The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood

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The success of "Alice in Wonderland" tempted Mr. Dodgson to make
another essay in the same field of literature. His idea had not yet
been plagiarised, as it was afterwards, though the book had of course
been parodied, a notable instance being "Alice in Blunderland," which
appeared in _Punch_. It was very different when he came to write
"Sylvie and Bruno"; the countless imitations of the two "Alice" books
which had been foisted upon the public forced him to strike out in a
new line. Long before the publication of his second tale, people had
heard that Lewis Carroll was writing again, and the editor of a
well-known magazine had offered him two guineas a page, which was a
high rate of pay in those days, for the story, if he would allow it to
appear in serial form.

The central idea was, as every one knows, the adventures of a little
girl who had somehow or other got through a looking-glass. The first
difficulty, however, was to get her through, and this question
exercised his ingenuity for some time, before it was satisfactorily
solved. The next thing was to secure Tenniel's services again. At
first it seemed that he was to be disappointed in this matter; Tenniel
was so fully occupied with other work that there seemed little hope of
his being able to undertake any more. He then applied to Sir Noel
Paton, with whose fairy-pictures he had fallen in love; but the artist
was ill, and wrote in reply, "Tenniel is _the_ man." In the end
Tenniel consented to undertake the work, and once more author and
artist settled down to work together. Mr. Dodgson was no easy man to
work with; no detail was too small for his exact criticism. "Don't
give Alice so much crinoline," he would write, or "The White Knight
must not have whiskers; he must not be made to look old"--such were
the directions he was constantly giving.

On June 21st Archdeacon Dodgson died, after an illness of only a few
days' duration. Lewis Carroll was not summoned until too late, for the
illness took a sudden turn for the worse, and he was unable to reach
his father's bedside before the end had come. This was a terrible
shock to him; his father had been his ideal of what a Christian
gentleman should be, and it seemed to him at first as if a cloud had
settled on his life which could never be dispelled. Two letters of
his, both of them written long after the sad event, give one some idea
of the grief which his father's death, and all that it entailed,
caused him. The first was written long afterwards, to one who had
suffered a similar bereavement. In this letter he said:--

We are sufficiently old friends, I feel sure, for me to have
no fear that I shall seem intrusive in writing about your
great sorrow. The greatest blow that has ever fallen on
_my_ life was the death, nearly thirty years ago, of my
own dear father; so, in offering you my sincere sympathy, I
write as a fellow-sufferer. And I rejoice to know that we
are not only fellow-sufferers, but also fellow-believers in
the blessed hope of the resurrection from the dead, which
makes such a parting holy and beautiful, instead of being
merely a blank despair.

The second was written to a young friend, Miss Edith Rix, who had sent
him an illuminated text:

My dear Edith,--I can now tell you (what I wanted to do when
you sent me that text-card, but felt I could not say it to
_two_ listeners, as it were) _why_ that special
card is one I like to have. That text is consecrated for me
by the memory of one of the greatest sorrows I have
known--the death of my dear father. In those solemn days,
when we used to steal, one by one, into the darkened room,
to take yet another look at the dear calm face, and to pray
for strength, the one feature in the room that I remember
was a framed text, illuminated by one of my sisters, "Then
are they glad, because they are at rest; and so he bringeth
them into the haven where they would be!" That text will
always have, for me, a sadness and a sweetness of its own.
Thank you again for sending it me. Please don't mention this
when we meet. I can't _talk_ about it.

Always affectionately yours,

C. L. DODGSON.

The object of his edition of Euclid Book V., published during the
course of the year, was to meet the requirements of the ordinary Pass
Examination, and to present the subject in as short and simple a form
as possible. Hence the Theory of Incommensurable Magnitudes was
omitted, though, as the author himself said in the Preface, to do so
rendered the work incomplete, and, from a logical point of view,
valueless. He hinted pretty plainly his own preference for an
equivalent amount of Algebra, which would be complete in itself. It is
easy to understand this preference in a mind so strictly logical as
his.

So far as the object of the book itself is concerned, he succeeded
admirably; the propositions are clearly and beautifully worked out,
and the hints on proving Propositions in Euclid Book V., are most
useful.

In November he again moved into new rooms at Christ Church; the suite
which he occupied from this date to the end of his life was one of the
best in the College. Situated at the north-west corner of Tom Quad, on
the first floor of the staircase from the entrance to which the Junior
Common Room is now approached, they consist of four sitting-rooms and
about an equal number of bedrooms, besides rooms for lumber, &c. From
the upper floor one can easily reach the flat college roof. Mr.
Dodgson saw at once that here was the very place for a photographic
studio, and he lost no time in obtaining the consent of the
authorities to erect one. Here he took innumerable photographs of his
friends and their children, as indeed he had been doing for some time
under less favourable conditions. One of his earliest pictures is an
excellent likeness of Professor Faraday.

[Illustration: Prof. Faraday. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]

His study was characteristic of the man; oil paintings by A. Hughes,
Mrs. Anderson, and Heaphy proclaimed his artistic tastes; nests of
pigeon-holes, each neatly labelled, showed his love of order; shelves,
filled with the best books on every subject that interested him, were
evidence of his wide reading. His library has now been broken up and,
except for a few books retained by his nearest relatives, scattered to
the winds; such dispersions are inevitable, but they are none the less
regrettable. It always seems to me that one of the saddest things
about the death of a literary man is the fact that the breaking-up of
his collection of books almost invariably follows; the building up of
a good library, the work of a lifetime, has been so much labour lost,
so far as future generations are concerned. Talent, yes, and genius
too, are displayed not only in writing books but also in buying them,
and it is a pity that the ruthless hammer of the auctioneer should
render so much energy and skill fruitless.

[Illustration: Lewis Carroll's Study at Christ Church,
Oxford.]

Lewis Carroll's dining-room has been the scene of many a pleasant
little party, for he was very fond of entertaining. In his Diary, each
of the dinners and luncheons that he gave is recorded by a small
diagram, which shows who his guests were, and their several positions
at the table. He kept a _menu_ book as well, that the same people
might not have the same dishes too frequently. He sometimes gave large
parties, but his favourite form of social relaxation was a _diner a
deux_.

At the beginning of 1869 his "Phantasmagoria," a collection of poems
grave and gay, was published by Macmillan. Upon the whole he was more
successful in humorous poetry, but there is an undeniable dignity and
pathos in his more serious verses. He gave a copy to Mr. Justice
Denman, with whom he afterwards came to be very well acquainted, and
who appreciated the gift highly. "I did not lay down the book," he
wrote, "until I had read them [the poems] through; and enjoyed many a
hearty laugh, and something like a cry or two. Moreover, I hope to
read them through (as the _old man_ said) 'again and again.'"

[Illustration: Justice Denman. _From a photograph by Lewis
Carroll_.]

It had been Lewis Carroll's intention to have "Phantasmagoria"
illustrated, and he had asked George du Maurier to undertake the work;
but the plan fell through. In his letter to du Maurier, Mr. Dodgson
had made some inquiries about Miss Florence Montgomery, the authoress
of "Misunderstood." In reply du Maurier said, "Miss Florence
Montgomery is a very charming and sympathetic young lady, the daughter
of the admiral of that ilk. I am, like you, a very great admirer of
"Misunderstood," and cried pints over it. When I was doing the last
picture I had to put a long white pipe in the little boy's mouth until
it was finished, so as to get rid of the horrible pathos of the
situation while I was executing the work. In reading the book a second
time (knowing the sad end of the dear little boy), the funny parts
made me cry almost as much as the pathetic ones."

A few days after the publication of "Phantasmagoria," Lewis Carroll
sent the first chapter of his new story to the press. "Behind the
Looking-Glass and what Alice saw there" was his original idea for its
title; it was Dr. Liddon who suggested the name finally adopted.

During this year German and French translations of "Alice in
Wonderland" were published by Macmillan; the Italian edition appeared
in 1872. Henri Bue, who was responsible for the French version, had no
easy task to perform. In many cases the puns proved quite
untranslatable; while the poems, being parodies on well-known English
pieces, would have been pointless on the other side of the Channel.
For instance, the lines beginning, "How doth the little crocodile" are
a parody on "How doth the little busy bee," a song which a French
child has, of course, never heard of. In this case Bue gave up the
idea of translation altogether, and, instead, parodied La Fontaine's
"Maitre Corbeau" as follows:--

Maitre Corbeau sur un arbre perche
Faisait son nid entre des branches;
Il avait releve ses manches,
Car il etait tres affaire.
Maitre Renard par la passant,
Lui dit: "Descendez donc, compere;
Venez embrasser votre frere!"
Le Corbeau, le reconnaissant,
Lui repondit en son ramage!--
"Fromage."

The dialogue in which the joke occurs about "tortoise" and "taught us"
("Wonderland," p. 142) is thus rendered:--

"La maitresse etait une vieille tortue; nous l'appelions
chelonee." "Et pourquoi l'appeliez-vous chelonee, si ce
n'etait pas son nom?" "Parcequ'on ne pouvait s'empecher de
s'ecrier en la voyant: Quel long nez!" dit la Fausse-Tortue
d'un ton fache; "vous etes vraiment bien bornee!"

At two points, however, both M. Bue and Miss Antonie Zimmermann, who
translated the tale into German, were fairly beaten: the reason for
the whiting being so called, from its doing the boots and shoes, and
for no wise fish going anywhere without a porpoise, were given up as
untranslatable.

At the beginning of 1870 Lord Salisbury came up to Oxford to be
installed as Chancellor of the University. Dr. Liddon introduced Mr.
Dodgson to him, and thus began a very pleasant acquaintance. Of course
he photographed the Chancellor and his two sons, for he never missed
an opportunity of getting distinguished people into his studio.

[Illustration: Lord Salisbury and his two sons. _From a
photograph by Lewis Carroll_.]

In December, seven "Puzzles from Wonderland" appeared in Mrs. Gatty's
paper, _Aunt Judy's Magazine_. They had originally been written
for the Cecil children, with whom Lewis Carroll was already on the
best terms. Meanwhile "Through the Looking-Glass" was steadily
progressing--not, however, without many little hitches. One question
which exercised Mr. Dodgson very much was whether the picture of the
Jabberwock would do as a frontispiece, or whether it would be too
frightening for little children. On this point he sought the advice of
about thirty of his married lady friends, whose experiences with their
own children would make them trustworthy advisers; and in the end he
chose the picture of the White Knight on horseback. In 1871 the book
appeared, and was an instantaneous success. Eight thousand of the
first edition had been taken up by the booksellers before Mr. Dodgson
had even received his own presentation copies. The compliments he
received upon the "Looking-Glass" would have been enough to turn a
lesser man's head, but he was, I think, proof against either praise or
blame.

I can say with a clear head and conscience [wrote Henry
Kingsley] that your new book is the finest thing we have had
since "Martin Chuzzlewit." ... I can only say, in comparing
the new "Alice" with the old, "this is a more excellent song
than the other." It is perfectly splendid, but you have,
doubtless, heard that from other quarters. I lunch with
Macmillan habitually, and he was in a terrible pickle about
not having printed enough copies the other day.

Jabberwocky[017] was at once recognised as the best and most original
thing in the book, though one fair correspondent of _The Queen_
declared that it was a translation from the German! The late Dean of
Rochester, Dr. Scott, writes about it to Mr. Dodgson as follows:--

Are we to suppose, after all, that the Saga of Jabberwocky
is one of the universal heirlooms which the Aryan race at
its dispersion carried with it from the great cradle of the
family? You must really consult Max Mueller about this. It
begins to be probable that the _origo originalissima_
may be discovered in Sanscrit, and that we shall by and by
have a _Iabrivokaveda_. The hero will turn out to be
the Sun-god in one of his _Avatars_; and the Tumtum
tree the great Ash _Ygdrasil_ of the Scandinavian
mythology.

In March, 1872, the late Mr. A.A. Vansittart, of Trinity College,
Cambridge, translated the poem into Latin elegiacs. His rendering was
printed, for private circulation only, I believe, several years later,
but will probably be new to most of my readers. A careful comparison
with the original shows the wonderful fidelity of this translation:--

"MORS IABROCHII"

Coesper[018] erat: tunc lubriciles[019] ultravia circum
Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi;
Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu;
Et profugi gemitus exgrabuere rathae.

O fuge Iabrochium, sanguis meus![020] Ille recurvis
Unguibus, estque avidis dentibus ille minax.
Ububae fuge cautus avis vim, gnate! Neque unquam
Faedarpax contra te frumiosus eat!

Vorpali gladio juvenis succingitur: hostis
Manxumus ad medium quaeritur usque diem:
Jamque via fesso, sed plurima mente prementi,
Tumtumiae frondis suaserat umbra moram.

Consilia interdum stetit egnia[021] mente revolvens:
At gravis in densa fronde susuffrus[022] erat,
Spiculaque[023] ex oculis jacientis flammea, tulscam
Per silvam venit burbur?[024] Iabrochii!

Vorpali, semel atque iterum collectus in ictum,
Persnicuit gladio persnacuitque puer:
Deinde galumphatus, spernens informe cadaver,
Horrendum monstri rettulit ipse caput.

Victor Iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis,
Rursus in amplexus, o radiose, meos!
O frabiose dies! CALLO clamateque CALLA!
Vix potuit laetus chorticulare pater.

Coesper erat: tunc lubriciles ultravia circum
Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi;
Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu;
Et profugi gemitus exgrabuere rathae.

A.A.V.

JABBERWOCKY.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that scratch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The story, as originally written, contained thirteen chapters, but the
published book consisted of twelve only. The omitted chapter
introduced a wasp, in the character of a judge or barrister, I
suppose, since Mr. Tenniel wrote that "a _wasp_ in a _wig_
is altogether beyond the appliances of art." Apart from difficulties
of illustration, the "wasp" chapter was not considered to be up to the
level of the rest of the book, and this was probably the principal
reason of its being left out.

"It is a curious fact," wrote Mr. Tenniel some years later, when
replying to a request of Lewis Carroll's that he would illustrate
another of his books, "that with 'Through the Looking-Glass' the
faculty of making drawings for book illustration departed from me,
and, notwithstanding all sorts of tempting inducements, I have done
nothing in that direction since."

[Illustration: _Facsimile of a letter from Sir John Tenniel
to Lewis Carroll, June_ 1, 1870.]

"Through the Looking Glass" has recently appeared in a solemn judgment
of the House of Lords. In _Eastman Photographic Materials Company v.
Comptroller General of Patents, Designs, and Trademarks_ (1898),
the question for decision was, What constitutes an invented word? A
trademark that consists of or contains an invented word or words is
capable of registration. "Solio" was the word in issue in the case.
Lord Macnaghten in his judgment said, when alluding to the
distinguishing characteristics of an invented word:

I do not think that it is necessary that it should be wholly
meaningless. To give an illustration: your lordships may
remember that in a book of striking humour and fancy, which
was in everybody's hands when it was first published, there
is a collection of strange words where "there are" (to use
the language of the author) "two meanings packed up into one
word." No one would say that those were not invented words.
Still they contain a meaning--a meaning is wrapped up in
them if you can only find it out.

Before I leave the subject of the "Looking-Glass," I should like to
mention one or two circumstances in connection with it which
illustrate his reverence for sacred things. In his original manuscript
the bad-tempered flower (pp. 28-33) was the passion-flower; the sacred
origin of the name never struck him, until it was pointed out to him
by a friend, when he at once changed it into the tiger-lily. Another
friend asked him if the final scene was based upon the triumphal
conclusion of "Pilgrim's Progress." He repudiated the idea, saying
that he would consider such trespassing on holy ground as highly
irreverent.

He seemed never to be satisfied with the amount of work he had on
hand, and in 1872 he determined to add to his other labours by
studying anatomy and physiology. Professor Barclay Thompson supplied
him with a set of bones, and, having purchased the needful books, he
set to work in good earnest. His mind was first turned to acquiring
medical knowledge by his happening to be at hand when a man was seized
with an epileptic fit. He had prevented the poor creature from
falling, but was utterly at a loss what to do next. To be better
prepared on any future occasion, he bought a little manual called
"What to do in Emergencies." In later years he was constantly buying
medical and surgical works, and by the end of his life he had a
library of which no doctor need have been ashamed. There were only two
special bequests in his will, one of some small keepsakes to his
landlady at Eastbourne, Mrs. Dyer, and the other of his medical books
to my brother.

Whenever a new idea presented itself to his mind he used to make a
note of it; he even invented a system by which he could take notes in
the dark, if some happy thought or ingenious problem suggested itself
to him during a sleepless night. Like most men who systematically
overtax their brains, he was a poor sleeper. He would sometimes go
through a whole book of Euclid in bed; he was so familiar with the
bookwork that he could actually see the figures before him in the
dark, and did not confuse the letters, which is perhaps even more
remarkable.

Most of his ideas were ingenious, though many were entirely useless
from a practical point of view. For instance, he has an entry in his
Diary on November 8, 1872: "I wrote to Calverley, suggesting an idea
(which I think occurred to me yesterday) of guessing well-known poems
as acrostics, and making a collection of them to hoax the public."
Calverley's reply to this letter was as follows:--

My dear Sir,--I have been laid up (or laid down) for the
last few days by acute lumbago, or I would have written
before. It is rather absurd that I was on the point of
propounding to you this identical idea. I realised, and I
regret to add revealed to two girls, a fortnight ago, the
truth that all existing poems were in fact acrostics; and I
offered a small pecuniary reward to whichever would find out
Gray's "Elegy" within half an hour! But it never occurred to
me to utilise the discovery, as it did to you. I see that it
might be utilised, now you mention it--and I shall instruct
these two young women not to publish the notion among their
friends.

This is the way Mr. Calverley treated Kirke White's poem "To an early
Primrose." "The title," writes C.S.C. "might either be ignored or
omitted. Possibly carpers might say that a primrose was not a rose."

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Wild
Was nursed in whistling storms Rose
And cradled in the winds!

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, W a R
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone I ncognit O
Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head L owlines S
Obscure and unobserved.

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear D isciplin E
Serene the ills of life.

In the course of their correspondence Mr. Calverley wrote a
Shakespearian sonnet, the initial letters of which form the name of
William Herbert; and a parody entitled "The New Hat." I reproduce them
both.

When o'er the world Night spreads her mantle dun,
In dreams, my love, I see those stars, thine eyes,
Lighting the dark: but when the royal sun
Looks o'er the pines and fires the orient skies,
I bask no longer in thy beauty's ray,
And lo! my world is bankrupt of delight.
Murk night seemed lately fair-complexioned day;
Hope-bringing day now seems most doleful night.
End, weary day, that art no day to me!
Return, fair night, to me the best of days!
But O my rose, whom in my dreams I see,
Enkindle with like bliss my waking gaze!
Replete with thee, e'en hideous night grows fair:
Then what would sweet morn be, if thou wert there?

THE NEW HAT.

My boots had been wash'd, well wash'd, by a shower;
But little I car'd about that:
What I felt was the havoc a single half-hour
Had made with my beautiful Hat.

For the Boot, tho' its lustre be dimm'd, shall assume
New comeliness after a while;
But no art may restore its original bloom,
When once it hath fled, to the Tile.

I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay
And a brown) trotted off with a clatter;
The driver look'd round in his humorous way,
And said huskily, "Who is your hatter?"

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