The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood

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[Illustration: Studies from English Poets II "Alas! What
Boots--" Milton's Lucidas.]

Among the contributors was Frank Smedley, author of "Frank Fairleigh."
Though a confirmed invalid, and condemned to spend most of his days on
a sofa, Mr. Smedley managed to write several fine novels, full of the
joy of life, and free from the least taint of discontent or morbid
feeling. He was one of those men--one meets them here and there--whose
minds rise high above their bodily infirmities; at moments of
depression, which come to them as frequently, if not more frequently,
than to other men, they no doubt feel their weakness, and think
themselves despised, little knowing that we, the stronger ones in
body, feel nothing but admiration as we watch the splendid victory of
the soul over its earthly companion which their lives display.

It was through Frank Smedley that Mr. Dodgson became one of the
contributors to _The Comic Times_. Several of his poems appeared
in it, and Mr. Yates wrote to him in the kindest manner, expressing
warm approval of them. When _The Comic Times_ changed hands in
1856, and was reduced to half its size, the whole staff left it and
started a new venture, _The Train_. They were joined by Sala,
whose stories in _Household Words_ were at that time usually
ascribed by the uninitiated to Charles Dickens. Mr. Dodgson's
contributions to _The Train_ included the following: "Solitude"
(March, 1856); "Novelty and Romancement" (October, 1856); "The Three
Voices" (November, 1856); "The Sailor's Wife" (May, 1857); and last,
but by no means least, "Hiawatha's Photographing" (December, 1857).
All of these, except "Novelty and Romancement," have since been
republished in "Rhyme? and Reason?" and "Three Sunsets."

The last entry in Mr. Dodgson's Diary for this year reads as
follows:--

I am sitting alone in my bedroom this last night of the old
year, waiting for midnight. It has been the most eventful
year of my life: I began it a poor bachelor student, with no
definite plans or expectations; I end it a master and tutor
in Ch. Ch., with an income of more than L300 a year, and the
course of mathematical tuition marked out by God's
providence for at least some years to come. Great mercies,
great failings, time lost, talents misapplied--such has been
the past year.

His Diary is full of such modest depreciations of himself and his
work, interspersed with earnest prayers (too sacred and private to be
reproduced here) that God would forgive him the past, and help him to
perform His holy will in the future. And all the time that he was thus
speaking of himself as a sinner, and a man who was utterly falling
short of his aim, he was living a life full of good deeds and
innumerable charities, a life of incessant labour and unremitting
fulfilment of duty. So, I suppose, it is always with those who have a
really high ideal; the harder they try to approach it the more it
seems to recede from them, or rather, perhaps, it is impossible to be
both "the subject and spectator" of goodness. As Coventry Patmore
wrote:--

Become whatever good you see;
Nor sigh if, forthwith, fades from view
The grace of which you may not be
The Subject and spectator too.

The reading of "Alton Locke" turned his mind towards social subjects.
"If the book were but a little more definite," he writes, "it might
stir up many fellow-workers in the same good field of social
improvement. Oh that God, in His good providence, may make me
hereafter such a worker! But alas, what are the means? Each one has
his own _nostrum_ to propound, and in the Babel of voices nothing
is done. I would thankfully spend and be spent so long as I were sure
of really effecting something by the sacrifice, and not merely lying
down under the wheels of some irresistible Juggernaut."

He was for some time the editor of _College Rhymes_, a Christ
Church paper, in which his poem, "A Sea Dirge" (afterwards republished
in "Phantasmagoria," and again in "Rhyme? and Reason?"), first
appeared. The following verses were among his contributions to the
same magazine:--

I painted her a gushing thing,
With years perhaps a score
I little thought to find they were
At least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly auburn head:
I came to find the blue a green,
The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning,
They tingled very much;
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you were to ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them _added to_,
But just a few _removed_!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,
The bland hyena's laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of the giraffe;
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides;
"She is all my fancy painted her,"
But oh! _how much besides_!

It was when writing for _The Train_ that he first felt the need
of a pseudonym. He suggested "Dares" (the first syllable of his
birthplace) to Edmund Yates, but, as this did not meet with his
editor's approval, he wrote again, giving a choice of four names, (1)
Edgar Cuthwellis, (2) Edgar U. C. Westhall, (3) Louis Carroll, and (4)
Lewis Carroll. The first two were formed from the letters of his two
Christian names, Charles Lutwidge; the others are merely variant forms
of those names--Lewis = Ludovicus = Lutwidge; Carroll = Carolus =
Charles. Mr. Yates chose the last, and thenceforward it became Mr.
Dodgson's ordinary _nom de plume_. The first occasion on which he
used it was, I believe, when he wrote "The Path of Roses," a poem
which appeared in _The Train_ in May, 1856.

On June 16th he again visited the Princess's Theatre. This time the
play was "A Winter's Tale," and he "especially admired the acting of
the little Mamillius, Ellen Terry, a beautiful little creature, who
played with remarkable ease and spirit."

During the Long Vacation he spent a few weeks in the English Lake
District. In spite of the rain, of which he had his full share, he
managed to see a good deal of the best scenery, and made the ascent of
Gable in the face of an icy gale, which laid him up with neuralgia for
some days. He and his companions returned to Croft by way of Barnard
Castle, as he narrates in his Diary:--

We set out by coach for Barnard Castle at about seven, and
passed over about forty miles of the dreariest hill-country
I ever saw; the climax of wretchedness was reached in Bowes,
where yet stands the original of "Dotheboys Hall"; it has
long ceased to be used as a school, and is falling into
ruin, in which the whole place seems to be following its
example--the roofs are falling in, and the windows broken or
barricaded--the whole town looks plague-stricken. The
courtyard of the inn we stopped at was grown over with
weeds, and a mouthing idiot lolled against the corner of the
house, like the evil genius of the spot. Next to a prison or
a lunatic asylum, preserve me from living at Bowes!

Although he was anything but a sportsman, he was interested in the
subject of betting, from a mathematical standpoint solely, and in 1857
he sent a letter to _Bell's Life_, explaining a method by which a
betting man might ensure winning over any race. The system was either
to back _every_ horse, or to lay against _every_ horse,
according to the way the odds added up. He showed his scheme to a
sporting friend, who remarked, "An excellent system, and you're bound
to win--_if only you can get people to take your bets_."

In the same year he made the acquaintance of Tennyson, whose writings
he had long intensely admired. He thus describes the poet's
appearance:--

A strange shaggy-looking man; his hair, moustache, and beard
looked wild and neglected; these very much hid the character
of the face. He was dressed in a loosely fitting morning
coat, common grey flannel waistcoat and trousers, and a
carelessly tied black silk neckerchief. His hair is black; I
think the eyes too; they are keen and restless--nose
aquiline--forehead high and broad--both face and head are
fine and manly. His manner was kind and friendly from the
first; there is a dry lurking humour in his style of
talking.

I took the opportunity [he goes on to say] of asking the
meaning of two passages in his poems, which have always
puzzled me: one in "Maud"--

Strange that I hear two men
Somewhere talking of me;
Well, if it prove a girl, my boy
Will have plenty; so let it be.

He said it referred to Maud, and to the two fathers
arranging a match between himself and her.

The other was of the poet--

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.

He said that he was quite willing it should bear any meaning
the words would fairly bear; to the best of his recollection
his meaning when he wrote it was "the hate of the quality
hate, &c.," but he thought the meaning of "the quintessence
of hatred" finer. He said there had never been a poem so
misunderstood by the "ninnies of critics" as "Maud."

[Illustration: Alfred Tennyson. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll._]

During an evening spent at Tent Lodge Tennyson remarked, on the
similarity of the monkey's skull to the human, that a young monkey's
skull is quite human in shape, and gradually alters--the analogy being
borne out by the human skull being at first more like the statues of
the gods, and gradually degenerating into human; and then, turning to
Mrs. Tennyson, "There, that's the second original remark I've made
this evening!" Mr. Dodgson saw a great deal of the Tennysons after
this, and photographed the poet himself and various members of his
family.

In October he made the acquaintance of John Ruskin, who in after years
was always willing to assist him with his valuable advice on any point
of artistic criticism. Mr. Dodgson was singularly fortunate in his
friends; whenever he was in difficulties on any technical matters,
whether of religion, law, medicine, art, or whatever it might be, he
always had some one especially distinguished in that branch of study
whose aid he could seek as a friend. In particular, the names of Canon
King (now Bishop of Lincoln), and Sir James Paget occur to me; to the
latter Mr. Dodgson addressed many letters on questions of medicine and
surgery--some of them intricate enough, but never too intricate to
weary the unfailing patience of the great surgeon.

A note in Mr. Dodgson's Journal, May 9, 1857, describes his
introduction to Thackeray:--

I breakfasted this morning with Fowler of Lincoln to meet
Thackeray (the author), who delivered his lecture on George
III. in Oxford last night. I was much pleased with what I
saw of him; his manner is simple and unaffected; he shows no
anxiety to shine in conversation, though full of fun and
anecdote when drawn out. He seemed delighted with the
reception he had met with last night: the undergraduates
seem to have behaved with most unusual moderation.

The next few years of his life passed quietly, and without any unusual
events to break the monotony of college routine. He spent his mornings
in the lecture-rooms, his afternoons in the country or on the
river--he was very fond of boating--and his evenings in his room,
reading and preparing for the next day's work. But in spite of all
this outward calm of life, his mind was very much exercised on the
subject of taking Holy Orders. Not only was this step necessary if he
wished to retain his Studentship, but also he felt that it would give
him much more influence among the undergraduates, and thus increase
his power of doing good. On the other hand, he was not prepared to
live the life of almost puritanical strictness which was then
considered essential for a clergyman, and he saw that the impediment
of speech from which he suffered would greatly interfere with the
proper performance of his clerical duties.

[Illustration: The Bishop of Lincoln. _From a photograph by
Lewis Carroll_]

The Bishop of Oxford, Dr. Wilberforce, had expressed the opinion that
the "resolution to attend theatres or operas was an absolute
disqualification for Holy Orders," which discouraged him very much,
until it transpired that this statement was only meant to refer to the
parochial clergy. He discussed the matter with Dr. Pusey, and with Dr.
Liddon. The latter said that "he thought a deacon might lawfully, if
he found himself unfit for the work, abstain from direct ministerial
duty." And so, with many qualms about his own unworthiness, he at last
decided to prepare definitely for ordination.

On December 22, 1861, he was ordained deacon by the Bishop of Oxford.
He never proceeded to priest's orders, partly, I think, because he
felt that if he were to do so it would be his duty to undertake
regular parochial work, and partly on account of his stammering. He
used, however, to preach not unfrequently, and his sermons were always
delightful to listen to, his extreme earnestness being evident in
every word.

[Illustration: Bishop Wilberforce. _From a photograph by
Lewis Carroll_.]

"He knew exactly what he wished to say" (I am quoting from an article
in _The Guardian_), "and completely forgot his audience in his
anxiety to explain his point clearly. He thought of the subject only,
and the words came of themselves. Looking straight in front of him he
saw, as it were, his argument mapped out in the form of a diagram, and
he set to work to prove it point by point, under its separate heads,
and then summed up the whole."

One sermon which he preached in the University Church, on Eternal
Punishment, is not likely to be soon forgotten by those who heard it.
I, unfortunately, was not of that number, but I can well imagine how
his clear-cut features would light up as he dwelt lovingly upon the
mercy of that Being whose charity far exceeds "the measure of man's
mind." It is hardly necessary to say that he himself did not believe
in eternal punishment, or any other scholastic doctrine that
contravenes the love of God.

He disliked being complimented on his sermons, but he liked to be told
of any good effects that his words had had upon any member of the
congregation. "Thank you for telling me that fact about my sermon," he
wrote to one of his sisters, who told him of some such good fruit that
one of his addresses had borne. "I have once or twice had such
information volunteered; and it is a _great_ comfort--and a kind
of thing that is _really_ good for one to know. It is _not_
good to be told (and I never wish to be told), 'Your sermon was so
_beautiful_.' We shall not be concerned to know, in the Great
Day, whether we have preached beautiful sermons, but whether they were
preached with the one object of serving God."

He was always ready and willing to preach at the special service for
College servants, which used to be held at Christ Church every Sunday
evening; but best of all he loved to preach to children. Some of his
last sermons were delivered at Christ Church, Eastbourne (the church
he regularly attended during the Long Vacation), to a congregation of
children. On those occasions he told them an allegory--_Victor and
Arnion,_ which he intended to publish in course of time--putting
all his heart into the work, and speaking with such deep feeling that
at times he was almost unable to control his emotion as he told them
of the love and compassion of the Good Shepherd.

I have dwelt at some length on this side of his life, for it is, I am
sure, almost ignored in the popular estimate of him. He was
essentially a religious man in the best sense of the term, and without
any of that morbid sentimentality which is too often associated with
the word; and while his religion consecrated his talents, and raised
him to a height which without it he could never have reached, the
example of such a man as he was, so brilliant, so witty, so
successful, and yet so full of faith, consecrates the very conception
of religion, and makes it yet more beautiful.

On April 13, 1859, he paid another visit to Tennyson, this time at
Farringford.

After dinner we retired for about an hour to the
smoking-room, where I saw the proof-sheets of the "King's
Idylls," but he would not let me read them. He walked
through the garden with me when I left, and made me remark
an effect produced on the thin white clouds by the moon
shining through, which I had not noticed--a ring of golden
light at some distance off the moon, with an interval of
white between--this, he says, he has alluded to in one of
his early poems ("Margaret," vol. i.), "the tender amber." I
asked his opinion of Sydney Dobell--he agrees with me in
liking "Grass from the Battlefield," and thinks him a writer
of genius and imagination, but extravagant.

On another occasion he showed the poet a photograph which he had taken
of Miss Alice Liddell as a beggar-child, and which Tennyson said was
the most beautiful photograph he had ever seen.

[Illustration: Alice Liddell as Beggar-child. _From a
photograph by Lewis Carroll_.]

Tennyson told us he had often dreamed long passages of
poetry, and believed them to be good at the time, though he
could never remember them after waking, except four lines
which he dreamed at ten years old:--

May a cock sparrow
Write to a barrow?
I hope you'll excuse
My infantile muse;

--which, as an unpublished fragment of the Poet Laureate,
may be thought interesting, but not affording much promise
of his after powers.

He also told us he once dreamed an enormously long poem
about fairies, which began with very long lines that
gradually got shorter, and ended with fifty or sixty lines
of two syllables each!

On October 17, 1859, the Prince of Wales came into residence at Christ
Church. The Dean met him at the station, and all the dons assembled in
Tom Quadrangle to welcome him. Mr. Dodgson, as usual, had an eye to a
photograph, in which hope, however, he was doomed to disappointment.
His Royal Highness was tired of having his picture taken.

During his early college life he used often to spend a few days at
Hastings, with his mother's sisters, the Misses Lutwidge. In a letter
written from their house to his sister Mary, and dated April 11, 1860,
he gives an account of a lecture he had just heard:--

I am just returned from a series of dissolving views on the
Arctic regions, and, while the information there received is
still fresh in my mind, I will try to give you some of it.
In the first place, you may not know that one of the objects
of the Arctic expeditions was to discover "the intensity of
the magnetic needle." He [the lecturer] did not tell us,
however, whether they had succeeded in discovering it, or
whether that rather obscure question is still doubtful. One
of the explorers, Baffin, "_though_ he did not suffer
all the hardships the others did, _yet_ he came to an
untimely end (of course one would think in the Arctic
regions), _for instance_ (what follows being, I
suppose, one of the untimely ends he came to), being engaged
in a war of the Portuguese against the Prussians, while
measuring the ground in front of a fortification, a
cannon-ball came against him, with the force with which
cannon-balls in that day _did_ come, and killed him
dead on the spot." How many instances of this kind would you
demand to prove that he did come to an untimely end? One of
the ships was laid up three years in the ice, during which
time, he told us, "Summer came and went frequently." This, I
think, was the most remarkable phenomenon he mentioned in
the whole lecture, and gave _me_ quite a new idea of
those regions.

On Tuesday I went to a concert at St. Leonard's. On the
front seat sat a youth about twelve years of age, of whom
the enclosed is a tolerably accurate sketch. He really was,
I think, the ugliest boy I ever saw. I wish I could get an
opportunity of photographing him.

[Illustration: Sketch from St. Leonard's Concert-Room.]

The following note occurs in his Journal for May 6th:--

A Christ Church man, named Wilmot, who is just returned from
the West Indies, dined in Hall. He told us some curious
things about the insects in South America--one that he had
himself seen was a spider charming a cockroach with flashes
of light; they were both on the wall, the spider about a
yard the highest, and the light was like a glow-worm, only
that it came by flashes and did not shine continuously; the
cockroach gradually crawled up to it, and allowed itself to
be taken and killed.

A few months afterwards, when in town and visiting Mr.
Munroe's studio, he found there two of the children of Mr.
George Macdonald, whose acquaintance he had already made:
"They were a girl and boy, about seven and six years old--I
claimed their acquaintance, and began at once proving to the
boy, Greville, that he had better take the opportunity of
having his head changed for a marble one. The effect was
that in about two minutes they had entirely forgotten that I
was a total stranger, and were earnestly arguing the
question as if we were old acquaintances." Mr. Dodgson urged
that a marble head would not have to be brushed and combed.
At this the boy turned to his sister with an air of great
relief, saying, "Do you hear _that_, Mary? It needn't
be combed!" And the narrator adds, "I have no doubt combing,
with his great head of long hair, like Hallam Tennyson's,
was _the_ misery of his life. His final argument was
that a marble head couldn't speak, and as I couldn't
convince either that he would be all the better for that, I
gave in."

[Illustration: George Macdonald and his daughter Lily.
_From a photograph by Lewis Carroll._]

In November he gave a lecture at a meeting of the Ashmolean Society on
"Where does the Day begin?" The problem, which was one he was very
fond of propounding, may be thus stated: If a man could travel round
the world so fast that the sun would be always directly above his
head, and if he were to start travelling at midday on Tuesday, then in
twenty-four hours he would return to his original point of departure,
and would find that the day was now called Wednesday--at what point of
his journey would the day change its name? The difficulty of answering
this apparently simple question has cast a gloom over many a pleasant
party.

On December 12th he wrote in his Diary:--

Visit of the Queen to Oxford, to the great surprise of
everybody, as it had been kept a secret up to the time. She
arrived in Christ Church about twelve, and came into Hall
with the Dean, where the Collections were still going on,
about a dozen men being in Hall. The party consisted of the
Queen, Prince Albert, Princess Alice and her intended
husband, the Prince of Hesse-Darmstadt, the Prince of Wales,
Prince Alfred, and suite. They remained a minute or two
looking at the pictures, and the Sub-Dean was presented:
they then visited the Cathedral and Library. Evening
entertainment at the Deanery, _tableaux vivants_. I
went a little after half-past eight, and found a great party
assembled--the Prince had not yet come. He arrived before
nine, and I found an opportunity of reminding General Bruce
of his promise to introduce me to the Prince, which he did
at the next break in the conversation H.R.H. was holding
with Mrs. Fellowes. He shook hands very graciously, and I
began with a sort of apology for having been so importunate
about the photograph. He said something of the weather being
against it, and I asked if the Americans had victimised him
much as a sitter; he said they had, but he did not think
they had succeeded well, and I told him of the new American
process of taking twelve thousand photographs in an hour.
Edith Liddell coming by at the moment, I remarked on the
beautiful _tableau_ which the children might make: he
assented, and also said, in answer to my question, that he
had seen and admired my photographs of them. I then said
that I hoped, as I had missed the photograph, he would at
least give me his autograph in my album, which he promised
to do. Thinking I had better bring the talk to an end, I
concluded by saying that, if he would like copies of any of
my photographs, I should feel honoured by his accepting
them; he thanked me for this, and I then drew back, as he
did not seem inclined to pursue the conversation.

A few days afterwards the Prince gave him his autograph, and also
chose a dozen or so of his photograph (sic).

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