The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood

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"Much may be excused in a cat so treated," said Balbus as
they left the house and crossed to No. 70, leaving the
landlady curtesying on the doorstep, and still murmuring to
herself her parting words, as if they were a form of
blessing--"Not without you pulls its whiskers!"

[Illustration: _From a crayon drawing by the Rev. H.C.
Gaye_.]

They secure one room at each of the following numbers--the square
contains 20 doors on each side--Nine, Twenty-five, Fifty-two, and
Seventy-three. They require three bedrooms and one day-room, and
decide to take as day-room the one that gives them the least walking
to do to get to it. The problem, of course, is to discover which room
they adopted as the day-room. There are ten such "knots" in the book,
and few, if any of them, can be untied without a good deal of thought.

Owing, probably, to the strain of incessant work, Mr. Dodgson about
this period began to be subject to a very peculiar, yet not very
uncommon, optical delusion, which takes the form of seeing moving
fortifications. Considering the fact that he spent a good twelve hours
out of every twenty-four in reading and writing, and that he was now
well over fifty years old, it was not surprising that nature should
begin to rebel at last, and warn him of the necessity of occasional
rest.

Some verses on "Wonderland" by "One who loves Alice," appeared in the
Christmas number of _Sylvia's Home Journal_, 1885. They were
written by Miss M.E. Manners, and, as Lewis Carroll himself admired
them, they will, I think, be read with interest:--

WONDERLAND.

How sweet those happy days gone by,
Those days of sunny weather,
When Alice fair, with golden hair,
And we--were young together;--
When first with eager gaze we scann'd
The page which told of Wonderland.

On hearthrug in the winter-time
We lay and read it over;
We read it in the summer's prime,
Amidst the hay and clover.
The trees, by evening breezes fann'd,
Murmured sweet tales of Wonderland.

We climbed the mantelpiece, and broke
The jars of Dresden china;
In Jabberwocky tongue we spoke,
We called the kitten "Dinah!"
And, oh! how earnestly we planned
To go ourselves to Wonderland.

The path was fringed with flowers rare,
With rainbow colours tinted;
The way was "up a winding stair,"
Our elders wisely hinted.
We did not wish to understand
_Bed_ was the road to Wonderland.

We thought we'd wait till we should grow
Stronger as well as bolder,
But now, alas! full well we know
We're only growing older.
The key held by a childish hand,
Fits best the door of Wonderland.

Yet still the Hatter drinks his tea,
The Duchess finds a moral,
And Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Forget in fright their quarrel.
The Walrus still weeps on the sand,
That strews the shores of Wonderland.

And other children feel the spell
Which once we felt before them,
And while the well-known tale we tell,
We watch it stealing o'er them:
Before their dazzled eyes expand
The glorious realms of Wonderland.

Yes, "time is fleet," and we have gained
Years more than twice eleven;
Alice, dear child, hast thou remained
"Exactually" seven?
With "proper aid," "two" could command
Time to go back in Wonderland.

Or have the years (untouched by charms),
With joy and sorrow laden,
Rolled by, and brought unto thy arms
A dainty little maiden?
Another Alice, who shall stand
By thee to hear of Wonderland.

Carroll! accept the heartfelt thanks
Of children of all ages,
Of those who long have left their ranks,
Yet still must love the pages
Written by him whose magic wand
Called up the scenes of Wonderland.

Long mayst thou live, the sound to hear
Which most thy heart rejoices,
Of children's laughter ringing clear,
And children's merry voices,
Until for thee an angel-hand
Draws back the veil of Wonderland.

One Who Loves "Alice."

Three letters, written at the beginning of 1886 to Miss Edith Rix, to
whom he had dedicated "A Tangled Tale," are interesting as showing the
deeper side of his character:--

Guildford, _Jan_. 15, 1886.

My dear Edith,--I have been meaning for some time to write
to you about agnosticism, and other matters in your letter
which I have left unnoticed. And yet I do not know, much as
what you say interests me, and much as I should like to be
of use to any wandering seeker after truth, that I am at all
likely to say anything that will be new to you and of any
practical use.

The Moral Science student you describe must be a beautiful
character, and if, as you say, she lives a noble life, then,
even though she does not, as yet, see any God, for whose
sake she can do things, I don't think you need be unhappy
about her. "When thou wast under the fig tree, I saw thee,"
is often supposed to mean that Nathanael had been
_praying_, praying no doubt ignorantly and imperfectly,
but yet using the light he had: and it seems to have been
accepted as faith in the Messiah. More and more it seems to
me (I hope you won't be _very_ much shocked at me as an
ultra "Broad" Churchman) that what a person _is_ is of
more importance in God's sight than merely what propositions
he affirms or denies. _You_, at any rate, can do more
good among those new friends of yours by showing them what a
Christian _is_, than by telling them what a Christian
_believes_....

I have a deep dread of argument on religious topics: it has
many risks, and little chance of doing good. You and I will
never _argue_, I hope, on any controverted religious
question: though I do hope we may see the day when we may
freely _speak_ of such things, even where we happen to
hold different views. But even then I should have no
inclination, if we did differ, to conclude that my view was
the right one, and to try to convert you to it....

Now I come to your letter dated Dec. 22nd, and must scold
you for saying that my solution of the problem was "quite
different _to_ all common ways of doing it": if
_you_ think that's good English, well and good; but
_I_ must beg to differ to you, and to hope you will
_never_ write me a sentence similar from this again.
However, "worse remains behind"; and if you deliberately
intend in future, when writing to me about one of England's
greatest poets, to call him "Shelly," then all I can say is,
that you and I will have to quarrel! Be warned in time.

C. L. Dodgson.

CH. Ch., _Jan_. 26, 1886.

My Dear Edith,--I am interested by what you say of Miss--.
You will know, without my saying it, that if she, or any
other friend of yours with any troubles, were to like to
write to me, I would _very_ gladly try to help: with
all my ignorance and weakness, God has, I think, blessed my
efforts in that way: but then His strength is made perfect
in weakness....

Ch. Ch., _Feb_. 14, 1886.

My Dear Edith,... I think I've already noticed, in a way,
most of the rest of that letter--except what you say about
learning more things "after we are dead." _I_ certainly
like to think that may be so. But I have heard the other
view strongly urged, a good deal based on "then shall we
know even as we are known." But I can't believe that that
means we shall have _all_ knowledge given us in a
moment--nor can I fancy it would make me any happier: it is
the _learning_ that is the chief joy, here, at any
rate....

I find another remark anent "pupils"--a bold speculation
that my 1,000 pupils may really "go on" in the future life,
till they _have_ really outstripped Euclid. And,
please, what is _Euclid_ to be doing all that time? ...

One of the most dreadful things you have ever told me is
your students' theory of going and speaking to any one they
are interested in, without any introductions. This, joined
with what you say of some of them being interested in
"Alice," suggests the horrid idea of their some day walking
into this room and beginning a conversation. It is enough to
make one shiver, even to think of it!

Never mind if people do say "Good gracious!" when you help
old women: it _is_ being, in some degree, both "good"
_and_ "gracious," one may hope. So the remark wasn't so
inappropriate.

I fear I agree with your friend in not liking all sermons.
Some of them, one has to confess, are rubbish: but then I
release my attention from the preacher, and go ahead in any
line of thought he may have started: and his after-eloquence
acts as a kind of accompaniment--like music while one is
reading poetry, which often, to me, adds to the effect.

C. L. Dodgson.

The "Alice" operetta, which Mr. Dodgson had despaired of, was at last
to become a reality. Mr. Savile Clarke wrote on August 28th to ask his
leave to dramatise the two books, and he gladly assented. He only made
one condition, which was very characteristic of him, that there should
be "no _suggestion_ even of coarseness in libretto or in stage
business." The hint was hardly necessary, for Mr. Savile Clarke was
not the sort of man to spoil his work, or to allow others to spoil it,
by vulgarity. Several alterations were made in the books before they
were suitable for a dramatic performance; Mr. Dodgson had to write a
song for the ghosts of the oysters, which the Walrus and the Carpenter
had devoured. He also completed "Tis the voice of the lobster," so as
to make it into a song. It ran as follows:--

Tis the voice of the lobster; I heard him declare
"You have baked me too brown: I must sugar my hair."
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And talks with the utmost contempt of the shark;
But when the tide rises, and sharks are around,
His words have a timid and tremulous sound.

I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
How the owl and the panther were sharing a pie:
The panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
And the owl had the dish for his share of the treat.
When the plate was divided, the owl, as a boon,
Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
But the panther obtained both the fork and the knife,
So, when _he_ lost his temper, the owl lost its life.

The play, for the first few weeks at least, was a great success. Some
notes in Mr. Dodgson's Diary which relate to it, show how he
appreciated Mr. Savile Clarke's venture:--

_Dec. 30th._--To London with M--, and took her to
"Alice in Wonderland," Mr. Savile Clarke's play at the
Prince of Wales's Theatre. The first act (Wonderland) goes
well, specially the Mad Tea Party. Mr. Sydney Harcourt is a
capital Hatter, and little Dorothy d'Alcourt (aet. 61/2) a
delicious Dormouse. Phoebe Carlo is a splendid Alice. Her
song and dance with the Cheshire Cat (Master C. Adeson, who
played the Pirate King in "Pirates of Penzance") was a gem.
As a whole the play seems a success.

_Feb_. 11, 1887.--Went to the "Alice" play, where we
sat next a chatty old gentleman, who told me that the author
of "Alice" had sent Phoebe Carlo a book, and that she had
written to him to say that she would do her very best, and
further, that he is "an Oxford man"--all which I hope I
received with a sufficient expression of pleased interest.

Shortly before the production of the play, a Miss Whitehead had drawn
a very clever medley-picture, in which nearly all Tenniel's wonderful
creations--the Dormouse, the White Knight, the Mad Hatter,
&c.--appeared. This design was most useful as a "poster" to advertise
the play. After the London run was over, the company made a tour of
the provinces, where it met with a fair amount of success.

[Illustration: Medley of Tenniel's Illustrations in "Alice."
_From an etching by Miss Whitehead; used as a theatrical
advertisement_.]

At the end of 1886, "Alice's Adventures Underground," a facsimile of
the original MS. book, afterwards developed into "Alice's Adventures
in Wonderland," with thirty-seven illustrations by the author, was
published by Macmillan & Co. A postscript to the Preface stated that
any profits that might arise from the book would be given to
Children's Hospitals and Convalescent Homes for Sick Children. Shortly
before the book came out, Lewis Carroll wrote to Mrs. Hargreaves,
giving a description of the difficulties that he had encountered in
producing it:--

Christ Church, Oxford,

_November_ 11, 1886.

My Dear Mrs. Hargreaves,--Many thanks for your permission to
insert "Hospitals" in the Preface to your book. I have had
almost as many adventures in getting that unfortunate
facsimile finished, _Above_ ground, as your namesake
had _Under_ it!

First, the zincographer in London, recommended to me for
photographing the book, page by page, and preparing the
zinc-blocks, declined to undertake it unless I would entrust
the book to _him_, which I entirely refused to do. I
felt that it was only due to you, in return for your great
kindness in lending so unique a book, to be scrupulous in
not letting it be even _touched_ by the workmen's
hands. In vain I offered to come and reside in London with
the book, and to attend daily in the studio, to place it in
position to be photographed, and turn over the pages as
required. He said that could not be done because "other
authors' works were being photographed there, which must on
no account be seen by the public." I undertook not to look
at _anything_ but my own book; but it was no use: we
could not come to terms.

Then -- recommended me a certain Mr. X--, an excellent
photographer, but in so small a way of business that I
should have to _prepay_ him, bit by bit, for the
zinc-blocks: and _he_ was willing to come to Oxford,
and do it here. So it was all done in my studio, I remaining
in waiting all the time, to turn over the pages.

But I daresay I have told you so much of the story already.

Mr. X-- did a first-rate set of negatives, and took them
away with him to get the zinc-blocks made. These he
delivered pretty regularly at first, and there seemed to be
every prospect of getting the book out by Christmas, 1885.

On October 18, 1885, I sent your book to Mrs. Liddell, who
had told me your sisters were going to visit you and would
take it with them. I trust it reached you safely?

Soon after this--I having prepaid for the whole of the
zinc-blocks--the supply suddenly ceased, while twenty-two
pages were still due, and Mr. X-- disappeared!

My belief is that he was in hiding from his creditors. We
sought him in vain. So things went on for months. At one
time I thought of employing a detective to find him, but was
assured that "all detectives are scoundrels." The
alternative seemed to be to ask you to lend the book again,
and get the missing pages re-photographed. But I was most
unwilling to rob you of it again, and also afraid of the
risk of loss of the book, if sent by post--for even
"registered post" does not seem _absolutely_ safe.

In April he called at Macmillan's and left _eight_
blocks, and again vanished into obscurity.

This left us with fourteen pages (dotted up and down the
book) still missing. I waited awhile longer, and then put
the thing into the hands of a solicitor, who soon found the
man, but could get nothing but promises from him. "You will
never get the blocks," said the solicitor, "unless you
frighten him by a summons before a magistrate." To this at
last I unwillingly consented: the summons had to be taken
out at--(that is where this aggravating man is living),
and this entailed two journeys from Eastbourne--one to get
the summons (my _personal_ presence being necessary),
and the other to attend in court with the solicitor on the
day fixed for hearing the case. The defendant didn't appear;
so the magistrate said he would take the case in his
absence. Then I had the new and exciting experience of being
put into the witness-box, and sworn, and cross-examined by a
rather savage magistrate's clerk, who seemed to think that,
if he only bullied me enough, he would soon catch me out in
a falsehood! I had to give the magistrate a little lecture
on photo-zincography, and the poor man declared the case was
so complicated he must adjourn it for another week. But this
time, in order to secure the presence of our slippery
defendant, he issued a warrant for his apprehension, and the
constable had orders to take him into custody and lodge him
in prison, the night before the day when the case was to
come on. The news of _this_ effectually frightened him,
and he delivered up the fourteen negatives (he hadn't done
the blocks) before the fatal day arrived. I was rejoiced to
get them, even though it entailed the paying a second time
for getting the fourteen blocks done, and withdrew the
action.

The fourteen blocks were quickly done and put into the
printer's hands; and all is going on smoothly at last: and I
quite hope to have the book completed, and to be able to
send you a very special copy (bound in white vellum, unless
you would prefer some other style of binding) by the end of
the month.

Believe me always,

Sincerely yours,

C. L. Dodgson.

"The Game of Logic" was Lewis Carroll's next book; it appeared about
the end of February, 1887. As a method of teaching the first
principles of Logic to children it has proved most useful; the
subject, usually considered very difficult to a beginner, is made
extremely easy by simplification of method, and both interesting and
amusing by the quaint syllogisms that the author devised, such as--

No bald person needs a hair-brush;
No lizards have hair;
Therefore[1] No lizard needs a hair brush.

Caterpillars are not eloquent;
Jones is eloquent;
Jones is not a caterpillar.

Meanwhile, with much interchange of correspondence between author and
artist, the pictures for the new fairy tale, "Sylvie and Bruno," were
being gradually evolved. Each of them was subjected by Lewis Carroll
to the most minute criticism--hyper-criticism, perhaps, occasionally.
A few instances of the sort of criticisms he used to make upon Mr.
Furniss's work may be interesting; I have extracted them from a letter
dated September 1, 1887. It will be seen that when he really admired a
sketch he did not stint his praise:--

(1) "Sylvie helping beetle" [p. 193]. A quite charming
composition.

(3) "The Doctor" and "Eric." (Mr. Furniss's idea of their
appearance). No! The Doctor won't do _at all!_ He is a
smug London man, a great "ladies' man," who would hardly
talk anything but medical "shop." He is forty at least, and
can have had no love-affair for the last fifteen years. I
want him to be about twenty-five, powerful in frame,
poetical in face: capable of intelligent interest in any
subject, and of being a passionate lover. How would you draw
King Arthur when he first met Guinevere? Try _that_
type.

Eric's attitude is capital: but his face is a little too
near to the ordinary "masher." Please avoid _that_
inane creature; and please don't cut his hair short. That
fashion will be "out" directly.

(4) "Lady Muriel" (head); ditto (full length); "Earl."

I don't like _either_ face of Lady Muriel. I don't
think I could talk to her; and I'm quite sure I couldn't
fall in love with her. Her dress ("evening," of course) is
very pretty, I think.

I don't like the Earl's face either. He is proud of his
title, very formal, and one who would keep one "at arm's
length" always. And he is too prodigiously tall. I want a
gentle, genial old man; with whom one would feel at one's
ease in a moment.

(8) "Uggug becoming Porcupine" ("Sylvie and Bruno,
Concluded," page 388), is exactly my conception of it. I
expect this will be one of the most effective pictures in
the book. The faces of the people should express intense
_terror_.

(9) "The Professor" is altogether _delightful_. When
you get the text, you will see that you have hit the very
centre of the bull's-eye.

[A sketch of "Bruno"]. No, no! Please don't give us the (to
my mind) very ugly, quite modern costume, which shows with
such cruel distinctness a podgy, pot-bellied (excuse the
vulgarism) boy, who couldn't run a mile to save his life. I
want Bruno to be _strong_, but at the same time light
and active--with the figure of one of the little acrobats
one sees at the circus--not "Master Tommy," who habitually
gorges himself with pudding. Also that dress I dislike very
much. Please give him a short tunic, and _real_
knickerbockers--not the tight knee-breeches they are rapidly
shrinking to.

Very truly yours,

C. L. Dodgson.

By Mr. Furniss's kind permission I am enabled to give an example of
the other side of the correspondence, one of his letters to Mr.
Dodgson, all the more interesting for the charming little sketch which
it contains.

With respect to the spider, Mr. Dodgson had written: "Some writer says
that the full face of a spider, as seen under a magnifying-glass, is
very striking."

[Illustration: _Facsimile of a letter from H. Furniss to
Lewis Carroll, August 23, 1886_.]

[Illustration: Sylvie and Bruno. _From a drawing by Henry
Holiday_.]

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII

(1888-1891)

A systematic life--"Memoria Technica"--Mr. Dodgson's
shyness--"A Lesson in Latin"--The "Wonderland"
Stamp-Case--"Wise Words about Letter-Writing"--Princess
Alice--"Sylvie and Bruno"--"The night cometh"--"The Nursery
'Alice'"--Coventry Patmore--Telepathy--Resignation of Dr.
Liddell--A letter about Logic.

An old bachelor is generally very precise and exact in his habits. He
has no one but himself to look after, nothing to distract his
attention from his own affairs; and Mr. Dodgson was the most precise
and exact of old bachelors. He made a precis of every letter he wrote
or received from the 1st of January, 1861, to the 8th of the same
month, 1898. These precis were all numbered and entered in
reference-books, and by an ingenious system of cross-numbering he was
able to trace a whole correspondence, which might extend through
several volumes. The last number entered in his book is 98,721.

He had scores of green cardboard boxes, all neatly labelled, in which
he kept his various papers. These boxes formed quite a feature of his
study at Oxford, a large number of them being arranged upon a
revolving bookstand. The lists, of various sorts, which he kept were
innumerable; one of them, that of unanswered correspondents,
generally held seventy or eighty names at a time, exclusive of
autograph-hunters, whom he did not answer on principle. He seemed to
delight in being arithmetically accurate about every detail of life.

He always rose at the same early hour, and, if he was in residence at
Christ Church, attended College Service. He spent the day according to
a prescribed routine, which usually included a long walk into the
country, very often alone, but sometimes with another Don, or perhaps,
if the walk was not to be as long as usual, with some little
girl-friend at his side. When he had a companion with him, he would
talk the whole time, telling delightful stories, or explaining some
new logical problem; if he was alone, he used to think out his books,
as probably many another author has done and will do, in the course of
a lonely walk. The only irregularity noticeable in his mode of life
was the hour of retiring, which varied from 11 p.m. to four o'clock in
the morning, according to the amount of work which he felt himself in
the mood for.

He had a wonderfully good memory, except for faces and dates. The
former were always a stumbling-block to him, and people used to say
(most unjustly) that he was intentionally short-sighted. One night he
went up to London to dine with a friend, whom he had only recently
met. The next morning a gentleman greeted him as he was walking. "I
beg your pardon," said Mr. Dodgson, "but you have the advantage of me.
I have no remembrance of having ever seen you before this moment."
"That is very strange," the other replied, "for I was your host last
night!" Such little incidents as this happened more than once. To help
himself to remember dates, he devised a system of mnemonics, which he
circulated among his friends. As it has never been published, and as
some of my readers may find it useful, I reproduce it here.

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