Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (285 page)

“The bitterness of Life!”

“What a wild being it was who sung these wild words!
A gardener he seemed to be, yet surely a mad one by the way he brandished his rake, madder by the way he broke ever and anon into a frantic jig, maddest of all by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza.

“It was so far a description of himself that he had the
feet
of an elephant, but the rest of him was skin and bone; and the wisps of loose straw that bristled all about him suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out.”

In “Sylvie and Bruno,” probably to a greater extent than in all his other books, are some clever caricatures of well-known people.
The two professors are certainly taken from life, probably from Oxford.
One is called “The Professor” and one “The Other Professor.”
The
Baron
, the
Vice-Warden
and
my Lady
were all too real, and as for the fat
Prince Uggug
, well, any kind feeling Lewis Carroll may have had toward boys when he fashioned
Bruno
had entirely vanished when
Prince Uggug
came upon the scene.
All the ugly, rough, ill-mannered, bad boys Lewis Carroll had ever heard of were rolled into this wretched, fat, pig of a prince; but the story of this prince proved fascinating to the
real
little royalties to whom he told it during one Christmas week at Lord Salisbury’s.
Most likely he selected this story with an object, in order to show how necessary it was that those of royal blood should behave like true princes and princesses if they would be truly loved.
Our good “don” was fond of pointing a moral now and then.
Uggug
, with all his badness, somehow appeals to the human child, far more than
Bruno
, with his baby talk and his old-man wisdom and his odd little “fay” ways.
Sylvie
was much more natural.
Bruno
, however, was a sweet little songster; it needed no urging to set him to music, and he always sang quite plainly when he had real rhymes to tackle.
One of his favorites was called:

THE BADGERS AND THE HERRINGS.

There be three Badgers on a mossy stone,

Beside a dark and covered way.

Each dreams himself a monarch on his throne,

And so they stay and stay—

Though their old Father languishes alone,

They stay, and stay, and stay.

There be three Herrings loitering around,

Longing to share that mossy seat.

Each Herring tries to sing what she has found

That makes life seem so sweet

Thus, with a grating and uncertain sound,

They bleat, and bleat, and bleat.

The Mother-Herring, on the salt sea-wave,

Sought vainly for her absent ones;

The Father-Badger, writhing in a cave,

Shrieked out, “Return, my sons!

You shall have buns,” he shrieked, “if you’ll behave!

Yea buns, and buns, and buns!”

“I fear,” said she, “your sons have gone astray.

My daughters left me while I slept.”

“Yes’m,” the Badger said, “it’s as you say.

They should be better kept.”

Thus the poor parents talked the time away,

And wept, and wept, and wept.

But the thoughtless young ones, who had wandered from home, are having a good time, a rollicking good time, for the
Herrings
sing:

Oh, dear, beyond our dearest dreams,

Fairer than all that fairest seems!

To feast the rosy hours away,

To revel in a roundelay!

How blest would be

A life so free—

Ipwergis pudding to consume

And drink the subtle Azzigoom!

And if in other days and hours,

’Mid other fluffs and other flowers,

The choice were given me how to dine—

“Name what thou wilt: it shall be thine!”

Oh, then I see

The life for me—

Ipwergis pudding to consume

And drink the subtle Azzigoom!

The Badgers did not care to talk to Fish;

They did not dote on Herrings’ songs;

They never had experienced the dish

To which that name belongs.

“And, oh, to pinch their tails” (this was their wish)

“With tongs, yea, tongs, and tongs!”

“And are not these the Fish,” the eldest sighed,

“Whose mother dwells beneath the foam?”

“They
are
the Fish!”
the second one replied,

“And they have left their home!”

“Oh, wicked Fish,” the youngest Badger cried,

“To roam, yea, roam, and roam!”

Gently the Badgers trotted to the shore—

The sandy shore that fringed the bay.

Each in his mouth a living Herring bore—

Those aged ones waxed gay.

Clear rang their voices through the ocean’s roar.

“Hooray, hooray, hooray!’”

Most of Lewis Carroll’s best nonsense rhymes abounded with all sorts of queer animals.
In earlier years he had made quite a study of natural history, so that he knew enough about the habits of the animals who figured in his verses to make humorous portraits of them.
Yet we know, apart from the earth-worms and snails of “little boy” days, he never cared to cultivate their acquaintance except in a casual way.
He was never unkind to them, and fought with all his might against vivisection (which in plain English means cutting up live animals for scientific purposes), as well as against the cruel pastime of English cross-country hunting, where one poor little fox is run to earth and torn in pieces by the savage hounds.
Big hunting, where the object was a man-eating lion or some other animal which menaced human life, he heartily approved of, but wanton cruelty he could not abide.
Yet the dog he might use every effort to save from the knife of science did not appeal to him as a pet; he preferred a nice, plump, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, ringleted little girl—if
she
liked dogs, why, very well, only none of them in
his
rooms, thank you!

These fairy children,
Sylvie
and
Bruno
, travel many leagues in the story, for good fairies must be able to go from place to place very quickly.
We find them in Elfland, and Outland, and even Dogland.

A quaint episode in this book is the loss of Queen Titania’s baby.

“We put it in a flower,” Sylvie explained, with her eyes full of tears.
“Only we can’t remember
which
!”
And there’s a real fairy hunt for the missing baby, which must have been found somewhere, for fairies are never completely lost.
All through this fairy tale move real people doing real things, acting real parts, coming often in contact with their good fairies, but parting always on the borderland, bearing with them but a memory of the beautiful children, and an echo of
Sylvie’s
song as it dies away in the distance.

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping,

That lures the bird home to her nest?

Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,

To cuddle and croon it to rest?

What’s the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,

Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?

’Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—

And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love,

For I feel it is Love,

For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,

Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?

That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearning

For the brotherly hand-grip of peace?

Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrills

Around us, beneath, and above?

’Tis a secret; none knows how it comes, how it goes;

But the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love,

For I feel it is Love,

For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,

Like a picture so fair to the sight?

That decks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,

Till the little lambs leap with delight?

’Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,

Though ’tis sung by the angels above,

In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—

And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love,

For I feel it is Love,

For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!

CHAPTER XV.

LEWIS CARROLL—MAN AND CHILD.

Love was indeed the keynote of Lewis Carroll’s life.
It was his rule, which governed everything he did, whether it was a lecture on mathematics or a “nonsense” story to a group of little girls.
It was, above all, his religion, and meant much more to him than mere church forms, though the beautiful services at Oxford always impressed him deeply.
Living as he did, apart from the stir and bustle of a great city, in a beautiful old town, full of historic associations, the heart and center of English learning, where men had time for high thoughts and high deeds, it is no wonder that his ideals should soar beyond the limits of an everyday world, and no one who watched the daily routine of this quiet, self-contained, precise “don” could imagine how the great heart beneath the student’s clerical coat craved the love of those for whom he truly cared.

Outsiders saw only a busy scholar, absorbed in his work, to all appearances somewhat of a recluse.
It is true, however, that his last busy years, devoted to a book on “Symbolic Logic,” kept him tied to his study during most of the Oxford term, and that in consequence he had little time for sociability, if he wished to complete his work.

The first part of “Symbolic Logic” was published in 1896, and although sixty-four years old at the time, his writing and his reasoning were quite as clear as in the earlier days.
He never reached the point of “going down hill.”
Everything that he undertook showed the vigorous strain in him, and though the end of his life was not far off, those who loved him were never tortured by a long and painful illness.
As he said of himself, his life had been so singularly free from the cares and worries that assail most people, the current flowed so evenly that his mental and physical health endured till the last.

In later years the tall, slim figure, the clean-shaven, delicate, refined face, the quiet, courteous, rather distant manner, were much commented upon alike by friends and strangers.
With “grown-ups” he had always the air of the absent-minded scholar, but no matter how occupied, the presence of a little girl broke down the crust of his reserve and he became immediately the sunny companion, the fascinating weaver of tales, the old, enticing Lewis Carroll.

But he was above all things what we would call “a settled old bachelor.”
He had little “ways” essentially his own, little peculiarities in which no doubt he took a secret and childish pride.
With children these were always more or less amusing.

If he was going on a railway journey, for instance, he mapped out every minute of his time; then he would calculate the amount of money to be spent, and he always carried two purses, arranging methodically the sums for cabs, porters, newspapers, refreshments, and so forth, in different partitions, so he always had the correct change and always secured the best of service.
In packing he was also very particular; everything in his trunk had to be separately wrapped up in a piece of paper, and his luggage (he probably traveled with several trunks) always preceded him by a day or so, while his only encumbrance was a well-known little black bag which he always carried himself.

In dress, he was also a trifle “odd.”
He was scrupulously neat and very scholarly in appearance, with frock coat and immaculate linen, but he never wore an overcoat no matter how cold the weather, and in all seasons he wore a pair of gray and black cotton gloves and a tall hat.

He had a horror of staring colours, especially in little girls’ dresses.
He loved pink and gray, but any child visiting him, who dared to bring with her a dress of startling hue, such as red or green or yellow, was forbidden to wear it in his company.

His appetite was unusually small, and he used to marvel at the good solid food his girl friends managed to consume.
Once, when he took a special favorite out to dine, he warned his hostess to be careful in helping her as she ate far too much.

In writing, he seldom sat down; how he managed we are not told, but most likely his desk was a high one.

He was a great walker in all winds and weather.
Sometimes he overdid it, and came home with blistered feet and aching joints, sometimes soaked to the skin when overtaken by an unexpected rain; but always elated over the distance he had traveled.
He forgot, in the sheer delight of active exercise, that he was not absolutely proof against illness, and that added years needed added care; and as we find that the many severe colds which now constantly attacked him came usually in the winter, there is every reason to believe that human imprudence weakened a very strong constitution, and that Lewis Carroll minus an overcoat meant Lewis Carroll plus a very bad cold.

On one occasion (February, 1895) he was laid up with a ten days’ attack of influenza, with very high and alarming fever.
Yet as late as December, 1897, a few weeks before his death, he boasted of sitting in his large room with no fire, an open window, and a temperature of 54°.

Another time he had a severe attack of illness which prevented him from spending his usual Christmas with his sisters at Guildford.
He was a prisoner in his room for over six weeks, but in writing to one of his beloved child friends he joked over it all, his only regret being the loss of the Christmas plum pudding.

From the time of the publication of “Alice in Wonderland” Lewis Carroll was a man of independent means; had he wished, he might have lived in great style and luxury, but being simple and unassuming in his tastes, he was content with his spacious book-lined rooms, with their air of solid, old-fashioned comfort.
The things around him, which he cared for most, were things endeared by association, from the pictures of his girl friends upon the walls to that delightful and mysterious cupboard in which generations of children had loved to rummage.

He was fond, too, of practicing little economies where one would least expect them.
In giving those enjoyable dinners of his, he kept neatly cut pieces of cardboard to slip under the plates and dishes; table mats he considered a needless luxury and a mere waste of money, while the cardboard could be renewed from time to time, with little trouble or expense.
But if he wished to buy books for himself or take some little girl pet off for a treat, he never seemed to count the cost, and he gave so generously that many a child of the old days has cause to remember.
On one occasion he found a crowd of ragamuffins surrounding the window of a shop where they were cooking cakes.
Something in the wistful glances of the little street urchins stirred him strangely as he was passing by, a little girl on either side of him.
Suddenly he darted into the shop, and before long came out, his arms piled with the freshly made cakes, which he passed around to the hungry, big-eyed little fellows, leaving the small girls inside the shop, where they could enjoy the pretty scene which stamped itself forever in their memories.

His charities were never known, save that he gave freely in many directions.
He was opposed to
lending
money, but if the case was worthy he was willing to
give
whatever was necessary, and this he did with a kindliness and grace peculiarly his own.
He was interested in hospitals, especially the children’s wards, and many a donation of books and pictures and games and puzzles found their way to these pathetic little sufferers, whose heavy hours were lightened by his thoughtfulness.
Hundreds of the “Alice” books were given in this fashion and many a generous check anonymously sent eased the pain of a great big sorrowful world of sick children.
After his death his old friends, wishing that something special should be done to honor his memory, subscribed a sum of money to endow a cot in the Children’s Hospital in Great Ormond Street.
This was called the “Alice in Wonderland” cot, and is devoted to little patients connected with the stage, in which he had always shown such an interest.

Much has been said of Lewis Carroll’s reverence for sacred things; from the days of his solemn little boyhood this was a most noticeable trait of his character.
He had, as we have seen, no “cut and dried” notions regarding religion, but he was old-fashioned in many of his ideas, and while he did not believe in making the Sabbath a day of dull, monotonous ordeal, he set it apart from other days, and made of it a beautiful day of rest.
He put from him the weekly cares and worries, brushing aside all work, and requiring others connected with him to do likewise.
He wrote to Miss E.
Gertrude Thomson, who was illustrating “The Three Sunsets”—his last collection of poems—(published in 1898), that she would oblige him greatly by making no drawings or photographs for him on a Sunday.

When he could, especially during the last years of his life, he gave a sermon, either at Guildford, Eastbourne, or at Oxford.
It was through his influence that the Sunday dinner hour at the University was changed from seven to six o’clock, in order that the servants might be able to attend services.
These he often conducted himself, and sometimes, in his direct and earnest talks, appealed to many who were hard to reach.
Above all, however, a flock of children inspired his best efforts, and the simple fact that he always practiced what he preached made his words all the more impressive.
In short, but for the impediment in his speech, he would have made a great preacher.

It was this simple, childlike faith of his that kept him always young—in touch with the youth about him.
Old age was never associated with him, and constant exercise made him as lithe and active as a boy.
There is an amusing tale of some distinguished personage who went to call on the Rev.
Mr.
Hatch, and while waiting for his host, he heard a great commotion under the dining table.
Stooping down he saw children’s legs waving frantically below, and, diving down himself to join the fun, he came face to face with Lewis Carroll, who had been the foundation of this animated, wriggling mass.

On another occasion Lewis Carroll went to call upon a friend, and finding her out, was about to turn away, when the maid, who had come from the front door to answer the bell at the gate, gave a startled cry—for the door had blown shut, and she was locked out of the house.
Lewis Carroll was, as usual, equal to the occasion; he borrowed a ladder from some kind neighbor, climbed in at the drawing-room window, and after performing numerous acrobatic feats of the “small boy” type, managed to open the front door for the anxious maid.

His constant association with children made his activity in many ways equal to theirs.
He certainly could outwalk them, for eighteen to twenty miles could not daunt him, and many a small girl who was brave enough to accompany him on what he called “a short walk” had tired feet and aching joints when the walk was over.

On December 23, 1897, he made ready for his yearly visit to Guildford, where he spent the usual happy Christmas, but in the early part of the New Year a slight hoarseness heralded the return of his old enemy—influenza.
At first there seemed to be nothing alarming in his illness, but the disease spread very rapidly.
The labored breathing, the short, painful gasps, quickly sapped his strength.
On January 14, 1898, before his anxious family could quite realize it, the blow had fallen; the life which had meant so much to them, to everyone, went out, as Lewis Carroll folded his hands, closed his eyes, and said with that unquestioning faith, which had been his mainstay through the years: “Father, Thy will be done!”

Through the land there was mourning.
Countless children bowed their sunny heads as the storm of grief passed over them, and it seemed as if, during the quiet funeral, a hush had come upon the world.
They laid him to rest beneath the shadow of a tall pine, and a pure white cross bearing his own name and the name of “Lewis Carroll” rose to mark the spot, that the children who passed by might never forget their friend.

It seems, indeed, now that the years have passed, that the Angel of Death was very gentle with this fair soul.
After all, does he not live in the happy fun and laughter he has left behind him, and will not the coming generations of children find in the wonder tales the same fascination that held the children of long ago?
While childhood lasts on earth, while the memory of him lives in millions of childish hearts, Lewis Carroll can never die.

THE END.