CHAPTER XIV.

A TRIP WITH SYLVIE AND BRUNO.

 

Is all our life, then, but a dream,

Seen faintly in the golden gleam

Athwart Time’s dark resistless stream?

 

Bowed to the earth with bitter woe,

Or laughing at some raree-show,

We flitter idly to and fro.

 

Man’s little day in haste we spend,

And from its merry noontide send

No glance to meet the silent end.

 

 

This beautiful dedication to little Isa Bowman, on the front page of “Sylvie and Bruno,” was much prized by her on account of the double acrostic cleverly woven in the lines. The first letter of each line read downward was one way she could see her name, and the first three letters in the first line of each verse was another, but naturally the light-hearted child missed the note of deep sadness underlying the tuneful words. Lewis Carroll had reached that milestone in a man’s life, not when he pauses to look backward, but when his one desire is to press forward to the heights—to the goal. His thoughts were not so much coloured by memories of earlier years as by anticipation, even dreams of what the future might hold. Therefore, in our trip with Sylvie and Bruno into the realms of dreamland, we must bear in mind in reading the story that the man is the dreamer, and not the children, nor does he see quite through their eyes in his views of men and things. Children, as a rule, live in the present; neither the past nor the future perplexes them, and “Mister Sir,” as little Bruno called their friend, the Dreamer, looked on these fairy children, dainty Sylvie and graceful Bruno, as gleams of light in his shadowy way, little passing gleams, as elusive as they were brilliant.

The day of the irresponsible, bubbling nonsense is over; we catch flashes of it now and then, but the fun is forced, and however much of a dear Sylvie may be, and however much of a darling Bruno may be, they are not quite natural.

In a very long and very serious preface, wholly unlike his usual style, the author tells us something of the history of the book. As early as 1867 the idea of “Sylvie and Bruno” first came to him in the shape of a little fairy tale which he wrote for Aunt Judy’s Magazine, but it was not until long after the publication of “Alice Through the Looking-Glass” that he determined to turn the adventures of these fairy children into something more than stray stories. The public, at least, the insatiable children, wanted something more from him, and as the second “Alice” had been so satisfactory, he decided to venture again into the dream-world; he would not hurry about it; he would take his time; he would pluck a flower here and there as the years passed, and press it for safe-keeping; he would create something poetic and beautiful in the way of children, culled from the best of all the children he ever knew. This work should be a gem, cut and polished until its luster eclipsed all other work of his.

And so from 1874 to 1889, a period of fifteen years, he jotted down quaint fancies and bits of dialogue which he thought would work well into the story. During this interval he passed from the prime of life into serious middle age, though there was so little change in his outward living and in his general appearance (he was always very boyish-looking) that even he himself failed to recognize the gulf of time between forty-two and fifty-seven.

In this interval he had become deeply interested in the study of logic and when he began to gather together the mass of material he had collected for his book, he found so much matter which stepped outside of childish realms that he decided to please both the “grown-ups” and the youngsters by weaving it all into a story, which he accordingly did, with the result that he pleased no one. The children would not take the trouble to wade through the interwoven love story, while their elders, who from experience had expected something fresh and breezy from the pen of Lewis Carroll, who longed to get away from the world of facts and logic and deep discussions which buzzed about them, were even more sorely disappointed.

All flights of genius are short and quick. Had our author sat down when the idea of a long story first came to him, and written it off in his natural style, “Sylvie and Bruno” might have been another of the world’s classics; but he put too much thought upon it, and the chapters show most plainly where the pen was laid down and where taken up again.

But for all that the book sold well, chiefly, indeed, because it was Lewis Carroll who wrote it; though its popularity died down in a short time. About six years ago, however (1904), the enterprising publishers brought forth a new edition of the book, leaving out all the grown-up part, and bringing the fairy children right before us in all their simple loveliness. The experiment, so far as the story went, was most successful, and to those who have not a previous acquaintance with “Sylvie and Bruno” this little volume would give much more pleasure than the big two-volume original.

One of Lewis Carroll’s special objects in writing this story was a sort of tardy appreciation of the much-despised boy. In the character of Bruno he has given us a sweet little fellow, but we cannot get over the feeling that he is a girl in boy’s clothes, his bits of mischief are all so dainty and alluring; but we would like to beat him with, say, a spray of goldenrod for such a fairy child, every time he says politely and priggishly “Mister Sir” to his invisible companion. What boy was ever guilty of using such a term! The street urchin would naturally say “Mister,” but the well-bred home boy would say “Sir,” so the combination sounds absurd.

Sylvie and Bruno were supposed to be the fairies that teach children to be good, and to do this they wandered pretty well over the earth in their fairy way. Somehow we miss the real children through all their dainty play and laughter, but the pictures of the two children, by Harry Furniss, are beautiful enough to make us really believe in fairies. There is a question Lewis Carroll asks quite gravely in his book—“What is the best time for seeing Fairies?” And he answers it in truly Lewis Carroll style:

“The first rule is, that it must be a very hot day—that we may consider as settled: and you must be a little sleepy—but not too sleepy to keep your eyes open, mind. Well, and you ought to feel a little what one may call ‘fairyish’ the Scotch call it ‘eerie,’ and perhaps that’s a prettier word; if you don’t know what it means, I’m afraid I can hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a Fairy and then you’ll know.

“And the last rule is, that the crickets should not be chirping. I can’t stop to explain that; you must take it on trust for the present.

“So, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance of seeing a Fairy, or at least a much better chance than if they didn’t.”

Later on he tells us the rule about the crickets. “They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by, ... so whenever you’re walking out and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping you may be sure that they see a Fairy.”

Another dainty description is Bruno’s singing to the accompaniment of tuneful harebells, and the song was a regular serenade:

Rise, oh, rise! The daylight dies,

The owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting!

Wake, oh, wake! Beside the lake

The elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting!

Welcoming our Fairy King,

We sing, sing, sing.

 

Hear, oh, hear! From far and near

The music stealing, ting, ting, ting!

Fairy bells adorn the dells

Are merrily pealing, ting, ting, ting!

Welcoming our Fairy King,

We ring, ring, ring.

 

See, oh, see! On every tree

What lamps are shining, ting, ting, ting!

They are eyes of fiery flies

To light our dining, ting, ting, ting!

Welcoming our Fairy King,

They swing, swing, swing.

 

Haste, oh, haste, to take and taste

The dainties waiting, ting, ting, ting!

Honey-dew is stored——

But here Bruno’s song came to a sudden end and was never finished. Fairies have the oddest ways of doing things, but then Sylvie was coming through the long grass, that charming woodland child that little Bruno loved and teased.

The artist put all his skill into the drawing of this tiny maiden, skill assisted by Lewis Carroll’s own ideas of what a fairy-girl should look like, and the fact that Mr. Furniss took seven years to illustrate this book to the author’s satisfaction and his own, shows how very particular both were to get at the spirit of the story.

Indeed, the great trouble with the story is that it is all spirit; there is no real story to it, and this the keen scent of everyday children soon discovered.

But in one thing it excels: the verses are every bit as charming as either the Wonderland or Looking-Glass verses, with all the old-time delicious nonsense. Take, for instance—

THE GARDENER’S SONG.

 

He thought he saw an Albatross

That fluttered round the lamp;

He looked again, and found it was

A Penny-Postage-Stamp.

“You’d best be getting home,” he said:

“The nights are very damp!”

 

He thought he saw an Argument

That proved he was the Pope;

He looked again, and found it was

A Bar-of-Mottled-Soap.

“A fact so dread,” he faintly said,

“Extinguishes all hope!”

 

He thought he saw a Banker’s-Clerk

Descending from the Bus;

He looked again, and found it was

A Hippopotamus.

“If this should stay to dine,” he said,

“There won’t be much for us!”

 

He thought he saw a Buffalo

Upon the chimney-piece;

He looked again, and found it was

His Sister’s-Husband’s-Niece.

“Unless you leave this house,” he said,

“I’ll send for the police!”

 

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four

That stood beside his bed;

He looked again, and found it was

A Bear without a head.

“Poor thing!” he said, “poor, silly thing!

It’s waiting to be fed!”

 

He thought he saw a Garden-Door

That opened with a key;

He looked again, and found it was

A Double-Rule-of-Three.

“And all its mystery,” he said,

“Is clear as day to me!”

 

He thought he saw a Kangaroo

That worked a coffee-mill;

He looked again, and found it was

A Vegetable-Pill.

“Were I to swallow this,” he said,

“I should be very ill!”

 

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake

That questioned him in Greek;

He looked again, and found it was

The Middle-of-Next-Week.

“The one thing I regret,” he said,

“Is that it cannot speak!”

The gardener was a very remarkable person, whose time was spent raking the beds and making up extra verses to this beautiful poem; the last one ran:

He thought he saw an Elephant

That practiced on a fife;

He looked again, and found it was

A letter from his wife.

“At length I realize,” he said,

“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!