CHAPTER X.

“HUNTING THE SNARK” AND OTHER POEMS.

 

There is no doubt that the second “Alice” book was quite as successful as the first, but regarding its merit there is much difference of opinion. As a rule the “grown-ups” prefer it. They like the clever situations and the quaint logic, no less than the very evident good writing; but this of course did not influence the children in the least. They liked “Alice” and the pretty idea of her trip through the Looking-Glass, but for real delight “Wonderland” was big enough for them, and to whisk down into a rabbit-hole on a summer’s day was a much easier process than squeezing through a looking-glass at the close of a short winter’s afternoon, not being quite sure that one would not fall into the fire on the other side.

The very care that Lewis Carroll took in the writing of this book deprived it of a certain charm of originality which always clings to the pages of “Wonderland.” Each chapter is so methodically planned and so well carried out that, while we never lose sight of the author and his cleverness, fairyland does not seem quite so real as in the book which was written with no plan at all, but the earnest desire to please three children. Then again there was a certain staidness in the prim little girl who pushed her way through the Looking-Glass. And there were no wonderful cakes marked “eat me,” and bottles marked “drink me,” which kept the Wonderland Alice in a perpetual state of growing or shrinking; so the fact that nothing happened to Alice at all during this second journey lessened its interest somewhat for the young ones to whom constant change is the spice of life. A very little girl, while she might enjoy the flower chapter, and might be tempted to build her own fanciful tales about the rest of the garden, would not be so attracted toward the insect chapter, which may possibly have been written with the praiseworthy idea of teaching children not to be afraid of these harmless buzzing things that are too busy with their own concerns to bother them.

There are, in truth, little “cut and dried” speeches in the Looking-Glass “Alice,” which we do not find in “Wonderland.” A real hand is moving the Chessman over the giant board, and the Red and the White Queen often speak like automatic toys. We miss the savage “off with his head” of the Queen of Hearts, who, for all her cardboard stiffness, seemed a thing of flesh and blood. But the poetry in the two “Alices” is of very much the same quality.

In his prose “nonsense” anyone might notice the difference of years between the two books, but Lewis Carroll’s poetry never loses its youthful tone. It was as easy for him to write verses as to teach mathematics, and that was saying a good deal. It was as easy for him to write verses at sixty as at thirty, and that is saying even more. From the time he could hold a pencil he could make a rhyme, and his earlier editorial ventures, as we know, were full of his own work which in after years made its way to the public, either through the magazines or in collection of poems, such as “Rhyme and Reason,” “Phantasmagoria,” and “The Three Sunsets.”

In The Train, that early English magazine before mentioned, are several poems written by him and signed by his newly borrowed name of Lewis Carroll, but they are very sentimental and high-flown, utterly unlike anything he wrote either before or after.

Between the publication of “Through the Looking-Glass” and “The Hunting of the Snark” was a period of five years, during which, according to his usual custom, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, in the seclusion of Christ Church, calmly pursued his scholarly way, smiling sedately over the literary antics of Lewis Carroll, for the Rev. Charles was a sober, over-serious bachelor, whose one aim and object at that time was the proper treatment of Euclid, for during those five years he wrote the following pamphlets: “Symbols, etc., to be used in Euclid—Books I and II,” “Number of Propositions in Euclid,” “Enunciations—Euclid I-VI,” “Euclid—Book V. Proved Algebraically,” “Preliminary Algebra and Euclid—Book V,” “Examples in Arithmetic,” “Euclid—Books I and II.”

He also wrote many other valuable pamphlets concerning the government of Oxford and of Christ Church in particular, for the retiring “don” took a keen interest in the University life, and his influence was felt in many spicy articles and apt rhymes, usually brought forth as timely skits. Notes by an Oxford Chiel, published at Oxford in 1874, included much of this material, where his clever verses, mostly satirical, generally hit the mark.

And all this while, Lewis Carroll was gathering in the harvest yielded by the two “Alices,” and planning more books for his child-friends, who, we may be sure, were growing in numbers.

We find him at the Christmas celebration of 1874, at Hatfield, the home of Lord Salisbury, as usual, the central figure of a crowd of happy children. On this occasion he told them the story of Prince Uggug, which was afterwards a part of “Sylvie and Bruno.” Many of the chapters of this book had been published as separate stories in Aunt Judy’s Magazine and other periodicals, and, as such, they were very sweet and dainty as well as amusing. It was Lewis Carroll’s own special charm in telling these stories which really lent them colour and drew the children; they lost much in print, for they lacked the sturdy foundations of nonsense on which the “Alices” were built.

On March 29, 1876, “The Hunting of the Snark” was published, a new effort in “nonsense” verse-making, which stands side by side with “Jabberwocky” in point of cleverness and interest.

The beauty of Lewis Carroll’s “nonsense” was that he never tried to be funny or “smart.” The queer words and the still queerer ideas popped into his head in the simplest way. His command of language, including that important knowledge of how to make “portmanteau” words, was his greatest aid, and the poem which he called “An Agony in Eight Fits” depends entirely upon the person who reads it for the cleverness of its meaning. To children it is one big fairy tale where the more ridiculous the situations, the more true to the rules of fairyland. The Snark, being a “portmanteau” word, is a cross between a snake and a shark, hence Snark, and the fact that he dedicated this wonderful bit of word-making to a little girl, goes far to prove that the poem was intended as much for children as for “grown-ups.”

The little girl in this instance was Gertrude Chataway, and the verses are an acrostic on her name:

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,

Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well

Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask

The tale he loves to tell.

 

Rude spirit of the seething outer strife,

Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,

Deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life,

Empty of all delight!

 

Chat on, sweet maid, and rescue from annoy,

Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled;

Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,

The heart-love of a child!

 

Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!

Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days,

Albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore

Yet haunt my dreaming gaze!

There was scarcely a little girl who claimed friendship with Lewis Carroll who was not the proud possessor of an acrostic poem written by him—either on the title-page of some book that he had given her, or as the dedication of some published book of his own.

“The Hunting of the Snark” owed its existence to a country walk, when the last verse came suddenly into the mind of our poet:

“In the midst of the word he was trying to say,

In the midst of his laughter and glee,

He had softly and suddenly vanished away—

For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.”

In a very humorous preface to the book, Lewis Carroll attempted some sort of an explanation, which leaves us as much in the dark as ever. He writes:

“If—and the thing is wildly possible—the charge of writing nonsense was ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line:

“‘Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes.’

“In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed; I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral purpose of the poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in Natural History. I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened.

“The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished; and more than once it happened, when the time came for replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged to. They knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the Bellman about it—he would only refer to his Naval Code and read out in pathetic tones Admiralty Instructions which none of them had ever been able to understand, so it generally ended in its being fastened on anyhow across the rudder. The Helmsman used to stand by with tears in his eyes; he knew it was all wrong, but, alas! Rule 4, of the Code, ‘No one shall speak to the man at the helm,’ had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words, ‘and the man at the helm shall speak to no one,’ so remonstrance was impossible and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backward.”

Is it any wonder that a poem, based upon such an explanation, should be a perfect bundle of nonsense? But we know from experience that Lewis Carroll’s nonsense was not stupidity, and that not one verse in all that delightful bundle missed its own special meaning and purpose.

We do not propose to find the key to this remarkable work—for two reasons: first, because there are different keys for different minds; and second, because the unexplainable things in many cases come nearer the “mind’s eye,” as Shakespeare calls it, without words. We cannot tell why we understand such and such a thing, but we do understand it, and that is enough—quite according to Lewis Carroll’s ideas, for he always appeals to our imagination and that is never guided by rules. The higher it soars, the more fantastic the region over which it hovers, the nearer it gets to the land of “make believe,” “let’s pretend” and “supposing,” the better pleased is Lewis Carroll. In a delightful letter to some American children, published in The Critic shortly after his death, he gives his own ideas as to the meaning of the Snark.

“I’m very much afraid I didn’t mean anything but nonsense,” he wrote; “still you know words mean more than we mean to express when we use them, so a whole book ought to mean a great deal more than the writer means. So whatever good meanings are in the book, I shall be glad to accept as the meaning of the book. The best that I’ve seen is by a lady (she published it in a letter to a newspaper) that the whole book is an allegory on the search after happiness. I think this fits beautifully in many ways, particularly about the bathing machines; when people get weary of life, and can’t find happiness in towns or in books, then they rush off to the seaside to see what bathing machines will do for them.”

Taking this idea for the foundation of the poem, it is easy to explain Fit the First, better named The Landing, though where they landed it is almost impossible to say.

“Just the place for a Snark,” the Bellman cried, and, as he stated this fact three distinct times, it was undoubtedly true. That was the Bellman’s rule—once was uncertain, twice was possible, three times was “dead sure.” And the Bellman being a person of some authority, ought to have known. The crew consisted of a Boots, a Maker of Bonnets and Hoods, a Barrister, a Broker, a Billiard-marker, a Banker, a Beaver, a Butcher, and a nameless being who passed for the Baker, and who, in the end, turned out to be the luckless victim of the Snark. He is thus beautifully described:

 “There was one who was famed for a number of things

He forgot when he entered the ship:

His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,

And the clothes he had brought for the trip.

 

“He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,

With his name painted clearly on each:

But, since he omitted to mention the fact,

They were all left behind on the beach.

 

“The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because

He had seven coats on when he came,

With three pair of boots—but the worst of it was,

He had wholly forgotten his name.

 

“He would answer to ‘Hi!’ or to any loud cry,

Such as ‘Fry me!’ or ‘Fritter my wig!’

To ‘What-you-may-call-um!’ or ‘What-was-his-name!’

But especially ‘Thing-um-a-jig!’

 

“While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,

He had different names from these:

His intimate friends called him ‘Candle-ends,’

And his enemies ‘Toasted-cheese.’

 

“‘His form is ungainly, his intellect small’

(So the Bellman would often remark);

‘But his courage is perfect! and that, after all,

Is the thing that one needs with a Snark.’

 

“He would joke with hyenas, returning their stare

With an impudent wag of the head:

And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw with a bear,

‘Just to keep up its spirits,’ he said.

 

“He came as a Baker: but owned when too late—

And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad—

He could only bake Bride-cake, for which I may state,

No materials were to be had.”

Notice how ingeniously the actors in this drama are introduced; all the “B’s,” as it were, buzzing after the phantom of happiness, which eludes them, no matter how hard they struggle to find it. Notice, too, that all these beings are unmarried, a fact shown by the Baker not being able to make a bride-cake as there are no materials on hand. All these creatures, while hunting for happiness, came to prey upon each other. The Butcher only killed Beavers, the Barrister was hunting among his fellow sailors for a good legal case. The Banker took charge of all their cash, for it certainly takes money to hunt properly for a Snark, and it is a well-known fact that bankers need all the money they can get.

Fit the Second describes the Bellman and why he had such influence with his crew:

The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies:

Such a carriage, such ease, and such grace!

Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise,

The moment one looked in his face!

 

He had bought a large map representing the sea,

Without the least vestige of land:

And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be

A map they could all understand.

 

“What’s the good of Mercator’s North Poles and Equators,

Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?”

So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply,

“They are merely conventional signs!”

 

“Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!

But we’ve got our brave Captain to thank”

(So the crew would protest), “that he’s bought us the best—

A perfect and absolute blank!”

And true enough, the Bellman’s idea of the ocean was a big square basin, with the latitude and longitude carefully written out on the margin. They found, however, that their “brave Captain” knew very little about navigation, he—

“Had only one notion for crossing the ocean,

And that was to tingle his bell.”

He thought nothing of telling his crew to steer starboard and larboard at the same time, and then we know how—

The bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes.

“A thing,” as the Bellman remarked,

“That frequently happens in tropical climes,

When a vessel is, so to speak, ‘snarked.’”

The Bellman had hoped, when the wind blew toward the east, that the ship would not travel toward the west, but it seems that with all his nautical knowledge he could not prevent it; ships are perverse animals!

“But the danger was past—they had landed at last,

With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags:

Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view,

Which consisted of chasms and crags.”

Now that they had reached the land of the Snark, the Bellman proceeded to air his knowledge on that subject.

“A snark,” he said, “had five unmistakable traits—its taste, ‘meager and mellow and crisp,’ its habit of getting up late, its slowness in taking a jest, its fondness for bathing machines, and, fifth and lastly, its ambition.” He further informed the crew that “the snarks that had feathers could bite, and those that had whiskers could scratch,” adding as an afterthought:

“‘For although common Snarks do no manner of harm,

Yet I feel it my duty to say,

Some are Boojums—’ The Bellman broke off in alarm,

For the Baker had fainted away.”

Fit the Third was the Baker’s tale.

“They roused him with muffins, they roused him with ice,

They roused him with mustard and cress,

They roused him with jam and judicious advice,

They set him conundrums to guess.”

Then he explained why it was that the name “Boojum” made him faint. It seems that a dear uncle, after whom he was named, gave him some wholesome advice about the way to hunt a snark, and this uncle seemed to be a man of much influence:

“‘You may seek it with thimbles, and seek it with care;

You may hunt it with forks and hope;

You may threaten its life with a railway-share;

You may charm it with smiles and soap——’”

 

“‘That’s exactly the method,’ the Bellman bold

In a hasty parenthesis cried,

‘That’s exactly the way I have always been told

That the capture of Snarks should be tried!’”

 

“‘But, oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,

If your Snark be a Boojum! For then

You will softly and suddenly vanish away,

And never be met with again!’”

This of course was a very sad thing to think of, for the man with no name, who was named after his uncle, and called in courtesy the Baker, had grown to be a great favorite with the crew; but they had no time to waste in sentiment—they were in the Snark’s own land, they had the Bellman’s orders in Fit the Fourth—the Hunting:

“To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care;

To pursue it with forks and hope;

To threaten its life with a railway share;

To charm it with smiles and soap!

 

“For the Snark’s a peculiar creature, that won’t

Be caught in a commonplace way.

Do all that you know, and try all that you don’t:

Not a chance must be wasted to-day!”

Then they all went to work according to their own special way, just as we would do now in our hunt for happiness through the chasms and crags of every day.

Fit the Fifth is the Beaver’s Lesson, when the Butcher discourses wisely on arithmetic and natural history, two subjects a butcher should know pretty thoroughly, and this is proved:

“While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks

More eloquent even than tears,

It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books

Would have taught it in seventy years.”

The Barrister’s Dream occupied Fit the Sixth, and here our poet’s keen wit gave many a slap at the law and the lawyers.

The Banker’s Fate in Fit the Seventh was sad enough; he was grabbed by the Bandersnatch (that “frumious” “portmanteau” creature that we met before in the Lay of the Jabberwocky) and worried and tossed about until he completely lost his senses. Some bankers are that way in the pursuit of fortune, which means happiness to them; but fortune may turn, like the Bandersnatch, and shake their minds out of their bodies, and so they left this Banker to his fate. That is the way of people when bankers are in trouble, because they were reckless and not always careful to

“Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch.”

Fit the Eighth treats of the vanishing of the Baker according to the prediction of his prophetic uncle. All day long the eager searchers had hunted in vain, but just at the close of the day they heard a shout in the distance and beheld their Baker “erect and sublime” on top of a crag, waving his arms and shouting wildly; then before their startled and horrified gaze, he plunged into a chasm and disappeared forever.

“‘It’s a Snark!’ was the sound that first came to their ears.

And seemed almost too good to be true.

Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers,

Then the ominous words, ‘It’s a Boo——’

 

“Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air

A weary and wandering sigh

That sounded like ‘jum!’ but the others declare

It was only a breeze that went by.

 

“They hunted till darkness came on, but they found

Not a button, or feather, or mark

By which they could tell that they stood on the ground

Where the Baker had met with the Snark.

 

“In the midst of the word he was trying to say,

In the midst of his laughter and glee,

He had softly and suddenly vanished away—

For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.”

What became of the Bellman and his crew is left to our imagination. Perhaps the Baker’s fate was a warning, or perhaps they are still hunting—not too close to the chasm. Lewis Carroll, always so particular about proper endings, refuses any explanation. The fact that this special Snark was a “Boojum” altered all the rules of the hunt. Nobody knows what it is, but all the same nobody wishes to meet a “Boojum.” That’s all there is about it.

“Now how absurd to talk such nonsense!” some learned school girl may exclaim; undoubtedly one who has high ideals about life and literature. But is it nonsense we are talking, and does the quaint poem really teach us nothing? Anything which brings a picture to the mind must surely have some merit, and there is much homely common sense wrapped up in the queer verses if we have but the wit to find it, and no one is too young nor too old to join in this hunt for happiness.

Read the poem over and over, put expression and feeling into it, treat the Bellman and his strange crew as if they were real human beings—there’s a lot of the human in them after all—and see if new ideas and new meanings do not pop into your head with each reading, while the verses, all unconsciously, will stick in your memory, where Tennyson or Wordsworth or even Shakespeare fails to hold a place there.

Of course, Lewis Carroll’s own especial girlfriends understood “The Hunting of the Snark” better than the less favored “outsiders.” First of all there was Lewis Carroll himself to read it to them in his own expressive way, his pleasant voice sinking impressively at exciting moments, and his clear explanation of each “portmanteau” word helping along wonderfully. We can fancy the gleam of fun in the blue eyes, the sweep of his hand across his hair, the sudden sweet smile with which he pointed his jests or clothed his moral, as the case might be. Indeed, one little girl was so fascinated with the poem which he sent her as a gift that she learned the whole of it by heart, and insisted on repeating it during a long country drive.

“The Hunting of the Snark” created quite a sensation among his friends. The first edition was finely illustrated by Henry Holiday, whose clever drawings show how well he understood the poem, and what sympathy existed between himself and the author.

“Phantasmagoria,” his ghost poem, deals with the friendly relations always existing between ghosts and the people they are supposed to haunt; a whimsical idea, carried out in Lewis Carroll’s whimsical way, with lots of fun and a good deal of simple philosophy worked out in the verses. One canto is particularly amusing. Here are some of the verses:

Oh, when I was a little Ghost,

A merry time had we!

Each seated on his favorite post,

We chumped and chawed the buttered toast

They gave us for our tea.

 

“That story is in print!” I cried.

“Don’t say it’s not, because

It’s known as well as Bradshaw’s Guide!”

(The Ghost uneasily replied

He hardly thought it was.)

 

It’s not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet

I almost think it is—

“Three little Ghostesses” were set

“On postesses,” you know, and ate

Their “buttered toastesses.”

“The Three Voices,” his next ambitious poem, is rather out of the realm of childhood. A weak-minded man and a strong-minded lady met on the seashore, she having rescued his hat from the antics of a playful breeze by pinning it down on the sands with her umbrella, right through the center of the soft crown. When she handed it to him in its battered state, he was scarcely as grateful as he might have been—he was rude, in fact,

For it had lost its shape and shine,

And it had cost him four-and-nine,

And he was going out to dine.

 

“To dine!” she sneered in acid tone.

“To bend thy being to a bone

Clothed in a radiance not its own!”

 

“Term it not ‘radiance,’” said he:

“’Tis solid nutriment to me.

Dinner is Dinner: Tea is Tea.”

 

And she “Yea so? Yet wherefore cease?

Let thy scant knowledge find increase.

Say ‘Men are Men, and Geese are Geese.’”

The gentleman wanted to get away from this severe lady, but he could see no escape, for she was getting excited.

“To dine!” she shrieked, in dragon-wrath.

“To swallow wines all foam and froth!

To simper at a tablecloth!

 

“Canst thou desire or pie or puff?

Thy well-bred manners were enough,

Without such gross material stuff.”

 

“Yet well-bred men,” he faintly said,

“Are not unwilling to be fed:

Nor are they well without the bread.”

 

Her visage scorched him ere she spoke;

“There are,” she said, “a kind of folk

Who have no horror of a joke.

 

“Such wretches live: they take their share

Of common earth and common air:

We come across them here and there.”

 

“We grant them—there is no escape—

A sort of semihuman shape

Suggestive of the manlike Ape.”

So the arguing went on—her Voice, his Voice, and the Voice of the Sea. He tried to joke away her solemn mood with a pun.

“The world is but a Thought,” said he:

“The vast, unfathomable sea

Is but a Notion—unto me.”

 

And darkly fell her answer dread

Upon his unresisting head,

Like half a hundredweight of lead.

 

“The Good and Great must ever shun

That reckless and abandoned one

Who stoops to perpetrate a pun.

 

“The man that smokes—that reads the Times

That goes to Christmas Pantomimes—

Is capable of any crimes!”

Anyone can understand these verses, but it is very plain that the poem is a satire on the rise of the learned lady, who takes no interest in the lighter, pleasanter side of life; a being much detested by Lewis Carroll, who above all things loved a “womanly woman.” As he grew older he became somewhat precise and old-fashioned in his opinions—that is perhaps the reason why he was so lovable. His ideals of womanhood and little girlhood were fixed and beautiful dreams, untouched by the rush of the times. The “new woman” puzzled and pained him quite as much as the pert, precocious, up-to-date girl. Would there were more Lewis Carrolls in the world; quiet, simple, old-fashioned, courteous gentlemen with ideals!

Here is a clever little poem dedicated to girls, which he calls

A GAME OF FIVES.

 

Five little girls, of five, four, three, two, one:

Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.

 

Five rosy girls, in years from ten to six:

Sitting down to lessons—no more time for tricks.

 

Five growing girls, from fifteen to eleven:

Music, drawing, languages, and food enough for seven!

 

Five winsome girls, from twenty to sixteen:

Each young man that calls I say, “Now tell me which you mean!”

 

Five dashing girls, the youngest twenty-one:

But if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?

 

Five showy girls—but thirty is an age

When girls may be engaging, but they somehow don’t engage.

 

Five dressy girls, of thirty-one or more:

So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!

 

Five passé girls. Their age? Well, never mind!

We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:

But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think he knows

The answer to that ancient problem “how the money goes!”

There was no theme, in short, that Lewis Carroll did not fit into a rhyme or a poem. Some of them were full of real feeling, others were sparkling with nonsense, but all had their charm. No style nor meter daunted him; no poet was too great for his clever pen to parody; no ode was too heroic for a little earthly fun; and when the measure was rollicking the rhymer was at his best. Of this last, Alice’s invitation to the Looking-Glass world is a fair example:

To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said,

“I’ve a scepter in hand, I’ve a crown on my head.

Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be,

Come and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”

 

Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,

And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran;

Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea,

And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!

 

“O Looking-Glass creatures,” quoth Alice, “draw near!

’Tis an honor to see me, a favor to hear;

’Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea

Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”

 

Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink,

Or anything else that is pleasant to drink;

Mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine,

And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!

The real sentiment always cropped out in his verses to little girls; from youth to age he was their “good knight and true” and all his fairest thoughts were kept for them. Many a grown woman has carefully hoarded among her treasures some bit of verse from Lewis Carroll, which her happy childhood inspired him to write; but the dedication of “Alice through the Looking-Glass” was to the unknown child, whom his book went forth to please:

Child of the pure, unclouded brow

And dreaming eyes of wonder!

Though time be fleet, and I and thou

Are half a life asunder,

Thy loving smile will surely hail

The love-gift of a fairy tale.

 

I have not seen thy sunny face,

Nor heard thy silver laughter:

No thought of me shall find a place

In thy young life’s hereafter,

Enough that now thou wilt not fail

To listen to my fairy tale.

 

A tale begun in other days,

When summer suns were glowing,

A simple chime, that served to time

The rhythm of our rowing,

Whose echoes live in memory yet,

Though envious years would say “forget.”

 

Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,

With bitter tidings laden,

Shall summon to unwelcome bed

A melancholy maiden!

We are but older children, dear,

Who fret to find our bedtime near.

 

Without, the frost, the blinding snow,

The storm-wind’s moody madness;

Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,

And childhood’s nest of gladness.

The magic words shall hold thee fast;

Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

 

And though the shadow of a sigh

May tremble through the story,

For “happy summer days” gone by

And vanished summer glory,

It shall not touch, with breath of bale,

The pleasance of our fairy tale.

These are only a meager handful of his many poems. Through his life this gift stayed with him, with all its early spirit and freshness; the added years but added grace and lightness to his touch, for in the “Story of Sylvie and Bruno” there are some gems: but that is another chapter and we shall hear them later.

And so the years passed, and the writer of the “Alices” and the “Jabberwocky” and “The Hunting of the Snark” and other poems fastened himself slowly but surely into the loyal hearts of his many readers, and the grave mathematical lecturer of Christ Church seemed just a trifle older and graver than of yore. He was very reserved, very shy, and kept somewhat aloof from his fellow “dons”; but let a little girl tap ever so faintly at his study door, the knock was heard, the door flung wide, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson vanished into some inner sanctum, and Lewis Carroll stood smiling on the threshold to welcome her with open arms.