Chapter FOUR: “Is this the hend?”

(“_Nicholas Nickleby._”)

Bathed in the radiance of the newly-risen Sun, the billows are surging and bristling below the Cliff, along which the Poet is thoughtfully wending his way. It may possibly surprise the reader that he should not ere this have obtained an interview with his beloved Sukie: he may ask the reason: he will ask in vain: to record with rigid accuracy the progress of events is the sole duty of the historian: were he to go beyond that, and attempt to dive into the hidden causes of things, the why and the wherefore, he would be trespassing on the province of the metaphysician.

Presently the Poet reached a small rising ground at the end of the gravel walk, where he found a seat commanding a view of the sea, and here he sunk down wearily.

For a while he gazed dreamily upon the expanse of ocean, then, struck by a sudden thought, he opened a small pocket book, and proceeded to correct and complete his last poem. Slowly to himself he muttered the words “death--saith--breath,” impatiently tapping the ground with his foot. “Ah, that’ll do,” he said at last, with an air of relief, “breath”:

“His barque had perished in the storm,
Whirled by its fiery breath
On sunken rocks, his stalwart form
Was doomed to watery death.”

“That last line’s good,” he continued exaltingly, “and on Coleridge’s principle of alliteration, too--W. D., W. D.--was doomed to watery death.”

“Take care,” growled a deep voice in his ear, “what you say will be used in evidence against you--now it’s no use trying that, we’ve got you tight,” this last remark being caused by the struggles of the Poet, naturally indignant at being unexpectedly collared by two men from behind.

“He’s confessed to it, constable? you heard him?” said the first speaker (who rejoiced in the euphonious title of Muggle, and whom it is almost superfluous to introduce to the reader as the elder traveller of Chapter One)! “it’s as much as his life is worth.”

“I say, stow that----” warmly responded the other; “seems to me the gen’leman was a spouting potry.”

“What--what’s the matter?” here gasped our unfortunate hero, who had recovered his breath; “you--Muggle--what do you mean by it?”

“Mean by it!” blustered his quondam friend, “what do _you_ mean by it, if you comes to that? You’re an assassin, that’s what you are! Where’s the waiter you had with you last night? answer me that!”

“The--the waiter?” slowly repeated the Poet, still stunned by the suddenness of his capture, “why, he’s dr----”

“I knew it!” cried his friend, who was at him in a moment, and choked up the unfinished word in his throat, “drowned, Constable! I told you so--and who did it?” he continued, loosing his grip a moment to obtain an answer.

The Poet’s answer, so far as it could be gathered, (for it came out in a very fragmentary state, and as it were by crumbs, in intervals of choking) was the following: “It was my--my--you’ll kill me--fault--I say, fault--I--I--gave him--you--you’re suffoca--I say--I gave him----” “a push I suppose,” concluded the other, who here “shut off” the slender supply of breath he had hitherto allowed his victim “and he fell in: no doubt. I heard some one had fallen off the Bridge last night,” turning to the Constable; “no doubt this unfortunate waiter. Now mark my words! from this moment I renounce this man as my friend: don’t pity him, constable! don’t think of letting him go to spare _my_ feelings!”

Some convulsive sounds were heard at this moment from the Poet, which, on attentive consideration, were found to be “the punch--was--was too much--for him--quite--it--quite----” “Miserable man!” sternly interposed Muggle; “can you jest about it? You gave him a punch, did you? and what then?”

“It quite--quite--upset him,” continued the unhappy Schmitz, in a sort of rambling soliloquy, which was here cut short by the impatience of the Constable, and the party set forth on their return to the town.

But an unexpected character burst upon the scene and broke into a speech far more remarkable for energetic delivery than for grammatical accuracy: “I’ve only just ’erd of it--I were hasleep under table--’avin’ taken more punch than I could stand--he’s as hinnocent as I am--dead indeed! I’m more alive than you, a precious sight!”

This speech produced various effects on its hearers: the Constable calmly released his man, the bewildered Muggle muttered “Impossible! conspiracy--perjury--have it tried at assizes”: while the happy Poet rushed into the arms of his deliverer crying in a broken voice: “No, never from this hour to part. We’ll live and love so true!” a sentiment which the waiter did not echo with the cordiality that might have been expected.

Later in the day, Wilhelm and Sukie were sitting conversing with the waiter and a few friends, when the penitent Muggle suddenly entered the room, placed a folded paper on the knees of Schmitz, pronounced in a hollow tone the affecting words “be happy!” vanished, and was seen no more.

After perusing the paper, Wilhelm rose to his feet; in the excitement of the moment he was roused into unconscious and extempore verse:

“My Sukie! He hath bought, yea, Muggle’s self,
Convinced at last of deeds unjust and foul,
The licence of a vacant public-house.
We are licensed here to sell to all,
Spirits, porter, snuff, and ale!”

So we leave him: his after happiness who dare to doubt? has he not Sukie? and having her, he is content.

B. B.

THE THREE CATS[29]

A very curious thing happened to me at half-past four, yesterday. Three visitors came knocking at my door, begging me to let them in. And when I opened the door, who do you think they were?

You’ll never guess.

Why, they were three cats! Wasn’t it curious? However, they all looked so cross and disagreeable that I took up the first thing I could lay my hand on (which happened to be the rolling pin) and knocked them all down as flat as pancakes!

“If _you_ come knocking at my door,” I said, “I shall come knocking at your heads.”

That was fair, wasn’t it?

Of course I didn’t leave them lying flat on the ground, like dried flowers: no, I picked them up, and I was as kind as I could be to them. I lent them the portfolio for a bed--they wouldn’t have been comfortable in a real bed, you know: they were too thin--but they were _quite_ happy between the sheets of blotting paper--and each of them had a pen-wiper for a pillow. Well, then I went to bed: but first I lent them the three dinner-bells to ring if they wanted anything in the night.

You know I have _three_ dinner-bells--the first (which is the largest) is rung when dinner is _nearly_ ready; the second (which is rather larger) is rung when it is quite ready; and the third (which is as large as the other two put together) is rung all the time I am at dinner. And I told them they must ring if they happened to want anything. And, as they rung _all_ the bells _all_ night, I suppose they did want something or other, only I was too sleepy to attend to them.

In the morning I gave them some rat-tail jelly and buttered mice for breakfast and they were as discontented as they could be. And, do you know, when I had gone out for a walk, they got _all_ my books out of the bookcase, and opened them on the floor to be ready for me to read. They opened them at page 50, because they thought that would be a nice useful page to begin at. It was rather unfortunate, though: because they took my bottle of gum and tried to gum pictures upon the ceiling (which they thought would please me). They accidentally spilt a quantity of it all over the books. So when they were shut up and put by, the leaves all stuck together, and I can never read page 50 again in any of them!

However, they meant it very kindly, so I wasn’t angry. I gave them each a spoonful of ink as a treat; but they were ungrateful for that and made the most dreadful faces. But, of course, as it was given them for a treat, they had to drink it. One of them has turned black since: it was a white cat to begin with.

They wanted some boiled pelican, but, of course, I knew it wouldn’t be good for them. So all I said was “Go to Agnes Hughes, and if it’s _really_ good for you she’ll give you some.”

Then I shook hands with them all, and wished them good-bye, and drove them up the chimney. They seemed very sorry to go.

[29] This fascinating little fantasy ran through a series of letters which Lewis Carroll wrote to two little friends of his named Agnes and Amy Hughes. Without altering a word of the original and merely by extracting the extraneous matter, the editor has been able to reproduce the complete story, and to present what is, in effect, a new “wonder-tale” in miniature by the author of “Alice in Wonderland,” which, in his opinion, is in his best and most characteristic vein.

THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND[30]

Being a true and terrible report touching the rooms of Auckland
Castell, called Scotland, and of the things there endured by Matthew
Dixon, Chaffer, and of a certain Ladye, called Gaunless of some,
there apparent, and how that none durst in these days sleep therein
(belike through fear,) all which things fell out in ye days of Bishop
Bec, of chearfull memorie, and were writ down by mee in the Yeere One
Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty Five, in the Month February, on a
certayn Tuesday and other days.

EDGAR CUTHWELLIS.

Now the said Matthew Dixon, having fetched wares unto that place, my Loords commended the same, and bade that hee should be entertained for that night, (which in sooth hee was, supping with a grete Appetite,) and sleep in a certayn roome of that apartment now called Scotland--From whence at Midnight hee rushed forth with so grete a Screem, as awaked all men, and hastily running into those Passages, and meeting him so screeming, hee presentlie faynted away.

Whereon they hadde hym into my Loorde’s parlour, and with much ado set hym on a Chaire, wherefrom hee three several times split even to the grounde, to the grete admiration of all men.

But being stayed with divers Strong Liquors, (and, chifest, wyth Gin,) he after a whyle gave foorth in a lamentable tone these following particulars, all which were presentlie sworn to by nine painful and stout farmers, who lived hard by, which witness I will heare orderlie set downe.

Witness of Matthew Dixon, Chaffer, being in my right minde, and more than Fortie Yeeres of Age, though sore affrighted by reason of Sightes and Sounds in This Castell endured by mee, as touching the Vision of Scotland, and the Ghosts, all two of them, therein contayned, and of A certayn straunge Ladye, and of the lamentable thyngs by her uttered, with other sad tunes and songs, by her and by other Ghosts devised, and of the coldness and shakyng of my Bones (through sore grete feer,) and of other things very pleasant to knowe, cheefly of a Picture hereafter suddenlie to bee taken, and of what shall befall thereon, (as trulie foreshowne by Ghosts,) and of Darkness, with other things more terrible than Woordes, and of that which Men call Chimera.

Matthew Dixon, Chaffer, deposeth: “that hee, having supped well over Night on a Green Goose, a Pasty, and other Condiments of the Bishop’s grete bountie provided, (looking, as he spake, at my Loorde, and essaying toe pull offe hys hatte untoe hym, but missed soe doing, for that hee hadde yt not on hys hedde,) soe went untoe hys bedde, where of a long tyme hee was exercysed with sharp and horrible Dreems. That hee saw yn hys Dreem a young Ladye, habited, (not as yt seemed) yn a Gaun, but yn a certayn sorte of Wrapper, perchance a Wrap-Rascal.” (Hereon a Mayde of the House affirmed that noe Ladye woold weare such a thing, and hee answered, “I stand corrected,” and indeed rose from hys chaire, yet fayled to stand.)

Witness continued: “that ye sayde Ladye waved toe and froe a Grete Torche, whereat a thin Voyce shreeked ‘Gaunless! Gaunless!’ and Shee standyng yn the midst of the floor, a grete Chaunge befell her, her Countenance waxing ever more and more Aged, and her Hayr grayer, shee all that tyme saying yn a most sad Voyce, ‘Gaunless, now, as Ladyes bee: yet yn yeeres toe come they shall not lacke for Gauns.’ At whych her Wrapper seemed slowlie toe melte, chaunging into a gaun of sylk, which puckered up and down, yea, and flounced itself out not a lyttle”: (at thys mye Loorde, waxing impatient, smote hym roundlie onne the hedde, bydding hym finish hys tale anon.)

Witness continued: “that the sayd Gaun thenne chaunged ytself into divers fashyons whych shall hereafter bee, loopyng ytself uppe yn thys place and yn that, soe gyving toe View are pettycote of a most fiery hue, even Crimson toe looke upon, at whych dismal and blode-thirstie sight he both groned and wepte. That at the laste the skyrt swelled unto a Vastness beyond Man’s power toe tell ayded, (as hee judged,) bye Hoops, Cartwheels, Balloons, and the lyke, bearing yt uppe within. That yt fylled alle that Chamber, crushing hym flat untoe hys bedde, tylle such as she appeared toe depart, fryzzling hys Hayre with her Torche as she went.

“That hee, awakyng from such Dreems, herd thereon a Rush, and saw a Light.” (Hereon a Mayde interrupted hym, crying out that there was yndeed a Rush-Light burning yn that same room, and woulde have sayde more, but that my Loorde checkt her, and sharplie bade her stow that, meening thereby, that she shoulde holde her peece.)

Witness continued: “that being muche affrited thereat, whereby hys Bones were, (as hee sayde,) all of a dramble, hee essayed to leep from hys bedde, and soe quit. Yet tarried hee some whyle, not, as might bee thought from being stout of Harte, but rather of Bodye; whych tyme she caunted snatches of old lays, as Maister Wil Shakespeare hath yt.”

Hereon my Loorde questioned what lays, bydding hym syng the same, and saying hee knew but of two lays: “’Twas yn Trafalgar’s bay wee saw the Frenchmen lay,” and “There wee lay all that day yn the Bay of Biscay-O,” whych hee forthwyth hummed aloud, yet out of tune, at whych somme smyled.

Witness continued: “that hee perchaunce coulde chaunt the sayde lays wyth Music, but unaccompanied hee durst not.” On thys they hadde hym to the Schoolroom, where was a Musical Instrument, called a Paean-o-Forty, (meaning that yt hadde forty Notes, and was a Paean or Triumph or Art,) whereon two young ladyes, Nieces of my Loorde, that abode there, (lerning, as they deemed, Lessons; but, I wot, idlynge not a lyttle,) did wyth much thumpyng playe certyn Music wyth hys synging, as best they mighte, seeing that the Tunes were such as noe Man had herde before.

Lorenzo dwelt at Heighington,
(Hys cote was made of Dimity,)
Least-ways yf not exactly there,
Yet yn yts close proximity.
Hee called on mee--hee stayed to tee--
Yet not a word hee ut-tered,
Untyl I sayd, “D’ye lyke your bread
Dry?” and hee answered “But-tered.”

(Chorus whereyn all present joyned with fervour.)

Noodle dumb
Has a noodle-head,
I hate such noodles, I do.

Witness continued: “that shee then appeared unto hym habited yn the same loose Wrapper, whereyn hee first saw her yn hys Dreem, and yn a stayd and piercing tone gave forth her History as followeth.”

THE LADYE’S HISTORY

“On a dewie autumn evening, mighte have been seen, pacing yn the grounds harde by Aucklande Castell, a yong Ladye of a stiff and perky manner, yet not ill to look on, nay, one mighte saye, faire to a degree, save that haply that hadde been untrue.

“That yong Ladye, O miserable Man, was I” (whereon I demanded on what score shee held mee miserable, and shee replied, yt mattered not.) “I plumed myself yn those tymes on my exceeding not soe much beauty as loftiness of Figure, and gretely desired that some Painter might paint my picture; but they ever were too high, not yn skyll I trow, but yn charges.” (At thys I most humbly enquired at what charge the then Painters wrought, but shee loftily affirmed that money-matters were vulgar and that she knew not, no, nor cared.)

“Now yt chaunced that a certyn Artist, hight Lorenzo, came toe that Quarter, having wyth hym a merveillous machine called by men a Chimera (that ys, a fabulous and wholy incredible thing;) where wyth hee took manie pictures, each yn a single stroke of Tyme, whiles that a Man might name ‘John, the son of Robin’ (I asked her, what might a stroke of Tyme bee, but shee, frowning, answered not).

“He yt was that undertook my Picture: yn which I mainly required one thyng, that yt shoulde bee at full-length, for yn none other way mighte my Loftiness bee trulie set forth. Nevertheless, though hee took manie Pictures, yet all fayled yn thys: for some, beginning at the Hedde reeched not toe the Feet; others, takyng yn the Feet, yet left out the Hedde; whereof the former were a grief unto myself, and the latter a Laughing-Stocke unto others.

“At these thyngs I justly fumed, having at the first been frendly unto hym (though yn sooth hee was dull), and oft smote hym gretely on the Eares, rending from hys Hedde certyn Locks, whereat crying out hee was wont toe saye that I made hys lyfe a burden untoe hym, whych thyng I not so much doubted as highlie rejoyced yn.

“At the last hee counselled thys, that a Picture shoulde bee made, showing so much skyrt as mighte reasonably bee gotte yn, and a Notice set below toe thys effect: ‘Item, two yards and a Half Ditto, and then the Feet.’ Byt thys no Whit contented mee, and thereon I shut hym ynto the Cellar, where hee remaned three Weeks, growing dayly thinner and thinner, till at the last hee floted up and downe like a Feather.

“Now yt fell at thys tyme, as I questioned hym on a certyn Day, yf hee woulde nowe take mee at full-length, and hee replying untoe mee, yn a little moning Voyce, lyke a Gnat, one chaunced to open the Door: whereat the Draft bore hym uppe ynto a Cracke of the Cieling, and I remaned awaytyng hym, holding uppe my Torche, until such time as I also faded ynto a Ghost, yet stickyng untoe the Wall.”

Then did my Loorde and the Companie haste down ynto the Cellar, for to see thys straunge sight, to whych place when they came, my Loorde bravely drew hys sword, loudly crying “Death!” (though to whom or what he explained not); then some went yn, but the more part hung back, urging on those yn front, not soe largely bye example, as Words of cheer; yet at last all entered, my Loorde last.

Then they removed from the wall the Casks and other stuff, and founde the sayd Ghost, dredful toe relate, yet extant on the Wall, at which horrid sight such screems were raysed as yn these days are seldom or never herde; some faynted, others bye large drafts of Beer saved themselves from that Extremity, yet were they scarcely alive for Feer.

Then dyd the Layde speak unto them yn suchwise:

“Here I bee, and here I byde,
Till such tyme as yt betyde
That a Ladye of thys place,
Lyke to mee yn name and face,
(Though my name bee never known,
My initials shall bee shown,)
Shall be fotograffed aright--
Hedde and Feet bee both yn sight--
Then my face shall disappear,
Nor agayn affrite you heer.”

Then sayd Matthew Dixon unto her, “Wherefore holdest thou uppe that Torche?” to whych shee answered, “Candles Gyve Light”: but none understood her.

After thys a thyn Voyce sayd from overhedde:

“Yn the Auckland Castell cellar,
Long, long ago,
I was shut--a brisk young feller--
Woe, woe, ah woe!
To take her at full-lengthe
I never hadde the strengthe
Tempore (and soe I tell her)
Practerito!”

(Yn thys Chorus they durst none joyn, seeing that Latyn was untoe them a Tongue unknown.)

“She was hard--oh, she was cruel--
Long, long ago,
Starved mee here--not even gruel--
No, believe mee, no!--
Frae Scotland could I flee,
I’d gie my last bawbee,--
Arrah, bhoys, fair play’s a jhewel,
Lave me, darlints, goe!”

Then my Loorde, putting bye hys Sworde, (whych was layd up thereafter, yn memory of soe grete Bravery,) bade hys Butler fetch hym presentlie a Vessel of Beer, whych when yt was brought at hys nod, (nor, as hee merrily sayd, hys “nod, and Bec, and wreathed smyle,”) hee drank hugelie thereof: “for why?” quoth hee, “surely a Bec ys no longer a Bec, when yt ys Dry.”

[30] “The Legend of Scotland” was written by Lewis Carroll for the daughters of Archbishop Longley, while the latter, as Bishop of Durham, was living at Auckland Castle, and between the years 1856-1860. The legend was suggested by some markings upon the walls of a cellar in a part of the Castle which, from its remoteness and chilliness, was, and perhaps still is, called “Scotland.”

PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY

(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)

The recent extraordinary discovery in Photography, as applied to the operations of the mind, has reduced the art of novel-writing to the merest mechanical labour. We have been kindly permitted by the artist to be present during one of his experiments; but as the invention has not yet been given to the world, we are only at liberty to relate the results, suppressing all details of chemicals and manipulation.

The operator began by stating that the ideas of the feeblest intellect, when once received on properly prepared paper, could be “developed” up to any required degree of intensity. On hearing our wish that he would begin with an extreme case, he obligingly summoned a young man from an adjoining room, who appeared to be of the very weakest possible physical and mental powers. On being asked what we thought of him we candidly confessed that he seemed incapable of anything but sleep; our friend cordially assented to this opinion.

The machine being in position, and a mesmeric rapport established between the mind of the patient and the object glass, the young man was asked whether he wished to say anything; he feebly replied “Nothing.” He was then asked what he was thinking of, and the answer, as before, was “Nothing.” The artist on this pronounced him to be in a most satisfactory state, and at once commenced the operation.

After the paper had been exposed for the requisite time, it was removed and submitted to our inspection; we found it to be covered with faint and almost illegible characters. A closer scrutiny revealed the following:

“The eve was soft and dewy mild; a zephyr whispered in the lofty glade, and a few light drops of rain cooled the thirsty soil. At a slow amble, along the primrose-bordered path rode a gentle-looking and amiable youth, holding a light cane in his delicate hand; the pony moved gracefully beneath him, inhaling as it went the fragrance of the roadside flowers; the calm smile, and languid eyes, so admirably harmonising with the fair features of the rider, showed the even tenor of his thoughts. With a sweet though feeble voice, he plaintively murmured out the gentle regrets that clouded his breast:

‘Alas! she would not hear my prayer!
Yet it were rash to tear my hair;
Disfigured, I should be less fair.

‘She was unwise, I may say blind;
Once she was lovingly inclined;
Some circumstance has changed her mind.’

There was a moment’s silence; the pony stumbled over a stone in the path, and unseated his rider. A crash was heard among the dried leaves; the youth arose; a slight bruise on his left shoulder, and a disarrangement of his cravat, were the only traces that remained of this trifling accident.”

“This,” we remarked, as we returned the paper, “belongs apparently to the milk-and-water School of Novels.”

“You are quite right,” our friend replied, “and, in its present state, it is, of course, utterly unsaleable in the present day: we shall find, however, that the next stage of development will remove it into the strong-minded or Matter-of-Fact School.” After dipping it into various acids, he again submitted it to us: it had now become the following:

“The evening was of the ordinary character, barometer at ‘change’; a wind was getting up in the wood, and some rain was beginning to fall; a bad look-out for the farmers. A gentleman approached along the bridle-road, carrying a stout knobbed stick in his hand, and mounted on a serviceable nag, possibly worth some £40 or so; there was a settled business-like expression on the rider’s face, and he whistled as he rode; he seemed to be hunting for rhymes in his head, and at length repeated, in a satisfied tone, the following composition:

‘Well! so my offer was no go!
She might do worse, I told her so;
She was a fool to answer “No.”

‘However, things are as they stood;
Nor would I have her if I could,
For there are plenty more as good.’

At this moment the horse set his foot in a hole, and rolled over; his rider rose with difficulty; he had sustained several severe bruises and fractured two ribs; it was some time before he forgot that unlucky day.”

We returned this with the strongest expression of admiration, and requested that it might now be developed to the highest possible degree. Our friend readily consented, and shortly presented us with the result, which he informed us belonged to the Spasmodic or German School. We perused it with indescribable sensations of surprise and delight:

“The night was wildly tempestuous--a hurricane raved through the murky forest--furious torrents of rain lashed the groaning earth. With a headling rush--down a precipitous mountain gorge--dashed a mounted horseman armed to the teeth--his horse bounded beneath him at a mad gallop, snorting fire from its distended nostrils as it flew. The rider’s knotted brows--rolling eyeballs--and clenched teeth--expressed the intense agony of his mind--weird visions loomed upon his burning brain--while with a mad yell he poured forth the torrent of his boiling passion:

‘Firebrands and daggers! hope hath fled!
To atoms dash the doubly dead!
My brain is fire--my heart is lead!

‘Her soul is flint, and what am I?
Scorch’d by her fierce, relentless eye,
Nothingness is my destiny!’

There was a moment’s pause. Horror! his path ended in a fathomless abyss.... A rush--a flash--a crash--all was over. Three drops of blood, two teeth, and a stirrup were all that remained to tell where the wild horseman met his doom.”

The young man was now recalled to consciousness, and shown the result of the workings of his mind; he instantly fainted away.

In the present infancy of the art we forbear from further comment on this wonderful discovery; but the mind reels as it contemplates the stupendous addition thus made to the powers of science.

Our friend concluded with various minor experiments, such as working up a passage of Wordsworth into strong, sterling poetry: the same experiment was tried on a passage of Byron, at our request, but the paper came out scorched and blistered all over by the fiery epithets thus produced.

As a concluding remark: _could_ this art be applied (we put the question in the strictest confidence)--_could_ it, we ask, be applied to the speeches in Parliament? It may be but a delusion of our heated imagination, but we will still cling fondly to the idea, and hope against hope.

HINTS FOR ETIQUETTE; OR, DINING OUT
MADE EASY

(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)

As caterers for the public taste, we can conscientiously recommend this book to all diners-out who are perfectly unacquainted with the usages of society. However we may regret that our author has confined himself to warning rather than advice, we are bound in justice to say that nothing here stated will be found to contradict the habits of the best circles. The following examples exhibit a depth of penetration and a fullness of experience rarely met with:

I

In proceeding to the dining-room, the gentleman gives one arm to the lady he escorts--it is unusual to offer both.

II

The practice of taking soup with the next gentleman but one is now wisely discontinued; but the custom of asking your host his opinion of the weather immediately on the removal of the first course still prevails.

III

To use a fork with your soup, intimating at the same time to your hostess that you are reserving the spoon for the beefsteaks, is a practice wholly exploded.

IV

On meat being placed before you, there is no possible objection to your eating it, if so disposed; still, in all such delicate cases, be guided entirely by the conduct of those around you.

V

It is always allowable to ask for artichoke jelly with your boiled venison; however, there are houses where this is not supplied.

VI

The method of helping roast turkey with two carving-forks is practicable, but deficient in grace.

VII

We do not recommend the practice of eating cheese with a knife and fork in one hand, and a spoon and wine-glass in the other; there is a kind of awkwardness in the action which no amount of practice can entirely dispel.

VIII

As a general rule, do not kick the shins of the opposite gentleman under the table, if personally unacquainted with him; your pleasantry is liable to be misunderstood--a circumstance at all times unpleasant.

IX

Proposing the health of the boy in buttons immediately on the removal of the cloth is a custom springing from regard to his tender years, rather than from a strict adherence to the rules of etiquette.

A HEMISPHERICAL PROBLEM

(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)

Half of the world, or nearly so, is always in the light of the sun: as the world turns round, this hemisphere of light shifts round too, and passes over each part of it in succession.

Supposing on Tuesday, it is morning at London; in another hour it would be Tuesday morning at the west of England; if the whole world were land we might go on tracing[31] Tuesday morning, Tuesday morning all the way round, till in twenty-four hours we get to London again. But we _know_ that at London twenty-four hours after Tuesday morning it is Wednesday morning. Where, then, in its passage round the earth, does the day change its name? Where does it lose its identity?

Practically there is no difficulty in it, because a great part of the journey is over water, and what it does out at sea no one can tell: and besides there are so many different languages that it would be hopeless to attempt to trace the name of any one day all the year round. But is the case inconceivable that the same land and the same language should continue all round the world? I cannot see that it is: in that case either[32] there would be no distinction at all between each successive day, and so week, month, etc., so that we should have to say, “The Battle of Waterloo happened to-day, about two million hours ago,” or some line would have to be fixed where the change should take place, so that the inhabitants of one house would wake and say, “Heigh-ho,[33] Tuesday morning!” and the inhabitants of the next (over the line), a few miles to the west would wake a few minutes afterwards and say, “Heigh-ho! Wednesday morning!” What hopeless confusion the people who happened to live _on_ the line would be in, is not for me to say. There would be a quarrel every morning as to what the name of the day should be. I can imagine no third case, unless everybody was allowed to choose for themselves, which state of things would be rather worse than either of the other two.

I am aware that this idea has been stated before--namely, by the unknown author of that beautiful poem beginning, “If all the world were apple pie,” etc.[34] The particular result here discussed, however, does not appear to have occurred to him, as he confines himself to the difficulties in obtaining drink which would certainly ensue.

[31] The best way is to imagine yourself walking round with the sun and asking the inhabitants as you go, “What morning is this?” If you suppose them living all the way around, and all speaking one language, the difficulty is obvious.

[32] This is clearly an impossible case, and is only put as an hypothesis.

[33] The usual exclamation at waking, generally said with a yawn.

[34]

“If all the world were apple pie,
And all the sea were ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What _should_ we have to drink?”

THE TWO CLOCKS

Which is better, a clock that is right only once a year, or a clock that is right twice every day? “The latter,” you reply, “unquestionably.” Very good, now attend.

I have two clocks: one doesn’t go _at all_, and the other loses a minute a day: which would you prefer? “The losing one,” you answer, “without a doubt.” Now observe: the one which loses a minute a day has to lose twelve hours, or seven hundred and twenty minutes before it is right again, consequently it is only right once in two years, whereas the other is evidently right as often as the time it points to comes round, which happens twice a day.

So you’ve contradicted yourself _once_.

“Ah, but,” you say, “what’s the use of its being right twice a day, if I can’t tell when the time comes?”

Why, suppose the clock points to eight o’clock, don’t you see that the clock is right _at_ eight o’clock? Consequently, when eight o’clock comes round your clock is right.

“Yes, I see _that_,” you reply.

Very good, then you’ve contradicted yourself _twice_: now get out of the difficulty as best you can, and don’t contradict yourself again if you can help it.

You _might_ go on to ask, “How am I to know when eight o’clock _does_ come? My clock will not tell me.” Be patient: you know that when eight o’clock comes your clock is right very good; then your rule is this: keep your eye fixed on your clock, and _the very moment it is right_ it will be eight o’clock. “But----,” you say. There, that’ll do; the more you argue the farther you get from the point, so it will be as well to stop.

THE IDEAL MATHEMATICAL SCHOOL[35]

(From “Notes by an Oxford Chiel,” 1871)

It has occurred to me to suggest for consideration how desirable roofed buildings are for carrying on mathematical calculations: in fact, the variable character of the weather in Oxford renders it highly inexpedient to attempt much occupation, of a sedentary nature, in the open air. Again, it is often impossible to carry on accurate mathematical calculations in close contiguity to one another, owing to their mutual conversation; consequently, these processes require different rooms in which irrepressible conversationalists, who are found to occur in every branch of Society, might be carefully and permanently fixed.

It may be sufficient for the present to enumerate the following requisites--others might be added as funds permit:

A. A very large room for calculating Greatest Common Measure. To this a small one might be added for Least Common Multiple: this, however, might be dispensed with.

B. A piece of open ground for keeping Roots and practising their extraction: it would be advisable to keep Square Roots by themselves, as their corners are apt to damage others.

C. A room for reducing Fractions to their Lowest Terms. This should be provided with a cellar for keeping the Lowest Terms when found, which might also be available to the general body of Undergraduates, for the purpose of “keeping Terms.”

D. A large room, which might be darkened, and fitted up with a magic lantern, for the purpose of exhibiting circulating Decimals in the act of circulation. This might also contain cupboards, fitted with glass doors, for keeping the various Scales of Notation.

E. A narrow strip of ground, railed off and carefully levelled, for investigating the properties of Asymptotes, and testing practically whether Parallel Lines meet or not: for this purpose it should reach, to use the expressive language of Euclid, “ever so far.”

This last process of “continually producing the lines” may require centuries or more, but such a period, though long in the life of an individual, is as nothing in the life of the University.

As Photography is now very much employed in recording human expressions, and might possibly be adapted to Algebraical Expressions, a small photographic room would be desirable, both for general use and for representing the various phenomena of Gravity, Disturbance of Equilibrium, Resolution, etc., which affect the features during severe mathematical operations.

[35] This whimsical skit burlesques the contents of a letter in which the Professor of Physics at Christ Church met an offer of the Clarendon Trustees by a detailed enumeration of the requirements in his own department of Natural Science.

LOVE AND LOCI[36]

(A Mathematical Courtship)

It was a lovely Autumn evening, and the glorious effects of chromatic aberration were beginning to show themselves in the atmosphere as the earth revolved away from the great western luminary, when two lines might have been observed wending their weary way across a plain superficies. The elder of the two had, by long practice, acquired the art, so painful to young and impulsive loci, of lying evenly between her extreme points; but the younger, in her girlish impetuosity, was ever longing to diverge and become an hyperbola or some such romantic and boundless curve.

“They had lived and loved: fate and the intervening superficies had hitherto kept them asunder, but this was no longer to be: _a line had intersected them, making the two interior angles together less than two right angles_. It was a moment never to be forgotten and they journeyed on, a whisper thrilled along the superficies in isochronous waves of sound, ‘Yes! We shall at length meet, if continually produced!’” (“Jacobi’s Course of Mathematics,” Chap. I.). We have commenced with the above quotation as a striking illustration of the advantage of introducing the human element into the hitherto barren region of Mathematics. Who shall say what germs of romance, hitherto not observed, may not underlie the subject? Who can tell whether the parallelogram, which in our ignorance we have defined and drawn, and the whole of whose properties we profess to know, may not be all the while panting for exterior angles, sympathetic with the interior, or sullenly repining at the fact that it cannot be inscribed in a circle?

What mathematician has ever pondered over an hyperbola, mangling the unfortunate curve with lines of intersection here and there, in his efforts to prove some property that perhaps after all is a mere calumny, who has not fancied at last that the ill-used locus was spreading out its asymptotes as a silent rebuke, or winking one focus at him in contemptuous pity?

[36] From “The Dynamics of a Parti-cle” (1865).

MORNING DRESS AND EVENING DRESS[37]

Surely, if you go to morning parties in evening dress (which you _do_, you know), why not to evening parties in morning dress?

You will say, “What morning parties do I go to in evening dress?”

I reply, “Balls--most balls go on in the morning.”

Anyhow, I have been invited to three evening parties in London this year, in each of which “Morning Dress” was specified.

Again, doctors (not that I am a real one--only an amateur) must always be in trim for an instant summons to a patient. And when you invite a doctor to dinner (say), do you not always add “Morning Dress”? (I grant you it is done by initials in _this_ case. And perhaps you will say you don’t understand M.D. to stand for “Morning Dress”? Then take a few lessons in elementary spelling.) Aye, and many and many a time have I received invitations to evening parties wherein the actual colours of the Morning Dress expected were stated!

For instance, “Red Scarf: Vest, Pink.” That is a _very_ common form, though it is usually (I grant you) expressed by initials.

[37] From a letter to Miss Dora Abdy (1880).

KISSING BY POST[38]

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 going 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!” said he, “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.

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 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 the 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.

[38] From letters written in 1875 and 1876 to Gertrude Chataway, a little child whom he met at Sandown, Isle of Wight, and to whom he dedicated “The Hunting of the Snark.”

A BIRTHDAY WISH[39]

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!

[39] From another letter to little Gertrude Chataway (1875).

A FEW OF THE THINGS I LIKE[40]

I may as well just tell you a few of the things I like, and then whenever you want to give me a birthday present (my birthday comes once every seven years on the fifth Tuesday in April) you will know what to give me.

Well, I like _very_ much indeed, a little mustard with a bit of beef spread thinly under it; and I like brown sugar--only it should have some apple pudding mixed with it to keep it from being too sweet; but perhaps what I like best of all is salt, with some soup poured over it. The use of the soup is to hinder the salt from being too dry; and it helps to melt it. Then there are three other things I like; for instance, pins--only they should always have a cushion put round them to keep them warm. And I like two or three handfuls of hair; only they should always have a little girl’s head beneath them to grow on, or else whenever you open the door they get blown all over the room and then they get lost, you know.

[40] From a letter to Miss Jessie Sinclair, 1878.

MYSELF AND ME[41]

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 telescope and it was a face! I thought it was rather 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. 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.

[41] A letter written to a little child friend in 1875.

MY STYLE OF DANCING[42]

As to dancing, 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 Zoological Gardens, trying to dance a minuet together? It is a touching sight.

[42] From a letter, written in 1873, to Gayner Simpson, a child friend at Guildford.

GLOVES FOR KITTENS[43]

Oh, you naughty, naughty little culprit!

If only I could fly to Fulham with a handy little stick (ten feet long and four inches thick is my favourite size) how I would rap your wicked little knuckles. However, there isn’t much harm done, so I will sentence you to a very mild punishment--only one year’s imprisonment. If you’ll just tell the Fulham policeman about it, he’ll manage all the rest for you, and he’ll fit you with a nice comfortable pair of handcuffs, and lock you up in a nice cosy dark cell, and feed you on nice dry bread and delicious cold water.

But how badly you _do_ spell your words! I _was_ so puzzled about the “sack full of love and basket full of kisses!” But at last I made out why, of course, you meant “a sack full of _gloves_, and a basket full of _kittens_!”

Then I understood what you were sending me. And just then Mrs. Dyer came to tell me a large sack and a basket had come. There was such a miawing in the house, as if all the cats in Eastbourne had come to see me!

“Oh, just open them please, Mrs. Dyer, and count the things in them.”

So in a few minutes Mrs. Dyer came and said “500 pairs of gloves in the sack and 250 kittens in the basket.”

“Dear me! That makes 1,000 gloves! four times as many gloves as kittens! It’s very kind of Maggie, but why did she send so many gloves? for I haven’t got 1,000 _hands_, you know, Mrs. Dyer.”

And Mrs. Dyer said, “No, indeed, you’re 998 hands short of that.”

However, the next day I made out what to do, and I took the basket with me and walked off to the parish school--the _girls’_ school, you know--and I said to the mistress:

“How many little girls are there at school to-day?”

“Exactly 250, sir.”

“And have they all been _very_ good, all day?”

“As good as gold, sir.”

I waited outside the door with my basket, and as each little girl came out, I just popped a soft little kitten into her hands! Oh! what joy there was! The little girls went all dancing home, nursing their kittens, and the whole air was full of purring! Then, the next morning, I went to the school, before it opened, to ask the little girls how the kittens had behaved in the night. And they all arrived sobbing and crying, and their faces and hands were all covered with scratches, and they had the kittens wrapped up in their pinafores to keep them from scratching any more. And they sobbed out, “The kittens have been scratching us all night, all the night!”

So then I said to myself, “What a nice little girl Maggie is. _Now_ I see why she sent all those gloves, and why there are four times as many gloves as kittens!” And I said to the little girls, “Never mind, my dear children, do your lessons _very_ nicely, and don’t cry any more, and when school is over, you’ll find me at the door, and you shall see what you shall see!”

So, in the evening, when the little girls came running out, with the kittens still wrapped up in their pinafores, there was I, at the door, with a big sack! And, as each little girl came out, I just popped into her hand two pairs of gloves! And each little girl unrolled her pinafore and took out an angry little kitten, spitting and snarling, with its claws sticking out like a hedgehog.

But it hadn’t time to scratch for, in one moment, it found all its four claws popped into nice soft warm gloves! And then the kittens got quite sweet-tempered and gentle, and began purring again.

So the little girls went dancing home again, and the next morning they came dancing back to school. The scratches were all healed, and they told me “The kittens _have_ been good!”

“And when any kitten wants to catch a mouse, it just takes off _one_ of its gloves; and if it wants to catch two mice; it takes off _two_ gloves; and if it wants to catch _three_ mice, it takes off _three_ gloves; and if it wants to catch _four_ mice, it takes off all its gloves. But the moment they’ve caught the mice, they pop their gloves on again, because they know we can’t love them without their gloves. For, you see, ‘gloves’ have got ‘love’ _inside_ them--there’s none outside.”

So all the little girls said, “Please thank Maggie, and we send her 250 _loves_ and 1,000 kisses in return for her 250 kittens and her 1,000 gloves!”

Your loving old Uncle,
C. L. D.

Love and kisses to Nellie and Emsie.

[43] This whimsical and characteristic paper, which has never been published before, is from a letter written by Lewis Carroll on September 17, 1893, from 7, Lushington Road, Eastbourne, to Miss Maggie Bowman.

ART IN POTSDAM[44]

The amount of art lavished on the whole region of Potsdam is marvellous; some of the tops of the palaces were like forests of statues, and they were all over the gardens, set on pedestals. In fact, the two principles of Berlin architecture appear to me to be these. On the house-tops, wherever there is a convenient place, put up the figure of a man; he is best placed standing on one leg. Wherever there is room on the ground, put either a circular group of busts on pedestals, in consultation, all looking inwards--or else the colossal figure of a man killing, about to kill, or having killed (the present tense is preferred) a beast; the more pricks the beast has, the better--in fact, a dragon is the correct thing, but if that is beyond the artist, he may content himself with a lion or a pig. The beast-killing principle has been carried out everywhere with a relentless monotony, which makes some parts of Berlin look like a fossil slaughter-house.

[44] This extract from Lewis Carroll’s diary, written during his Continental tour with Dr. Liddon in 1867, although obviously not coming within the category of “Nonsense,” is so sprightly and so whimsically apposite that the editor has ventured to include it in this volume as a characteristic fragment of Lewis Carroll’s humour that ought to be preserved.

ON WAITERS

(Extracts from Mr. Dodgson’s diary during his Continental tour with Canon Liddon in the summer of 1867)

July 13th (Dover). We breakfasted, as agreed, at eight, or at least we then sat down and nibbled bread and butter till such time as the chops could be done, which great event took place at half-past. We tried pathetic appeals to the wandering waiters, who told us, “They are coming, sir,” in a soothing tone, and we tried stern remonstrance, and they then said, “They are coming, sir,” in a more injured tone; and after all such appeals they retired into their dens, and hid themselves behind sideboards and dish-covers, and still the chops came not. We agreed that of all virtues a waiter can display, that of a retiring disposition is quite the least desirable.

* * * * *

August 6th (Nijni Novgorod). We went to the Smernovaya (or some such name) Hotel, a truly villainous place, though no doubt the best in the town. The feeding was very good and everything else very bad. It was some consolation to find that as we sat at dinner we furnished a subject of the liveliest interest to six or seven waiters, all dressed in white tunics, belted at the waist, and white trousers, who ranged themselves in a row and gazed in a quite absorbed way at the collection of strange animals that were feeding before them. Now and then a twinge of conscience would seize them that they were, after all, not fulfilling the great object of life as waiters, and on these occasions they would all hurry to the end of the room, and refer to a great drawer which seemed to contain nothing but spoons and corks. When we asked for anything, they first looked at each other in an alarmed way; then, when they had ascertained which understood the order best, they all followed his example, which always was to refer to the big drawer.

September 4th (Giessen). We moved on to Giessen, and put up at the “Rappe Hotel” for the night, and ordered an early breakfast of an obliging waiter who talked English. “Coffee!” he exclaimed delightedly, catching at the word as if it were a really original idea. “Ah, coffee--very nice--and eggs? Ham with your eggs? Very nice----” “If we can have it broiled,” I said.

“Boiled?” the waiter repeated with an incredulous smile.

“No, not _boiled_,” I explained--“_broiled_!” The waiter put aside this distinction as trivial. “Yes, yes, ham,” he repeated, reverting to his favourite idea. “Yes, ham,” I said, “but how cooked?”

“Yes, yes, how cooked,” the waiter replied with the careless air of one who assents to a proposition more from good nature than from a real conviction of its truth.

LEWIS CARROLL AS A RACONTEUR[45]

An old lady I knew, once tried to check the military ardour of a little boy by showing him the picture of a battlefield and describing some of its horrors. But the only reply she got was, “I’ll be a soldier. Tell it again!”

* * * * *

Another little boy, after having listened with great attention to the story of Lot’s wife, asked innocently, “Where does the salt come from that’s not made of ladies?”

* * * * *

Dr. Paget (Dean of Christ Church) was conducting a school examination, and in the course of his questions he happened to ask a small boy the meaning of “average.” He was utterly bewildered by the reply, “The things that hens lay on,” until the youngster explained that he had read in a book that hens lay _on an average_ so many eggs a year!

Have you heard the story of the dog who was sent into the sea after sticks? He brought them back properly for a time, and then returned swimming in a curious manner, and apparently in difficulties. On closer inspection it appeared that he had caught hold of his own tail in mistake and was bringing it to land in triumph!

* * * * *

On one occasion I was walking in Oxford with Maggie Bowman,[46] then a mere child, when we met the Bishop of Oxford, to whom I introduced my little guest. His lordship asked her what she thought of Oxford, and was much amused when the little actress replied, with true professional aplomb, “I think it’s the best place in the provinces!”

THREE STORIES FROM MR. DODGSON’S DIARY

July 23, 1867 (when on holiday in Dantzig). On our way to the station we came across the grandest instance of the “Majesty of Justice” that I have ever witnessed. A little boy was being taken to the magistrate, or to prison (probably for picking a pocket). The achievement of this feat had been entrusted to two soldiers in full uniform, who were solemnly marching, one in front of the poor little urchin and one behind, with bayonets fixed, of course, to be ready to charge in case he should attempt to escape.

August, 1867 (on a visit to Kronstadt with Canon Liddon, of Oxford). Liddon had surrendered his overcoat early in the day, and we found it must be recovered from the waiting-maid, who talked only Russian, and as I had left the dictionary behind, and the little vocabulary did not contain _coat_, we were in some difficulty. Liddon began by exhibiting his coat, with much gesticulation, including the taking it half off. To our delight, she appeared to understand at once, left the room, and returned in a minute with--a large clothes brush. On this Liddon tried a further and more energetic demonstration; he took off his coat and laid it at her feet, pointed downwards (to intimate that in the lower regions was the object of his desire), smiled with an expression of the joy and gratitude with which he would receive it, and put the coat on again. Once more a gleam of intelligence lighted up the plain but expressive features of the young person; she was absent much longer this time, and when she returned, she brought, to our dismay, a large cushion and a pillow, and began to prepare the sofa for the nap that she now saw clearly was the thing the dumb gentleman wanted. A happy thought occurred to me, and I hastily drew a sketch representing Liddon, with one coat on, receiving a second and larger one from the hands of a benignant Russian peasant. The language of hieroglyphics succeeded where all other means had failed, and we returned to St. Petersburg with the humiliating knowledge that our standard of civilisation was now reduced to the level of ancient Nineveh.

* * * * *

December 17, 1895. 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![47]

* * * * *

Lewis Carroll had a nervous horror of infection that occasionally resulted in a good deal of unconscious humour. During a brief holiday which the two elder Miss Bowmans spent with him at Eastbourne, the news came that their youngest sister had caught scarlet fever. After this, the two children had to read every letter which came from their mother as best they could from the other side of the room, while their host held the epistle aloft, his head averted so that he should not see what was not intended for his eyes.

* * * * *

On the occasion of another Eastbourne visit the same little girls were taken by their friend for a steamer trip to Hastings. This was with the idea of accustoming them to sea-travelling, in view of the forthcoming professional visit of the little actresses to America. Their “rehearsal” was certainly instructive, for the sea was much rougher than at any time during their subsequent trip across the Atlantic, with the result that they suffered considerably. “Uncle Dodgson,” as they invariably called him, did his best to console them by continually repeating, “Crossing the Atlantic will be much worse than this!”

* * * * *

He (Lewis Carroll) 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!”

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

In Guildford there is (or was) an American confectioner’s, where the cakes are cooked by a very quick process before the public and handed to you smoking hot, direct from the cook. This preparation used to be a source of considerable interest to the juvenile population, who could watch the proceedings through the shop window. One afternoon, when Lewis Carroll was purchasing cakes for some of his child chums, seven small ragged youngsters formed an envious group outside. But they soon became a participatory one, for, purchasing seven of the choicest specimens of confectionery, the lover of children took them outside and distributed them to the eager little ones.

* * * * *

“My first introduction”[48] (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 stronghold 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.”

Possibly the funniest story about Lewis Carroll is the rather well-known one which relates how Queen Victoria, being charmed by “Alice in Wonderland,” and hearing that the author was really the Rev. C. L. Dodgson, ordered the rest of his works. Her surprise at receiving a large parcel of mathematical and technical works may be imagined!

[45] No book of this kind would be comprehensive without reference to Lewis Carroll’s inimitable talent as a raconteur. Stored within his mind were numberless entertaining anecdotes, some true, some invented by himself, and some he had heard. As a matter of fact, he had heard so many that he was a difficult man to tell a story to--it was sure to be familiar to him. In selecting for reproduction some of the best Lewis Carroll anecdotes--both _by_ him and _about_ him--the editor has ventured to include several which do not come within the category of “Nonsense,” but trusts that their interest will excuse this deviation from the professed plan of this work. It is recorded that Mr. Carroll (or Mr. Dodgson, to be strictly accurate when dealing with this characteristic) was an excellent after-dinner speaker, and told stories exceedingly well with an effective stutter reminiscent of Charles Lamb.

[46] Sister of Isa who so charmingly played the heroine in the stage version of “Alice,” after Miss Phœbe Carlo. The Bowman sisters were among the most intimate of Lewis Carroll’s friends.

[47] In an earlier entry in the diary Mr. Dodgson refers to the clever acting of “Kate Tyndall and Sydney Fairbrother, whom I guess to be about fifteen and twelve,” in the sensational melodrama “Two Little Vagabonds” at the Princess’s Theatre.

[48] This and the two succeeding anecdotes are from “The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll.”

A LEWIS CARROLL PROVERB[49]

Remember the old proverb, “Cross-writing makes cross-reading.”

“The _old_ proverb?” you say enquiringly. “_How_ old?” Well, not so _very_ ancient, I must confess. In fact, I invented it while writing this paragraph. Still, you know, “old” is a _comparative_ term. I think you would be _quite_ justified in addressing a chicken, just out of the shell, as “old boy!” _when compared_ with another chicken that was only half out!

[49] From “Eight or Nine Wise Words on Letter-Writing” (1888).

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

Printing errors such as partially printed letters have been silently fixed.

The footnotes have been relocated to the end of each poem or text and renumbered to better fit the ebook format.

Some images have been moved slightly within their poem or text to better fit the ebook format.

Page 45: The visual poem The Dear Gazelle has been included as an image in addition to the text to ensure the original look is preserved.

The following alterations have been made:

In _A Hemispherical Problem_: started _to_ stated
In _The Two Clocks_: come _to_ comes