(1) "As the lower animals do not appear to have personality

or individual existence, I cannot see that any particular

one's life can be very important," &c. The word

"personality" is very vague: I don't know what you mean by

it. If you were to ask yourself, "What test should I use in

distinguishing what _has_, from what has _not_,

personality?" you might perhaps be able to express your

meaning more clearly. The phrase "individual existence" is

clear enough, and is in direct logical contradiction to the

phrase "particular one." To say, of anything, that it has

_not_ "individual existence," and yet that it _is_

a "particular one," involves the logical fallacy called a

"contradiction in terms."

(2) "In both cases" (animal and plant) "death is only the

conversion of matter from one form to another." The word

"form" is very vague--I fancy you use it in a sort of

_chemical_ sense (like saying "sugar is starch in

another form," where the change in nature is generally

believed to be a rearrangement of the very same atoms). If

you mean to assert that the difference between a live animal

and a dead animal, _i.e.,_ between animate and

sensitive matter, and the same matter when it becomes

inanimate and insensitive, is a mere rearrangement of the

same atoms, your premiss is intelligible. (It is a bolder

one than any biologists have yet advanced. The most

sceptical of them admits, I believe, that "vitality" is a

thing _per se. _However, that is beside my present

scope.) But this premiss is advanced to prove that it is of

no "consequence" to kill an animal. But, granting that the

conversion of sensitive into insensitive matter (and of

course _vice versa_) is a mere change of "form," and

_therefore_ of no "consequence"; granting this, we

cannot escape the including under this rule all similar

cases. If the _power_ of feeling pain, and the

_absence_ of that power, are only a difference of

"form," the conclusion is inevitable that the _feeling_

pain, and the _not_ feeling it, are _also_ only a

difference in form, _i.e.,_ to convert matter, which is

_not_ feeling pain, into matter _feeling_ pain, is

only to change its "form," and, if the process of "changing

form" is of no "consequence" in the case of sensitive and

insensitive matter, we must admit that it is _also_ of

no "consequence" in the case of pain-feeling and _not_

pain-feeling matter. This conclusion, I imagine, you neither

intended nor foresaw. The premiss, which you use, involves

the fallacy called "proving too much."

The best advice that could be given to you, when you begin

to compose sermons, would be what an old friend once gave to

a young man who was going out to be an Indian judge (in

India, it seems, the judge decides things, without a jury,

like our County Court judges). "Give _your decisions_

boldly and clearly; they will probably be _right_. But

do _not_ give your _reasons: they_ will probably

be _wrong"_ If your lot in life is to be in a

_country_ parish, it will perhaps not matter

_much_ whether the reasons given in your sermons do or

do not prove your conclusions. But even there you

_might_ meet, and in a town congregation you would be

_sure_ to meet, clever sceptics, who know well how to

argue, who will detect your fallacies and point them out to

those who are _not_ yet troubled with doubts, and thus

undermine _all_ their confidence in your teaching.

At Eastbourne, last summer, I heard a preacher advance the

astounding argument, "We believe that the Bible is true,

because our holy Mother, the Church, tells us it is." I pity

that unfortunate clergyman if ever he is bold enough to

enter any Young Men's Debating Club where there is some

clear-headed sceptic who has heard, or heard of, that

sermon. I can fancy how the young man would rub his hands,

in delight, and would say to himself, "Just see me get him

into a corner, and convict him of arguing in a circle!"

The bad logic that occurs in many and many a well-meant

sermon, is a real danger to modern Christianity. When

detected, it may seriously injure many believers, and fill

them with miserable doubts. So my advice to you, as a young

theological student, is "Sift your reasons _well_, and,

before you offer them to others, make sure that they prove

your conclusions."

I hope you won't give this letter of mine (which it has cost

me some time and thought to write) just a single reading and

then burn it; but that you will lay it aside. Perhaps, even

years hence, it may be of some use to you to read it again.

Believe me always

Your affectionate Uncle,

C. L. Dodgson.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VIII

(1892-1896)

Mr. Dodgson resigns the Curatorship--Bazaars--He lectures to

children--A mechanical "Humpty Dumpty"--A logical

controversy--Albert Chevalier--"Sylvie and Bruno

Concluded"--"Pillow Problems"--Mr. Dodgson's

generosity--College services--Religious difficulties--A

village sermon--Plans for the future--Reverence--"Symbolic

Logic."

At Christ Church, as at other Colleges, the Common Room is an

important feature. Open from eight in the morning until ten at night,

it takes the place of a club, where the "dons" may see the newspapers,

talk, write letters, or enjoy a cup of tea. After dinner, members of

High Table, with their guests if any are present, usually adjourn to

the Common Room for wine and dessert, while there is a smoking-room

hard by for those who do not despise the harmless but unnecessary

weed, and below are cellars, with a goodly store of choice old wines.

The Curator's duties were therefore sufficiently onerous. They were

doubly so in Mr. Dodgson's case, for his love of minute accuracy

greatly increased the amount of work he had to do. It was his office

to select and purchase wines, to keep accounts, to adjust selling

price to cost price, to see that the two Common Room servants

performed their duties, and generally to look after the comfort and

convenience of the members.

"Having heard," he wrote near the end of the year 1892, "that Strong

was willing to be elected (as Curator), and Common Room willing to

elect him, I most gladly resigned. The sense of relief at being free

from the burdensome office, which has cost me a large amount of time

and trouble, is very delightful. I was made Curator, December 8, 1882,

so that I have held the office more than nine years."

The literary results of his Curatorship were three very interesting

little pamphlets, "Twelve Months in a Curatorship, by One who has

tried it"; "Three years in a Curatorship, by One whom it has tried";

and "Curiosissima Curatoria, by 'Rude Donatus,'" all printed for

private circulation, and couched in the same serio-comic vein. As a

logician he naturally liked to see his thoughts in print, for, just as

the mathematical mind craves for a black-board and a piece of chalk,

so the logical mind must have its paper and printing-press wherewith

to set forth its deductions effectively.

A few extracts must suffice to show the style of these pamphlets, and

the opportunity offered for the display of humour.

In the arrangement of the prices at which wines were to be sold to

members of Common Room, he found a fine scope for the exercise of his

mathematical talents and his sense of proportion. In one of the

pamphlets he takes old Port and Chablis as illustrations.

The original cost of each is about 3s. a bottle; but the

present value of the old Port is about 11s. a bottle. Let us

suppose, then, that we have to sell to Common Room one

bottle of old Port and three of Chablis, the original cost

of the whole being 12s., and the present value 20s. These

are our data. We have now two questions to answer. First,

what sum shall we ask for the whole? Secondly, how shall we

apportion that sum between the two kinds of wine?

The sum to be asked for the whole he decides, following precedent, is

to be the present market-value of the wine; as to the second question,

he goes on to say--

We have, as so often happens in the lives of distinguished

premiers, three courses before us: (1) to charge the

_present_ value for each kind of wine; (2) to put on a

certain percentage to the _original_ value of each

kind; (3) to make a compromise between these two courses.

Course 1 seems to me perfectly reasonable; but a very

plausible objection has been made to it--that it puts a

prohibitory price on the valuable wines, and that they would

remain unconsumed. This would not, however, involve any loss

to our finances; we could obviously realise the enhanced

values of the old wines by selling them to outsiders, if the

members of Common Room would not buy them. But I do not

advocate this course.

Course 2 would lead to charging 5s. a bottle for Port and

Chablis alike. The Port-drinker would be "in clover," while

the Chablis-drinker would probably begin getting his wine

direct from the merchant instead of from the Common Room

cellar, which would be a _reductio ad absurdum_ of the

tariff. Yet I have heard this course advocated, repeatedly,

as an abstract principle. "You ought to consider the

_original_ value only," I have been told. "You ought to

regard the Port-drinker as a private individual, who has

laid the wine in for himself, and who ought to have all the

advantages of its enhanced value. You cannot fairly ask him

for more than what you need to refill the bins with Port,

_plus_ the percentage thereon needed to meet the

contingent expenses." I have listened to such arguments, but

have never been convinced that the course is just. It seems

to me that the 8s. additional value which the bottle of Port

has acquired, is the property of _Common Room_, and

that Common Room has the power to give it to whom it

chooses; and it does not seem to me fair to give it all to

the Port-drinker. What merit is there in preferring Port to

Chablis, that could justify our selling the Port-drinker his

wine at less than half what he would have to give outside,

and charging the Chablis-drinker five-thirds of what he

would have to give outside? At all events, I, as a

Port-drinker, do not wish to absorb the whole advantage, and

would gladly share it with the Chablis-drinker. The course I

recommend is

Course 3, which is a compromise between 1 and 2, its

essential principle being to sell the new wines _above_

their value, in order to be able to sell the old

_below_ their value. And it is clearly desirable, as

far as possible, to make the reductions _where they will

be felt,_ and the additions _where they will not be

felt._ Moreover it seems to me that reduction is most

felt where it _goes down to the next round sum,_ and an

addition in the reverse case, _i.e.,_ when it _starts

from a round sum._ Thus, if we were to take 2d. off a 5s.

8d. wine, and add it to a 4s. 4d.--thus selling them at 5s.

6d. and 4s. 6d. the reduction would be welcomed, and the

addition unnoticed; and the change would be a popular one.

The next extract shows with what light-hearted frivolity he could

approach this tremendous subject of wine:--

The consumption of Madeira (B) has been during the past

year, zero. After careful calculation I estimate that, if

this rate of consumption be steadily maintained, our present

stock will last us an infinite number of years. And although

there may be something monotonous and dreary in the prospect

of such vast cycles spent in drinking second-class Madeira,

we may yet cheer ourselves with the thought of how

economically it can be done.

To assist the Curator in the discharge of his duties, there was a Wine

Committee, and for its guidance a series of rules was drawn up. The

first runs as follows: "There shall be a Wine Committee, consisting of

five persons, including the Curator, whose duty it shall be to assist

the Curator in the management of the cellar." "Hence," wrote Mr.

Dodgson, "logically it is the bounden duty of the Curator 'to assist

himself.' I decline to say whether this clause has ever brightened

existence for me--or whether, in the shades of evening, I may ever

have been observed leaving the Common Room cellars with a small but

suspicious-looking bundle, and murmuring, 'Assist thyself, assist

thyself!'"

Every Christmas at Christ Church the children of the College servants

have a party in the Hall. This year he was asked to entertain them,

and gladly consented to do so. He hired a magic lantern and a large

number of slides, and with their help told the children the three

following stories: (1) "The Epiphany"; (2) "The Children Lost in the

Bush"; (3) "Bruno's Picnic."

I have already referred to the services held in Christ Church for the

College servants, at which Mr. Dodgson used frequently to preach. The

way in which he regarded this work is very characteristic of the man.

"Once more," he writes, "I have to thank my Heavenly Father for the

great blessing and privilege of being allowed to speak for Him! May He

bless my words to help some soul on its heavenward way." After one of

these addresses he received a note from a member of the congregation,

thanking him for what he had said. "It is very sweet," he said, "to

get such words now and then; but there is danger in them if more such

come, I must beg for silence."

During the year Mr. Dodgson wrote the following letter to the Rev.

C.A. Goodhart, Rector of Lambourne, Essex:--

Dear Sir,--Your kind, sympathising and most encouraging

letter about "Sylvie and Bruno" has deserved a better

treatment from me than to have been thus kept waiting more

than two years for an answer. But life is short; and one has

many other things to do; and I have been for years almost

hopelessly in arrears in correspondence. I keep a register,

so that letters which I intend to answer do somehow come to

the front at last.

In "Sylvie and Bruno" I took courage to introduce what I had

entirely avoided in the two "Alice" books--some reference to

subjects which are, after all, the _only_ subjects of real

interest in life, subjects which are so intimately bound up

with every topic of human interest that it needs more effort

to avoid them than to touch on them; and I felt that such a

book was more suitable to a clerical writer than one of mere

fun.

I hope I have not offended many (evidently I have not

offended _you_) by putting scenes of mere fun, and talk

about God, into the same book.

Only one of all my correspondents ever guessed there was

more to come of the book. She was a child, personally

unknown to me, who wrote to "Lewis Carroll" a sweet letter

about the book, in which she said, "I'm so glad it hasn't

got a regular wind-up, as it shows there is more to come!"

There is indeed "more to come." When I came to piece

together the mass of accumulated material I found it was

quite _double_ what could be put into one volume. So I

divided it in the middle; and I hope to bring out "Sylvie

and Bruno Concluded" next Christmas--if, that is, my

Heavenly Master gives me the time and the strength for the

task; but I am nearly 60, and have no right to count on

years to come.

In signing my real name, let me beg you not to let the

information go further--I have an _intense_ dislike to

personal publicity; and, the more people there are who know

nothing of "Lewis Carroll" save his books, the happier I am.

Believe me, sincerely yours,

Charles L. Dodgson.

I have made no attempt to chronicle all the games and puzzles which

Lewis Carroll invented. A list of such as have been published will be

found in the Bibliographical chapter. He intended to bring out a book

of "Original Games and Puzzles," with illustrations by Miss E.

Gertrude Thomson. The MS. was, I believe, almost complete before his

death, and one, at least, of the pictures had been drawn. On June 30th

he wrote in his Diary, "Invented what I think is a new kind of riddle.

A Russian had three sons. The first, named Rab, became a lawyer; the

second, Ymra, became a soldier; the third became a sailor. What was

his name?"

The following letter written to a child-friend, Miss E. Drury,

illustrates Lewis Carroll's hatred of bazaars:--

Ch. Ch., Oxford, _Nov_. 10, 1892.

My dear Emmie,--I object to _all_ bazaars on the general

principle that they are very undesirable schools for young

ladies, in which they learn to be "too fast" and forward,

and are more exposed to undesirable acquaintances than in

ordinary society. And I have, besides that, special

objections to bazaars connected with charitable or religious

purposes. It seems to me that they desecrate the religious

object by their undesirable features, and that they take the

reality out of all charity by getting people to think that

they are doing a good action, when their true motive is

amusement for themselves. Ruskin has put all this far better

than I can possibly do, and, if I can find the passage, and

find the time to copy it, I will send it you. But _time_ is

a very scarce luxury for me!

Always yours affectionately,

C.L. Dodgson.

In his later years he used often to give lectures on various subjects

to children. He gave a series on "Logic" at the Oxford Girls' High

School, but he sometimes went further afield, as in the following

instance:--

Went, as arranged with Miss A. Ottley, to the High School at

Worcester, on a visit. At half-past three I had an audience

of about a hundred little girls, aged, I should think, from

about six to fourteen. I showed them two arithmetic puzzles

on the black-board, and told them "Bruno's Picnic." At

half-past seven I addressed some serious words to a second

audience of about a hundred elder girls, probably from

fifteen to twenty--an experience of the deepest interest to

me.

The illustration on the next page will be best explained by the

following letter which I have received from Mr. Walter Lindsay, of

Philadelphia, U.S.:--

Phila., _September_ 12, 1898.

Dear Sir,--I shall be very glad to furnish what information

I can with respect to the "Mechanical Humpty Dumpty" which I

constructed a few years ago, but I must begin by

acknowledging that, in one sense at least, I did not

"invent" the figure. The idea was first put into my head by

an article in the _Cosmopolitan_, somewhere about 1891, I

suppose, describing a similar contrivance. As a devoted

admirer of the "Alice" books, I determined to build a Humpty

Dumpty of my own; but I left the model set by the author of

the article mentioned, and constructed the figure on

entirely different lines. In the first place, the figure as

described in the magazine had very few movements, and not

very satisfactory ones at that; and in the second place, no

attempt whatever was made to reproduce, even in a general

way, the well-known appearance of Tenniel's drawing. Humpty,

when completed, was about two feet and a half high. His

face, of course, was white; the lower half of the egg was

dressed in brilliant blue. His stockings were grey, and the

famous cravat orange, with a zigzag pattern in blue. I am

sorry to say that the photograph hardly does him justice;

but he had travelled to so many different places during his

career, that he began to be decidedly out of shape before he

sat for his portrait.

[Illustration: The Mechanical "Humpty Dumpty."

_From a photograph._]

When Humpty was about to perform, a short "talk" was usually

given before the curtain rose, explaining the way in which

the Sheep put the egg on the shelf at the back of the little

shop, and how Alice went groping along to it. And then, just

as the explanation had reached the opening of the chapter on

Humpty Dumpty, the curtain rose, and Humpty was discovered,

sitting on the wall, and gazing into vacancy. As soon as the

audience had had time to recover, Alice entered, and the

conversation was carried on just as it is in the book.

Humpty Dumpty gesticulated with his arms, rolled his eyes,

raised his eyebrows, frowned, turned up his nose in scorn at

Alice's ignorance, and smiled from ear to ear when he shook

hands with her. Besides this, his mouth kept time with his

words all through the dialogue, which added very greatly to

his life-like appearance.

The effect of his huge face, as it changed from one

expression to another, was ludicrous in the extreme, and we

were often obliged to repeat sentences in the conversation

(to "go back to the last remark but one") because the

audience laughed so loudly over Humpty Dumpty's expression

of face that they drowned what he was trying to say. The

funniest effect was the change from the look of

self-satisfied complacency with which he accompanied the

words: "The king has promised me--" to that of towering rage

when Alice innocently betrays her knowledge of the secret.

At the close of the scene, when Alice has vainly endeavoured

to draw him into further conversation, and at last walks

away in disgust, Humpty loses his balance on the wall,

recovers himself, totters again, and then falls off

backwards; at the same time a box full of broken glass is

dropped on the floor behind the scenes, to represent the

"heavy crash," which "shook the forest from end to

end";--and the curtain falls.

Now, as to how it was all done. Humpty was made of barrel

hoops, and covered with stiff paper and muslin. His eyes

were round balls of rags, covered with muslin, drawn

smoothly, and with the pupil and iris marked on the front.

These eyes were pivoted to a board, fastened just behind the

eye-openings in the face. To the eyeballs were sewed strong

pieces of tape, which passed through screw-eyes on the edges

of the board, and so down to a row of levers which were

hinged in the lower part of the figure. One lever raised

both eyes upward, another moved them both to the left, and

so on. The eyebrows were of worsted and indiarubber knitted

together. They were fastened at the ends, and raised and

lowered by fine white threads passing through small holes in

the face, and also operated by levers. The arms projected

into the interior of the machine, and the gestures were made

by moving the short ends inside. The right hand contained a

spring clothes-pin, by which he was enabled to hold the

note-book in which Alice set down the celebrated problem--

365

1

___

364

The movement of the mouth, in talking, was produced by a

long tape, running down to a pedal, which was controlled by

the foot of the performer. And the smile consisted of long

strips of red tape, which were drawn out through slits at

the corners of the mouth by means of threads which passed

through holes in the sides of the head. The performer--who

was always your humble servant--stood on a box behind the

wall, his head just reaching the top of the egg, which was

open all the way up the back. At the lower end of the

figure, convenient to the hands of the performer, was the

row of levers, like a little keyboard; and by striking

different chords on the keys, any desired expression could

be produced on the face.

Of course, a performance of this kind without a good Alice

would be unutterably flat; but the little girl who played

opposite to Humpty, Miss Nellie K---, was so exactly the

counterpart of Alice, both in appearance and disposition,

that most children thought she was the original, right out

of the book.

Humpty still exists, but he has not seen active life for

some years. His own popularity was the cause of his

retirement; for having given a number of performances (for

Charity, of course), and delighted many thousands of

children of all ages, the demands upon his time, from

Sunday-schools and other institutions, became so numerous

that the performers were obliged to withdraw him in

self-defence. He was a great deal of trouble to build, but

the success he met with and the pleasure he gave more than

repaid me for the bother; and I am sure that any one else

who tries it will reach the same conclusion.

Yours sincerely,

Walter Lindsay.

At the beginning of 1893 a fierce logical battle was being waged

between Lewis Carroll and Mr. Cook Wilson, Professor of Logic at

Oxford. The Professor, in spite of the countless arguments that Mr.

Dodgson hurled at his head, would not confess that he had committed a

fallacy.

On February 5th the Professor appears to have conceded a point, for

Mr. Dodgson writes: "Heard from Cook Wilson, who has long declined to

read a paper which I sent January 12th, and which seems to me to prove

the fallacy of a view of his about Hypotheticals. He now offers to

read it, if _I_ will study a proof he sent, that another problem

of mine had contradictory _data_. I have accepted his offer, and

studied and answered his paper. So I now look forward hopefully to the

result of his reading mine."

The hopes which he entertained were doomed to be disappointed; the

controversy bore no fruits save a few pamphlets and an enormous amount

of correspondence, and finally the two antagonists had to agree to

differ.

As a rule Mr. Dodgson was a stern opponent of music-halls and

music-hall singers; but he made one or two exceptions with regard to

the latter. For Chevalier he had nothing but praise; he heard him at

one of his recitals, for he never in his life entered a "Variety

Theatre." I give the passage from his Diary:--

Went to hear Mr. Albert Chevalier's Recital. I only knew of

him as being now recognised as _facile princeps_ among

music-hall singers, and did not remember that I had seen him

twice or oftener on the stage--first as "Mr. Hobbs" in

"Little Lord Fauntleroy," and afterwards as a "horsy" young

man in a _matinée_ in which Violet Vanbrugh appeared. He was

decidedly _good_ as an actor; but as a comic singer (with

considerable powers of pathos as well) he is quite

first-rate. His chief merit seems to be the earnestness with

which he throws himself into the work. The songs (mostly his

own writing) were quite inoffensive, and very funny. I am

very glad to be able to think that his influence on public

taste is towards refinement and purity. I liked best "The

Future Mrs. 'Awkins," with its taking tune, and "My Old

Dutch," which revealed powers that, I should think, would

come out grandly in Robsonian parts, such as "The Porter's

Knot." "The Little Nipper" was also well worth hearing.

Mr. Dodgson's views on Sunday Observance were old-fashioned, but he

lived up to them, and did not try to force them upon people with whose

actions he had no concern. They were purely matters of "private

opinion" with him. On October 2nd he wrote to Miss E.G. Thomson, who

was illustrating his "Three Sunsets":--

Would you kindly do _no_ sketches, or photos, for

_me_, on a Sunday? It is, in _my_ view (of

_course_ I don't condemn any one who differs from me)

inconsistent with keeping the day holy. I do _not_ hold

it to be the Jewish "Sabbath," but I _do_ hold it to be

"the Lord's Day," and so to be made very distinct from the

other days.

In December, the Logical controversy being over for a time, Mr.

Dodgson invented a new problem to puzzle his mathematical friends

with, which was called "The Monkey and Weight Problem." A rope is

supposed to be hung over a wheel fixed to the roof of a building; at

one end of the rope a weight is fixed, which exactly counterbalances a

monkey which is hanging on to the other end. Suppose that the monkey

begins to climb the rope, what will be the result? The following

extract from the Diary illustrates the several possible answers which

may be given:--

Got Professor Clifton's answer to the "Monkey and Weight

Problem." It is very curious, the different views taken by

good mathematicians. Price says the weight goes _up_, with

increasing velocity; Clifton (and Harcourt) that it goes

_up_, at the same rate as the monkey; while Sampson says

that it goes _down_.

On December 24th Mr. Dodgson received the first twelve copies of

"Sylvie and Bruno Concluded," just about four years after the

appearance of the first part of the story. In this second volume the

two fairy children are as delightful as ever; it also contains what I

think most people will agree to be the most beautiful poem Lewis

Carroll ever wrote, "Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are

cheeping?" (p. 305). In the preface he pays a well-deserved compliment

to Mr. Harry Furniss for his wonderfully clever pictures; he also

explains how the book was written, showing that many of the amusing

remarks of Bruno had been uttered by real children. He makes

allusion to two books, which only his death prevented him from

finishing--"Original Games and Puzzles," and a paper on "Sport,"

viewed from the standpoint of the humanitarian. From a literary point

of view the second volume of "Sylvie and Bruno" lacks unity; a fairy

tale is all very well, and a novel also is all very well, but the

combination of the two is surely a mistake. However, the reader who

cares more for the spirit than the letter will not notice this

blemish; to him "Sylvie and Bruno Concluded" will be interesting and

helpful, as the revelation of a very beautiful personality.

You have made everything turn out just as I should have

chosen [writes a friend to whom he had sent a copy], and

made right all that disappointed me in the first part. I

have not only to thank you for writing an interesting book,

but for writing a helpful one too. I am sure that "Sylvie

and Bruno" has given me many thoughts that will help me all

life through. One cannot know "Sylvie" without being the

better for it. You may say that "Mister Sir" is not

consciously meant to be yourself, but I cannot help feeling

that he is. As "Mister Sir" talks, I hear your voice in

every word. I think, perhaps, that is why I like the book so

much.

I have received an interesting letter from Mr. Furniss, bearing upon

the subject of "Sylvie and Bruno," and Lewis Carroll's methods of

work. The letter runs as follows:--

I have illustrated stories of most of our leading authors,

and I can safely say that Lewis Carroll was the only one who

cared to understand the illustrations to his own book. He

was the W. S. Gilbert for children, and, like Gilbert

producing one of his operas, Lewis Carroll took infinite

pains to study every detail in producing his extraordinary

and delightful books. Mr. Gilbert, as every one knows, has a

model of the stage; he puts up the scenery, draws every

figure, moves them about just as he wishes the real actors

to move about. Lewis Carroll was precisely the same. This,

of course, led to a great deal of work and trouble, and made

the illustrating of his books more a matter of artistic

interest than of professional profit. I was _seven years_

illustrating his last work, and during that time I had the

pleasure of many an interesting meeting with the fascinating

author, and I was quite repaid for the trouble I took, not

only by his generous appreciation of my efforts, but by the

liberal remuneration he gave for the work, and also by the

charm of having intercourse with the interesting, if

somewhat erratic genius.

A book very different in character from "Sylvie and Bruno," but under

the same well-known pseudonym, appeared about the same time. I refer

to "Pillow Problems," the second part of the series entitled "Curiosa

Mathematica."

"Pillow Problems thought out during wakeful hours" is a collection of

mathematical problems, which Mr. Dodgson solved while lying awake at

night. A few there are to which the title is not strictly applicable,

but all alike were worked out mentally before any diagram or word of

the solution was committed to paper.

The author says that his usual practice was to write down the

_answer_ first of all, and afterwards the question and its

solution. His motive, he says, for publishing these problems was not

from any desire to display his powers of mental calculation. Those who

knew him will readily believe this, though they will hardly be

inclined to accept his own modest estimate of those powers.

Still the book was intended, not for the select few who can scale the

mountain heights of advanced mathematics, but for the much larger

class of ordinary mathematicians, and they at least will be able to

appreciate the gifted author, and to wonder how he could follow so

clearly in his head the mental diagrams and intricate calculations

involved in some of these "Pillow Problems."

His chief motive in publishing the book was to show how, by a little

determination, the mind "can be made to concentrate itself on some

intellectual subject (not necessarily mathematics), and thus banish

those petty troubles and vexations which most people experience, and

which--unless the mind be otherwise occupied--_will_ persist in

invading the hours of night." And this remedy, as he shows, serves a

higher purpose still. In a paragraph which deserves quoting at length,

as it gives us a momentary glimpse of his refined and beautiful

character, he says:--

Perhaps I may venture for a moment to use a more serious

tone, and to point out that there are mental troubles, much

worse than mere worry, for which an absorbing object of

thought may serve as a remedy. There are sceptical thoughts,

which seem for the moment to uproot the firmest faith: there

are blasphemous thoughts, which dart unbidden into the most

reverent souls: there are unholy thoughts, which torture

with their hateful presence the fancy that would fain be

pure. Against all these some real mental work is a most

helpful ally. That "unclean spirit" of the parable, who

brought back with him seven others more wicked than himself,

only did so because he found the chamber "swept and

garnished," and its owner sitting with folded hands. Had he

found it all alive with the "busy hum" of active _work_,

there would have been scant welcome for him and his seven!

It would have robbed the book of its true character if Lewis Carroll

had attempted to improve on the work done in his head, and

consequently we have the solutions exactly as he worked them out

before setting them down on paper. Of the Problems themselves there is

not much to be said here; they are original, and some of them (e.g.,

No. 52) expressed in a style peculiarly the author's own. The subjects

included in their range are Arithmetic, Algebra, Pure Geometry

(Plane), Trigonometry, Algebraic Geometry, and Differential Calculus;

and there is one Problem to which Mr. Dodgson says he "can proudly

point," in "Transcendental Probabilities," which is here given: "A bag

contains two counters, as to which nothing is known except that each

is either black or white. Ascertain their colour without taking them

out of the bag." The answer is, "One is black and the other white."

For the solution the reader is referred to the book itself, a study of

which will well repay him, apart from the chance he may have of

discovering some mistake, and the consequent joy thereat!

A few extracts from the Diary follow, written during the early part of

1894:--

_Feb._ 1_st.--Dies notandus._ As Ragg was reading

Prayers, and Bayne and I were the only M.A.'s in the stalls,

I tried the experiment of going to the lectern and reading

the lesson. I did not hesitate much, but feel it too great a

strain on the nerves to be tried often. Then I went to the

Latin Chapel for Holy Communion. Only Paget (Dean) and Dr.

Huntley came: so, for the first time in my recollection, it

had to be given up. Then I returned to my rooms, and found

in _The Standard_ the very important communication from

Gladstone denying the rumour that he has decided upon

resigning the Premiership, but admitting that, owing to

failing powers, it may come at any moment. It will make a

complete change in the position of politics! Then I got,

from Cook Wilson, what I have been so long trying for--an

accepted transcript of the fallacious argument over which we

have had an (apparently) endless fight. I think the end is

near, _now_.

_Feb._ 4_th._--The idea occurred to me that it

might be a pleasant variation in Backgammon to throw

_three_ dice, and choose any two of the three numbers.

The average quality of the throws would be much raised. I

reckon that the chance of "6, 6" would be about two and a

half what it now is. It would also furnish a means, similar

to giving points in billiards, for equalising players: the

weaker might use three dice, the other using two. I think of

calling it "Thirdie Backgammon."

_March_ 31_st._--Have just got printed, as a

leaflet, "A Disputed Point in Logic"--the point Professor

Wilson and I have been arguing so long. This paper is wholly

in his own words, and puts the point very clearly. I think

of submitting it to all my logical friends.

"A Disputed Point in Logic" appeared also, I believe, in

_Mind_, July, 1894.

This seems a fitting place in which to speak of a side of Mr.

Dodgson's character of which he himself was naturally very

reticent--his wonderful generosity. My own experience of him was of a

man who was always ready to do one a kindness, even though it put him

to great expense and inconvenience; but of course I did not know,

during his lifetime, that my experience of him was the same as that of

all his other friends. The income from his books and other sources,

which might have been spent in a life of luxury and selfishness, he

distributed lavishly where he saw it was needed, and in order to do

this he always lived in the most simple way. To make others happy was

the Golden Rule of his life. On August 31st he wrote, in a letter to a

friend, Miss Mary Brown: "And now what am I to tell you about myself?

To say I am quite well 'goes without saying' with me. In fact, my life

is so strangely free from all trial and trouble that I cannot doubt my

own happiness is one of the talents entrusted to me to 'occupy' with,

till the Master shall return, by doing something to make other lives

happy."

In several instances, where friends in needy circumstances have

written to him for loans of money, he has answered them, "I will not

_lend_, but I will _give_ you the £100 you ask for." To help

child-friends who wanted to go on the stage, or to take up music as a

profession, he has introduced them to leading actors and actresses,

paid for them having lessons in singing from the best masters, sent

round circulars to his numerous acquaintances begging them to

patronise the first concert or recital.

In writing his books he never attempted to win popularity by acceding

to the prejudices and frailties of the age--his one object was to make

his books useful and helpful and ennobling. Like the great Master, in

whose steps he so earnestly strove to follow, he "went about doing

good." And one is glad to think that even his memory is being made to

serve the same purpose. The "Alice" cots are a worthy sequel to his

generous life.

Even Mr. Dodgson, with all his boasted health, was not absolutely

proof against disease, for on February 12, 1895, he writes:--

Tenth day of a rather bad attack of influenza of the ague

type. Last night the fever rose to a great height, partly

caused by a succession of _five_ visitors. One,

however, was of my own seeking--Dean Paget, to whom I was

thankful to be able to tell all I have had in my mind for a

year or more, as to our Chapel services _not_ being as

helpful as they could be made. The chief fault is extreme

_rapidity_. I long ago gave up the attempt to say the

Confession at that pace; and now I say it, and the Lord's

Prayer, close together, and never hear a word of the

Absolution. Also many of the Lessons are quite unedifying.

On July 11th he wrote to my brother on the subject of a paper about

Eternal Punishment, which was to form the first of a series of essays

on Religious Difficulties:--

I am sending you the article on "Eternal Punishment" as it

is. There is plenty of matter for consideration, as to which

I shall be glad to know your views.

Also if there are other points, connected with religion,

where you feel that perplexing difficulties exist, I should

be glad to know of them in order to see whether I can see my

way to saying anything helpful.

But I had better add that I do not want to deal with any

such difficulties, _unless_ they tend to affect _life.

Speculative_ difficulties which do not affect conduct, and

which come into collision with any of the principles which I

intend to state as axioms, lie outside the scope of my book.

These axioms are:--

(1) Human conduct is capable of being _right_, and of

being _wrong_.

(2) I possess Free-Will, and am able to choose between

right and wrong.

(3) I have in some cases chosen wrong.

(4) I am responsible for choosing wrong.

(5) I am responsible to a person.

(6) This person is perfectly good.

I call them axioms, because I have no _proofs_ to offer for

them. There will probably be others, but these are all I can

think of just now.

The Rev. H. Hopley, Vicar of Westham, has sent me the following

interesting account of a sermon Mr. Dodgson preached at his church:--

In the autumn of 1895 the Vicar of Eastbourne was to have

preached my Harvest Sermon at Westham, a village five miles

away; but something or other intervened, and in the middle

of the week I learned he could not come. A mutual friend

suggested my asking Mr. Dodgson, who was then in Eastbourne,

to help me, and I went with him to his rooms. I was quite a

stranger to Mr. Dodgson; but knowing from hearsay how

reluctant he usually was to preach, I apologised and

explained my position--with Sunday so near at hand. After a

moment's hesitation he consented, and in a most genial

manner made me feel quite at ease as to the abruptness of my

petition. On the morrow he came over to my vicarage, and

made friends with my daughters, teaching them some new

manner of playing croquet [probably Castle Croquet], and

writing out for them puzzles and anagrams that he had

composed.

The following letter was forwarded on the Saturday:--

"7, Lushington Road, Eastbourne,

_September_ 26, 1895.

Dear Mr. Hopley,--I think you will excuse the liberty

I am taking in asking you to give me some food after the

service on Sunday, so that I may have no need to catch the

train, but can walk back at leisure. This will save me from

the worry of trying to conclude at an exact minute, and

you, perhaps, from the trouble of finding short hymns, to save

time. It will not, I hope, cause your cook any trouble, as

my regular rule here is _cold_ dinner on Sundays. This not

from any "Sabbatarian" theory, but from the wish to let our

_employés_ have the day _wholly_ at their own disposal.

I beg Miss Hopley's acceptance of the enclosed papers--

(puzzles and diagrams.)

Believe me, very truly yours,

C.L. Dodgson."

On Sunday our grand old church was crowded, and, although

our villagers are mostly agricultural labourers, yet they

breathlessly listened to a sermon forty minutes long, and

apparently took in every word of it. It was quite extempore,

in very simple words, and illustrated by some delightful and

most touching stories of children. I only wish there had

been a shorthand-writer there.

In the vestry after service, while he was signing his name

in the Preachers' Book, a church officer handed him a bit of

paper. "Mr. Dodgson, would you very kindly write your name

on that?" "Sir!" drawing himself up sternly--"Sir, I never

do that for any one"--and then, more kindly, "You see, if I

did it for one, I must do it for all."

An amusing incident in Mr. Dodgson's life is connected with the

well-known drama, "Two Little Vagabonds." I give the story as he wrote

it in his Diary:--

_Nov._ 28_th.--Matinée_ at the Princess's of "Two Little

Vagabonds," a very sensational melodrama, capitally acted.

"Dick" and "Wally" were played by Kate Tyndall and Sydney

Fairbrother, whom I guess to be about fifteen and twelve.

Both were excellent, and the latter remarkable for the

perfect realism of her acting. There was some beautiful

religious dialogue between "Wally" and a hospital nurse--

most reverently spoken, and reverently received by the

audience.

_Dec._ 17_th._--I have given books to Kate Tyndall and

Sydney Fairbrother, and have heard from them, and find I was

entirely mistaken in taking them for children. Both are

married women!

The following is an extract from a letter written in 1896 to one of

his sisters, in allusion to a death which had recently occurred in the

family:--

It is getting increasingly difficult now to remember _which_

of one's friends remain alive, and _which_ have gone "into

the land of the great departed, into the silent land." Also,

such news comes less and less as a shock, and more and more

one realises that it is an experience each of _us_ has to

face before long. That fact is getting _less_ dreamlike to

me now, and I sometimes think what a grand thing it will be

to be able to say to oneself, "Death is _over_ now; there is

not _that_ experience to be faced again."

I am beginning to think that, if the _books I_ am still

hoping to write are to be done _at all,_ they must be done

_now_, and that I am _meant_ thus to utilise the splendid

health I have had, unbroken, for the last year and a half,

and the working powers that are fully as great as, if not

greater, than I have ever had. I brought with me here (this

letter was written from Eastbourne) the MS., such as it is

(very fragmentary and unarranged) for the book about

religious difficulties, and I meant, when I came here, to

devote myself to that, but I have changed my plan. It seems

to me that _that_ subject is one that hundreds of living men

could do, if they would only try, _much_ better than I

could, whereas there is no living man who could (or at any

rate who would take the trouble to) arrange and finish and

publish the second part of the "Logic." Also, I _have_ the

Logic book in my head; it will only need three or four

months to write out, and I have _not_ got the other book in

my head, and it might take years to think out. So I have

decided to get Part ii. finished _first_, and I am working

at it day and night. I have taken to early rising, and

sometimes sit down to my work before seven, and have one and

a half hours at it before breakfast. The book will be a

great novelty, and will help, I fully believe, to make the

study of Logic _far_ easier than it now is. And it will, I

also believe, be a help to religious thought by giving

_clearness_ of conception and of expression, which may

enable many people to face, and conquer, many religious

difficulties for themselves. So I do really regard it as

work for _God_.

Another letter, written a few months later to Miss Dora Abdy, deals

with the subject of "Reverence," which Mr. Dodgson considered a virtue

not held in sufficient esteem nowadays:--

My Dear Dora,--In correcting the proofs of "Through the

Looking-Glass" (which is to have "An Easter Greeting"

inserted at the end), I am reminded that in that letter (I

enclose a copy), I had tried to express my thoughts on the

very subject we talked about last night--the relation of

_laughter_ to religious thought. One of the hardest things

in the world is to convey a meaning accurately from one mind

to another, but the _sort_ of meaning I want to convey to

other minds is that while the laughter of _joy_ is in full

harmony with our deeper life, the laughter of amusement

should be kept apart from it. The danger is too great of

thus learning to look at solemn things in a spirit of

_mockery_, and to seek in them opportunities for exercising

_wit_. That is the spirit which has spoiled, for me, the

beauty of some of the Bible. Surely there is a deep meaning

in our prayer, "Give us an heart to love and _dread_ Thee."

We do not mean _terror_: but a dread that will harmonise

with love; "respect" we should call it as towards a human

being, "reverence" as towards God and all religious things.

Yours affectionately,

C.L. Dodgson.

In his "Game of Logic" Lewis Carroll introduced an original method of

working logical problems by means of diagrams; this method he

superseded in after years for a much simpler one, the method of

"Subscripts."

In "Symbolic Logic, Part i." (London: Macmillan, 1896) he employed

both methods. The Introduction is specially addressed "to Learners,"

whom Lewis Carroll advises to read the book straight through, without

_dipping_.

This Rule [he says] is very desirable with other kinds of

books--such as novels, for instance, where you may easily

spoil much of the enjoyment you would otherwise get from the

story by dipping into it further on, so that what the author

meant to be a pleasant surprise comes to you as a matter of

course. Some people, I know, make a practice of looking into

vol. iii. first, just to see how the story ends; and perhaps

it _is_ as well just to know that all ends

_happily_--that the much persecuted lovers _do_

marry after all, that he is proved to be quite innocent of

the murder, that the wicked cousin is completely foiled in

his plot, and gets the punishment he deserves, and that the

rich uncle in India (_Qu._ Why in _India? Ans._

Because, somehow, uncles never _can_ get rich anywhere

else) dies at exactly the right moment--before taking the

trouble to read vol i. This, I say, is _just_

permissible with a _novel_, where vol. iii. has a

_meaning_, even for those who have not read the earlier

part of the story; but with a _scientific_ book, it is

sheer insanity. You will find the latter part

_hopelessly_ unintelligible, if you read it before

reaching it in regular course.

* * * * *

CHAPTER IX

(1897-1898)

Logic-lectures--Irreverent anecdotes--Tolerance of his

religious views--A mathematical discovery--"The Little

Minister" Sir George Baden-Powell--Last illness--"Thy will

be done"--"Wonderland" at last!--Letters from friends "Three

Sunsets"--"Of such is the kingdom of Heaven."

The year 1897, the last complete year which he was destined to spend,

began for Mr. Dodgson at Guildford. On January 3rd he preached in the

morning at the beautiful old church of S. Mary's, the church which he

always attended when he was staying with his sisters at the Chestnuts.

On the 5th he began a course of Logic Lectures at Abbot's Hospital.

The Rev. A. Kingston, late curate of Holy Trinity and S. Mary's

Parishes, Guildford, had requested him to do this, and he had given

his promise if as many as six people could be got together to hear

him. Mr. Kingston canvassed the town so well that an audience of about

thirty attended the first lecture.

[Illustration: Lewis Carroll. _From a photograph._]

A long Sunday walk was always a feature of Mr. Dodgson's life in the

vacations. In earlier years the late Mr. W. Watson was his usual

companion at Guildford. The two men were in some respects very much

alike; a peculiar gentleness of character, a winning charm of manner

which no one could resist, distinguished them both. After Mr. Watson's

death his companion was usually one of the following Guildford

clergymen: the Rev. J.H. Robson, LL.D., the Rev. H.R. Ware, and the

Rev. A. Kingston.

On the 26th Mr. Dodgson paid a visit to the Girls' High School, to

show the pupils some mathematical puzzles, and to teach the elder ones

his "Memoria Technica." On the 28th he returned to Oxford, so as to be

up in time for term.

I have said that he always refused invitations to dinner; accordingly

his friends who knew of this peculiarity, and wished to secure him for

a special evening, dared not actually invite him, but wrote him little

notes stating that on such and such days they would be dining at home.

Thus there is an entry in his Journal for February 10th:

"Dined with Mrs. G--(She had not sent an

'invitation'--only 'information')."

His system of symbolic logic enabled him to work out the most complex

problems with absolute certainty in a surprisingly short time. Thus he

wrote on the 15th: "Made a splendid logic-problem, about

"great-grandsons" (modelled on one by De Morgan). My method of

solution is quite new, and I greatly doubt if any one will solve the

Problem. I have sent it to Cook Wilson."

On March 7th he preached in the University Church, the first occasion

on which he had done so:--

There is now [he writes] a system established of a course of

six sermons at S. Mary's each year, for University men

_only_, and specially meant for undergraduates. They

are preached, preceded by a few prayers and a hymn, at

half-past eight. This evening ended the course for this

term: and it was my great privilege to preach. It has been

the most formidable sermon I have ever had to preach, and it

is a _great_ relief to have it over. I took, as text,

Job xxviii. 28, "And unto man he said, The fear of the Lord,

that is wisdom"--and the prayer in the Litany "Give us an

heart to love and dread thee." It lasted three-quarters of

an hour.

One can imagine how he would have treated the subject. The views which

he held on the subject of reverence were, so at least it appears to

me, somewhat exaggerated; they are well expressed in a letter which he

wrote to a friend of his, during the year, and which runs as

follows:--

Dear--, After changing my mind several times, I have at

last decided to venture to ask a favour of you, and to trust

that you will not misinterpret my motives in doing so.

The favour I would ask is, that you will not tell me any

more stories, such as you did on Friday, of remarks which

children are said to have made on very sacred subjects--

remarks which most people would recognise as irreverent, if

made by _grown-up people_, but which are assumed to be

innocent when made by children who are unconscious of any

irreverence, the strange conclusion being drawn that they

are therefore innocent when _repeated_ by a grown-up person.

The misinterpretation I would guard against is, your

supposing that I regard such repetition as always _wrong_ in

any grown-up person. Let me assure you that I do _not_ so

regard it. I am always willing to believe that those who

repeat such stories differ wholly from myself in their views

of what is, and what is not, fitting treatment of sacred

things, and I fully recognise that what would certainly be

wrong in _me_, is not necessarily so in _them_.

So I simply ask it as a personal favour to myself. The

hearing of that anecdote gave me so much pain, and spoiled

so much the pleasure of my tiny dinner-party, that I feel

sure you will kindly spare me such in future.

One further remark. There are quantities of such anecdotes

going about. I don't in the least believe that 5 per cent.

of them were ever said by _children_. I feel sure that most

of them are concocted by people who _wish_ to bring sacred

subjects into ridicule--sometimes by people who _wish_ to

undermine the belief that others have in religious truths:

for there is no surer way of making one's beliefs _unreal_

than by learning to associate them with ludicrous ideas.

Forgive the freedom with which I have said all this.

Sincerely yours,

C.L. Dodgson.

The entry in the Diary for April 11th (Sunday) is interesting:--

Went my eighteen-mile round by Besilsleigh. From my rooms

back to them again, took me five hours and twenty-seven

minutes. Had "high tea" at twenty minutes past seven. This

entails only leaving a plate of cold meat, and gives much

less trouble than hot dinner at six.

Dinner at six has been my rule since January 31st, when it

began--I then abandoned the seven o'clock Sunday dinner, of

which I entirely disapprove. It has prevented, for two

terms, the College Servants' Service.

On May 12th he wrote:--

As the Prince of Wales comes this afternoon to open the Town

Hall, I went round to the Deanery to invite them to come

through my rooms upon the roof, to see the procession

arrive.... A party of about twenty were on my roof in the

afternoon, including Mrs. Moberly, Mrs. Driver, and Mrs.

Baynes, and most, if not all, of the children in Christ

Church. Dinner in Hall at eight. The Dean had the Prince on

his right, and Lord Salisbury on his left. My place was almost

_vis-à-vis_ with the Prince. He and the Dean were the

only speakers. We did not get out of Hall till nearly ten.

In June he bought a "Whiteley Exerciser," and fixed it up in his

rooms. One would have thought that he would have found his long walks

sufficient exercise (an eighteen-mile round was, as we have seen, no

unusual thing for him to undertake), but apparently it was not so. He

was so pleased with the "Exerciser," that he bought several more of

them, and made presents of them to his friends.

As an instance of his broad-mindedness, the following extract from his

Diary for June 20th is interesting. It must be premised that E--was a

young friend of his who had recently become a member of the Roman

Catholic Church, and that their place of worship in Oxford is

dedicated to S. Aloysius.

I went with E-- to S. Aloysius. There was much beauty in the

service, part of which consisted in a procession, with

banner, all round the church, carrying the Host, preceded by

a number of girls in white, with veils (who had all had

their first communion that morning), strewing flowers. Many

of them were quite little things of about seven. The sermon

(by Father Richardson) was good and interesting, and in a

very loyal tone about the Queen.

A letter he wrote some years before to a friend who had asked him

about his religious opinions reveals the same catholicity of mind:--

I am a member of the English Church, and have taken Deacon's

Orders, but did not think fit (for reasons I need not go

into) to take Priest's Orders. My dear father was what is

called a "High Churchman," and I naturally adopted those

views, but have always felt repelled by the yet higher

development called "Ritualism."

But I doubt if I am fully a "High Churchman" now. I find

that as life slips away (I am over fifty now), and the life

on the other side of the great river becomes more and more

the reality, of which _this_ is only a shadow, that the

petty distinctions of the many creeds of Christendom tend to

slip away as well--leaving only the great truths which all

Christians believe alike. More and more, as I read of the

Christian religion, as Christ preached it, I stand amazed at

the forms men have given to it, and the fictitious barriers

they have built up between themselves and their brethren. I

believe that when you and I come to lie down for the last

time, if only we can keep firm hold of the great truths

Christ taught us--our own utter worthlessness and His

infinite worth; and that He has brought us back to our one

Father, and made us His brethren, and so brethren to one

another--we shall have all we need to guide us through the

shadows.

Most assuredly I accept to the full the doctrines you refer

to--that Christ died to save us, that we have no other way

of salvation open to us but through His death, and that it

is by faith in Him, and through no merit of ours, that we

are reconciled to God; and most assuredly I can cordially

say, "I owe all to Him who loved me, and died on the Cross

of Calvary."

He spent the Long Vacation at Eastbourne as usual, frequently walking

over to Hastings, which is about twenty miles off. A good many of his

mornings were spent in giving lectures and telling stories at schools.

A letter to the widow of an old college friend reveals the

extraordinary sensitiveness of his nature:--

2, Bedford Well Road, Eastbourne,

_August_ 2, 1897.

My Dear Mrs. Woodhouse,--Your letter, with its mournful

news, followed me down here, and I only got it on Saturday

night; so I was not able to be with you in thought when the

mortal remains of my dear old friend were being committed to

the ground; to await the time when our Heavenly Father shall

have accomplished the number of His elect, and when you and

I shall once more meet the loved ones from whom we are, for

a little while only--what a little while even a long human

life lasts!--parted in sorrow, yet _not_ sorrowing as

those without hope.

You will be sure without words of mine, that you have my

true and deep sympathy. Of all the friends I made at Ch.

Ch., your husband was the very _first_ who spoke to

me--across the dinner-table in Hall. That is forty-six years

ago, but I remember, as if it were only yesterday, the

kindly smile with which he spoke....

September 27th and 28th are marked in his Diary "with a white

stone":--

_Sept. 27th.--Dies notandus._ Discovered rule for

dividing a number by 9, by mere addition and subtraction. I

felt sure there must be an analogous one for 11, and found

it, and proved first rule by algebra, after working about

nine hours!

_Sept. 28th.--Dies cretâ notandus._ I have actually

_superseded_ the rules discovered yesterday! My new

rules require to ascertain the 9-remainder, and the

11-remainder, which the others did _not_ require; but

the new ones are much the quickest. I shall send them to

_The Educational Times_, with date of discovery.

On November 4th he wrote:--

Completed a rule for dividing a given number by any divisor

that is within 10 of a power of 10, either way. The

_principle_ of it is not my discovery, but was sent me

by Bertram Collingwood--a rule for dividing by a divisor

which is within 10 of a power of 10, _below_ it.

My readers will not be surprised to learn that only eight days after

this he had superseded his rule:--

An inventive morning! After waking, and before I had

finished dressing, I had devised a new and much neater form

in which to work my Rules for Long Division, and also

decided to bring out my "Games and Puzzles," and Part iii.

of "Curiosa Mathematica," in _Numbers_, in paper covers,

paged consecutively, to be ultimately issued in boards.

On November 20th he spent the day in London, with the object of seeing

"The Little Minister" at the Haymarket. "A beautiful play, beautifully

acted," he calls it, and says that he should like to see it "again and

again." He especially admired the acting of Mrs. Cyril Maude (Miss

Winifred Emery) as Lady Babbie. This was the last theatrical

performance he ever witnessed.

He apparently kept rough notes for his Diary, and only wrote it up

every few weeks, as there are no entries at all for 1898, nor even for

the last week of 1897. The concluding page runs as follows:--

_Dec. (W.) 10 a.m._--I am in my large room, with no fire,

and open window--temperature 54 degrees.

_Dec. 17 (F.)._--Maggie [one of his sisters], and our nieces

Nella and Violet, came to dinner.

_Dec. 19 (Sun.)._--Sat up last night till 4 a.m., over a

tempting problem, sent me from New York, "to find 3 equal

rational-sided rt.-angled _triangles_." I found _two_,

whose sides are 20, 21, 29; 12, 35, 37; but could not find

_three_.

_Dec. 23(Th.)._--I start for Guildford by the 2.7 today.

As my story of Lewis Carroll's life draws near its end, I have

received some "Stray Reminiscences" from Sir George Baden-Powell,

M.P., which, as they refer to several different periods of time, are

as appropriate here as in any other part of the book. The Rev. E.H.

Dodgson, referred to in these reminiscences, is a younger brother of

Lewis Carroll's; he spent several years of his life upon the remote

island of Tristan d'Acunha, where there were only about seventy or

eighty inhabitants besides himself. About once a year a ship used to

call, when the island-folk would exchange their cattle for cloth,

corn, tea, &c., which they could not produce themselves. The island is

volcanic in origin, and is exposed to the most terrific gales; the

building used as a church stood at some distance from Mr. Dodgson's

dwelling, and on one occasion the wind was so strong that he had to

crawl on his hands and knees for the whole distance that separated

the two buildings.

My first introduction (writes Sir George Baden-Powell) to

the author of "Through the Looking-Glass" was about the year

1870 or 1871, and under appropriate conditions! I was then

coaching at Oxford with the well-known Rev. E. Hatch, and

was on friendly terms with his bright and pretty children.

Entering his house one day, and facing the dining-room, I

heard mysterious noises under the table, and saw the cloth

move as if some one were hiding. Children's legs revealed it

as no burglar, and there was nothing for it but to crawl

upon them, roaring as a lion. Bursting in upon them in their

strong-hold under the table, I was met by the staid but

amused gaze of a reverend gentleman. Frequently afterwards

did I see and hear "Lewis Carroll" entertaining the

youngsters in his inimitable way.

We became friends, and greatly did I enjoy intercourse with

him over various minor Oxford matters. In later years, at one

time I saw much of him, in quite another _rôle_--namely

that of ardent sympathy with the, as he thought, ill-treated

and deserted islanders of Tristan d'Acunha. His brother, it

will be remembered, had voluntarily been left at that island

with a view to ministering to the spiritual and educational

needs of the few settlers, and sent home such graphic

accounts and urgent demands for aid, that "Lewis Carroll"

spared no pains to organise assistance and relief. At his

instance I brought the matter before Government and the

House of Commons, and from that day to this frequent

communication has been held with the islanders, and material

assistance has been rendered them--thanks to the warm heart

of "Lewis Carroll."

On December 23, 1897, as the note in his Diary states, he went down,

in accordance with his usual custom, to Guildford, to spend Christmas

with his sisters at the Chestnuts. He seemed to be in his ordinary

health, and in the best of spirits, and there was nothing to show that

the end was so near.

[Illustration: The Chestnuts, Guildford. _From a

photograph._]

At Guildford he was hard at work upon the second part of his "Symbolic

Logic," spending most of the day over this task. This book, alas! he

was not destined to finish, which is the more to be regretted as it

will be exceedingly difficult for any one else to take up the thread

of the argument, even if any one could be found willing to give the

great amount of time and trouble which would be needed.

On January 5th my father, the Rev. C.S. Collingwood, Rector of

Southwick, near Sunderland, died after a very short illness. The

telegram which brought Mr. Dodgson the news of this contained the

request that he would come at once. He determined to travel north the

next day--but it was not to be so. An attack of influenza, which began

only with slight hoarseness, yet enough to prevent him from following

his usual habit of reading family prayers, was pronounced next morning

to be sufficiently serious to forbid his undertaking a journey. At

first his illness seemed a trifle, but before a week had passed

bronchial symptoms had developed, and Dr. Gabb, the family physician,

ordered him to keep his bed. His breathing rapidly became hard and

laborious, and he had to be propped up with pillows. A few days before

his death he asked one of his sisters to read him that well-known

hymn, every verse of which ends with 'Thy Will be done.' To another he

said that his illness was a great trial of his patience. How great a

trial it must have been it is hard for us to understand. With the work

he had set himself still uncompleted, with a sense of youth and

joyousness, which sixty years of the battle of life had in no way

dulled, Lewis Carroll had to face death. He seemed to know that the

struggle was over. "Take away those pillows," he said on the 13th, "I

shall need them no more." The end came about half-past two on the

afternoon of the 14th. One of his sisters was in the room at the time,

and she only noticed that the hard breathing suddenly ceased. The

nurse, whom she summoned, at first hoped that this was a sign that he

had taken a turn for the better. And so, indeed, he had--he had passed

from a world of incompleteness and disappointment, to another where

God is putting his beautiful soul to nobler and grander work than was

possible for him here, where he is learning to comprehend those

difficulties which used to puzzle him so much, and where that infinite

Love, which he mirrored so wonderfully in his own life, is being

revealed to him "face to face."

In accordance with his expressed wish, the funeral was simple in the

extreme--flowers, and flowers only, adorned the plain coffin. There

was no hearse to drag it up the steep incline that leads to the

beautiful cemetery where he lies. The service was taken by Dean Paget

and Canon Grant, Rector of Holy Trinity and S. Mary's, Guildford. The

mourners who followed him in the quiet procession were few--but the

mourners who were not there, and many of whom had never seen him--who

shall tell _their_ number?

After the grave had been filled up, the wreaths which had covered the

coffin were placed upon it. Many were from "child-friends" and bore

such inscriptions as "From two of his child-friends"--"To the sweetest

soul that ever looked with human eyes," &c. Then the mourners left him

alone there--up on the pleasant downs where he had so often walked.

A marble cross, under the shadow of a pine, marks the spot, and

beneath his own name they have engraved the name of "Lewis Carroll,"

that the children who pass by may remember their friend, who is

now--himself a child in all that makes childhood most attractive--in

that "Wonderland" which outstrips all our dreams and hopes.

I cannot forbear quoting from Professor Sanday's sermon at Christ

Church on the Sunday after his death:--

The world will think of Lewis Carroll as one who opened out

a new vein in literature, a new and a delightful vein, which

added at once mirth and refinement to life.... May we not

say that from our courts at Christ Church there has flowed

into the literature of our time a rill, bright and

sparkling, health-giving and purifying, wherever its waters

extend?

[Illustration: Lewis Carroll's grave. _From a photograph._]

On the following Sunday Dean Paget, in the course of a sermon on the

"Virtue of Simplicity," said:--

We may differ, according to our difference of taste or

temperament, in appraising Charles Dodgson's genius; but

that that great gift was his, that his best work ranks with

the very best of its kind, this has been owned with a

recognition too wide and spontaneous to leave room for

doubt. The brilliant, venturesome imagination, defying

forecast with ever-fresh surprise; the sense of humour in

its finest and most naïve form; the power to touch with

lightest hand the undercurrent of pathos in the midst of

fun; the audacity of creative fancy, and the delicacy of

insight--these are rare gifts; and surely they were his.

Yes, but it was his simplicity of mind and heart that raised

them all, not only in his work but in his life, in all his

ways, in the man as we knew him, to something higher than

any mere enumeration of them tells: that almost curious

simplicity, at times, that real and touching child-likeness

that marked him in all fields of thought, appearing in his

love of children and in their love of him, in his dread of

giving pain to any living creature, in a certain

disproportion, now and then, of the view he took of

things--yes, and also in that deepest life, where the pure

in heart and those who become as little children see the

very truth and walk in the fear and love of God.

Some extracts from the numerous sympathetic letters received by Mr.

Dodgson's brothers and sisters will show how greatly his loss was

felt. Thus Canon Jelf writes:--

It was quite a shock to me to see in the paper to-day the

death of your dear, good brother, to whom we owe so much of

the brightening of our lives with pure, innocent fun.

Personally I feel his loss very much indeed. We were

together in old Ch. Ch. days from 1852 onwards; and he was

always such a loyal, faithful friend to me. I rejoice to

think of the _serious_ talks we had together--of the grand,

brave way in which he used the opportunities he had as a man

of humour, to reach the consciences of a host of readers--of

his love for children--his simplicity of heart--of his care

for servants--his spiritual care for them. Who can doubt

that he was fully prepared for a change however sudden--for

the one clear call which took him away from us? Yet the

world seems darker for his going; we can only get back our

brightness by realising Who gave him all his talent, all his

mirth of heart--the One who never leaves us. In deep

sympathy,

Yours very sincerely,

George E. Jelf.

P.S.--When you have time tell me a little about him; he was

so dear to me.

Mr. Frederic Harrison writes as follows:--

The occasional visits that I received from your late brother

showed me a side of his nature which to my mind was more

interesting and more worthy of remembrance even than his

wonderful and delightful humour--I mean his intense sympathy

with all who suffer and are in need.

He came to see me several times on sundry errands of mercy,

and it has been a lesson to me through life to remember his

zeal to help others in difficulty, his boundless generosity,

and his inexhaustible patience with folly and error.

My young daughter, like all young people in civilised

countries, was brought up on his beautiful fancies and

humours. But for my part I remember him mainly as a sort of

missionary to all in need. We all alike grieve, and offer

you our heartfelt sympathy.

I am, faithfully yours,

Frederic Harrison.

His old friend and tutor. Dr. Price, writes:--

... I feel his removal from among us as the loss of an old

and dear friend and pupil, to whom I have been most warmly

attached ever since he was with me at Whitby, reading

mathematics, in, I think, 1853--44 years ago! And 44 years

of uninterrupted friendship .... I was pleased to read

yesterday in _The Times_ newspaper the kindly obituary

notice: perfectly just and true; appreciative, as it should

be, as to the unusual combination of deep mathematical

ability and taste with the genius that led to the writing of

"Alice's Adventures."

Only the other day [writes a lady friend] he wrote to me

about his admiration for my dear husband, and he ended his

letter thus: "I trust that when _my_ time comes, I may be

found, like him, working to the last, and ready for the

Master's call"--and truly so he was.

A friend at Oxford writes:--

Mr. Dodgson was ever the kindest and gentlest of friends,

bringing sunshine into the house with him. We shall mourn

his loss deeply, and my two girls are quite overcome with

grief. All day memories of countless acts of kindness shown

to me, and to people I have known, have crowded my mind, and

I feel it almost impossible to realise that he has passed

beyond the reach of our gratitude and affection.

The following are extracts from letters written by some of his

"child-friends," now grown up:--

How beautiful to think of the track of light and love he has

left behind him, and the amount of happiness he brought into

the lives of all those he came in contact with! I shall

never forget all his kindness to us, from the time he first

met us as little mites in the railway train, and one feels

glad to have had the privilege of knowing him.

One of Mr. Dodgson's oldest "child-friends" writes:--

He was to me a dear and true friend, and it has been my

great privilege to see a good deal of him ever since I was a

tiny child, and especially during the last two years. I

cannot tell you how much we shall miss him here. Ch. Ch.

without Mr. Dodgson will be a strange place, and it is

difficult to realise it even while we listen to the special

solemn anthems and hymns to his memory in our cathedral.

One who had visited him at Guildford, writes:--

It must be quite sixteen years now since he first made

friends with my sister and myself as children on the beach

at Eastbourne, and since then his friendship has been and

must always be one of my most valued possessions. It

culminated, I think, in the summer of 1892--the year when he

brought me to spend a very happy Sunday at Guildford. I had

not seen him before, that year, for some time; and it was

then, I think, that the childish delight in his kindness,

and pride in his friendship, changed into higher love and

reverence, when in our long walks over the downs I saw more

and more into the great tenderness and gentleness of his

nature.

Shortly after Mr. Dodgson's death, his "Three Sunsets" was published

by Messrs. Macmillan. The twelve "Fairy Fancies," which illustrate it,

were drawn by Miss E. G. Thomson. Though they are entirely unconnected

with the text, they are so thoroughly in accordance with the author's

delicate refinement, and so beautiful in themselves, that they do not

strike one as inappropriate.

Some of the verses are strangely in keeping with the time at which

they are published.

I could not see, for blinding tears,

The glories of the west:

A heavenly music filled my ears,

A heavenly peace my breast.

"Come unto me, come unto me--

All ye that labour, unto me--

Ye heavy-laden, come to me--

And I will give you rest."

One cannot read this little volume without feeling that the shadow of

some disappointment lay over Lewis Carroll's life. Such I believe to

have been the case, and it was this that gave him his wonderful

sympathy with all who suffered. But those who loved him would not wish

to lift the veil from these dead sanctities, nor would any purpose be

served by so doing. The proper use of sympathy is not to weep over

sorrows that are over, and whose very memory is perhaps obliterated

for him in the first joy of possessing new and higher faculties.

Before leaving the subject of this book, I should like to draw

attention to a few lines on "woman's mission," lines full of the

noblest chivalry, reminding one of Tennyson's "Idylls of the King":--

In the darkest path of man's despair,

Where War and Terror shake the troubled earth,

Lies woman's mission; with unblenching brow

To pass through scenes of horror and affright

Where men grow sick and tremble: unto her

All things are sanctified, for all are good.

Nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care:

Nothing so great, but she may bear her part.

No life is vain: each hath his place assigned:

Do thou thy task, and leave the rest to God.

Of the unpublished works which Mr. Dodgson left behind him, I may

mention "Original Games and Puzzles"; "Symbolic Logic, Part ii.," and

a portion of a mathematical book, the proofs of which are now in the

hands of the Controller of the Oxford University Press.

I will conclude this chapter with a poem which

appeared in _Punch_ for January 29th, a fortnight

after Lewis Carroll's death. It expresses, with

all the grace and insight of the true poet, what

I have tried, so feebly and ineffectually, to

say:--

LEWIS CARROLL.

_Born_ 1832. _Died January_ 14, 1898.

Lover of children! Fellow-heir with those

Of whom the imperishable kingdom is!

Beyond all dreaming now your spirit knows

The unimagined mysteries.

Darkly as in a glass our faces look

To read ourselves, if so we may, aright;

You, like the maiden in your faërie book--

You step behind and see the light!

The heart you wore beneath your pedant's cloak

Only to children's hearts you gave away;

Yet unaware in half the world you woke

The slumbering charm of childhood's day.

We older children, too, our loss lament,

We of the "Table Round," remembering well

How he, our comrade, with his pencil lent

Your fancy's speech a firmer spell.

Master of rare woodcraft, by sympathy's

Sure touch he caught your visionary gleams,

And made your fame, the dreamer's, one with his.

The wise interpreter of dreams.

Farewell! But near our hearts we have you yet,

Holding our heritage with loving hand,

Who may not follow where your feet are set

Upon the ways of Wonderland.[025]

[Illustration: Lorina and Alice Liddell. _From a photograph

by Lewis Carroll._]

* * * * *

CHAPTER X

CHILD FRIENDS

Mr. Dodgson's fondness for children--Miss Isabel

Standen--Puzzles--"Me and Myself"--A double

acrostic--"Father William"--Of drinking healths--Kisses by

post--Tired in the face--The unripe

plum--Eccentricities--"Sylvie and Bruno"--"Mr. Dodgson is

going on _well_."

This chapter, and the next will deal with Mr. Dodgson's friendships

with children. It would have been impossible to arrange them in

chronological sequence in the earlier part of this book, and the fact

that they exhibit a very important and distinct side of his nature

seems to justify me in assigning them a special and individual

position.

For the contents of these two chapters, both my readers and myself owe

a debt of gratitude to those child-friends of his, without whose

ever-ready help this book could never have been written.

From very early college days began to emerge that beautiful side of

Lewis Carroll's character which afterwards was to be, next to his fame

as an author, the one for which he was best known--his attitude

towards children, and the strong attraction they had for him. I shall

attempt to point out the various influences which led him in this

direction; but if I were asked for one comprehensive word wide

enough to explain this tendency of his nature, I would answer

unhesitatingly--Love. My readers will remember a beautiful verse in

"Sylvie and Bruno"; trite though it is, I cannot forbear to quote it--

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,

Like a picture so fair to the sight?

That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,

Till the little lambs leap with delight?

'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,

Though 'tis sung by the angels above,

In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear,

And the name of the secret is Love!

That "secret"--an open secret for him--explains this side of his

character. As _he_ read everything in its light, so it is only in

its light that _we_ can properly understand _him_. I think

that the following quotation from a letter to the Rev. F. H. Atkinson,

accompanying a copy of "Alice" for his little daughter Gertrude,

sufficiently proves the truth of what I have just stated:--

Many thanks to Mrs. Atkinson and to you for the sight of the

tinted photograph of your Gertrude. As you say, the picture

speaks for itself, and I can see exactly what sort of a

child she is, in proof of which I send her my love and a

kiss herewith. It is possible I may be the first (unseen)

gentleman from whom she has had so ridiculous a message; but

I can't say she is the first unseen child to whom I have

sent one! I think the most precious message of the kind I

ever got from a child I never saw (and never shall see in

this world) was to the effect that she liked me when she

read about Alice, "but please tell him, whenever I read that

Easter letter he sent me I _do_ love him!" She was in a

hospital, and a lady friend who visited there had asked me

to send the letter to her and some other sick children.

And now as to the secondary causes which attracted him to children.

First, I think children appealed to him because he was pre-eminently a

teacher, and he saw in their unspoiled minds the best material for him

to work upon. In later years one of his favourite recreations was to

lecture at schools on logic; he used to give personal attention to

each of his pupils, and one can well imagine with what eager

anticipation the children would have looked forward to the visits of a

schoolmaster who knew how to make even the dullest subjects

interesting and amusing.

Again, children appealed to his æsthetic faculties, for he was a keen

admirer of the beautiful in every form. Poetry, music, the drama, all

delighted him, but pictures more than all put together. I remember his

once showing me "The Lady with the Lilacs," which Arthur Hughes had

painted for him, and how he dwelt with intense pleasure on the

exquisite contrasts of colour which it contained--the gold hair of a

girl standing out against the purple of lilac-blossom. But with those

who find in such things as these a complete satisfaction of their

desire for the beautiful he had no sympathy; for no imperfect

representations of life could, for him, take the place of life itself,

life as God has made it--the babbling of the brook, the singing of the

birds, the laughter and sweet faces of the children. And yet,

recognising, as he did, what Mr. Pater aptly terms "the curious

perfection of the human form," in man, as in nature, it was the soul

that attracted him more than the body. His intense admiration, one

might almost call it adoration, for the white innocence and

uncontaminated spirituality of childhood emerges most clearly in

"Sylvie and Bruno." He says very little of the personal beauty of his

heroine; he might have asked, with Mr. Francis Thompson--

How can I tell what beauty is her dole,

Who cannot see her countenance for her soul?

So entirely occupied is he with her gentleness, her pity, her

sincerity, and her love.

Again, the reality of children appealed strongly to the simplicity and

genuineness of his own nature. I believe that he understood children

even better than he understood men and women; civilisation has made

adult humanity very incomprehensible, for convention is as a veil

which hides the divine spark that is in each of us, and so this

strange thing has come to be, that the imperfect mirrors perfection

more completely than the perfected, that we see more of God in the

child than in the man.

And in those moments of depression of which he had his full share,

when old age seemed to mock him with all its futility and feebleness,

it was the thought that the children still loved him which nerved him

again to continue his life-work, which renewed his youth, so that to

his friends he never seemed an old man. Even the hand of death itself

only made his face look more boyish--the word is not too strong. "How

wonderfully young your brother looks!" were the first words the doctor

said, as he returned from the room where Lewis Carroll's body lay, to

speak to the mourners below. And so he loved children because their

friendship was the true source of his perennial youth and unflagging

vigour. This idea is expressed in the following poem--an acrostic,

which he wrote for a friend some twenty years ago:--

Around my lonely hearth, to-night,

Ghostlike the shadows wander:

Now here, now there, a childish sprite,

Earthborn and yet as angel bright,

Seems near me as I ponder.

Gaily she shouts: the laughing air

Echoes her note of gladness--

Or bends herself with earnest care

Round fairy-fortress to prepare

Grim battlement or turret-stair--

In childhood's merry madness!

New raptures still hath youth in store:

Age may but fondly cherish

Half-faded memories of yore--

Up, craven heart! repine no more!

Love stretches hands from shore to shore:

Love is, and shall not perish!

His first child-friend, so far as I know, was Miss Alice Liddell, the

little companion whose innocent talk was one of the chief pleasures of

his early life at Oxford, and to whom he told the tale that was to

make him famous. In December, 1885, Miss M.E. Manners presented him

with a little volume, of which she was the authoress, "Aunt Agatha Ann

and Other Verses," and which contained a poem (which I quoted in

Chapter VI.), about "Alice." Writing to acknowledge this gift, Lewis

Carroll said:--

Permit me to offer you my sincere thanks for the very sweet

verses you have written about my dream-child (named after a

real Alice, but none the less a dream-child) and her

Wonderland. That children love the book is a very precious

thought to me, and, next to their love, I value the sympathy

of those who come with a child's heart to what I have tried

to write about a child's thoughts. Next to what conversing

with an angel _might_ be--for it is hard to imagine

it--comes, I think, the privilege of having a real child's

thoughts uttered to one. I have known some few _real_

children (you have too, I am sure), and their friendship is

a blessing and a help in life.

[Illustration: Alice Liddell. _From a photograph by Lewis

Carroll._]

It is interesting to note how in "Sylvie and Bruno" his idea of the

thoughts of a child has become deeper and more spiritual. Yet in the

earlier tale, told "all in a golden afternoon," to the plash of oars

and the swish of a boat through the waters of Cherwell or Thames, the

ideal child is strangely beautiful; she has all Sylvie's genuineness

and honesty, all her keen appreciation of the interest of life; only

there lacks that mysterious charm of deep insight into the hidden

forces of nature, the gentle power that makes the sky "such a darling

blue," which almost links Sylvie with the angels.

Another of Lewis Carroll's early favourites was Miss Alexandra (Xie)

Kitchin, daughter of the Dean of Durham. Her father was for fifteen

years the Censor of the unattached members of the University of

Oxford, so that Mr. Dodgson had plenty of opportunities of

photographing his little friend, and it is only fair to him to say

that he did not neglect them.

It would be futile to attempt even a bare list of the children whom he

loved, and who loved him; during forty years of his life he was

constantly adding to their number. Some remained friends for life, but

in a large proportion of cases the friendship ended with the end of

childhood. To one of those few, whose affection for him had not waned

with increasing years, he wrote:--

I always feel specially grateful to friends who, like you,

have given me a child-friendship and a woman-friendship.

About nine out of ten, I think, of my child-friendships get

ship-wrecked at the critical point, "where the stream and

river meet," and the child-friends, once so affectionate,

become uninteresting acquaintances, whom I have no wish to

set eyes on again.

[Illustration: Xie Kitchin. _From a photograph by Lewis

Carroll._]

These friendships usually began all very much in the same way. A

chance meeting on the sea-shore, in the street, at some friend's

house, led to conversation; then followed a call on the parents, and

after that all sorts of kindnesses on Lewis Carroll's part, presents

of books, invitations to stay with him at Oxford, or at Eastbourne,

visits with him to the theatre. For the amusement of his little guests

he kept a large assortment of musical-boxes, and an organette which

had to be fed with paper tunes. On one occasion he ordered about

twelve dozen of these tunes "on approval," and asked one of the other

dons, who was considered a judge of music, to come in and hear them

played over. In addition to these attractions there were clock-work

bears, mice, and frogs, and games and puzzles in infinite variety.

One of his little friends, Miss Isabel Standen, has sent me the

following account of her first meeting with him:--

We met for the first time in the Forbury Gardens, Reading.

He was, I believe, waiting for a train. I was playing with

my brothers and sisters in the Gardens. I remember his

taking me on his knee and showing me puzzles, one of which

he refers to in the letter (given below. This puzzle was, by

the way, a great favourite of his; the problem is to draw

three interlaced squares without going over the same lines

twice, or taking the pen off the paper), which is so

thoroughly characteristic of him in its quaint humour:--

"The Chestnuts, Guildford,

_August _22, 1869.

My Dear Isabel,--Though I have only been acquainted

with you for fifteen minutes, yet, as there is no one

else in Reading I have known so long, I hope you will

not mind my troubling you. Before I met you in the

Gardens yesterday I bought some old books at a shop in

Reading, which I left to be called for, and had not

time to go back for them. I didn't even remark the name

of the shop, but I can tell _where_ it was, and if

you know the name of the woman who keeps the shop, and

would put it into the blank I have left in this note,

and direct it to her I should be much obliged ... A

friend of mine, called Mr. Lewis Carroll, tells me he

means to send you a book. He is a _very_ dear

friend of mine. I have known him all my life (we are

the same age) and have _never_ left him. Of course

he was with me in the Gardens, not a yard off--even

while I was drawing those puzzles for you. I wonder if

you saw him?

Your fifteen-minute friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

Have you succeeded in drawing the three squares?"

Another favourite puzzle was the following--I give it in his own

words:--

A is to draw a fictitious map divided into counties.

B is to colour it (or rather mark the counties with

_names_ of colours) using as few colours as possible.

Two adjacent counties must have _different_ colours.

A's object is to force B to use as _many_ colours as

possible.

How many can he force B to use?

One of his most amusing letters was to a little girl called Magdalen,

to whom he had given a copy of his "Hunting of the Snark":--

Christ Church, _December_ 15, 1875.

My dear Magdalen,--I want to explain to you why I did not

call yesterday. I was sorry to miss you, but you see I had

so many conversations on the way. I tried to explain to the

people in the street that I was going to see you, but they

wouldn't listen; they said they were in a hurry, which was

rude. At last I met a wheelbarrow that I thought would

attend to me, but I couldn't make out what was in it. I saw

some features at first, then I looked through a telescope,

and found it was a countenance; then I looked through a

microscope, and found it was a face! I thought it was father

like me, so I fetched a large looking-glass to make sure,

and then to my great joy I found it was me. We shook hands,

and were just beginning to talk, when myself came up and

joined us, and we had quite a pleasant conversation. I said,

"Do you remember when we all met at Sandown?" and myself

said, "It was very jolly there; there was a child called

Magdalen," and me said, "I used to like her a little; not

much, you know--only a little." Then it was time for us to

go to the train, and who do you think came to the station to

see us off? You would never guess, so I must tell you. They

were two very dear friends of mine, who happen to be here

just now, and beg to be allowed to sign this letter as your

affectionate friends,

Lewis Carroll and C.L. Dodgson.

Another child-friend, Miss F. Bremer, writes as follows:--

Our acquaintance began in a somewhat singular manner. We

were playing on the Fort at Margate, and a gentleman on a

seat near asked us if we could make a paper boat, with a

seat at each end, and a basket in the middle for fish! We

were, of course, enchanted with the idea, and our new

friend--after achieving the feat--gave us his card, which we

at once carried to our mother. He asked if he might call

where we were staying, and then presented my elder sister

with a copy of "Alice in Wonderland," inscribed "From the

Author." He kindly organised many little excursions for

us--chiefly in the pursuit of knowledge. One memorable visit

to a light house is still fresh in our memories.

It was while calling one day upon Mrs. Bremer that he scribbled off

the following double acrostic on the names of her two daughters--

DOUBLE ACROSTIC--FIVE LETTERS.

Two little girls near London dwell,

More naughty than I like to tell.

1.

Upon the lawn the hoops are seen:

The balls are rolling on the green. T ur F

2.

The Thames is running deep and wide:

And boats are rowing on the tide. R ive R

3.

In winter-time, all in a row,

The happy skaters come and go. I c E

4.

"Papa!" they cry, "Do let us stay!"

He does not speak, but says they may. N o D

5.

"There is a land," he says, "my dear,

Which is too hot to skate, I fear." A fric A

At Margate also he met Miss Adelaide Paine, who afterwards became one

of his greatest favourites. He could not bear to see the healthy

pleasures of childhood spoiled by conventional restraint. "One piece

of advice given to my parents," writes Miss Paine, "gave me very great

glee, and that was not to make little girls wear gloves at the

seaside; they took the advice, and I enjoyed the result."

_Apropos_ of this I may mention that, when staying at Eastbourne,

he never went down to the beach without providing himself with a

supply of safety-pins. Then if he saw any little girl who wanted to

wade in the sea, but was afraid of spoiling her frock, he would

gravely go up to her and present her with a safety-pin, so that she

might fasten up her skirts out of harm's way.

Tight boots were a great aversion of his, especially for children. One

little girl who was staying with him at Eastbourne had occasion to buy

a new pair of boots. Lewis Carroll gave instructions to the bootmaker

as to how they were to be made, so as to be thoroughly comfortable,

with the result that when they came home they were more useful than

ornamental, being very nearly as broad as they were long! Which shows

that even hygienic principles may be pushed too far.

The first meeting with Miss Paine took place in 1876. When Lewis

Carroll returned to Christ Church he sent her a copy of "The Hunting

of the Snark," with the following acrostic written in the fly-leaf:--

'A re you deaf, Father William?' the young man said,

'D id you hear what I told you just now?

E xcuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head

L ike a blundering, sleepy old cow!

A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,

I s my friend, so I beg to remark:

D o you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down

E ntitled "The Hunt of the Snark?"'

'P ack it up in brown paper!' the old man cried,

'A nd seal it with olive-and-dove.

I command you to do it!' he added with pride,

'N or forget, my good fellow, to send her beside

E aster Greetings, and give her my love.'

This was followed by a letter, dated June 7, 1876:--

My dear Adelaide,--Did you try if the letters at the

beginnings of the lines about Father William would spell

anything? Sometimes it happens that you can spell out words

that way, which is very curious.

I wish you could have heard him when he shouted out "Pack it

up in brown paper!" It quite shook the house. And he threw

one of his shoes at his son's head (just to make him attend,

you know), but it missed him.

He was glad to hear you had got the book safe, but his eyes

filled with tears as he said, "I sent _her_ my love,

but she never--" he couldn't say any more, his mouth was so

full of bones (he was just finishing a roast goose).

Another letter to Miss Paine is very characteristic of his quaint humour:--

Christ Church, Oxford, _March_ 8, 1880.

My dear Ada,--(Isn't that your short name? "Adelaide" is all

very well, but you see when one's _dreadfully_ busy one

hasn't time to write such long words--particularly when it

takes one half an hour to remember how to spell it--and even

then one has to go and get a dictionary to see if one has

spelt it right, and of course the dictionary is in another

room, at the top of a high bookcase--where it has been for

months and months, and has got all covered with dust--so

one has to get a duster first of all, and nearly choke

oneself in dusting it--and when one _has_ made out at

last which is dictionary and which is dust, even _then_

there's the job of remembering which end of the alphabet "A"

comes--for one feels pretty certain it isn't in the

_middle_--then one has to go and wash one's hands

before turning over the leaves--for they've got so thick

with dust one hardly knows them by sight--and, as likely as

not, the soap is lost, and the jug is empty, and there's no

towel, and one has to spend hours and hours in finding

things--and perhaps after all one has to go off to the shop

to buy a new cake of soap--so, with all this bother, I hope

you won't mind my writing it short and saying, "My dear

Ada"). You said in your last letter you would like a

likeness of me: so here it is, and I hope you will like

it--I won't forget to call the next time but one I'm in

Wallington.

Your very affectionate friend,

Lewis Carroll.

It was quite against Mr. Dodgson's usual rule to give away photographs

of himself; he hated publicity, and the above letter was accompanied

by another to Mrs. Paine, which ran as follows:--

I am very unwilling, usually, to give my photograph, for I

don't want people, who have heard of Lewis Carroll, to be

able to recognise him in the street--but I can't refuse Ada.

Will you kindly take care, if any of your ordinary

acquaintances (I don't speak of intimate friends) see it,

that they are _not_ told anything about the name of

"Lewis Carroll"?

He even objected to having his books discussed in his presence; thus

he writes to a friend:--

Your friend, Miss--was very kind and complimentary about my

books, but may I confess that I would rather have them

ignored? Perhaps I am too fanciful, but I have somehow taken

a dislike to being talked to about them; and consequently

have some trials to bear in society, which otherwise would

be no trials at all.... I don't think any of my many little

stage-friends have any shyness at all about being talked to

of their performances. _They_ thoroughly enjoy the

publicity that I shrink from.

The child to whom the three following letters were addressed, Miss

Gaynor Simpson, was one of Lewis Carroll's Guildford friends. The

correct answer to the riddle propounded in the second letter is

"Copal":--

_December_ 27, 1873.

My dear Gaynor,--My name is spelt with a "G," that is to say

"_Dodgson_." Any one who spells it the same as that

wretch (I mean of course the Chairman of Committees in the

House of Commons) offends me _deeply_, and _for

ever!_ It is a thing I _can_ forget, but _never

can forgive! _If you do it again, I shall call you

"'aynor." Could you live happy with such a name?

As to dancing, my dear, I _never_ dance, unless I am

allowed to do it _in my own peculiar way. _There is no

use trying to describe it: it has to be seen to be believed.

The last house I tried it in, the floor broke through. But

then it was a poor sort of floor--the beams were only six

inches thick, hardly worth calling beams at all: stone

arches are much more sensible, when any dancing, _of my

peculiar kind_, is to be done. Did you ever see the

Rhinoceros, and the Hippopotamus, at the Zoölogical Gardens,

trying to dance a minuet together? It is a touching sight.

Give any message from me to Amy that you think will be most

likely to surprise her, and, believe me,

Your affectionate friend,

Lewis Carroll.

My dear Gaynor,--So you would like to know the answer to

that riddle? Don't be in a hurry to tell it to Amy and

Frances: triumph over them for a while!

My first lends its aid when you plunge into trade.

_Gain_. Who would go into trade if there were no gain

in it?

My second in jollifications--

_Or_ [The French for "gold"--] Your jollifications

would be _very_ limited if you had no money.

My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish

To pictorial representations.

_Gaynor_. Because she will be an ornament to the

Shakespeare Charades--only she must be "laid on thinnish,"

that is, _there musn't be too much of her._

Yours affectionately,

C. L. Dodgson.

My dear Gaynor,--Forgive me for having sent you a

sham answer to begin with.

My first--_Sea_. It carries the ships of the merchants.

My second--_Weed_. That is, a cigar, an article much used

in jollifications.

My whole--_Seaweed_. Take a newly painted oil-picture;

lay it on its back on the floor, and spread over it, "thinnish,"

some wet seaweed. You will find you have "finished" that

picture.

Yours affectionately,

C.L. Dodgson.

Lewis Carroll during the last fifteen years of his life always spent

the Long Vacation at Eastbourne; in earlier times, Sandown, a pleasant

little seaside resort in the Isle of Wight, was his summer abode. He

loved the sea both for its own sake and because of the number of

children whom he met at seaside places. Here is another "first

meeting"; this time it is at Sandown, and Miss Gertrude Chataway is

the narrator:--

I first met Mr. Lewis Carroll on the sea-shore at Sandown in

the Isle of Wight, in the summer of 1875, when I was quite a

little child.

We had all been taken there for change of air, and next door

there was an old gentlemen--to me at any rate he seemed

old--who interested me immensely. He would come on to his

balcony, which joined ours, sniffing the sea-air with his

head thrown back, and would walk right down the steps on to

the beach with his chin in air, drinking in the fresh

breezes as if he could never have enough. I do not know why

this excited such keen curiosity on my part, but I remember

well that whenever I heard his footstep I flew out to see

him coming, and when one day he spoke to me my joy was

complete.

Thus we made friends, and in a very little while I was as

familiar with the interior of his lodgings as with our own.

I had the usual child's love for fairy-tales and marvels,

and his power of telling stories naturally fascinated me. We

used to sit for hours on the wooden steps which led from our

garden on to the beach, whilst he told the most lovely tales

that could possibly be imagined, often illustrating the

exciting situations with a pencil as he went along.

One thing that made his stories particularly charming to a

child was that he often took his cue from her remarks--a

question would set him off on quite a new trail of ideas, so

that one felt that one had somehow helped to make the story,

and it seemed a personal possession It was the most lovely

nonsense conceivable, and I naturally revelled in it. His

vivid imagination would fly from one subject to another, and

was never tied down in any way by the probabilities of life.

To _me_ it was of course all perfect, but it is

astonishing that _he_ never seemed either tired or to

want other society. I spoke to him once of this since I have

been grown up, and he told me it was the greatest pleasure

he could have to converse freely with a child, and feel the

depths of her mind.

He used to write to me and I to him after that summer, and

the friendship, thus begun, lasted. His letters were one of

the greatest joys of my childhood.

I don't think that he ever really understood that we, whom

he had known as children, could not always remain such. I

stayed with him only a few years ago, at Eastbourne, and

felt for the time that I was once more a child. He never

appeared to realise that I had grown up, except when I

reminded him of the fact, and then he only said, "Never

mind: you will always be a child to me, even when your hair

is grey."

Some of the letters, to which Miss Chataway refers in these

reminiscences, I am enabled, through her kindness, to give below:--

Christ Church, Oxford, _October_ 13, 1875.

My dear Gertrude,--I never give birthday _presents_,

but you see I _do_ sometimes write a birthday

_letter_: so, as I've just arrived here, I am writing

this to wish you many and many a happy return of your

birthday to-morrow. I will drink your health, if only I can

remember, and if you don't mind--but perhaps you object? You

see, if I were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your

tea, you wouldn't like _that_, would you? You would say

"Boo! hoo! Here's Mr. Dodgson's drunk all my tea, and I

haven't got any left!" So I am very much afraid, next time

Sybil looks for you, she'll find you sitting by the sad

sea-wave, and crying "Boo! hoo! Here's Mr. Dodgson has drunk

my health, and I haven't got any left!" And how it will

puzzle Dr. Maund, when he is sent for to see you! "My dear

Madam, I'm very sorry to say your little girl has got _no

health at all_! I never saw such a thing in my life!"

"Oh, I can easily explain it!" your mother will say. "You

see she would go and make friends with a strange gentleman,

and yesterday he drank her health!" "Well, Mrs. Chataway,"

he will say, "the only way to cure her is to wait till his

next birthday, and then for _her_ to drink _his_

health."

And then we shall have changed healths. I wonder how you'll

like mine! Oh, Gertrude, I wish you wouldn't talk such

nonsense!...

Your loving friend,

Lewis Carroll.

Christ Church, Oxford, _Dec_. 9, 1875.

My dear Gertrude,--This really will _not_ do, you know,

sending one more kiss every time by post: the parcel gets so

heavy it is quite expensive. When the postman brought in the

last letter, he looked quite grave. "Two pounds to pay,

sir!" he said. "_Extra weight_, sir!" (I think he

cheats a little, by the way. He often makes me pay two

_pounds_, when I think it should be _pence_). "Oh,

if you please, Mr. Postman!" I said, going down gracefully

on one knee (I wish you could see me go down on one knee to

a postman--it's a very pretty sight), "do excuse me just

this once! It's only from a little girl!"

"Only from a little girl!" he growled. "What are little

girls made of?" "Sugar and spice," I began to say, "and all

that's ni--" but he interrupted me. "No! I don't mean

_that_. I mean, what's the good of little girls, when

they send such heavy letters?" "Well, they're not

_much_ good, certainly," I said, rather sadly.

"Mind you don't get any more such letters," he said, "at

least, not from that particular little girl. _I know her

well, and she's a regular bad one!"_ That's not true, is

it? I don't believe he ever saw you, and you're not a bad

one, are you? However, I promised him we would send each

other _very_ few more letters--"Only two thousand four

hundred and seventy, or so," I said. "Oh!" he said, "a

little number like _that_ doesn't signify. What I meant

is, you mustn't send _many_."

So you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two

thousand four hundred and seventy, we mustn't write any

more, unless the postman gives us leave.

I sometimes wish I was back on the shore at Sandown; don't

you?

Your loving friend,

Lewis Carroll.

Why is a pig that has lost its tail like a little girl on

the sea-shore?

Because it says, "I should like another tale, please!"

Christ Church, Oxford, _July_ 21, 1876.

My dear Gertrude,--Explain to me how I am to enjoy Sandown

without _you_. How can I walk on the beach alone? How

can I sit all alone on those wooden steps? So you see, as I

shan't be able to do without you, you will have to come. If

Violet comes, I shall tell her to invite you to stay with

her, and then I shall come over in the Heather-Bell and

fetch you.

If I ever _do_ come over, I see I couldn't go back the

same day, so you will have to engage me a bed somewhere in

Swanage; and if you can't find one, I shall expect

_you_ to spend the night on the beach, and give up your

room to _me_. Guests of course must be thought of

before children; and I'm sure in these warm nights the beach

will be quite good enough for _you_. If you _did_

feel a little chilly, of course you could go into a

bathing-machine, which everybody knows is _very_

comfortable to sleep in--you know they make the floor of

soft wood on purpose. I send you seven kisses (to last a

week) and remain

Your loving friend,

Lewis Carroll.

Christ church, Oxford, _October_ 28, 1876.

My dearest Gertrude,--You will be sorry, and surprised, and

puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since

you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, "Give me some

medicine, for I'm tired." He said, "Nonsense and stuff! You

don't want medicine: go to bed!" I said, "No; it isn't the

sort of tiredness that wants bed. I'm tired in the

_face_." He looked a little grave, and said, "Oh, it's

your _nose_ that's tired: a person often talks too

much when he thinks he nose a great deal." I said, "No; it

isn't the nose. Perhaps it's the _hair_." Then he

looked rather grave, and said, "_Now_ I understand:

you've been playing too many hairs on the piano-forte." "No,

indeed I haven't!" I said, "and it isn't exactly the

_hair_: it's more about the nose and chin." Then he

looked a good deal graver, and said, "Have you been walking

much on your chin lately?" I said, "No." "Well!" he said,

"it puzzles me very much. Do you think that it's in the

lips?" "Of course!" I said. "That's exactly what it is!"

Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "I think you

must have been giving too many kisses." "Well," I said, "I

did give _one_ kiss to a baby child, a little friend of

mine." "Think again," he said; "are you sure it was only

_one_?" I thought again, and said, "Perhaps it was

eleven times." Then the doctor said, "You must not give her

_any_ more till your lips are quite rested again." "But

what am I to do?" I said, "because you see, I owe her a

hundred and eighty-two more." Then he looked so grave that

the tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "You may send

them to her in a box." Then I remembered a little box that I

once bought at Dover, and thought I would some day give it

to _some_ little girl or other. So I have packed them

all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe, or if

any are lost on the way.

Reading Station, _April_ 13, 1878.

My dear Gertrude,--As I have to wait here for half an

hour, I have been studying Bradshaw (most things, you know,

ought to be studied: even a trunk is studded with nails),

and the result is that it seems I could come, any day next

week, to Winckfield, so as to arrive there about one; and

that, by leaving Winckfield again about half-past six, I

could reach Guildford again for dinner. The next question

is, _How far is it from Winckfield to Rotherwick?_ Now

do not deceive me, you wretched child! If it is more than a

hundred miles, I can't come to see you, and there is no use

to talk about it. If it is less, the next question is,

_How much less?_ These are serious questions, and you

must be as serious as a judge in answering them. There

mustn't be a smile in your pen, or a wink in your ink

(perhaps you'll say, "There can't be a _wink_ in

_ink_: but there _may_ be _ink_ in a

_wink_"--but this is trifling; you mustn't make jokes

like that when I tell you to be serious) while you write to

Guildford and answer these two questions. You might as well

tell me at the same time whether you are still living at

Rotherwick--and whether you are at home--and whether you get

my letter--and whether you're still a child, or a grown-up

person--and whether you're going to the seaside next

summer--and anything else (except the alphabet and the

multiplication table) that you happen to know. I send you

10,000,000 kisses, and remain.

Your loving friend,

C. L. Dodgson.

The Chestnuts, Guildford, _April_ 19, 1878.

My dear Gertrude,--I'm afraid it's "no go"--I've had such a

bad cold all the week that I've hardly been out for some

days, and I don't think it would be wise to try the

expedition this time, and I leave here on Tuesday. But after

all, what does it signify? Perhaps there are ten or twenty

gentlemen, all living within a few miles of Rotherwick, and

any one of them would do just as well! When a little girl is

hoping to take a plum off a dish, and finds that she can't

have that one, because it's bad or unripe, what does she do?

Is she sorry, or disappointed? Not a bit! She just takes

another instead, and grins from one little ear to the other

as she puts it to her lips! This is a little fable to do you

good; the little girl means _you_--the bad plum means

_me_--the other plum means some other friend--and all

that about the little girl putting plums to her lips

means--well, it means--but you know you can't expect

_every bit_ of a fable to mean something! And the

little girl grinning means that dear little smile of yours,

that just reaches from the tip of one ear to the tip of the

other!

Your loving friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

I send you 4-3/4 kisses.

The next letter is a good example of the dainty little notes Lewis

Carroll used to scribble off on any scrap of paper that lay to his

hand:--