a waiter
can display, that of a retiring disposition is quite the
least desirable....
The pen refuses to describe the sufferings of some of the
passengers during our smooth trip of ninety minutes: 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....
We landed at Calais in the usual swarm of friendly natives,
offering services and advice of all kinds; to all such
remarks I returned one simple answer, _Non!_ It was
probably not strictly applicable in all cases, but it
answered the purpose of getting rid of them; one by one they
left me, echoing the _Non_! in various tones, but all
expressive of disgust.
At Cologne began that feast of beautiful things which his artistic
temperament fitted him so well to enjoy. Though the churches he
visited and the ceremonies he witnessed belonged to a religious system
widely different from his own, the largeness and generosity of his
mind always led him to insist upon that substratum of true
devotion--to use a favourite word of his--which underlies all forms of
Christianity.
We spent an hour in the cathedral, which I will not attempt
to describe further than by saying it was the most beautiful
of all churches I have ever seen or can imagine. If one
could imagine the spirit of devotion embodied in any
material form, it would be in such a building.
In spite of all the wealth of words that has been expended upon German
art, he found something new to say on this most fertile subject:--
The amount of art lavished on the whole region of Potsdam is
marvellous; some of the tops of the palaces were like
forests of statues, and they were all over the gardens, set
on pedestals. In fact, the two principles of Berlin
architecture appear to me to be these. On the house-tops,
wherever there is a convenient place, put up the figure of a
man; he is best placed standing on one leg. Wherever there
is room on the ground, put either a circular group of busts
on pedestals, in consultation, all looking inwards--or else
the colossal figure of a man killing, about to kill, or
having killed (the present tense is preferred) a beast; the
more pricks the beast has, the better--in fact a dragon is
the correct thing, but if that is beyond the artist, he may
content himself with a lion or a pig. The beast-killing
principle has been carried out everywhere with a relentless
monotony, which makes some parts of Berlin look like a
fossil slaughter-house.
He never missed an opportunity of studying the foreign drama, which
was most praiseworthy, as he knew very little German and not a word of
Russ:--
At the hotel [at Danzig] was a green parrot on a stand; we
addressed it as "Pretty Poll," and it put its head on one
side and thought about it, but wouldn't commit itself to any
statement. The waiter came up to inform us of the reason of
its silence: "Er spricht nicht Englisch; er spricht nicht
Deutsch." It appeared that the unfortunate bird could speak
nothing but Mexican! Not knowing a word of that language, we
could only pity it.
_July 23rd._--We strolled about and bought a few
photographs, and at 11.39 left for Königsberg. On our way to
the station we came across the grandest instance of the
"Majesty of Justice" that I have ever witnessed. A little
boy was being taken to the magistrate, or to prison
(probably for picking a pocket). The achievement of this
feat had been entrusted to two soldiers in full uniform, who
were solemnly marching, one in front of the poor little
urchin and one behind, with bayonets fixed, of course, to be
ready to charge in case he should attempt an escape.
_July 25th._--In the evening I visited the theatre at
Königsberg, which was fairly good in every way, and very
good in the singing and some of the acting. The play was
"Anno 66," but I could only catch a few words here and
there, so have very little idea of the plot. One of the
characters was a correspondent of an English newspaper. This
singular being came on in the midst of a soldiers' bivouac
before Sadowa, dressed very nearly in white--a very long
frock-coat, and a tall hat on the back of his head, both
nearly white. He said "Morning" as a general remark, when he
first came on, but afterwards talked what I suppose was
broken German. He appeared to be regarded as a butt by the
soldiers, and ended his career by falling into a drum.
From Königsberg the travellers went on to St. Petersburg, where they
stayed several days, exploring the wonderful city and its environs:--
There is a fine equestrian statue of Peter the Great near
the Admiralty. The lower part is not a pedestal, but left
shapeless and rough like a real rock. The horse is rearing,
and has a serpent coiled about its hind feet, on which, I
think, it is treading. If this had been put up in Berlin,
Peter would no doubt have been actively engaged in killing
the monster, but here he takes no notice of it; in fact, the
killing theory is not recognised. We found two colossal
figures of lions, which are so painfully mild that each of
them is rolling a great ball about like a kitten.
_Aug. 1st_.--About half-past ten Mr. Merrilies called
for us, and with really remarkable kindness gave up his day
to taking us down to Peterhof, a distance of about twenty
miles, and showing us over the place. We went by steamer
down the tideless, saltless Gulf of Finland; the first
peculiarity extends through the Baltic, and the second
through a great part of it. The piece we crossed, some
fifteen miles from shore to shore, is very shallow, in many
parts only six or eight feet deep, and every winter it is
entirely frozen over with ice two feet thick, and when this
is covered with snow it forms a secure plain, which is
regularly used for travelling on, though the immense
distance, without means of food or shelter, is dangerous for
poorly clad foot passengers. Mr. Merrilies told us of a
friend of his who, in crossing last winter, passed the
bodies of eight people who had been frozen. We had a good
view, on our way, of the coast of Finland, and of Kronstadt.
When we landed at Peterhof, we found Mr. Muir's carriage
waiting for us, and with its assistance, getting out every
now and then to walk through portions where it could not go,
we went over the grounds of two imperial palaces, including
many little summer-houses, each of which would make a very
good residence in itself, as, though small, they were fitted
up and adorned in every way that taste could suggest or
wealth achieve. For varied beauty and perfect combination of
nature and art, I think the gardens eclipse those of Sans
Souci. At every corner, or end of an avenue or path, where a
piece of statuary could be introduced with effect, there one
was sure to find one, in bronze or in white marble; many of
the latter had a sort of circular niche built behind, with a
blue background to throw the figure into relief. Here we
found a series of shelving ledges made of stone, with a
sheet of water gliding down over them; here a long path,
stretching down slopes and flights of steps, and arched over
all the way with trellises and creepers; here a huge
boulder, hewn, just as it lay, into the shape of a gigantic
head and face, with mild, sphinx-like eyes, as if some
buried Titan were struggling to free himself; here a
fountain, so artfully formed of pipes set in circles, each
set shooting the water higher than those outside, as to form
a solid pyramid of glittering spray; here a lawn, seen
through a break in the woods below us, with threads of
scarlet geraniums running over it, and looking in the
distance like a huge branch of coral; and here and there
long avenues of trees, lying in all directions, sometimes
three or four together side by side, and sometimes radiating
like a star, and stretching away into the distance till the
eye was almost weary of following them. All this will rather
serve to remind me, than to convey any idea, of what we saw.
But the beauties of Peterhof were quite eclipsed by the Oriental
splendours of Moscow, which naturally made a great impression upon a
mind accustomed to the cold sublimity of Gothic architecture at
Oxford.
We gave five or six hours to a stroll through this wonderful
city, a city of white houses and green roofs, of conical
towers that rise one out of another like a foreshortened
telescope; of bulging gilded domes, in which you see, as in
a looking-glass, distorted pictures of the city; of churches
which look, outside, like bunches of variegated cactus (some
branches crowned with green prickly buds, others with blue,
and others with red and white) and which, inside, are hung
all round with _eikons_ and lamps, and lined with
illuminated pictures up to the very roof; and, finally, of
pavement that goes up and down like a ploughed field, and
_drojky_-drivers who insist on being paid thirty per
cent. extra to-day, "because it is the Empress's birthday."...
_Aug. 5th._--After dinner we went by arrangement to Mr.
Penny, and accompanied him to see a Russian wedding. It was
a most interesting ceremony. There was a large choir, from
the cathedral, who sang a long and beautiful anthem before
the service began; and the deacon (from the Church of the
Assumption) delivered several recitative portions of the
service in the most magnificent bass voice I ever heard,
rising gradually (I should say by less than half a note at a
time if that is possible), and increasing in volume of sound
as he rose in the scale, until his final note rang through
the building like a chorus of many voices. I could not have
conceived that one voice could have produced such an effect.
One part of the ceremony, the crowning the married couple,
was very nearly grotesque. Two gorgeous golden crowns were
brought in, which the officiating priest first waved before
them, and then placed on their heads--or rather the unhappy
bridegroom had to wear _his_, but the bride, having
prudently arranged her hair in a rather complicated manner
with a lace veil, could not have hers put on, but had it
held above her by a friend. The bridegroom, in plain evening
dress, crowned like a king, holding a candle, and with a
face of resigned misery, would have been pitiable if he had
not been so ludicrous. When the people had gone, we were
invited by the priests to see the east end of the church,
behind the golden gates, and were finally dismissed with a
hearty shake of the hand and the "kiss of peace," of which
even I, though in lay costume, came in for a share.
One of the objects of the tour was to see the fair at Nijni Novgorod,
and here the travellers arrived on August 6th, after a miserable
railway journey. Owing to the breaking down of a bridge, the
unfortunate passengers had been compelled to walk a mile through
drenching rain.
We went to the Smernovaya (or some such name) Hotel, a
truly villainous place, though no doubt the best in the
town. The feeding was very good, and everything else very
bad. It was some consolation to find that as we sat at
dinner we furnished a subject of the liveliest interest to
six or seven waiters, all dressed in white tunics, belted at
the waist, and white trousers, who ranged themselves in a
row and gazed in a quite absorbed way at the collection of
strange animals that were feeding before them. Now and then
a twinge of conscience would seize them that they were,
after all, not fulfilling the great object of life as
waiters, and on these occasions they would all hurry to the
end of the room, and refer to a great drawer which seemed to
contain nothing but spoons and corks. When we asked for
anything, they first looked at each other in an alarmed way;
then, when they had ascertained which understood the order
best, they all followed his example, which always was to
refer to the big drawer. We spent most of the afternoon
wandering through the fair, and buying _eikons_, &c. It
was a wonderful place. Besides there being distinct quarters
for the Persians, the Chinese, and others, we were
constantly meeting strange beings with unwholesome
complexions and unheard-of costumes. The Persians, with
their gentle, intelligent faces, the long eyes set wide
apart, the black hair, and yellow-brown skin, crowned with a
black woollen fez something like a grenadier, were about the
most picturesque we met. But all the novelties of the day
were thrown into the shade by our adventure at sunset, when
we came upon the Tartar mosque (the only one in Nijni)
exactly as one of the officials came out on the roof to
utter the muezzin cry, or call to prayers. Even if it had
been in no way singular in itself, it would have been deeply
interesting from its novelty and uniqueness, but the cry
itself was quite unlike anything I have ever heard before.
The beginning of each sentence was uttered in a rapid
monotone, and towards the end it rose gradually till it
ended in a prolonged, shrill wail, which floated overhead
through the still air with an indescribably sad and
ghostlike effect; heard at night, it would have thrilled one
like the cry of the Banshee.
This reminds one of the wonderful description in Mr. Kipling's "City
of Dreadful Night." It is not generally known that Mr. Dodgson was a
fervent admirer of Mr. Kipling's works; indeed during the last few
years of his life I think he took more pleasure in his tales than in
those of any other modern author.
Dr. Liddon's fame as a preacher had reached the Russian clergy, with
the result that he and Mr. Dodgson found many doors open to them which
are usually closed to travellers in Russia. After their visit to Nijni
Novgorod they returned to Moscow, whence, escorted by Bishop Leonide,
Suffragan Bishop of Moscow, they made an expedition to the Troitska
Monastery.
_August 12th_.--A most interesting day. We breakfasted
at half-past five, and soon after seven left by railway, in
company with Bishop Leonide and Mr. Penny, for Troitska
Monastery. We found the Bishop, in spite of his limited
knowledge of English, a very conversational and entertaining
fellow-traveller. The service at the cathedral had already
begun when we reached it, and the Bishop took us in with
him, through a great crowd which thronged the building, into
a side room which opened into the chancel, where we remained
during the service, and enjoyed the unusual privilege of
seeing the clergy communicate--a ceremony for which the
doors of the chancel are always shut, and the curtains
drawn, so that the congregation never witness it. It was a
most elaborate ceremony, full of crossings, and waving of
incense before everything that was going to be used, but
also clearly full of much deep devotion.... In the afternoon
we went down to the Archbishop's palace, and were presented
to him by Bishop Leonide. The Archbishop could only talk
Russian, so that the conversation between him and Liddon (a
most interesting one, which lasted more than an hour) was
conducted in a very original fashion--the Archbishop making
a remark in Russian, which was put into English by the
Bishop; Liddon then answered the remark in French, and the
Bishop repeated his answer in Russian to the Archbishop. So
that a conversation, entirely carried on between two people,
required the use of three languages!
The Bishop had kindly got one of the theological students,
who could talk French, to conduct us about, which he did
most zealously, taking us, among other things, to see the
subterranean cells of the hermits, in which some of them
live for many years. We were shown the doors of two of the
inhabited ones; it was a strange and not quite comfortable
feeling, in a dark narrow passage where each had to carry a
candle, to be shown the low narrow door of a little cellar,
and to know that a human being was living within, with only
a small lamp to give him light, in solitude and silence day
and night.
His experiences with an exorbitant _drojky_-driver at St.
Petersburg are worthy of record. They remind one of a story which he
himself used to tell as having happened to a friend of his at Oxford.
The latter had driven up in a cab to Tom Gate, and offered the cabman
the proper fare, which was, however, refused with scorn. After a long
altercation he left the irate cabman to be brought to reason by the
porter, a one-armed giant of prodigious strength. When he was leaving
college, he stopped at the gate to ask the porter how he had managed
to dispose of the cabman. "Well, sir," replied that doughty champion,
"I could not persuade him to go until I floored him."
After a hearty breakfast I left Liddon to rest and write
letters, and went off shopping, &c., beginning with a call
on Mr. Muir at No. 61, Galerne Ulitsa. I took a
_drojky_ to the house, having first bargained with the
driver for thirty _kopecks_; he wanted forty to begin
with. When we got there we had a little scene, rather a
novelty in my experience of _drojky_-driving. The
driver began by saying "_Sorok_" (forty) as I got out;
this was a warning of the coming storm, but I took no notice
of it, but quietly handed over the thirty. He received them
with scorn and indignation, and holding them out in his open
hand, delivered an eloquent discourse in Russian, of which
_sorok_ was the leading idea. A woman, who stood by
with a look of amusement and curiosity, perhaps understood
him. _I_ didn't, but simply held out my hand for the
thirty, returned them to the purse and counted out
twenty-five instead. In doing this I felt something like a
man pulling the string of a shower-bath--and the effect was
like it--his fury boiled over directly, and quite eclipsed
all the former row. I told him in very bad Russian that I
had offered thirty once, but wouldn't again; but this, oddly
enough, did not pacify him. Mr. Muir's servant told him the
same thing at length, and finally Mr. Muir himself came out
and gave him the substance of it sharply and shortly--but he
failed to see it in a proper light. Some people are very
hard to please.
When staying at a friend's house at Kronstadt he wrote:--
Liddon had surrendered his overcoat early in the day, and
when going we found it must be recovered from the
waiting-maid, who only talked Russian, and as I had left the
dictionary behind, and the little vocabulary did not contain
_coat_, we were in some difficulty. Liddon began by
exhibiting his coat, with much gesticulation, including the
taking it half-off. To our delight, she appeared to
understand at once--left the room, and returned in a minute
with--a large clothes-brush. On this Liddon tried a further
and more energetic demonstration; he took off his coat, and
laid it at her feet, pointed downwards (to intimate that in
the lower regions was the object of his desire), smiled with
an expression of the joy and gratitude with which he would
receive it, and put the coat on again. Once more a gleam of
intelligence lighted up the plain but expressive features of
the young person; she was absent much longer this time, and
when she returned, she brought, to our dismay, a large
cushion and a pillow, and began to prepare the sofa for the
nap that she now saw clearly was the thing the dumb
gentleman wanted. A happy thought occurred to me, and I
hastily drew a sketch representing Liddon, with one coat on,
receiving a second and larger one from the hands of a
benignant Russian peasant. The language of hieroglyphics
succeeded where all other means had failed, and we returned
to St. Petersburg with the humiliating knowledge that our
standard of civilisation was now reduced to the level of
ancient Nineveh.
[Illustration: Instance of hieroglyphic writing of the date
MDCCCLXVII--Interpretation. "There is a coat here, left in the care of
a Russian peasant, which I should be glad to receive from him."]
At Warsaw they made a short stay, putting up at the Hotel
d'Angleterre:--
Our passage is inhabited by a tall and very friendly
grey-hound, who walks in whenever the door is opened for a
second or two, and who for some time threatened to make the
labour of the servant, who was bringing water for a bath, of
no effect, by drinking up the water as fast as it was
brought.
From Warsaw they went on to Leipzig, and thence to Giessen, where they
arrived on September 4th.
We moved on to Giessen, and put up at the "Rappe Hotel" for
the night, and ordered an early breakfast of an obliging
waiter who talked English. "Coffee!" he exclaimed
delightedly, catching at the word as if it were a really
original idea, "Ah, coffee--very nice--and eggs? Ham with
your eggs? Very nice--" "If we can have it broiled," I said.
"Boiled?" the waiter repeated, with an incredulous smile.
"No, not _boiled_," I explained--"_broiled_." The
waiter put aside this distinction as trivial, "Yes, yes,
ham," he repeated, reverting to his favourite idea. "Yes,
ham," I said, "but how cooked?" "Yes, yes, how cooked," the
waiter replied, with the careless air of one who assents to
a proposition more from good nature than from a real
conviction of its truth.
_Sept. 5th_.--At midday we reached Ems, after a journey
eventless, but through a very interesting country--valleys
winding away in all directions among hills clothed with
trees to the very top, and white villages nestling away
wherever there was a comfortable corner to hide in. The
trees were so small, so uniform in colour, and so
continuous, that they gave to the more distant hills
something of the effect of banks covered with moss. The
really unique feature of the scenery was the way in which
the old castles seemed to grow, rather than to have been
built, on the tops of the rocky promontories that showed
their heads here and there among the trees. I have never
seen architecture that seemed so entirely in harmony with
the spirit of the place. By some subtle instinct the old
architects seem to have chosen both form and colour, the
grouping of the towers with their pointed spires, and the
two neutral tints, light grey and brown, on the walls and
roof, so as to produce buildings which look as naturally
fitted to the spot as the heath or the harebells. And, like
the flowers and the rocks, they seemed instinct with no
other meaning than rest and silence.
And with these beautiful words my extracts from the Diary may well
conclude. Lewis Carroll's mind was completely at one with Nature, and
in her pleasant places of calm and infinite repose he sought his
rest--and has found it.
[Illustration: Sir John Tenniel. _From a photograph by
Bassano_.]
* * * * *
CHAPTER IV
(1868-1876)
Death of Archdeacon Dodgson--Lewis Carroll's rooms at Christ
Church--"Phantasmagoria"--Translations of "Alice"--"Through
the Looking-Glass"--"Jabberwocky" in Latin--C.S.
Calverley--"Notes by an Oxford
Chiel"--Hatfield--Vivisection--"The Hunting of the Snark."
The success of "Alice in Wonderland" tempted Mr. Dodgson to make
another essay in the same field of literature. His idea had not yet
been plagiarised, as it was afterwards, though the book had of course
been parodied, a notable instance being "Alice in Blunderland," which
appeared in _Punch_. It was very different when he came to write
"Sylvie and Bruno"; the countless imitations of the two "Alice" books
which had been foisted upon the public forced him to strike out in a
new line. Long before the publication of his second tale, people had
heard that Lewis Carroll was writing again, and the editor of a
well-known magazine had offered him two guineas a page, which was a
high rate of pay in those days, for the story, if he would allow it to
appear in serial form.
The central idea was, as every one knows, the adventures of a little
girl who had somehow or other got through a looking-glass. The first
difficulty, however, was to get her through, and this question
exercised his ingenuity for some time, before it was satisfactorily
solved. The next thing was to secure Tenniel's services again. At
first it seemed that he was to be disappointed in this matter; Tenniel
was so fully occupied with other work that there seemed little hope of
his being able to undertake any more. He then applied to Sir Noel
Paton, with whose fairy-pictures he had fallen in love; but the artist
was ill, and wrote in reply, "Tenniel is _the_ man." In the end
Tenniel consented to undertake the work, and once more author and
artist settled down to work together. Mr. Dodgson was no easy man to
work with; no detail was too small for his exact criticism. "Don't
give Alice so much crinoline," he would write, or "The White Knight
must not have whiskers; he must not be made to look old"--such were
the directions he was constantly giving.
On June 21st Archdeacon Dodgson died, after an illness of only a few
days' duration. Lewis Carroll was not summoned until too late, for the
illness took a sudden turn for the worse, and he was unable to reach
his father's bedside before the end had come. This was a terrible
shock to him; his father had been his ideal of what a Christian
gentleman should be, and it seemed to him at first as if a cloud had
settled on his life which could never be dispelled. Two letters of
his, both of them written long after the sad event, give one some idea
of the grief which his father's death, and all that it entailed,
caused him. The first was written long afterwards, to one who had
suffered a similar bereavement. In this letter he said:--
We are sufficiently old friends, I feel sure, for me to have
no fear that I shall seem intrusive in writing about your
great sorrow. The greatest blow that has ever fallen on
_my_ life was the death, nearly thirty years ago, of my
own dear father; so, in offering you my sincere sympathy, I
write as a fellow-sufferer. And I rejoice to know that we
are not only fellow-sufferers, but also fellow-believers in
the blessed hope of the resurrection from the dead, which
makes such a parting holy and beautiful, instead of being
merely a blank despair.
The second was written to a young friend, Miss Edith Rix, who had sent
him an illuminated text:
My dear Edith,--I can now tell you (what I wanted to do when
you sent me that text-card, but felt I could not say it to
_two_ listeners, as it were) _why_ that special
card is one I like to have. That text is consecrated for me
by the memory of one of the greatest sorrows I have
known--the death of my dear father. In those solemn days,
when we used to steal, one by one, into the darkened room,
to take yet another look at the dear calm face, and to pray
for strength, the one feature in the room that I remember
was a framed text, illuminated by one of my sisters, "Then
are they glad, because they are at rest; and so he bringeth
them into the haven where they would be!" That text will
always have, for me, a sadness and a sweetness of its own.
Thank you again for sending it me. Please don't mention this
when we meet. I can't _talk_ about it.
Always affectionately yours,
C. L. DODGSON.
The object of his edition of Euclid Book V., published during the
course of the year, was to meet the requirements of the ordinary Pass
Examination, and to present the subject in as short and simple a form
as possible. Hence the Theory of Incommensurable Magnitudes was
omitted, though, as the author himself said in the Preface, to do so
rendered the work incomplete, and, from a logical point of view,
valueless. He hinted pretty plainly his own preference for an
equivalent amount of Algebra, which would be complete in itself. It is
easy to understand this preference in a mind so strictly logical as
his.
So far as the object of the book itself is concerned, he succeeded
admirably; the propositions are clearly and beautifully worked out,
and the hints on proving Propositions in Euclid Book V., are most
useful.
In November he again moved into new rooms at Christ Church; the suite
which he occupied from this date to the end of his life was one of the
best in the College. Situated at the north-west corner of Tom Quad, on
the first floor of the staircase from the entrance to which the Junior
Common Room is now approached, they consist of four sitting-rooms and
about an equal number of bedrooms, besides rooms for lumber, &c. From
the upper floor one can easily reach the flat college roof. Mr.
Dodgson saw at once that here was the very place for a photographic
studio, and he lost no time in obtaining the consent of the
authorities to erect one. Here he took innumerable photographs of his
friends and their children, as indeed he had been doing for some time
under less favourable conditions. One of his earliest pictures is an
excellent likeness of Professor Faraday.
[Illustration: Prof. Faraday. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]
His study was characteristic of the man; oil paintings by A. Hughes,
Mrs. Anderson, and Heaphy proclaimed his artistic tastes; nests of
pigeon-holes, each neatly labelled, showed his love of order; shelves,
filled with the best books on every subject that interested him, were
evidence of his wide reading. His library has now been broken up and,
except for a few books retained by his nearest relatives, scattered to
the winds; such dispersions are inevitable, but they are none the less
regrettable. It always seems to me that one of the saddest things
about the death of a literary man is the fact that the breaking-up of
his collection of books almost invariably follows; the building up of
a good library, the work of a lifetime, has been so much labour lost,
so far as future generations are concerned. Talent, yes, and genius
too, are displayed not only in writing books but also in buying them,
and it is a pity that the ruthless hammer of the auctioneer should
render so much energy and skill fruitless.
[Illustration: Lewis Carroll's Study at Christ Church,
Oxford.]
Lewis Carroll's dining-room has been the scene of many a pleasant
little party, for he was very fond of entertaining. In his Diary, each
of the dinners and luncheons that he gave is recorded by a small
diagram, which shows who his guests were, and their several positions
at the table. He kept a _menu_ book as well, that the same people
might not have the same dishes too frequently. He sometimes gave large
parties, but his favourite form of social relaxation was a _dîner à
deux_.
At the beginning of 1869 his "Phantasmagoria," a collection of poems
grave and gay, was published by Macmillan. Upon the whole he was more
successful in humorous poetry, but there is an undeniable dignity and
pathos in his more serious verses. He gave a copy to Mr. Justice
Denman, with whom he afterwards came to be very well acquainted, and
who appreciated the gift highly. "I did not lay down the book," he
wrote, "until I had read them [the poems] through; and enjoyed many a
hearty laugh, and something like a cry or two. Moreover, I hope to
read them through (as the _old man_ said) 'again and again.'"
[Illustration: Justice Denman. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]
It had been Lewis Carroll's intention to have "Phantasmagoria"
illustrated, and he had asked George du Maurier to undertake the work;
but the plan fell through. In his letter to du Maurier, Mr. Dodgson
had made some inquiries about Miss Florence Montgomery, the authoress
of "Misunderstood." In reply du Maurier said, "Miss Florence
Montgomery is a very charming and sympathetic young lady, the daughter
of the admiral of that ilk. I am, like you, a very great admirer of
"Misunderstood," and cried pints over it. When I was doing the last
picture I had to put a long white pipe in the little boy's mouth until
it was finished, so as to get rid of the horrible pathos of the
situation while I was executing the work. In reading the book a second
time (knowing the sad end of the dear little boy), the funny parts
made me cry almost as much as the pathetic ones."
A few days after the publication of "Phantasmagoria," Lewis Carroll
sent the first chapter of his new story to the press. "Behind the
Looking-Glass and what Alice saw there" was his original idea for its
title; it was Dr. Liddon who suggested the name finally adopted.
During this year German and French translations of "Alice in
Wonderland" were published by Macmillan; the Italian edition appeared
in 1872. Henri Bué, who was responsible for the French version, had no
easy task to perform. In many cases the puns proved quite
untranslatable; while the poems, being parodies on well-known English
pieces, would have been pointless on the other side of the Channel.
For instance, the lines beginning, "How doth the little crocodile" are
a parody on "How doth the little busy bee," a song which a French
child has, of course, never heard of. In this case Bué gave up the
idea of translation altogether, and, instead, parodied La Fontaine's
"Maître Corbeau" as follows:--
Maître Corbeau sur un arbre perché
Faisait son nid entre des branches;
Il avait relevé ses manches,
Car il était très affairé.
Maître Renard par là passant,
Lui dit: "Descendez donc, compère;
Venez embrasser votre frère!"
Le Corbeau, le reconnaissant,
Lui répondit en son ramage!--
"Fromage."
The dialogue in which the joke occurs about "tortoise" and "taught us"
("Wonderland," p. 142) is thus rendered:--
"La maîtresse était une vieille tortue; nous l'appelions
chélonée." "Et pourquoi l'appeliez-vous chélonée, si ce
n'était pas son nom?" "Parcequ'on ne pouvait s'empêcher de
s'écrier en la voyant: Quel long nez!" dit la Fausse-Tortue
d'un ton fâché; "vous êtes vraiment bien bornée!"
At two points, however, both M. Bué and Miss Antonie Zimmermann, who
translated the tale into German, were fairly beaten: the reason for
the whiting being so called, from its doing the boots and shoes, and
for no wise fish going anywhere without a porpoise, were given up as
untranslatable.
At the beginning of 1870 Lord Salisbury came up to Oxford to be
installed as Chancellor of the University. Dr. Liddon introduced Mr.
Dodgson to him, and thus began a very pleasant acquaintance. Of course
he photographed the Chancellor and his two sons, for he never missed
an opportunity of getting distinguished people into his studio.
[Illustration: Lord Salisbury and his two sons. _From a
photograph by Lewis Carroll_.]
In December, seven "Puzzles from Wonderland" appeared in Mrs. Gatty's
paper, _Aunt Judy's Magazine_. They had originally been written
for the Cecil children, with whom Lewis Carroll was already on the
best terms. Meanwhile "Through the Looking-Glass" was steadily
progressing--not, however, without many little hitches. One question
which exercised Mr. Dodgson very much was whether the picture of the
Jabberwock would do as a frontispiece, or whether it would be too
frightening for little children. On this point he sought the advice of
about thirty of his married lady friends, whose experiences with their
own children would make them trustworthy advisers; and in the end he
chose the picture of the White Knight on horseback. In 1871 the book
appeared, and was an instantaneous success. Eight thousand of the
first edition had been taken up by the booksellers before Mr. Dodgson
had even received his own presentation copies. The compliments he
received upon the "Looking-Glass" would have been enough to turn a
lesser man's head, but he was, I think, proof against either praise or
blame.
I can say with a clear head and conscience [wrote Henry
Kingsley] that your new book is the finest thing we have had
since "Martin Chuzzlewit." ... I can only say, in comparing
the new "Alice" with the old, "this is a more excellent song
than the other." It is perfectly splendid, but you have,
doubtless, heard that from other quarters. I lunch with
Macmillan habitually, and he was in a terrible pickle about
not having printed enough copies the other day.
Jabberwocky[017] was at once recognised as the best and most original
thing in the book, though one fair correspondent of _The Queen_
declared that it was a translation from the German! The late Dean of
Rochester, Dr. Scott, writes about it to Mr. Dodgson as follows:--
Are we to suppose, after all, that the Saga of Jabberwocky
is one of the universal heirlooms which the Aryan race at
its dispersion carried with it from the great cradle of the
family? You must really consult Max Müller about this. It
begins to be probable that the _origo originalissima_
may be discovered in Sanscrit, and that we shall by and by
have a _Iabrivokaveda_. The hero will turn out to be
the Sun-god in one of his _Avatars_; and the Tumtum
tree the great Ash _Ygdrasil_ of the Scandinavian
mythology.
In March, 1872, the late Mr. A.A. Vansittart, of Trinity College,
Cambridge, translated the poem into Latin elegiacs. His rendering was
printed, for private circulation only, I believe, several years later,
but will probably be new to most of my readers. A careful comparison
with the original shows the wonderful fidelity of this translation:--
"MORS IABROCHII"
Coesper[018] erat: tunc lubriciles[019] ultravia circum
Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi;
Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu;
Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae.
O fuge Iabrochium, sanguis meus![020] Ille recurvis
Unguibus, estque avidis dentibus ille minax.
Ububae fuge cautus avis vim, gnate! Neque unquam
Faedarpax contra te frumiosus eat!
Vorpali gladio juvenis succingitur: hostis
Manxumus ad medium quaeritur usque diem:
Jamque via fesso, sed plurima mente prementi,
Tumtumiae frondis suaserat umbra moram.
Consilia interdum stetit egnia[021] mente revolvens:
At gravis in densa fronde susuffrus[022] erat,
Spiculaque[023] ex oculis jacientis flammea, tulscam
Per silvam venit burbur?[024] Iabrochii!
Vorpali, semel atque iterum collectus in ictum,
Persnicuit gladio persnacuitque puer:
Deinde galumphatus, spernens informe cadaver,
Horrendum monstri rettulit ipse caput.
Victor Iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis,
Rursus in amplexus, o radiose, meos!
O frabiose dies! CALLO clamateque CALLA!
Vix potuit laetus chorticulare pater.
Coesper erat: tunc lubriciles ultravia circum
Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi;
Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu;
Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae.
A.A.V.
JABBERWOCKY.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that scratch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
The story, as originally written, contained thirteen chapters, but the
published book consisted of twelve only. The omitted chapter
introduced a wasp, in the character of a judge or barrister, I
suppose, since Mr. Tenniel wrote that "a _wasp_ in a _wig_
is altogether beyond the appliances of art." Apart from difficulties
of illustration, the "wasp" chapter was not considered to be up to the
level of the rest of the book, and this was probably the principal
reason of its being left out.
"It is a curious fact," wrote Mr. Tenniel some years later, when
replying to a request of Lewis Carroll's that he would illustrate
another of his books, "that with 'Through the Looking-Glass' the
faculty of making drawings for book illustration departed from me,
and, notwithstanding all sorts of tempting inducements, I have done
nothing in that direction since."
[Illustration: _Facsimile of a letter from Sir John Tenniel
to Lewis Carroll, June_ 1, 1870.]
"Through the Looking Glass" has recently appeared in a solemn judgment
of the House of Lords. In _Eastman Photographic Materials Company v.
Comptroller General of Patents, Designs, and Trademarks_ (1898),
the question for decision was, What constitutes an invented word? A
trademark that consists of or contains an invented word or words is
capable of registration. "Solio" was the word in issue in the case.
Lord Macnaghten in his judgment said, when alluding to the
distinguishing characteristics of an invented word:
I do not think that it is necessary that it should be wholly
meaningless. To give an illustration: your lordships may
remember that in a book of striking humour and fancy, which
was in everybody's hands when it was first published, there
is a collection of strange words where "there are" (to use
the language of the author) "two meanings packed up into one
word." No one would say that those were not invented words.
Still they contain a meaning--a meaning is wrapped up in
them if you can only find it out.
Before I leave the subject of the "Looking-Glass," I should like to
mention one or two circumstances in connection with it which
illustrate his reverence for sacred things. In his original manuscript
the bad-tempered flower (pp. 28-33) was the passion-flower; the sacred
origin of the name never struck him, until it was pointed out to him
by a friend, when he at once changed it into the tiger-lily. Another
friend asked him if the final scene was based upon the triumphal
conclusion of "Pilgrim's Progress." He repudiated the idea, saying
that he would consider such trespassing on holy ground as highly
irreverent.
He seemed never to be satisfied with the amount of work he had on
hand, and in 1872 he determined to add to his other labours by
studying anatomy and physiology. Professor Barclay Thompson supplied
him with a set of bones, and, having purchased the needful books, he
set to work in good earnest. His mind was first turned to acquiring
medical knowledge by his happening to be at hand when a man was seized
with an epileptic fit. He had prevented the poor creature from
falling, but was utterly at a loss what to do next. To be better
prepared on any future occasion, he bought a little manual called
"What to do in Emergencies." In later years he was constantly buying
medical and surgical works, and by the end of his life he had a
library of which no doctor need have been ashamed. There were only two
special bequests in his will, one of some small keepsakes to his
landlady at Eastbourne, Mrs. Dyer, and the other of his medical books
to my brother.
Whenever a new idea presented itself to his mind he used to make a
note of it; he even invented a system by which he could take notes in
the dark, if some happy thought or ingenious problem suggested itself
to him during a sleepless night. Like most men who systematically
overtax their brains, he was a poor sleeper. He would sometimes go
through a whole book of Euclid in bed; he was so familiar with the
bookwork that he could actually see the figures before him in the
dark, and did not confuse the letters, which is perhaps even more
remarkable.
Most of his ideas were ingenious, though many were entirely useless
from a practical point of view. For instance, he has an entry in his
Diary on November 8, 1872: "I wrote to Calverley, suggesting an idea
(which I think occurred to me yesterday) of guessing well-known poems
as acrostics, and making a collection of them to hoax the public."
Calverley's reply to this letter was as follows:--
My dear Sir,--I have been laid up (or laid down) for the
last few days by acute lumbago, or I would have written
before. It is rather absurd that I was on the point of
propounding to you this identical idea. I realised, and I
regret to add revealed to two girls, a fortnight ago, the
truth that all existing poems were in fact acrostics; and I
offered a small pecuniary reward to whichever would find out
Gray's "Elegy" within half an hour! But it never occurred to
me to utilise the discovery, as it did to you. I see that it
might be utilised, now you mention it--and I shall instruct
these two young women not to publish the notion among their
friends.
This is the way Mr. Calverley treated Kirke White's poem "To an early
Primrose." "The title," writes C.S.C. "might either be ignored or
omitted. Possibly carpers might say that a primrose was not a rose."
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Wild
Was nursed in whistling storms Rose
And cradled in the winds!
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, W a R
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone I ncognit O
Thy tender elegance.
So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head L owlines S
Obscure and unobserved.
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear D isciplin E
Serene the ills of life.
In the course of their correspondence Mr. Calverley wrote a
Shakespearian sonnet, the initial letters of which form the name of
William Herbert; and a parody entitled "The New Hat." I reproduce them
both.
When o'er the world Night spreads her mantle dun,
In dreams, my love, I see those stars, thine eyes,
Lighting the dark: but when the royal sun
Looks o'er the pines and fires the orient skies,
I bask no longer in thy beauty's ray,
And lo! my world is bankrupt of delight.
Murk night seemed lately fair-complexioned day;
Hope-bringing day now seems most doleful night.
End, weary day, that art no day to me!
Return, fair night, to me the best of days!
But O my rose, whom in my dreams I see,
Enkindle with like bliss my waking gaze!
Replete with thee, e'en hideous night grows fair:
Then what would sweet morn be, if thou wert there?
THE NEW HAT.
My boots had been wash'd, well wash'd, by a shower;
But little I car'd about that:
What I felt was the havoc a single half-hour
Had made with my beautiful Hat.
For the Boot, tho' its lustre be dimm'd, shall assume
New comeliness after a while;
But no art may restore its original bloom,
When once it hath fled, to the Tile.
I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay
And a brown) trotted off with a clatter;
The driver look'd round in his humorous way,
And said huskily, "Who is your hatter?"
I was pleased that he'd noticed its shape and its shine;
And, as soon as we reached the "Old Druid,"
I begged him to drink to its welfare and mine
In a glass of my favourite fluid.
A gratified smile sat, I own, on my lips
When the barmaid exclaimed to the master,
(He was standing inside with his hands on his hips),
"Just look at that gentleman's castor."
I laughed, when an organman paus'd in mid-air--
('Twas an air that I happened to know,
By a great foreign _maestro_)--expressly to stare
At ze gent wiz _ze joli chapeau_.
Yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears!
How rife with results is a day!
That Hat might, with care, have adorned me for years;
But one show'r wash'd its beauty away.
How I lov'd thee, my Bright One! I pluck in remorse
My hands from my pockets and wring 'em:
Oh, why did not I, dear, as a matter of course,
Ere I purchas'd thee purchase a gingham?
C.S. CALVERLEY.
Mr. Dodgson spent the last night of the old year (1872) at Hatfield,
where he was the guest of Lord Salisbury. There was a large party of
children in the house, one of them being Princess Alice, to whom he
told as much of the story of "Sylvie and Bruno" as he had then
composed. While the tale was in progress Lady Salisbury entered the
room, bringing in some new toy or game to amuse her little guests,
who, with the usual thoughtlessness of children, all rushed off and
left Mr. Dodgson. But the little Princess, suddenly appearing to
remember that to do so might perhaps hurt his feelings, sat down again
by his side. He read the kind thought which prompted her action, and
was much pleased by it.
As Mr. Dodgson knew several members of the _Punch_ staff, he used
to send up any little incidents or remarks that particularly amused
him to that paper. He even went so far as to suggest subjects for
cartoons, though I do not know if his ideas were ever carried out. One
of the anecdotes he sent to _Punch_ was that of a little boy,
aged four, who after having listened with much attention to the story
of Lot's wife, asked ingenuously, "Where does salt come from that's
_not_ made of ladies?" This appeared on January 3, 1874.
The following is one of several such little anecdotes jotted down by
Lewis Carroll for future use: Dr. Paget was conducting a school
examination, and in the course of his questions he happened to ask a
small child the meaning of "Average." He was utterly bewildered by the
reply, "The thing that hens lay on," until the child explained that he
had read in a book that hens lay _on an average_ so many eggs a
year.
Among the notable people whom he photographed was John Ruskin, and, as
several friends begged him for copies, he wrote to ask Mr. Ruskin's
leave. The reply was, "Buy Number 5 of _Fors Clavigera_ for 1871,
which will give you your answer." This was not what Mr. Dodgson
wanted, so he wrote back, "Can't afford ten-pence!" Finally Mr. Ruskin
gave his consent.
[Illustration: John Ruskin. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]
About this time came the anonymous publication of "Notes by an Oxford
Chiel," a collection of papers written on various occasions, and all
of them dealing with Oxford controversies. Taking them in order, we
have first "The New Method of Evaluation as applied to [_pi_],"
first published by Messrs. Parker in 1865, which had for its subject
the controversy about the Regius Professorship of Greek. One extract
will be sufficient to show the way in which the affair was treated:
"Let U = the University, G = Greek, and P = Professor. Then G P =
Greek Professor; let this be reduced to its lowest terms and call the
result J [i.e., Jowett]."
The second paper is called "The Dynamics of a Parti-cle," and is quite
the best of the series; it is a geometrical treatment of the contest
between Mr. Gathorne Hardy and Mr. Gladstone for the representation of
the University. Here are some of the "Definitions" with which the
subject was introduced:--
_Plain Superficiality_ is the character of a speech, in
which any two points being taken, the speaker is found to
lie wholly with regard to those two points.
_Plain Anger_ is the inclination of two voters to one
another, who meet together, but whose views are not in the
same direction.
When two parties, coming together, feel a Right Anger, each
is _said_ to be _complimentary_ to the other,
though, strictly speaking, this is very seldom the case.
_A surd_ is a radical whose meaning cannot be exactly
ascertained.
As the "Notes of an Oxford Chiel" has been long out of print, I will
give a few more extracts from this paper:--
_On Differentiation._
The effect of Differentiation on a Particle is very
remarkable, the first differential being frequently of
greater value than the original particle, and the second of
less enlightenment.
For example, let L = "Leader", S = "Saturday", and then LS =
"Leader in the Saturday" (a particle of no assignable
value). Differentiating once, we get L.S.D., a function of
great value. Similarly it will be found that, by taking the
second Differential of an enlightened Particle (_i.e.,_
raising it to the Degree D.D.), the enlightenment becomes
rapidly less. The effect is much increased by the addition
of a C: in this case the enlightenment often vanishes
altogether, and the Particle becomes Conservative.
PROPOSITIONS.
PROP. I. PR.
_To find the value of a given Examiner_.
_Example_.--A takes in ten books in the Final
Examination and gets a 3rd class; B takes in the Examiners,
and gets a 2nd. Find the value of the Examiners in terms of
books. Find also their value in terms in which no
Examination is held.
PROP. II. PR.
_To estimate Profit and Loss_.
_Example_.--Given a Derby Prophet, who has sent three
different winners to three different betting-men, and given
that none of the three horses are placed. Find the total
loss incurred by the three men (_a_) in money,
(_b_) in temper. Find also the Prophet. Is this latter
usually possible?
PROP. IV. TH.
_The end_ (i.e., "_the product of the extremes")
justifies_ (i.e., "_is equal to_"--_see Latin
"aequus") the means_.
No example is appended to this Proposition, for obvious
reasons.
PROP. V. PR.
_To continue a given series._
_Example_.--A and B, who are respectively addicted to
Fours and Fives, occupy the same set of rooms, which is
always at Sixes and Sevens. Find the probable amount of
reading done by A and B while the Eights are on.
The third paper was entitled "Facts, Figures, and Fancies." The best
thing in it was a parody on "The Deserted Village," from which an
extract will be found in a later chapter. There was also a letter to
the Senior Censor of Christ Church, in burlesque of a similar letter
in which the Professor of Physics met an offer of the Clarendon
Trustees by a detailed enumeration of the requirements in his own
department of Natural Science. Mr. Dodgson's letter deals with the
imaginary requirements of the Mathematical school:--
Dear Senior Censor,--In a desultory conversation on a point
connected with the dinner at our high table, you
incidentally remarked to me that lobster-sauce, "though a
necessary adjunct to turbot, was not entirely wholesome!"
It is entirely unwholesome. I never ask for it without
reluctance: I never take a second spoonful without a feeling
of apprehension on the subject of a possible nightmare. This
naturally brings me to the subject of Mathematics, and of
the accommodation provided by the University for carrying on
the calculations necessary in that important branch of
Science.
As Members of Convocation are called upon (whether
personally, or, as is less exasperating, by letter) to
consider the offer of the Clarendon Trustees, as well as
every other subject of human, or inhuman, interest, capable
of consideration, it has occurred to me to suggest for your
consideration how desirable roofed buildings are for
carrying on mathematical calculations: in fact, the variable
character of the weather in Oxford renders it highly
inexpedient to attempt much occupation, of a sedentary
nature, in the open air.
Again, it is often impossible for students to carry on
accurate mathematical calculations in close contiguity to
one another, owing to their mutual conversation;
consequently these processes require different rooms in
which irrepressible conversationalists, who are found to
occur in every branch of Society, might be carefully and
permanently fixed.
It may be sufficient for the present to enumerate the
following requisites--others might be added as funds
permit:--
A. A very large room for calculating Greatest Common
Measure. To this a small one might be attached for Least
Common Multiple: this, however, might be dispensed with.
B. A piece of open ground for keeping Roots and practising
their extraction: it would be advisable to keep Square Roots
by themselves, as their corners are apt to damage others.
C. A room for reducing Fractions to their Lowest Terms. This
should be provided with a cellar for keeping the Lowest
Terms when found, which might also be available to the
general body of Undergraduates, for the purpose of "keeping
Terms."
D. A large room, which might be darkened, and fitted up with
a magic lantern, for the purpose of exhibiting circulating
Decimals in the act of circulation. This might also contain
cupboards, fitted with glass doors, for keeping the various
Scales of Notation.
E. A narrow strip of ground, railed off and carefully
levelled, for investigating the properties of Asymptotes,
and testing practically whether Parallel Lines meet or not:
for this purpose it should reach, to use the expressive
language of Euclid, "ever so far."
This last process of "continually producing the lines," may
require centuries or more; but such a period, though long in
the life of an individual, is as nothing in the life of the
University.
As Photography is now very much employed in recording human
expressions, and might possibly be adapted to Algebraical
Expressions, a small photographic room would be desirable,
both for general use and for representing the various
phenomena of Gravity, Disturbance of Equilibrium,
Resolution, &c., which affect the features during severe
mathematical operations.
May I trust that you will give your immediate attention to
this most important subject?
Believe me,
Sincerely yours,
Mathematicus.
Next came "The New Belfry of Christ Church, Oxford; a Monograph by
D.C.L." On the title-page was a neatly drawn square--the figure of
Euclid I. 46--below which was written "East view of the New Belfry,
Christ Church, as seen from the meadow." The new belfry is fortunately a
thing of the past, and its insolent hideousness no longer defaces Christ
Church, but while it lasted it was no doubt an excellent target for
Lewis Carroll's sarcasm. His article on it is divided into thirteen
chapters. Three of them are perhaps worth quoting:--
§1. _On the etymological significance of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch_.
The word "Belfry" is derived from the French _bel_, "beautiful,
becoming, meet," and from the German _frei_, "free unfettered,
secure, safe." Thus, the word is strictly equivalent to "meat-safe,"
to which the new Belfry bears a resemblance so perfect as almost to
amount to coincidence.
§4. _On the chief architectural merit of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch_.
Its chief merit is its simplicity--a simplicity so pure, so
profound, in a word, so _simple_, that no other word will fitly
describe it. The meagre outline, and baldness of detail, of the
present Chapter, are adopted in humble imitation of this great
feature.
§5. _On the other architectural merits of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch_.
The Belfry has no other architectural merits.
"The Vision of the Three T's" followed. It also was an attack on
architectural changes in Christ Church; the general style was a parody
of the "Compleat Angler." Last of all came "The Blank Cheque, a
Fable," in reference to the building of the New Schools, for the
expenses of which it was actually proposed (in 1874), to sign a blank
cheque before any estimate had been made, or any plan laid before the
University, and even before a committee had been elected to appoint an
architect for the work.
At the end of 1874 Mr. Dodgson was again at Hatfield, where he told
the children the story of Prince Uggug, which was afterwards made a
part of "Sylvie and Bruno," though at that time it seems to have been
a separate tale. But "Sylvie and Bruno," in this respect entirely
unlike "Alice in Wonderland," was the result of notes taken during
many years; for while he was thinking out the book he never neglected
any amusing scraps of childish conversation or funny anecdotes about
children which came to his notice. It is this fact which gives such
verisimilitude to the prattle of Bruno; childish talk is a thing which
a grown-up person cannot possibly _invent_. He can only listen to
the actual things the children say, and then combine what he has heard
into a connected narrative.
During 1875 Mr. Dodgson wrote an article on "Some Popular Fallacies
about Vivisection," which was refused by the _Pall Mall Gazette_,
the editor saying that he had never heard of most of them; on which
Mr. Dodgson plaintively notes in his Diary that seven out of the
thirteen fallacies dealt with in his essay had appeared in the columns
of the _Pall Mall Gazette_. Ultimately it was accepted by the
editor of _The Fortnightly Review_. Mr. Dodgson had a peculiar
horror of vivisection. I was once walking in Oxford with him when a
certain well-known professor passed us. "I am afraid that man
vivisects," he said, in his gravest tone. Every year he used to get a
friend to recommend him a list of suitable charities to which he
should subscribe. Once the name of some Lost Dogs' Home appeared in
this list. Before Mr. Dodgson sent his guinea he wrote to the
secretary to ask whether the manager of the Home was in the habit of
sending dogs that had to be killed to physiological laboratories for
vivisection. The answer was in the negative, so the institution got
the cheque. He did not, however, advocate the total abolition of
vivisection--what reasonable man could?--but he would have liked to
see it much more carefully restricted by law. An earlier letter of his
to the _Pall Mall Gazette_ on the same subject is sufficiently
characteristic to deserve a place here. Be it noted that he signed it
"Lewis Carroll," in order that whatever influence or power his
writings had gained him might tell in the controversy.
VIVISECTION AS A SIGN OF THE TIMES.
_To the Editor of the "Pall Mall Gazette."_
Sir,--The letter which appeared in last week's
_Spectator_, and which must have saddened the heart of
every one who read it, seems to suggest a question which has
not yet been asked or answered with sufficient clearness,
and that is, How far may vivisection be regarded as a sign
of the times, and a fair specimen of that higher
civilisation which a purely secular State education is to
give us? In that much-vaunted panacea for all human ills we
are promised not only increase of knowledge, but also a
higher moral character; any momentary doubt on this point
which we may feel is set at rest at once by quoting the
great crucial instance of Germany. The syllogism, if it
deserves the name, is usually stated thus: Germany has a
higher scientific education than England; Germany has a
lower average of crime than England; _ergo_, a
scientific education tends to improve moral conduct. Some
old-fashioned logician might perhaps whisper to himself,
"Praemissis particularibus nihil probatur," but such a
remark, now that Aldrich is out of date, would only excite a
pitying smile. May we, then, regard the practice of
vivisection as a legitimate fruit, or as an abnormal
development, of this higher moral character? Is the
anatomist, who can contemplate unmoved the agonies he is
inflicting for no higher purpose than to gratify a
scientific curiosity, or to illustrate some well-established
truth, a being higher or lower, in the scale of humanity,
than the ignorant boor whose very soul would sicken at the
horrid sight? For if ever there was an argument in favour of
purely scientific education more cogent than another, it is
surely this (a few years back it might have been put into
the mouth of any advocate of science; now it reads like the
merest mockery): "What can teach the noble quality of mercy,
of sensitiveness to all forms of suffering, so powerfully as
the knowledge of what suffering really is? Can the man who
has once realised by minute study what the nerves are, what
the brain is, and what waves of agony the one can convey to
the other, go forth and wantonly inflict pain on any
sentient being?" A little while ago we should have
confidently replied, "He cannot do it"; in the light of
modern revelations we must sorrowfully confess "He can." And
let it never be said that this is done with serious
forethought of the balance of pain and gain; that the
operator has pleaded with himself, "Pain is indeed an evil,
but so much suffering may fitly be endured to purchase so
much knowledge." When I hear of one of these ardent
searchers after truth giving, not a helpless dumb animal, to
whom he says in effect, "_You_ shall suffer that
_I_ may know," but his own person to the probe and to
the scalpel, I will believe in him as recognising a
principle of justice, and I will honour him as acting up to
his principles. "But the thing cannot be!" cries some
amiable reader, fresh from an interview with that most
charming of men, a London physician. "What! Is it possible
that one so gentle in manner, so full of noble sentiments,
can be hardhearted? The very idea is an outrage to common
sense!" And thus we are duped every day of our lives. Is it
possible that that bank director, with his broad honest
face, can be meditating a fraud? That the chairman of that
meeting of shareholders, whose every tone has the ring of
truth in it, can hold in his hand a "cooked" schedule of
accounts? That my wine merchant, so outspoken, so confiding,
can be supplying me with an adulterated article? That the
schoolmaster, to whom I have entrusted my little boy, can
starve or neglect him? How well I remember his words to the
dear child when last we parted. "You are leaving your
friends," he said, "but you will have a father in me, my
dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers!" For all such
rose-coloured dreams of the necessary immunity from human
vices of educated men the facts in last week's
_Spectator_ have a terrible significance. "Trust no man
further than you can see him," they seem to say. "Qui vult
decipi, decipiatur."
Allow me to quote from a modern writer a few sentences
bearing on this subject:--
"We are at present, legislature and nation together,
eagerly pushing forward schemes which proceed on the
postulate that conduct is determined, not by feelings, but
by cognitions. For what else is the assumption underlying
this anxious urging-on of organisations for teaching? What
is the root-notion common to Secularists and
Denominationalists but the notion that spread of knowledge
is the one thing needful for bettering behaviour? Having
both swallowed certain statistical fallacies, there has
grown up in them the belief that State education will
check ill-doing.... This belief in the moralising effects
of intellectual culture, flatly contradicted by facts, is
absurd _a priori_.... This faith in lesson-books and
readings is one of the superstitions of the age.... Not by
precept, though heard daily; not by example, unless it is
followed; but only by action, often caused by the related
feeling, can a moral habit be formed. And yet this truth,
which mental science clearly teaches, and which is in
harmony with familiar sayings, is a truth wholly ignored
in current educational fanaticisms."
There need no praises of mine to commend to the
consideration of all thoughtful readers these words of
Herbert Spencer. They are to be found in "The Study of
Sociology" (pp. 36l-367).
Let us, however, do justice to science. It is not so wholly
wanting as Mr. Herbert Spencer would have us believe in
principles of action--principles by which we may regulate
our conduct in life. I myself once heard an accomplished man
of science declare that his labours had taught him one
special personal lesson which, above all others, he had laid
to heart. A minute study of the nervous system, and of the
various forms of pain produced by wounds had inspired in him
one profound resolution; and that was--what think
you?--never, under any circumstances, to adventure his own
person into the field of battle! I have somewhere read in a
book--a rather antiquated book, I fear, and one much
discredited by modern lights--the words, "the whole creation
groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now." Truly
we read these words with a new meaning in the present day!
"Groan and travail" it undoubtedly does still (more than
ever, so far as the brute creation is concerned); but to
what end? Some higher and more glorious state? So one might
have said a few years back. Not so in these days. The
_telos teleion_ of secular education, when divorced
from religious or moral training, is--I say it
deliberately--the purest and most unmitigated selfishness.
The world has seen and tired of the worship of Nature, of
Reason, of Humanity; for this nineteenth century has been
reserved the development of the most refined religion of
all--the worship of Self. For that, indeed, is the upshot of
it all. The enslavement of his weaker brethren--"the labour
of those who do not enjoy, for the enjoyment of those who do
not labour"--the degradation of woman--the torture of the
animal world--these are the steps of the ladder by which man
is ascending to his higher civilisation. Selfishness is the
key-note of all purely secular education; and I take
vivisection to be a glaring, a wholly unmistakable case in
point. And let it not be thought that this is an evil that
we can hope to see produce the good for which we are asked
to tolerate it, and then pass away. It is one that tends
continually to spread. And if it be tolerated or even
ignored now, the age of universal education, when the
sciences, and anatomy among them, shall be the heritage of
all, will be heralded by a cry of anguish from the brute
creation that will ring through the length and breadth of
the land! This, then, is the glorious future to which the
advocate of secular education may look forward: the dawn
that gilds the horizon of his hopes! An age when all forms
of religious thought shall be things of the past; when
chemistry and biology shall be the ABC of a State education
enforced on all; when vivisection shall be practised in
every college and school; and when the man of science,
looking forth over a world which will then own no other sway
than his, shall exult in the thought that he has made of
this fair green earth, if not a heaven for man, at least a
hell for animals.
I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
Lewis Carroll.
_February 10th_.
On March 29, 1876, "The Hunting of the Snark" was published. Mr.
Dodgson gives some interesting particulars of its evolution. The first
idea for the poem was the line "For the Snark _was_ a Boojum, you
see," which came into his mind, apparently without any cause, while he
was taking a country walk. The first complete verse which he composed
was the one which stands last in the poem:--
In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away--
For the Snark _was_ a Boojum, you see.
The illustrations were the work of Mr. Henry Holiday, and they are
thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of the poem. Many people have
tried to show that "The Hunting of the Snark" was an allegory; some
regarding it as being a burlesque upon the Tichborne case, and others
taking the Snark as a personification of popularity. Lewis Carroll
always protested that the poem had no meaning at all.
As to the meaning of the Snark [he wrote to a friend in
America], I'm very much afraid I didn't mean anything but
nonsense. Still, you know, words mean more than we mean to
express when we use them; so a whole book ought to mean a
great deal more than the writer means. So, whatever good
meanings are in the book, I'm glad to accept as the meaning
of the book. The best that I've seen is by a lady (she
published it in a letter to a newspaper), that the whole
book is an allegory on the search after happiness. I think
this fits in beautifully in many ways--particularly about
the bathing-machines: when the people get weary of life, and
can't find happiness in towns or in books, then they rush
off to the seaside, to see what bathing-machines will do for
them.
[Illustration: Henry Holiday in his Studio. _From a
photograph_.]
Mr. H. Holiday, in a very interesting article on "The Snark's
Significance" (_Academy,_ January 29, 1898), quoted the
inscription which Mr. Dodgson had written in a vellum-bound,
presentation-copy of the book. It is so characteristic that I take the
liberty of reproducing it here:--
Presented to Henry Holiday, most patient of artists, by
Charles L. Dodgson, most exacting, but not most ungrateful
of authors, March 29, 1876.
A little girl, to whom Mr. Dodgson had given a copy of the "Snark,"
managed to get the whole poem off by heart, and insisted on reciting,
it from beginning to end during a long carriage-drive. Her friends,
who, from the nature of the case, were unable to escape, no doubt
wished that she, too, was a Boojum.
During the year, the first public dramatic representation of "Alice in
Wonderland" was given at the Polytechnic, the entertainment taking the
form of a series of _tableaux_, interspersed with appropriate
readings and songs. Mr. Dodgson exercised a rigid censorship over all
the extraneous matter introduced into the performance, and put his
veto upon a verse in one of the songs, in which the drowning of
kittens was treated from the humorous point of view, lest the children
in the audience might learn to think lightly of death in the case of
the lower animals.
[Illustration: Lewis Carroll. _From a photograph_.]
* * * * *
CHAPTER V
(1877-1883)
Dramatic tastes--Miss Ellen Terry--"Natural Science at
Oxford"--Mr. Dodgson as an artist--Miss E. G. Thomson--The
drawing of children--A curious dream--"The Deserted
Parks"--"Syzygies"--Circus children--Row-loving
undergraduates--A letter to _The Observer_--Resignation
of the Lectureship--He is elected Curator of the Common
Room--Dream-music.
Mr. Dodgson's love of the drama was not, as I have shown, a taste
which he acquired in later years. From early college days he never
missed anything which he considered worth seeing at the London
theatres. I believe he used to reproach himself--unfairly, I
think--with spending too much time on such recreations. For a man who
worked so hard and so incessantly as he did; for a man to whom
vacations meant rather a variation of mental employment than absolute
rest of mind, the drama afforded just the sort of relief that was
wanted. His vivid imagination, the very earnestness and intensity of
his character enabled him to throw himself utterly into the spirit of
what he saw upon the stage, and to forget in it all the petty worries
and disappointments of life. The old adage says that a man cannot burn
the candle at both ends; like most proverbs, it is only partially
true, for often the hardest worker is the man who enters with most
zest into his recreations, and this was emphatically the case with Mr.
Dodgson.
Walter Pater, in his book on the Renaissance, says (I quote from rough
notes only), "A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a
variegated dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be
seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from
point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest
number of vital forces unite in their purest energy? To burn always
with this hard gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in
life." Here we have the truer philosophy, here we have the secret of
Lewis Carroll's life. He never wasted time on social formalities; he
refused to fulfil any of those (so called) duties which involve
ineffable boredom, and so his mind was always fresh and ready. He said
in one of his letters that he hoped that in the next world all
knowledge would not be given to us suddenly, but that we should
gradually grow wiser, for the _acquiring_ knowledge was to him
the real pleasure. What is this but a paraphrase of another of Pater's
thoughts, "Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself is the
end."
And so, times without number, he allowed himself to be carried away by
emotion as he saw life in the mirror of the stage; but, best of all,
he loved to see the acting of children, and he generally gave copies
of his books to any of the little performers who specially pleased
him. On January 13, 1877, he wrote in his Diary:--
Went up to town for the day, and took E-- with me to the
afternoon pantomime at the Adelphi, "Goody Two-Shoes," acted
entirely by children. It was a really charming performance.
Little Bertie Coote, aged ten, was clown--a wonderfully
clever little fellow; and Carrie Coote, about eight, was
Columbine, a very pretty graceful little thing. In a few
years' time she will be just _the_ child to act
"Alice," if it is ever dramatised. The harlequin was a
little girl named Gilchrist, one of the most beautiful
children, in face and figure, that I have ever seen. I must
get an opportunity of photographing her. Little Bertie
Coote, singing "Hot Codlings," was curiously like the
pictures of Grimaldi.
It need hardly be said that the little girl was Miss Constance
Gilchrist. Mr. Dodgson sent her a copy of "Alice in Wonderland," with
a set of verses on her name.
Many people object altogether to children appearing on the stage; it
is said to be bad for their morals as well as for their health. A
letter which Mr. Dodgson once wrote in the _St. James's Gazette_
contains a sufficient refutation of the latter fancy:--
I spent yesterday afternoon at Brighton, where for five
hours I enjoyed the society of three exceedingly happy and
healthy little girls, aged twelve, ten, and seven. I think
that any one who could have seen the vigour of life in those
three children--the intensity with which they enjoyed
everything, great or small, that came in their way--who
could have watched the younger two running races on the
Pier, or have heard the fervent exclamation of the eldest at
the end of the afternoon, "We _have_ enjoyed
ourselves!" would have agreed with me that here, at least,
there was no excessive "physical strain," nor any
_imminent_ danger of "fatal results"! A drama, written
by Mr. Savile Clarke, is now being played at Brighton, and
in this (it is called "Alice in Wonderland") all three
children have been engaged. They had been acting every night
this week, and _twice_ on the day before I met them,
the second performance lasting till half-past ten at night,
after which they got up at seven next morning to bathe! That
such (apparently) severe work should co-exist with blooming
health and buoyant spirits seems at first sight a paradox;
but I appeal to any one who has ever worked _con amore_
at any subject whatever to support me in the assertion that,
when you really love the subject you are working at, the
"physical strain" is absolutely _nil_; it is only when
working "against the grain" that any strain is felt, and I
believe the apparent paradox is to be explained by the fact
that a taste for _acting_ is one of the strongest
passions of human nature, that stage-children show it nearly
from infancy, and that, instead of being miserable drudges
who ought to be celebrated in a new "Cry of the Children,"
they simply _rejoice_ in their work "even as a giant
rejoiceth to run his course."
Mr. Dodgson's general views on the mission of the drama are well shown
by an extract from a circular which he sent to many of his friends in
1882:--
The stage (as every playgoer can testify) is an engine of
incalculable power for influencing society; and every effort
to purify and ennoble its aims seems to me to deserve all
the countenance that the great, and all the material help
that the wealthy, can give it; while even those who are
neither great nor wealthy may yet do their part, and help
to--
"Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be."
[Illustration: Ellen Terry. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]
I do not know if Mr. Dodgson's suggested amendment of some lines in
the "Merchant of Venice" was ever carried out, but it further
illustrates the serious view he took of this subject. The hint occurs
in a letter to Miss Ellen Terry, which runs as follows:--
You gave me a treat on Saturday such as I have very seldom
had in my life. You must be weary by this time of hearing
your own praises, so I will only say that Portia was all I
could have imagined, and more. And Shylock is
superb--especially in the trial-scene.
Now I am going to be very bold, and make a suggestion, which
I do hope you will think well enough of to lay it before Mr.
Irving. I want to see that clause omitted (in the sentence
on Shylock)--
That, for this favour,
He presently become a Christian;
It is a sentiment that is entirely horrible and revolting to
the feelings of all who believe in the Gospel of Love. Why
should our ears be shocked by such words merely because they
are Shakespeare's? In his day, when it was held to be a
Christian's duty to force his belief on others by fire and
sword--to burn man's body in order to save his soul--the
words probably conveyed no shock. To all Christians now
(except perhaps extreme Calvinists) the idea of forcing a
man to abjure his religion, whatever that religion may be,
is (as I have said) simply horrible.
I have spoken of it as a needless outrage on religious
feeling: but surely, being so, it is a great artistic
mistake. Its tendency is directly contrary to the spirit of
the scene. We have despised Shylock for his avarice, and we
rejoice to see him lose his wealth: we have abhorred him for
his bloodthirsty cruelty, and we rejoice to see him baffled.
And now, in the very fulness of our joy at the triumph of
right over wrong, we are suddenly called on to see in him
the victim of a cruelty a thousand times worse than his own,
and to honour him as a martyr. This, I am sure, Shakespeare
never meant. Two touches only of sympathy does he allow us,
that we may realise him as a man, and not as a demon
incarnate. "I will not pray with you"; "I had it of Leah,
when I was a bachelor." But I am sure he never meant our
sympathies to be roused in the supreme moment of his
downfall, and, if he were alive now, I believe he would cut
out those lines about becoming a Christian.
No interpolation is needed--(I should not like to suggest
the putting in a single word that is not Shakespeare's)--I
would read the speech thus:--
That lately stole his daughter:
Provided that he do record a gift,
Here in the court, &c.
And I would omit Gratiano's three lines at Shylock's exit,
and let the text stand:--
_Duke_: "Get thee gone, but do it." (_Exit
Shylock_.)
The exit, in solemn silence, would be, if possible, even
grander than it now is, and would lose nothing by the
omission of Gratiano's flippant jest....
On January 16th he saw "New Men and Old Acres" at the Court Theatre.
The two authors of the pieces, Dubourg and Tom Taylor, were great
friends of his. "It was a real treat," he writes, "being well acted in
every detail. Ellen Terry was wonderful, and I should think
unsurpassable in all but the lighter parts." Mr. Dodgson himself had a
strong wish to become a dramatic author, but, after one or two
unsuccessful attempts to get his plays produced, he wisely gave up the
idea, realising that he had not the necessary constructive powers. The
above reference to Miss Ellen Terry's acting is only one out of a
countless number; the great actress and he were excellent friends, and
she did him many a kindness in helping on young friends of his who had
taken up the stage as a profession.
[Illustration: Tom Taylor. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]
She and her sister, Miss Kate Terry, were among the distinguished
people whom he photographed. The first time he saw the latter actress
was, I think, in 1858, when she was playing in "The Tempest" at the
Princess's. "The gem of the piece," he writes, "was the exquisitely
graceful and beautiful Ariel, Miss Kate Terry. Her appearance as a
sea-nymph was one of the most beautiful living pictures I ever saw,
but this, and every other one in my recollection (except Queen
Katherine's dream), were all outdone by the concluding scene, where
Ariel is left alone, hovering over the wide ocean, watching the
retreating ship. It is an innovation on Shakespeare, but a worthy one,
and the conception of a true poet."
[Illustration: Kate Terry. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]
Mr. Dodgson was a frequent contributor to the daily Press. As a rule
his letters appeared in the _St. James's Gazette_, for the
editor, Mr. Greenwood, was a friend of his, but the following
sarcastic epistle was an exception:--
NATURAL SCIENCE AT OXFORD.
_To the Editor of the "Pall Mall Gazette."_
Sir,--There is no one of the many ingenious appliances of
mechanical science that is more appreciated or more
successfully employed than the wedge; so subtle and
imperceptible are the forces needed for the insertion of its
"thin end," so astounding the results which its "thick end"
may ultimately produce. Of the former process we shall see a
beautiful illustration in a Congregation to be holden at
Oxford on the 24th inst., when it will be proposed to grant,
to those who have taken the degrees of bachelor and master
in Natural Science only, the same voting powers as in the
case of the "M.A." degree. This means the omission of one of
the two classical languages, Latin and Greek, from what has
been hitherto understood as the curriculum of an Oxford
education. It is to this "thin end" of the wedge that I
would call the attention of our non-residents, and of all
interested in Oxford education, while the "thick end" is
still looming in the distance. But why fear a "thick end" at
all? I shall be asked. Has Natural Science shown any such
tendency, or given any reason to fear that such a concession
would lead to further demands? In answer to that question,
let me sketch, in dramatic fashion, the history of her
recent career in Oxford. In the dark ages of our University
(some five-and-twenty years ago), while we still believed in
classics and mathematics as constituting a liberal
education, Natural Science sat weeping at our gates. "Ah,
let me in!" she moaned; "why cram reluctant youth with your
unsatisfying lore? Are they not hungering for bones; yea,
panting for sulphuretted hydrogen?" We heard and we pitied.
We let her in and housed her royally; we adorned her palace
with re-agents and retorts, and made it a very charnel-house
of bones, and we cried to our undergraduates, "The feast of
Science is spread! Eat, drink, and be happy!" But they would
not. They fingered the bones, and thought them dry. They
sniffed at the hydrogen, and turned away. Yet for all that
Science ceased not to cry, "More gold, more gold!" And her
three fair daughters, Chemistry, Biology, and Physics (for
the modern horse-leech is more prolific than in the days of
Solomon), ceased not to plead, "Give, give!" And we gave; we
poured forth our wealth like water (I beg her pardon, like
H{_2}O), and we could not help thinking there was something
weird and uncanny in the ghoul-like facility with which she
absorbed it.
The curtain rises on the second act of the drama. Science is
still weeping, but this time it is for lack of pupils, not
of teachers or machinery. "We are unfairly handicapped!" she
cries. "You have prizes and scholarships for classics and
mathematics, and you bribe your best students to desert us.
Buy us some bright, clever boys to teach, and then see what
we can do!" Once more we heard and pitied. We had bought her
bones; we bought her boys. And now at last her halls were
filled--not only with teachers paid to teach, but also with
learners paid to learn. And we have not much to complain of
in results, except that perhaps she is a little too ready to
return on our hands all but the "honour-men"--all, in fact,
who really need the helping hand of an educator. "Here, take
back your stupid ones!" she cries. "Except as subjects for
the scalpel (and we have not yet got the Human Vivisection
Act through Parliament) we can do nothing with them!"
The third act of the drama is yet under rehearsal; the
actors are still running in and out of the green-room, and
hastily shuffling on their new and ill-fitting dresses; but
its general scope is not far to seek. At no distant day our
once timid and tearful guest will be turning up her nose at
the fare provided for her. "Give me no more youths to
teach," she will say; "but pay me handsomely, and let me
think. Plato and Aristotle were all very well in their way;
Diogenes and his tub for me!" The allusion is not
inappropriate. There can be little doubt that some of the
researches conducted by that retiring philosopher in the
recesses of that humble edifice were strictly scientific,
embracing several distinct branches of entomology. I do not
mean, of course, that "research" is a new idea in Oxford.
From time immemorial we have had our own chosen band of
researchers (here called "professors"), who have advanced
the boundaries of human knowledge in many directions. True,
they are not left so wholly to themselves as some of these
modern thinkers would wish to be, but are expected to give
some few lectures, as the outcome of their "research" and
the evidence of its reality, but even that condition has not
always been enforced--for instance, in the case of the late
Professor of Greek, Dr. Gaisford, the University was too
conscious of the really valuable work he was doing in
philological research to complain that he ignored the usual
duties of the chair and delivered no lectures.
And, now, what is the "thick end" of the wedge? It is that
Latin and Greek may _both_ vanish from our curriculum;
that logic, philosophy, and history may follow; and that the
destinies of Oxford may some day be in the hands of those
who have had no education other than "scientific." And why
not? I shall be asked. Is it not as high a form of education
as any other? That is a matter to be settled by facts. I can
but offer my own little item of evidence, and leave it to
others to confirm or to refute. It used once to be thought
indispensable for an educated man that he should be able to
write his own language correctly, if not elegantly; it seems
doubtful how much longer this will be taken as a criterion.
Not so many years ago I had the honour of assisting in
correcting for the press some pages of the
_Anthropological Review_, or some such periodical. I
doubt not that the writers were eminent men in their own
line; that each could triumphantly prove, to his own
satisfaction, the unsoundness of what the others had
advanced; and that all would unite in declaring that the
theories of a year ago were entirely exploded by the latest
German treatise; but they were not able to set forth these
thoughts, however consoling in themselves, in anything
resembling the language of educated society. In all my
experience, I have never read, even in the "local news" of
a country paper, such slipshod, such deplorable English.
I shall be told that I am ungenerous in thus picking out a
few unfavourable cases, and that some of the greatest minds
of the day are to be found in the ranks of science. I freely
admit that such may be found, but my contention is that
_they_ made the science, not the science them; and that
in any line of thought they would have been equally
distinguished. As a general principle, I do not think that
the exclusive study of any _one_ subject is really
education; and my experience as a teacher has shown me that
even a considerable proficiency in Natural Science, taken
alone, is so far from proving a high degree of cultivation
and great natural ability that it is fully compatible with
general ignorance and an intellect quite below par.
Therefore it is that I seek to rouse an interest, beyond the
limits of Oxford, in preserving classics as an essential
feature of a University education. Nor is it as a classical
tutor (who might be suspected of a bias in favour of his own
subject) that I write this. On the contrary, it is as one
who has taught science here for more than twenty years (for
mathematics, though good-humouredly scorned by the
biologists on account of the abnormal certainty of its
conclusions, is still reckoned among the sciences) that I
beg to sign myself,--Your obedient servant,
Charles L. Dodgson,
_Mathematical Lecturer of Christ Church, Oxford.
May 17th._
I give the above letter because I think it amusing; it must not be
supposed that the writer's views on the subject remained the same all
through his life. He was a thorough Conservative, and it took a long
time to reconcile him to any new departure. In a political discussion
with a friend he once said that he was "first an Englishman, and then
a Conservative," but however much a man may try to put patriotism
before party, the result will be but partially successful, if
patriotism would lead him into opposition to the mental bias which has
originally made him either a Conservative or a Radical.
He took, of course, great pleasure in the success of his books, as
every author must; but the greatest pleasure of all to him was to know
that they had pleased others. Notes like the following are frequent in
his Diary: "_June_ 25_th_.--Spent the afternoon in sending
off seventy circulars to Hospitals, offering copies of 'Alice' and the
'Looking-Glass' for sick children." He well deserved the name which
one of his admirers gave him--"The man who loved little children."
In April, 1878, he saw a performance of "Olivia" at the Court Theatre.
"The gem of the piece is Olivia herself, acted by Ellen Terry with a
sweetness and pathos that moved some of the audience (nearly including
myself) to tears. Her leave-taking was exquisite; and when, in her
exile, she hears that her little brother had cried at the mention of
her name, her exclamation 'Pet!' was tenderness itself. Altogether, I
have not had a greater dramatic treat for a long time. _Dies cretâ
notandus_."
I see that I have marked for quotation the following brief entries in
the Diary:--
_Aug. 4th_ (at Eastbourne).--Went, morning and
evening, to the new chapel-of-ease belonging to S.
Saviour's. It has the immense advantage of _not_ being
crowded; but this scarcely compensates for the vile
Gregorian chants, which vex and weary one's ear.
_Aug. 17th_.--A very inquisitive person, who had some
children with her, found out my name, and then asked me to
shake hands with her child, as an admirer of my books: this
I did, unwisely perhaps, as I have no intention of
continuing the acquaintance of a "Mrs. Leo Hunter."
_Dec. 23rd_.--I have been making a plan for work next
term, of this kind: Choose a subject (_e.g._,
"Circulation," "Journeys of S. Paul," "English Counties")
for each week. On Monday write what I know about it; during
week get up subject; on Saturday write again; put the two
papers away, and six months afterwards write again and
compare.
As an artist, Mr. Dodgson possessed an intense natural appreciation of
the beautiful, an abhorrence of all that is coarse and unseemly which
might almost be called hyper-refinement, a wonderfully good eye for
form, and last, but not least, the most scrupulous conscientiousness
about detail. On the other hand his sense of colour was somewhat
imperfect, and his hand was almost totally untrained, so that while he
had all the enthusiasm of the true artist, his work always had the
defects of an amateur.
[Illustration: Miss E. Gertrude Thomson.]
In 1878 some drawings of Miss E. Gertrude Thomson's excited his keen
admiration, and he exerted himself to make her acquaintance. Their
first meeting is described so well by Miss Thomson herself in _The
Gentlewoman_ for January 29, 1898, that I cannot do better than
quote the description of the scene as given there:--
It was at the end of December, 1878, that a letter, written
in a singularly legible and rather boyish-looking hand, came
to me from Christ Church, Oxford, signed "C. L. Dodgson."
The writer said that he had come across some fairy designs
of mine, and he should like to see some more of my work. By
the same post came a letter from my London publisher (who
had supplied my address) telling me that the "Rev. C. L.
Dodgson" was "Lewis Carroll."
"Alice in Wonderland" had long been one of my pet books, and
as one regards a favourite author as almost a personal
friend, I felt less restraint than one usually feels in
writing to a stranger, though I carefully concealed my
knowledge of his identity, as he had not chosen to reveal
it.
This was the beginning of a frequent and delightful
correspondence, and as I confessed to a great love for fairy
lore of every description, he asked me if I would accept a
child's fairy-tale book he had written, called "Alice in
Wonderland." I replied that I knew it nearly all off by
heart, but that I should greatly prize a copy given to me by
himself. By return came "Alice," and "Through the
Looking-Glass," bound most luxuriously in white calf and
gold.
And this is the graceful and kindly note that came with
them: "I am now sending you 'Alice,' and the 'Looking-Glass'
as well. There is an incompleteness about giving only one,
and besides, the one you bought was probably in red and
would not match these. If you are at all in doubt as to what
to do with the (now) superfluous copy, let me suggest your
giving it to some poor sick child. I have been distributing
copies to all the hospitals and convalescent homes I can
hear of, where there are sick children capable of reading
them, and though, of course, one takes some pleasure in the
popularity of the books elsewhere, it is not nearly so
pleasant a thought to me as that they may be a comfort and
relief to children in hours of pain and weariness. Still, no
recipient _can_ be more appropriate than one who seems
to have been in fairyland herself, and to have seen, like
the 'weary mariners' of old--
'Between the green brink and the running foam
White limbs unrobed in a crystal air,
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest
To little harps of gold.'"
"Do you ever come to London?" he asked in another letter;
"if so, will you allow me to call upon you?"
Early in the summer I came up to study, and I sent him word
that I was in town. One night, coming into my room, after a
long day spent at the British Museum, in the half-light I
saw a card lying on the table. "Rev. C. L. Dodgson." Bitter,
indeed, was my disappointment at having missed him, but just
as I was laying it sadly down I spied a small T.O. in the
corner. On the back I read that he couldn't get up to my
rooms early or late enough to find me, so would I arrange to
meet him at some museum or gallery the day but one
following? I fixed on South Kensington Museum, by the
"Schliemann" collection, at twelve o'clock.
A little before twelve I was at the rendezvous, and then the
humour of the situation suddenly struck me, that _I_
had not the ghost of an idea what _he_ was like, nor
would _he_ have any better chance of discovering
_me!_ The room was fairly full of all sorts and
conditions, as usual, and I glanced at each masculine figure
in turn, only to reject it as a possibility of the one I
sought. Just as the big clock had clanged out twelve, I
heard the high vivacious voices and laughter of children
sounding down the corridor.
At that moment a gentleman entered, two little girls
clinging to his hands, and as I caught sight of the tall
slim figure, with the clean-shaven, delicate, refined face,
I said to myself, "_That's_ Lewis Carroll." He stood
for a moment, head erect, glancing swiftly over the room,
then, bending down, whispered something to one of the
children; she, after a moment's pause, pointed straight at
me.
Dropping their hands he came forward, and with that winning
smile of his that utterly banished the oppressive sense of
the Oxford don, said simply, "I am Mr. Dodgson; I was to
meet you, I think?" To which I as frankly smiled, and said,
"How did you know me so soon?"
"My little friend found you. I told her I had come to meet a
young lady who knew fairies, and she fixed on you at once.
But _I_ knew you before she spoke."
This acquaintance ripened into a true, artistic friendship, which
lasted till Mr. Dodgson's death. In his first letter to Miss Thomson
he speaks of himself as one who for twenty years had found his one
amusement in photographing from life--especially photographing
children; he also said that he had made attempts ("most
unsuccessfully") at drawing them. When he got to know her more
intimately, he asked her to criticise his work, and when she wrote
expressing her willingness to do so, he sent her a pile of
sketch-books, through which she went most carefully, marking the
mistakes, and criticising, wherever criticism seemed to be necessary.
After this he might often have been seen in her studio, lying flat on
his face, and drawing some child-model who had been engaged for his
especial benefit. "I _love_ the effort to draw," he wrote in one
of his letters to her, "but I utterly fail to please even my own
eye--tho' now and then I seem to get somewhere _near_ a right
line or two, when I have a live child to draw from. But I have no time
left now for such things. In the next life, I do _hope_ we shall
not only _see_ lovely forms, such as this world does not contain,
but also be able to _draw_ them."
But while he fully recognised the limits of his powers, he had great
faith in his own critical judgment; and with good reason, for his
perception of the beautiful in contour and attitude and grouping was
almost unerring. All the drawings which Miss Thomson made for his
"Three Sunsets" were submitted to his criticism, which descended to
the smallest details. He concludes a letter to her, which contained
the most elaborate and minute suggestions for the improvement of one
of these pictures, with the following words: "I make all these
suggestions with diffidence, feeling that I have _really no_
right at all, as an amateur, to criticise the work of a real artist."
The following extract from another letter to Miss Thomson shows that
seeking after perfection, that discontent with everything short of the
best, which was so marked a feature of his character. She had sent him
two drawings of the head of some child-friend of his:--
Your note is a puzzle--you say that "No. 2 would have been
still more like if the paper had been exactly the same
shade--but I'd no more at hand of the darker colour." Had I
given you the impression that I was in a _hurry_, and
was willing to have No. 2 _less_ good than it
_might_ be made, so long as I could have it
_quick?_ If I did, I'm very sorry: I never _meant_
to say a word like it: and, if you had written "I could make
it still more like, on darker paper; but I've no more at
hand. How long can you wait for me to get some?" I should
have replied, "Six weeks, or six _months_, if you
prefer it!"
I have already spoken of his love of nature, as opposed to the
admiration for the morbid and abnormal. "I want you," he writes to
Miss Thomson, "to do my fairy drawings from _life_. They would be
very pretty, no doubt, done out of your own head, but they will be ten
times as valuable if done from life. Mr. Furniss drew the pictures of
'Sylvie' from life. Mr. Tenniel is the only artist, who has drawn for
me, who resolutely refused to use a model, and declared he no more
needed one than I should need a multiplication-table to work a
mathematical problem!" On another occasion he urges the importance of
using models, in order to avoid the similarity of features which would
otherwise spoil the pictures: "Cruikshank's splendid illustrations
were terribly spoiled by his having only _one_ pretty female face
in them all. Leech settled down into _two_ female faces. Du
Maurier, I think, has only _one_, now. All the ladies, and all
the little girls in his pictures look like twin sisters."
It is interesting to know that Sir Noel Paton and Mr. Walter Crane
were, in Lewis Carroll's opinion, the most successful drawers of
children: "There are but few artists who seem to draw the forms of
children _con amore_. Walter Crane is perhaps the best (always
excepting Sir Noel Paton): but the thick outlines, which he insists on
using, seem to take off a good deal from the beauty of the result."
He held that no artist can hope to effect a higher type of beauty than
that which life itself exhibits, as the following words show:--
I don't quite understand about fairies losing "grace," if
too like human children. Of course I grant that to be like
some _actual_ child is to lose grace, because no living
child is perfect in form: many causes have lowered the race
from what God made it. But the _perfect_ human form,
free from these faults, is surely equally applicable to men,
and fairies, and angels? Perhaps that is what you mean--that
the Artist can imagine, and design, more perfect forms than
we ever find in life?
I have already referred several times to Miss Ellen Terry as having
been one of Mr. Dodgson's friends, but he was intimate with the whole
family, and used often to pay them a visit when he was in town. On May
15, 1879, he records a very curious dream which he had about Miss
Marion ("Polly") Terry:--
Last night I had a dream which I record as a curiosity, so
far as I know, in the literature of dreams. I was staying,
with my sisters, in some suburb of London, and had heard
that the Terrys were staying near us, so went to call, and
found Mrs. Terry at home, who told us that Marion and
Florence were at the theatre, "the Walter House," where they
had a good engagement. "In that case," I said, "I'll go on
there at once, and see the performance--and may I take Polly
with me?" "Certainly," said Mrs. Terry. And there was Polly,
the child, seated in the room, and looking about nine or ten
years old: and I was distinctly conscious of the fact, yet
without any feeling of surprise at its incongruity, that I
was going to take the _child_ Polly with me to the
theatre, to see the _grown-up_ Polly act! Both
pictures--Polly as a child, and Polly as a woman, are, I
suppose, equally clear in my ordinary waking memory: and it
seems that in sleep I had contrived to give the two pictures
separate individualities.
Of all the mathematical books which Mr. Dodgson wrote, by far the most
elaborate, if not the most original, was "Euclid and His Modern
Rivals." The first edition was issued in 1879, and a supplement,
afterwards incorporated into the second edition, appeared in 1885.
This book, as the author says, has for its object
to furnish evidence (1) that it is essential for the
purposes of teaching or examining in Elementary Geometry to
employ one text-book only; (2) that there are strong _a
priori_ reasons for retaining in all its main features,
and especially in its sequence and numbering of
Propositions, and in its treatment of Parallels, the Manual
of Euclid; and (3) that no sufficient reasons have yet been
shown for abandoning it in favour of any one of the modern
Manuals which have been offered as substitutes.
The book is written in dramatic form, and relieved throughout by many
touches in the author's happiest vein, which make it delightful not
only to the scientific reader, but also to any one of average
intelligence with the slightest sense of humour.
Whether the conclusions are accepted in their entirety or not, it is
certain that the arguments are far more effective than if the writer
had presented them in the form of an essay. Mr. Dodgson had a wide
experience as a teacher and examiner, so that he knew well what he was
writing about, and undoubtedly the appearance of this book has done
very much to stay the hand of the innovator.
The scene opens in a College study--time, midnight. Minos, an
examiner, is discovered seated between two immense piles of
manuscripts. He is driven almost to distraction in his efforts to mark
fairly the papers sent up, by reason of the confusion caused through
the candidates offering various substitutes for Euclid. Rhadamanthus,
another equally distracted examiner, comes to his room.
The two men consult together for a time, and then Rhadamanthus
retires, and Minos falls asleep. Hereupon the Ghost of Euclid appears,
and discusses with Minos the reasons for retaining his Manual as a
whole, in its present order and arrangement. As they are mainly
concerned with the wants of beginners, their attention is confined to
Books I. and II.
We must be content with one short extract from the dialogue:--
_Euclid_.--It is, I think, a friend of yours who has
amused himself by tabulating the various Theorems which
might be enunciated on the single subject of Pairs of Lines.
How many did he make them out to be?
_Minos_.--About two hundred and fifty, I believe.
_Euclid_.--At that rate there would probably be within
the limit of my First Book--how many?
_Minos_.--A thousand at least.
_Euclid_.--What a popular school-book it will be! How
boys will bless the name of the writer who first brings out
the complete thousand!
With a view to discussing and criticising his various modern rivals,
Euclid promises to send to Minos the ghost of a German Professor (Herr
Niemand) who "has read all books, and is ready to defend any thesis,
true or untrue."
"A charming companion!" as Minos drily remarks.
This brings us to Act II., in which the Manuals which reject Euclid's
treatment of Parallels are dealt with one by one. Those Manuals which
adopt it are reserved for Act III., Scene i.; while in Scene ii., "The
Syllabus of the Association for the Improvement of Geometrical
Teaching," and Wilson's "Syllabus," come under review.
Only one or two extracts need be given, which, it is hoped, will
suffice to illustrate the character and style of the book:
Act II., Scene v.--Niemand and Minos are arguing for and against
Henrici's "Elementary Geometry."
_Minos_.--I haven't quite done with points yet. I find
an assertion that they never jump. Do you think that arises
from their having "position," which they feel might be
compromised by such conduct?
_Niemand_.--I cannot tell without hearing the passage
read.
_Minos_.--It is this: "A point, in changing its
position on a curve, passes in moving from one position to
another through all intermediate positions. It does not move
by jumps."
_Niemand_.--That is quite true.
_Minos_.--Tell me then--is every centre of gravity a
point?
_Niemand_.--Certainly.
_Minos_.--Let us now consider the centre of gravity of
a flea. Does it--
_Niemand (indignantly)_.--Another word, and I shall
vanish! I cannot waste a night on such trivialities.
_Minos_.--I can't resist giving you just _one_
more tit-bit--the definition of a square at page 123: "A
quadrilateral which is a kite, a symmetrical trapezium, and
a parallelogram is a square!" And now, farewell, Henrici:
"Euclid, with all thy faults, I love thee still!"
Again, from Act II., Scene vi.:--
_Niemand_.--He (Pierce, another "Modern Rival,") has a
definition of direction which will, I think, be new to you.
_(Reads.)_
"The _direction of a line_ in any part is the direction
of a point at that part from the next preceding point of the
line!"
_Minos_.--That sounds mysterious. Which way along a
line are "preceding" points to be found?
_Niemand_.--_Both ways._ He adds, directly
afterwards, "A line has two different directions," &c.
_Minos_.--So your definition needs a postscript.... But
there is yet another difficulty. How far from a point is the
"next" point?
_Niemand_.--At an infinitely small distance, of course.
You will find the matter fully discussed in my work on the
Infinitesimal Calculus.
_Minos_.--A most satisfactory answer for a teacher to
make to a pupil just beginning Geometry!
In Act IV. Euclid reappears to Minos, "followed by the ghosts of
Archimedes, Pythagoras, &c., who have come to see fair play." Euclid
thus sums up his case:--
"'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,' and all respectable
ghosts ought to be going home. Let me carry with me the hope
that I have convinced you of the necessity of retaining my
order and numbering, and my method of treating Straight
Lines, Angles, Right Angles, and (most especially)
Parallels. Leave me these untouched, and I shall look on
with great contentment while other changes are made--while
my proofs are abridged and improved--while alternative
proofs are appended to mine--and while new Problems and
Theorems are interpolated. In all these matters my Manual is
capable of almost unlimited improvement."
In Appendices I. and II. Mr. Dodgson quotes the opinions of two
eminent mathematical teachers, Mr. Todhunter and Professor De Morgan,
in support of his argument.
Before leaving this subject I should like to refer to a very novel use
of Mr. Dodgson's book--its employment in a school. Mr. G. Hopkins,
Mathematical Master in the High School at Manchester, U.S., and
himself the author of a "Manual of Plane Geometry," has so employed it
in a class of boys aged from fourteen or fifteen upwards. He first
called their attention to some of the more prominent difficulties
relating to the question of Parallels, put a copy of Euclid in their
hands, and let them see his treatment of them, and after some
discussion placed before them Mr. Dodgson's "Euclid and His Modern
Rivals" and "New Theory of Parallels."
Perhaps it is the fact that American boys are sharper than English,
but at any rate the youngsters are reported to have read the two books
with an earnestness and a persistency that were as gratifying to their
instructor as they were complimentary to Mr. Dodgson.
In June of the same year an entry in the Diary refers to a proposal in
Convocation to allow the University Club to have a cricket-ground in
the Parks. This had been proposed in 1867, and then rejected. Mr.
Dodgson sent round to the Common Rooms copies of a poem on "The
Deserted Parks," which had been published by Messrs. Parker in 1867,
and which was afterwards included in "Notes by an Oxford Chiel." I
quote the first few lines:--
Museum! loveliest building of the plain
Where Cherwell winds towards the distant main;
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared the scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,--
The rustic couple walking arm in arm,
The groups of trees, with seats beneath the shade
For prattling babes and whisp'ring lovers made,
The never-failing brawl, the busy mill,
Where tiny urchins vied in fistic skill.
(Two phrases only have that dusky race
Caught from the learned influence of the place;
Phrases in their simplicity sublime,
"Scramble a copper!" "Please, sir, what's the time?")
These round thy walks their cheerful influence shed;
These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled,
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And rude pavilions sadden all thy green;
One selfish pastime grasps the whole domain,
And half a faction swallows up the plain;
Adown thy glades, all sacrificed to cricket,
The hollow-sounding bat now guards the wicket;
Sunk are thy mounds in shapeless level all,
Lest aught impede the swiftly rolling ball;
And trembling, shrinking from the fatal blow,
Far, far away thy hapless children go.
Ill fares the place, to luxury a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and minds decay:
Athletic sports may flourish or may fade,
Fashion may make them, even as it has made;
But the broad Parks, the city's joy and pride,
When once destroyed can never be supplied!
Readers of "Sylvie and Bruno" will remember the way in which the
invisible fairy-children save the drunkard from his evil life, and I
have always felt that Mr. Dodgson meant Sylvie to be something more
than a fairy--a sort of guardian angel. That such an idea would not
have been inconsistent with his way of looking at things is shown by
the following letter:
Ch. Ch., _July_, 1879.
My dear Ethel,--I have been long intending to answer your
letter of April 11th, chiefly as to your question in
reference to Mrs. N--'s letter about the little S--s [whose
mother had recently died]. You say you don't see "how they
can be guided aright by their dead mother, or how light can
come from her." Many people believe that our friends in the
other world can and do influence us in some way, and perhaps
even "guide" us and give us light to show us our duty. My
own feeling is, it _may_ be so: but nothing has been
revealed about it. That the angels do so _is_ revealed,
and we may feel sure of _that_; and there is a
beautiful fancy (for I don't think one can call it more)
that "a mother who has died leaving a child behind her in
this world, is allowed to be a sort of guardian angel to
that child." Perhaps Mrs. N-- believes that.
Here are two other entries in the Diary:--
_Aug. 26th_.--Worked from about 9.45 to 6.45, and again
from 10.15 to 11.45 (making 101/2 hours altogether) at an
idea which occurred to me of finding limits for _pi_ by
elementary trigonometry, for the benefit of the
circle-squarers.
_Dec. 12th_.--Invented a new way of working one word
into another. I think of calling the puzzle "syzygies."
I give the first three specimens:--
MAN }
permanent }
entice } Send MAN on ICE.
ICE. }
ACRE }
sacred }
credentials } RELY on ACRE.
entirely }
RELY }