===== The Hunting of the Snark ===== The Hunting of the Snark An Agony in Eight Fits by Lewis Carroll With nine illustrations by Henry Holiday modified from eBooks@Adelaide 2007 2009-01-20, Götz Kluge added: Easter Greeting, Carroll's dedication to Gertrude Chataway, line numbering and better images. Last update: 2019-02-12. This is a mirrored and modified web edition of a file which originally has been published by eBooks@Adelaide. Rendered into HTML by Steve Thomas. Last updated Sat Jan 13 17:38:15 2007. Creative Commons Licence This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Licence (available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.5/au/). 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This modified work is available at //snrk.de/snarkhunt/ (Modifications: Carroll's dedication to Gertrude Chataway, Easter Greeting Source of original file: eBooks@Adelaide The University of Adelaide Library University of Adelaide South Australia 5005 Table of Contents EASTER GREETING DEDICATION PREFACE Fit the First THE LANDING Fit the Second THE BELLMAN’S SPEECH Fit the Third THE BAKER’S TALE Fit the fourth THE HUNTING Fit the Fifth THE BEAVER’S LESSON Fit the Sixth THE BARRISTER’S DREAM Fit the Seventh THE BANKER’S FATE Fit the Eighth THE VANISHING AN EASTER GREETING TO EVERY CHILD WHO LOVES "Alice" DEAR CHILD, Please to fancy, if you can, that you are reading a real letter, from a real friend whom you have seen, and whose voice you can seem to yourself to hear wishing you, as I do now with all my heart, a happy Easter. Do you know that delicious dreamy feeling when one first wakes on a summer morning, with the twitter of birds in the air, and the fresh breeze coming in at the open window—when, lying lazily with eyes half shut, one sees as in a dream green boughs waving, or waters rippling in a golden light? It is a pleasure very near to sadness, bringing tears to one's eyes like a beautiful picture or poem. And is not that a Mother's gentle hand that undraws your curtains, and a Mother's sweet voice that summons you to rise? To rise and forget, in the bright sunlight, the ugly dreams that frightened you so when all was dark—to rise and enjoy another happy day, first kneeling to thank that unseen Friend, who sends you the beautiful sun? Are these strange words from a writer of such tales as "Alice"? And is this a strange letter to find in a book of nonsense? It may be so. Some perhaps may blame me for thus mixing together things grave and gay; others may smile and think it odd that any one should speak of solemn things at all, except in church and on a Sunday: but I think—nay, I am sure—that some children will read this gently and lovingly, and in the spirit in which I have written it. For I do not believe God means us thus to divide life into two halves—to wear a grave face on Sunday, and to think it out-of-place to even so much as mention Him on a week-day. Do you think He cares to see only kneeling figures, and to hear only tones of prayer—and that He does not also love to see the lambs leaping in the sunlight, and to hear the merry voices of the children, as they roll among the hay? Surely their innocent laughter is as sweet in His ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from the "dim religious light" of some solemn cathedral? And if I have written anything to add to those stores of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the children I love so well, it is surely something I may hope to look back upon without shame and sorrow (as how much of life must then be recalled!) when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows. This Easter sun will rise on you, dear child, feeling your "life in every limb," and eager to rush out into the fresh morning air—and many an Easter-day will come and go, before it finds you feeble and gray-headed, creeping wearily out to bask once more in the sunlight—but it is good, even now, to think sometimes of that great morning when the "Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings." Surely your gladness need not be the less for the thought that you will one day see a brighter dawn than this—when lovelier sights will meet your eyes than any waving trees or rippling waters—when angel-hands shall undraw your curtains, and sweeter tones than ever loving Mother breathed shall wake you to a new and glorious day—and when all the sadness, and the sin, that darkened life on this little earth, shall be forgotten like the dreams of a night that is past! Your affectionate friend, LEWIS CARROLL. EASTER, 1876. Inscribed to a dear Child: in memory of golden summer hours and whispers of a summer sea Girt with a boyish garb for a boyish task, Eager she wields her spade: yet loves a well Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask The tale he loves to tell. Ruse spirits 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! PREFACE If—and the thing is wildly possible—the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p.4) “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 this 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 it more than once 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 helmsman1 used to stand by with tears in his eyes; he knew it was all wrong, but alas! Rule 42 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 backwards. 1 This office was usually undertaken by the Boots, who found in it a refuge from the Baker’s constant complaints about the insufficient blacking of his three pairs of boots. As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the Jabberwock, let me take this opportunity of answering a question that has often been asked me, how to pronounce “slithy toves.” The “i” in “slithy” is long, as in “writhe”; and “toves” is pronounced so as to rhyme with “groves.” Again, the first “o” in “borogoves” is pronounced like the “o” in “borrow.” I have heard people try to give it the sound of the “o” in “worry. Such is Human Perversity. This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard words in that poem. Humpty-Dumpty’s theory, of two meanings packed into one word like a portmanteau, seems to me the right explanation for all. For instance, take the two words “fuming” and “furious.” Make up your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If your thoughts incline ever so little towards “fuming,” you will say “fuming-furious;” if they turn, by even a hair’s breadth, towards “furious,” you will say “furious-fuming;” but if you have the rarest of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say “frumious.” Supposing that, when Pistol uttered the well-known words— “Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die!” Justice Shallow had felt certain that it was either William or Richard, but had not been able to settle which, so that he could not possibly say either name before the other, can it be doubted that, rather than die, he would have gasped out “Rilchiam!” Fit the First THE LANDING 001 “Just the place for a Snark!” the Bellman cried, 002 As he landed his crew with care; 003 Supporting each man on the top of the tide 004 By a finger entwined in his hair. Supporting each man on the top of the tide 005 “Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: 006 That alone should encourage the crew. 007 Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice: 008 What I tell you three times is true.” 009 The crew was complete: it included a Boots— 010 A maker of Bonnets and Hoods— 011 A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes— 012 And a Broker, to value their goods. 013 A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense, 014 Might perhaps have won more than his share— 015 But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense, 016 Had the whole of their cash in his care. 017 There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck, 018 Or would sit making lace in the bow: 019 And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck, 020 Though none of the sailors knew how. 021 There was one who was famed for the number of things 022 He forgot when he entered the ship: 023 His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings, 024 And the clothes he had bought for the trip. 025 He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed, 026 With his name painted clearly on each: 027 But, since he omitted to mention the fact, 028 They were all left behind on the beach. 029 The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because 030 He had seven coats on when he came, 031 With three pairs of boots—but the worst of it was, 032 He had wholly forgotten his name. He had wholly forgotten his name 033 He would answer to “Hi!” or to any loud cry, 034 Such as “Fry me!” or “Fritter my wig!” 035 To “What-you-may-call-um!” or “What-was-his-name!” 036 But especially “Thing-um-a-jig!” 037 While, for those who preferred a more forcible word, 038 He had different names from these: 039 His intimate friends called him “Candle-ends,” 040 And his enemies “Toasted-cheese.” 041 “His form is ungainly—his intellect small—” 042 (So the Bellman would often remark) 043 “But his courage is perfect! And that, after all, 044 Is the thing that one needs with a Snark.” 045 He would joke with hyenas, returning their stare 046 With an impudent wag of the head: 047 And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear, 048 “Just to keep up its spirits,” he said. 049 He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late— 050 And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad— 051 He could only bake Bridecake—for which, I may state, 052 No materials were to be had. 053 The last of the crew needs especial remark, 054 Though he looked an incredible dunce: 055 He had just one idea—but, that one being “Snark,” 056 The good Bellman engaged him at once. 057 He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared, 058 When the ship had been sailing a week, 059 He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared, 060 And was almost too frightened to speak: 061 But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone, 062 There was only one Beaver on board; 063 And that was a tame one he had of his own, 064 Whose death would be deeply deplored. 065 The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark, 066 Protested, with tears in its eyes, 067 That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark 068 Could atone for that dismal surprise! 069 It strongly advised that the Butcher should be 070 Conveyed in a separate ship: 071 But the Bellman declared that would never agree 072 With the plans he had made for the trip: 073 Navigation was always a difficult art, 074 Though with only one ship and one bell: 075 And he feared he must really decline, for his part, 076 Undertaking another as well. 077 The Beaver’s best course was, no doubt, to procure 078 A second-hand dagger-proof coat— 079 So the Baker advised it— and next, to insure 080 Its life in some Office of note: 081 This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire 082 (On moderate terms), or for sale, 083 Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire, 084 And one Against Damage From Hail. 085 Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day, 086 Whenever the Butcher was by, 087 The Beaver kept looking the opposite way, 088 And appeared unaccountably shy. The Beaver kept looking the opposite way Fit the Second THE BELLMAN’S SPEECH 089 The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies— 090 Such a carriage, such ease and such grace! 091 Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise, 092 The moment one looked in his face! 093 He had bought a large map representing the sea, 094 Without the least vestige of land: 095 And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be 096 A map they could all understand. The Bellman's Ocean Chart, 1876 097 “What’s the good of Mercator’s North Poles and Equators, 098 Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?” 099 So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply 100 “They are merely conventional signs! 101 “Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes! 102 But we’ve got our brave Captain to thank: 103 (So the crew would protest) “that he’s bought us the best— 104 A perfect and absolute blank!” 105 This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out 106 That the Captain they trusted so well 107 Had only one notion for crossing the ocean, 108 And that was to tingle his bell. 109 He was thoughtful and grave—but the orders he gave 110 Were enough to bewilder a crew. 111 When he cried “Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!” 112 What on earth was the helmsman to do? 113 Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes: 114 A thing, as the Bellman remarked, 115 That frequently happens in tropical climes, 116 When a vessel is, so to speak, “snarked.” 117 But the principal failing occurred in the sailing, 118 And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed, 119 Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East, 120 That the ship would not travel due West! 121 But the danger was past—they had landed at last, 122 With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags: 123 Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view, 124 Which consisted of chasms and crags. 125 The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low, 126 And repeated in musical tone 127 Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe— 128 But the crew would do nothing but groan. 129 He served out some grog with a liberal hand, 130 And bade them sit down on the beach: 131 And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand, 132 As he stood and delivered his speech. 133 “Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!” 134 (They were all of them fond of quotations: 135 So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers, 136 While he served out additional rations). 137 “We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks, 138 (Four weeks to the month you may mark), 139 But never as yet (’tis your Captain who speaks) 140 Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark! 141 “We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days, 142 (Seven days to the week I allow), 143 But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze, 144 We have never beheld till now! 145 “Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again 146 The five unmistakable marks 147 By which you may know, wheresoever you go, 148 The warranted genuine Snarks. 149 “Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, 150 Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp: 151 Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, 152 With a flavour of Will-o’-the-wisp. 153 “Its habit of getting up late you’ll agree 154 That it carries too far, when I say 155 That it frequently breakfasts at five-o’clock tea, 156 And dines on the following day. 157 “The third is its slowness in taking a jest. 158 Should you happen to venture on one, 159 It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed: 160 And it always looks grave at a pun. 161 “The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines, 162 Which it constantly carries about, 163 And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes— 164 A sentiment open to doubt. 165 “The fifth is ambition. It next will be right 166 To describe each particular batch: 167 Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite, 168 And those that have whiskers, and scratch. 169 “For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm, 170 Yet, I feel it my duty to say, 171 Some are Boojums—” The Bellman broke off in alarm, 172 For the Baker had fainted away. Fit the Third THE BAKER’S TALE 173 They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice— 174 They roused him with mustard and cress— 175 They roused him with jam and judicious advice— 176 They set him conundrums to guess. 177 When at length he sat up and was able to speak, 178 His sad story he offered to tell; 179 And the Bellman cried “Silence! Not even a shriek!” 180 And excitedly tingled his bell. 181 There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream, 182 Scarcely even a howl or a groan, 183 As the man they called “Ho!” told his story of woe 184 In an antediluvian tone. 185 “My father and mother were honest, though poor—” 186 “Skip all that!” cried the Bellman in haste. 187 “If it once becomes dark, there’s no chance of a Snark— 188 We have hardly a minute to waste!” 189 “I skip forty years,” said the Baker, in tears, 190 “And proceed without further remark 191 To the day when you took me aboard of your ship 192 To help you in hunting the Snark. 193 “A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) 194 Remarked, when I bade him farewell—” 195 “Oh, skip your dear uncle!” the Bellman exclaimed, 196 As he angrily tingled his bell. 197 “He remarked to me then,” said that mildest of men, 198 “ ‘If your Snark be a Snark, that is right: 199 Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greens, 200 And it’s handy for striking a light. 201 “ ‘You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care; 202 You may hunt it with forks and hope; 203 You may threaten its life with a railway-share; 204 You may charm it with smiles and soap—’ ” 205 (“That’s exactly the method,” the Bellman bold 206 In a hasty parenthesis cried, 207 “That’s exactly the way I have always been told 208 That the capture of Snarks should be tried!”) 209 “ ‘But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, 210 If your Snark be a Boojum! For then 211 You will softly and suddenly vanish away, 212 And never be met with again!’ But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day 213 “It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, 214 When I think of my uncle’s last words: 215 And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl 216 Brimming over with quivering curds! 217 “It is this, it is this—” “We have had that before!” 218 The Bellman indignantly said. 219 And the Baker replied “Let me say it once more. 220 It is this, it is this that I dread! 221 “I engage with the Snark—every night after dark— 222 In a dreamy delirious fight: 223 I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, 224 And I use it for striking a light: 225 “But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, 226 In a moment (of this I am sure), 227 I shall softly and suddenly vanish away— 228 And the notion I cannot endure!” Fit the fourth THE HUNTING 229 The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow. 230 “If only you’d spoken before! 231 It’s excessively awkward to mention it now, 232 With the Snark, so to speak, at the door! 233 “We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe, 234 If you never were met with again— 235 But surely, my man, when the voyage began, 236 You might have suggested it then? 237 “It’s excessively awkward to mention it now— 238 As I think I’ve already remarked.” 239 And the man they called “Hi!” replied, with a sigh, 240 “I informed you the day we embarked. 241 “You may charge me with murder—or want of sense— 242 (We are all of us weak at times): 243 But the slightest approach to a false pretence 244 Was never among my crimes! 245 “I said it in Hebrew—I said it in Dutch— 246 I said it in German and Greek: 247 But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much) 248 That English is what you speak!” 249 “’Tis a pitiful tale,” said the Bellman, whose face 250 Had grown longer at every word: 251 “But, now that you’ve stated the whole of your case, 252 More debate would be simply absurd. 253 “The rest of my speech” (he explained to his men) 254 “You shall hear when I’ve leisure to speak it. 255 But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again! 256 ’Tis your glorious duty to seek it! 257 “To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care; 258 To pursue it with forks and hope; 259 To threaten its life with a railway-share; 260 To charm it with smiles and soap! 261 “For the Snark’s a peculiar creature, that won’t 262 Be caught in a commonplace way. 263 Do all that you know, and try all that you don’t: 264 Not a chance must be wasted to-day! 265 “For England expects—I forbear to proceed: 266 ’Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite: 267 And you’d best be unpacking the things that you need 268 To rig yourselves out for the fight.” To pursue it with forks and hope 269 Then the Banker endorsed a blank cheque (which he crossed), 270 And changed his loose silver for notes. 271 The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair, 272 And shook the dust out of his coats. 273 The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a spade— 274 Each working the grindstone in turn: 275 But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed 276 No interest in the concern: 277 Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride, 278 And vainly proceeded to cite 279 A number of cases, in which making laces 280 Had been proved an infringement of right. 281 The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned 282 A novel arrangement of bows: 283 While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand 284 Was chalking the tip of his nose. 285 But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine, 286 With yellow kid gloves and a ruff— 287 Said he felt it exactly like going to dine, 288 Which the Bellman declared was all “stuff.” 289 “Introduce me, now there’s a good fellow,” he said, 290 “If we happen to meet it together!” 291 And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head, 292 Said “That must depend on the weather.” 293 The Beaver went simply galumphing about, 294 At seeing the Butcher so shy: 295 And even the Baker, though stupid and stout, 296 Made an effort to wink with one eye. 297 “Be a man!” said the Bellman in wrath, as he heard 298 The Butcher beginning to sob. 299 “Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird, 300 We shall need all our strength for the job!” Fit the Fifth THE BEAVER’S LESSON 301 They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; 302 They pursued it with forks and hope; 303 They threatened its life with a railway-share; 304 They charmed it with smiles and soap. 305 Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan 306 For making a separate sally; 307 And had fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, 308 A dismal and desolate valley. 309 But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred: 310 It had chosen the very same place: 311 Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word, 312 The disgust that appeared in his face. 313 Each thought he was thinking of nothing but “Snark” 314 And the glorious work of the day; 315 And each tried to pretend that he did not remark 316 That the other was going that way. 317 But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, 318 And the evening got darker and colder, 319 Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill) 320 They marched along shoulder to shoulder. 321 Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, 322 And they knew that some danger was near: 323 The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, 324 And even the Butcher felt queer. 325 He thought of his childhood, left far far behind— 326 That blissful and innocent state— 327 The sound so exactly recalled to his mind 328 A pencil that squeaks on a slate! 329 “’Tis the voice of the Jubjub!” he suddenly cried. 330 (This man, that they used to call “Dunce.”) 331 “As the Bellman would tell you,” he added with pride, 332 “I have uttered that sentiment once. 333 “’Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat; 334 You will find I have told it you twice. 335 ’Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete, 336 If only I’ve stated it thrice.” 337 The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care, 338 Attending to every word: 339 But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair, 340 When the third repetition occurred. 341 It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, 342 It had somehow contrived to lose count, 343 And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains 344 By reckoning up the amount. 345 “Two added to one—if that could but be done,” 346 It said, “with one’s fingers and thumbs!” 347 Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, 348 It had taken no pains with its sums. 349 “The thing can be done,” said the Butcher, “I think. 350 The thing must be done, I am sure. 351 The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, 352 The best there is time to procure.” 353 The Beaver brought paper,portfolio, pens, 354 And ink in unfailing supplies: 355 While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, 356 And watched them with wondering eyes. The Beaver brought paper, portfolio, pens 357 So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, 358 As he wrote with a pen in each hand, 359 And explained all the while in a popular style 360 Which the Beaver could well understand. 361 “Taking Three as the subject to reason about— 362 A convenient number to state— 363 We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out 364 By One Thousand diminished by Eight. 365 “The result we proceed to divide, as you see, 366 By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two: 367 Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be 368 Exactly and perfectly true. 369 “The method employed I would gladly explain, 370 While I have it so clear in my head, 371 If I had but the time and you had but the brain— 372 But much yet remains to be said. 373 “In one moment I’ve seen what has hitherto been 374 Enveloped in absolute mystery, 375 And without extra charge I will give you at large 376 A Lesson in Natural History.” 377 In his genial way he proceeded to say 378 (Forgetting all laws of propriety, 379 And that giving instruction, without introduction, 380 Would have caused quite a thrill in Society), 381 “As to temper the Jubjub’s a desperate bird, 382 Since it lives in perpetual passion: 383 Its taste in costume is entirely absurd— 384 It is ages ahead of the fashion: 385 “But it knows any friend it has met once before: 386 It never will look at a bribe: 387 And in charity-meetings it stands at the door, 388 And collects—though it does not subscribe. 389 “ Its flavour when cooked is more exquisite far 390 Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs: 391 (Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, 392 And some, in mahogany kegs:) 393 “You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue: 394 You condense it with locusts and tape: 395 Still keeping one principal object in view— 396 To preserve its symmetrical shape.” 397 The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, 398 But he felt that the lesson must end, 399 And he wept with delight in attempting to say 400 He considered the Beaver his friend. 401 While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks 402 More eloquent even than tears, 403 It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books 404 Would have taught it in seventy years. 405 They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned 406 (For a moment) with noble emotion, 407 Said “This amply repays all the wearisome days 408 We have spent on the billowy ocean!” 409 Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became, 410 Have seldom if ever been known; 411 In winter or summer, ’twas always the same— 412 You could never meet either alone. 413 And when quarrels arose—as one frequently finds 414 Quarrels will, spite of every endeavour— 415 The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds, 416 And cemented their friendship for ever! Fit the Sixth THE BARRISTER’S DREAM 417 They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; 418 They pursued it with forks and hope; 419 They threatened its life with a railway-share; 420 They charmed it with smiles and soap. 421 But the Barrister, weary of proving in vain 422 That the Beaver’s lace-making was wrong, 423 Fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain 424 That his fancy had dwelt on so long. 425 He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy Court, 426 Where the Snark, with a glass in its eye, 427 Dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig 428 On the charge of deserting its sty. 429 The Witnesses proved, without error or flaw, 430 That the sty was deserted when found: 431 And the Judge kept explaining the state of the law 432 In a soft under-current of sound. 433 The indictment had never been clearly expressed, 434 And it seemed that the Snark had begun, 435 And had spoken three hours, before any one guessed 436 What the pig was supposed to have done. 437 The Jury had each formed a different view 438 (Long before the indictment was read), 439 And they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew 440 One word that the others had said. 441 “You must know ——” said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed “Fudge!” 442 That statute is obsolete quite! 443 Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends 444 On an ancient manorial right. 'You must know ----' said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed 'Fudge!' 445 “In the matter of Treason the pig would appear 446 To have aided, but scarcely abetted: 447 While the charge of Insolvency fails, it is clear, 448 If you grant the plea ‘never indebted.’ 449 “The fact of Desertion I will not dispute; 450 But its guilt, as I trust, is removed 451 (So far as related to the costs of this suit) 452 By the Alibi which has been proved. 453 “My poor client’s fate now depends on your votes.” 454 Here the speaker sat down in his place, 455 And directed the Judge to refer to his notes 456 And briefly to sum up the case. 457 But the Judge said he never had summed up before; 458 So the Snark undertook it instead, 459 And summed it so well that it came to far more 460 Than the Witnesses ever had said! 461 When the verdict was called for, the Jury declined, 462 As the word was so puzzling to spell; 463 But they ventured to hope that the Snark wouldn’t mind 464 Undertaking that duty as well. 465 So the Snark found the verdict, although, as it owned, 466 It was spent with the toils of the day: 467 When it said the word “GUILTY!” the Jury all groaned, 468 And some of them fainted away. 469 Then the Snark pronounced sentence, the Judge being quite 470 Too nervous to utter a word: 471 When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night, 472 And the fall of a pin might be heard. 473 “Transportation for life”; was the sentence it gave, 474 “And then to be fined forty pound.” 475 The Jury all cheered, though the Judge said he feared 476 That the phrase was not legally sound. 477 But their wild exultation was suddenly checked 478 When the jailer informed them, with tears, 479 Such a sentence would have not the slightest effect, 480 As the pig had been dead for some years. 481 The Judge left the Court, looking deeply disgusted: 482 But the Snark, though a little aghast, 483 As the lawyer to whom the defense was entrusted, 484 Went bellowing on to the last. 485 Thus the Barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed 486 To grow every moment more clear: 487 Till he woke to the knell of a furious bell, 488 Which the Bellman rang close at his ear. Fit the Seventh THE BANKER’S FATE 489 They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; 490 They pursued it with forks and hope; 491 They threatened its life with a railway-share; 492 They charmed it with smiles and soap. 493 And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new 494 It was matter for general remark, 495 Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view 496 In his zeal to discover the Snark 497 But while he was seeking with thimbles and care, 498 A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh 499 And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair, 500 For he knew it was useless to fly. 501 He offered large discount—he offered a cheque 502 (Drawn “to bearer”) for seven-pounds-ten: 503 But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck 504 And grabbed at the Banker again. 505 Without rest or pause—while those frumious jaws 506 Went savagely snapping around- 507 He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped, 508 Till fainting he fell to the ground. 509 The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared 510 Led on by that fear-stricken yell: 511 And the Bellman remarked “It is just as I feared!” 512 And solemnly tolled on his bell. 513 He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace 514 The least likeness to what he had been: 515 While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white- 516 A wonderful thing to be seen! So great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white 517 To the horror of all who were present that day. 518 He uprose in full evening dress, 519 And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say 520 What his tongue could no longer express. 521 Down he sank in a chair—ran his hands through his hair— 522 And chanted in mimsiest tones 523 Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity, 524 While he rattled a couple of bones. 525 “Leave him here to his fate—it is getting so late!” 526 The Bellman exclaimed in a fright. 527 “We have lost half the day. Any further delay, 528 And we sha’nt catch a Snark before night!” Fit the Eighth THE VANISHING 529 They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; 530 They pursued it with forks and hope; 531 They threatened its life with a railway-share; 532 They charmed it with smiles and soap. 533 They shuddered to think that the chase might fail, 534 And the Beaver, excited at last, 535 Went bounding along on the tip of its tail, 536 For the daylight was nearly past. 537 “There is Thingumbob shouting!” the Bellman said, 538 “He is shouting like mad, only hark! 539 He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head, 540 He has certainly found a Snark!” 541 They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed 542 “He was always a desperate wag!” 543 They beheld him—their Baker—their hero unnamed— 544 On the top of a neighbouring crag. 545 Erect and sublime, for one moment of time. 546 In the next, that wild figure they saw 547 (As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm, 548 While they waited and listened in awe. 549 “It’s a Snark!” was the sound that first came to their ears, 550 And seemed almost too good to be true. 551 Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers: 552 Then the ominous words “It’s a Boo-” 553 Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air 554 A weary and wandering sigh 555 That sounded like “-jum!” but the others declare 556 It was only a breeze that went by. 557 They hunted till darkness came on, but they found 558 Not a button, or feather, or mark, 559 By which they could tell that they stood on the ground 560 Where the Baker had met with the Snark. 561 In the midst of the word he was trying to say, 562 In the midst of his laughter and glee, 563 He had softly and suddenly vanished away— 564 For the Snark was a Boojum, you see. Then, silence ... The original verson of this web edition is based on The Hunting of the Snark : An Agony, in eight Fits / by Lewis Carroll; with nine illustrations by Henry Holiday. London : Macmillan, 1876, published on-line by: eBooks@Adelaide The University of Adelaide Library University of Adelaide South Australia 5005 ===== Alice's Adventures under Ground ===== Project Gutenberg's Alice's Adventures Under Ground, by Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Alice's Adventures Under Ground Author: Lewis Carroll Release Date: August 7, 2006 [EBook #19002] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALICE'S ADVENTURES UNDER GROUND *** Produced by Jason Isbell, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net There are several editions of this ebook in the Project Gutenberg collection. Various characteristics of each ebook are listed to aid in selecting the preferred file. Click on any of the filenumbers below to quickly view each ebook. 19002 (Black and White illustrations) 19033 (Illustrations in Color and Black and White) 28885 (Illustrations in Color and Black and White) Transcriber's Note: This e-book has been transcribed from a facsimile of the original handwritten MS. of Lewis Carroll. Images of some of the pages is given on line to give a feeling of the MS. to the reader. An additional html file with cursive fonts to imitate the handwriting, is provided for the benefit of the reader. Illustration Illustration ALICE'S ADVENTURES UNDER GROUND BEING A FACSIMILE OF THE ORIGINAL MS. BOOK AFTERWARDS DEVELOPED INTO "ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND" BY LEWIS CARROLL WITH THIRTY-SEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR PRICE FOUR SHILLINGS London MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1886 CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. DOWN THE RABBIT-HOLE. THE POOL OF TEARS 1 II. A LONG TALE. THE RABBIT SENDS IN A LITTLE BILL 24 III. ADVICE FROM A CATERPILLAR 46 IV. THE QUEEN'S CROQUET-GROUND. THE MOCK TURTLE'S STORY. THE LOBSTER QUADRILLE. WHO STOLE THE TARTS? 68 Illustration [1] Chapter I Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, and where is the use of a book, thought Alice, without pictures or conversations? So she was considering in her own mind, (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid,) whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain was worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing very remarkable in that, nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the rabbit say to itself "dear, dear! I shall be too late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for [2] it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket or a watch to take out of it, and, full of curiosity, she hurried across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In a moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly, that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself, before she found herself falling down what seemed a deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what would happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything: then, she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves: here and there were maps and pictures hung on pegs. She took a jar down off one of the shelves as she passed: it was labelled [3] "Orange Marmalade," but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar, for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "Well!" thought Alice to herself, "after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!" (which was most likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end? "I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?" she said aloud, "I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think—" (for you see Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a very good opportunity of showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to hear her, still it was good practice to say it over,) "yes that's the right distance, but then what Longitude or Latitude-line shall I be in?" (Alice had no idea [4] what Longitude was, or Latitude either, but she thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again: "I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it'll be to come out among the people that walk with their heads downwards! But I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?"—and she tried to curtsey as she spoke (fancy curtseying as you're falling through the air! do you think you could manage it?) "and what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere." Down, down, down: there was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. "Dinah will miss me very much tonight, I should think!" (Dinah was the cat.) "I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time! Oh, dear Dinah, I wish I had you here! There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know, my dear. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?" And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and kept on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way "do cats eat bats? do cats eat bats?" and sometimes, [5] "do bats eat cats?" for, as she couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and was saying to her very earnestly, "Now, Dinah, my dear, tell me the truth. Did you ever eat a bat?" when suddenly, bump! bump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and shavings, and the fall was over. Alice was not a bit hurt, and jumped on to her feet directly: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the white rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and just heard it say, as it turned a corner, "my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!" She turned the corner after it, and instantly found herself in a long, low hall, lit up by a row of lamps which hung from the roof. Illustration There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked, and when Alice had been all round it, and tried them all, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering [6] how she was ever to get out again: suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing lying upon it, but a tiny golden key, and Alice's first idea was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall, but alas! either the locks were too large, or the key too small, but at any rate it would open none of them. However, on the second time round, she came to a low curtain, behind which was a door about eighteen inches high: she tried the little key in the keyhole, and it fitted! Alice opened the door, and looked down a small passage, not larger than a rat-hole, into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway, "and even if my head would go through," thought poor Alice, "it would be very little use [7] without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin." For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice began to think very few things indeed were really impossible. There was nothing else to do, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting up people like telescopes: this time there was a little bottle on it—"which certainly was not there before" said Alice—and tied round the neck of the bottle was a paper label with the words DRINK ME beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say "drink me," "but I'll look first," said the wise little Alice, "and see whether the bottle's marked "poison" or not," for Alice had read several nice little stories about children that got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts, and other unpleasant things, because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had given them, such as, that, if you get into the fire, it will burn you, and that, if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it generally bleeds, and [8] she had never forgotten that, if you drink a bottle marked "poison," it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was not marked poison, so Alice tasted it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffy, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off. "What a curious feeling!" said Alice, "I must be shutting up like a telescope." It was so indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up as it occurred to her that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see whether she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this, "for it might end, you know," said Alice to herself, "in my going out altogether, like a candle, and what should I be like then, I wonder?" and she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, [9] for she could not remember having ever seen one. However, nothing more happened so she decided on going into the garden at once, but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for the key, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it plainly enough through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery, and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. Illustration "Come! there's no use in crying!" said Alice to herself rather sharply, "I advise you to leave off this minute!" (she generally gave herself very good advice, and sometimes scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes, and once she remembered boxing her own ears for having been unkind to herself [10] in a game of croquet she was playing with herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people,) "but it's no use now," thought poor Alice, "to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!" Soon her eyes fell on a little ebony box lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which was lying a card with the words EAT ME beautifully printed on it in large letters. "I'll eat," said Alice, "and if it makes me larger, I can reach the key, and if it makes me smaller, I can creep under the door, so either way I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!" She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself "which way? which way?" and laid her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure this is what generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the way things to happen, and it seemed [11] quite dull and stupid for things to go on in the common way. So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake. "Curiouser and curiouser!" cried Alice, (she was so surprised that she quite forgot how to speak good English,) "now I'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Goodbye, feet!" (for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed almost out of sight, they were getting so far off,) "oh, my poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I'm sure I can't! I shall be a great deal too far off to bother myself about you: you must manage the best way you can—but I must be kind to them," thought Alice, "or perhaps they won't walk the way I want to go! Let me see: I'll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas." Illustration And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it [12] "they must go by the carrier," she thought, "and how funny it'll seem, sending presents to one's own feet! And how odd the directions will look! ALICE'S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ. THE CARPET, with ALICE'S LOVE oh dear! what nonsense I am talking!" Just at this moment, her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact, she was now rather more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden key, and hurried off to the garden door. Poor Alice! it was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye, but to get through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and cried again. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Alice, "a great girl like you," (she might well say this,) "to cry in this way! Stop this instant, I tell you!" But she cried on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool, about four inches deep, all round her, and reaching half way across the hall. After a time, she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and [13] dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the white rabbit coming back again, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand, and a nosegay in the other. Alice was ready to ask help of any one, she felt so desperate, and as the rabbit passed her, she said, in a low, timid voice, "If you please, Sir—" the rabbit started violently, looked up once into the roof of the hall, from which the voice seemed to come, and then dropped the nosegay and the white kid gloves, and skurried away into the darkness, as hard as it could go. Illustration Alice took up the nosegay and gloves, and found the nosegay so delicious that she kept smelling at it all the time she went on talking to herself—"dear, dear! how queer everything is today! and yesterday everything happened just as usual: I wonder if I was changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I think I remember [14] feeling rather different. But if I'm not the same, who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle!" And she began thinking over all the children she knew of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. "I'm sure I'm not Gertrude," she said, "for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all—and I'm sure I ca'n't be Florence, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, she's she, and I'm I, and—oh dear! how puzzling it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is fourteen—oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at this rate! But the Multiplication Table don't signify—let's try Geography. London is the capital of France, and Rome is the capital of Yorkshire, and Paris—oh dear! dear! that's all wrong, I'm certain! I must have been changed for Florence! I'll try and say "How doth the little,"" and she crossed her hands on her [15] lap, and began, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not sound the same as they used to do: "How doth the little crocodile Improve its shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale! "How cheerfully it seems to grin! How neatly spreads its claws! And welcomes little fishes in With gently-smiling jaws!" "I'm sure those are not the right words," said poor Alice, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought "I must be Florence after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No! I've made up my mind about it: if I'm Florence, I'll stay down here! It'll be no use their putting their heads down and saying 'come [16] up, dear!' I shall only look up and say 'who am I then? answer me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down here till I'm somebody else—but, oh dear!" cried Alice with a sudden burst of tears, "I do wish they would put their heads down! I am so tired of being all alone here!" As she said this, she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to find she had put on one of the rabbit's little gloves while she was talking. "How can I have done that?" thought she, "I must be growing small again." She got up and went to the table to measure herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly: soon she found out that the reason of it was the nosegay she held in her hand: she dropped it hastily, just in time to save herself from shrinking away altogether, and found that she was now only three inches high. "Now for the garden!" cried Alice, [17] as she hurried back to the little door, but the little door was locked again, and the little gold key was lying on the glass table as before, and "things are worse than ever!" thought the poor little girl, "for I never was as small as this before, never! And I declare it's too bad, it is!" Illustration At this moment her foot slipped, and splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that she had fallen into the sea: then she remembered that she was under ground, and she soon made out that it was the pool of tears she had wept when she was nine feet high. "I wish I hadn't cried so much!" said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out, "I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! Well! that'll [18] be a queer thing, to be sure! However, every thing is queer today." Very soon she saw something splashing about in the pool near her: at first she thought it must be a walrus or a hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small she was herself, and soon made out that it was only a mouse, that had slipped in like herself. "Would it be any use, now," thought Alice, "to speak to this mouse? The rabbit is something quite out-of-the-way, no doubt, and so have I been, ever since I came down here, but that is no reason why the mouse should not be able to talk. I think I may as well try." So she began: "oh Mouse, do you know how to get out of this pool? I am very tired of swimming about here, oh Mouse!" The mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing. Illustration "Perhaps it doesn't understand English," thought Alice; "I daresay it's a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror!" (for, [20] with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened,) so she began again: "où est ma chatte?" which was the first sentence out of her French lesson-book. The mouse gave a sudden jump in the pool, and seemed to quiver with fright: "oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings, "I quite forgot you didn't like cats!" "Not like cats!" cried the mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice, "would you like cats if you were me?" "Well, perhaps not," said Alice in a soothing tone, "don't be angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear quiet thing," said Alice, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the pool, "she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face: and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse, and she's such a capital one for catching mice—oh! I beg your pardon!" cried poor Alice [21] again, for this time the mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain that it was really offended, "have I offended you?" "Offended indeed!" cried the mouse, who seemed to be positively trembling with rage, "our family always hated cats! Nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't talk to me about them any more!" "I won't indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the conversation, "are you—are you—fond of—dogs?" The mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "there is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh! such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things—I ca'n't remember half of them—and it belongs to a farmer, and he says it kills all the rats and—oh dear!" said Alice sadly, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" for the mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. [22] So she called softly after it: "mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats and dogs any more, if you don't like them!" When the mouse heard this, it turned and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale, (with passion, Alice thought,) and it said in a trembling low voice "let's get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite full of birds and animals that had fallen into it. There was a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. Illustration Illustration [24] Chapter II They were indeed a curious looking party that assembled on the bank—the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them—all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry: they had a consultation about this, and Alice hardly felt at all surprised at finding herself talking familiarly with the birds, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say "I am older than you, and must know best," and this Alice would not admit without knowing how old the Lory was, and as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was nothing more to be said. [25] At last the mouse, who seemed to have some authority among them, called out "sit down, all of you, and attend to me! I'll soon make you dry enough!" They all sat down at once, shivering, in a large ring, Alice in the middle, with her eyes anxiously fixed on the mouse, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. "Ahem!" said the mouse, with a self-important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria—" "Ugh!" said the Lory with a shiver. "I beg your pardon?" said the mouse, frowning, but very politely, "did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the mouse, "I proceed. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him; [26] and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct was at first moderate—how are you getting on now, dear?" said the mouse, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said poor Alice, "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to his feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies—" "Speak English!" said the Duck, "I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Duck quacked a comfortable laugh to itself. Some of the other birds tittered audibly. "I only meant to say," said the Dodo in a rather offended tone, "that I know of a house near here, where we could get the young lady and the rest of the party dried, and then we could listen comfortably to the story which I think you were good enough to promise to tell us," bowing gravely to the mouse. [27] The mouse made no objection to this, and the whole party moved along the river bank, (for the pool had by this time began to flow out of the hall, and the edge of it was fringed with rushes and forget-me-nots,) in a slow procession, the Dodo leading the way. After a time the Dodo became impatient, and, leaving the Duck to bring up the rest of the party, moved on at a quicker pace with Alice, the Lory, and the Eaglet, and soon brought them to a little cottage, and there they sat snugly by the fire, wrapped up in blankets, until the rest of the party had arrived, and they were all dry again. Then they all sat down again in a large ring on the bank, and begged the mouse to begin his story. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It is a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the mouse's tail, which was coiled nearly all round the party, "but why do you call it sad?" and she went on puzzling about this as the mouse went on speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this: [28] Illustration We lived beneath the mat Warm and snug and fat But one woe, & that Was the cat! To our joys a clog, In our eyes a fog, On our hearts a log Was the dog! When the cat's away, Then the mice will play, But, alas! one day, (So they say) Came the dog and cat, Hunting for a rat, Crushed the mice all flat; Each one as he sat. U n d e r n e a t h t h e m a t , m r a W g u n s & t a f & T h i n k? o f t h a t! [29] "You are not attending!" said the mouse to Alice severely, "what are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly, "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had not!" cried the mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her, "oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort!" said the mouse, getting up and walking away from the party, "you insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice, "but you're so easily offended, you know." The mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it, and the others all joined in chorus "yes, please do!" but the mouse only shook its ears, and walked quickly away, and was soon out of sight. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to its daughter "Ah, my dear! [30] let this be a lesson to you never to lose your temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly, "you're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing no one in particular, "she'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Illustration Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet, "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice, you can't think! And oh! I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This answer caused a remarkable sensation among the party: some of the birds hurried off at once; one old magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking "I really must be getting home: the night air does not suit my throat," and a canary called out in a trembling voice to its children "come away from her, my dears, she's no fit company for you!" On various pretexts, they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. Illustration [32] She sat for some while sorrowful and silent, but she was not long before she recovered her spirits, and began talking to herself again as usual: "I do wish some of them had stayed a little longer! and I was getting to be such friends with them—really the Lory and I were almost like sisters! and so was that dear little Eaglet! And then the Duck and the Dodo! How nicely the Duck sang to us as we came along through the water: and if the Dodo hadn't known the way to that nice little cottage, I don't know when we should have got dry again—" and there is no knowing how long she might have prattled on in this way, if she had not suddenly caught the sound of pattering feet. It was the white rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about it as it went, as if it had lost something, and she heard it muttering to itself "the Marchioness! the Marchioness! oh my dear paws! oh my fur and whiskers! She'll have me executed, as sure as ferrets [33] are ferrets! Where can I have dropped them, I wonder?" Alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the nosegay and the pair of white kid gloves, and she began hunting for them, but they were now nowhere to be seen—everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and her walk along the river-bank with its fringe of rushes and forget-me-nots, and the glass table and the little door had vanished. Soon the rabbit noticed Alice, as she stood looking curiously about her, and at once said in a quick angry tone, "why, Mary Ann! what are you doing out here? Go home this moment, and look on my dressing-table for my gloves and nosegay, and fetch them here, as quick as you can run, do you hear?" and Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once, without [34] saying a word, in the direction which the rabbit had pointed out. She soon found herself in front of a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass plate with the name W. RABBIT, ESQ. She went in, and hurried upstairs, for fear she should meet the real Mary Ann and be turned out of the house before she had found the gloves: she knew that one pair had been lost in the hall, "but of course," thought Alice, "it has plenty more of them in its house. How queer it seems to be going messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me messages next!" And she began fancying the sort of things that would happen: "Miss Alice! come here directly and get ready for your walk!" "Coming in a minute, nurse! but I've got to watch this mousehole till Dinah comes back, and see that the mouse doesn't get out—" "only I don't think," Alice went on, "that they'd let Dinah stop in the house, if it began ordering people about like that!" [35] Illustration By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room, with a table in the window on which was a looking-glass and, (as Alice had hoped,) two or three pairs of tiny white kid gloves: she took up a pair of gloves, and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little bottle that stood near the looking-glass: there was no label on it this time with the words "drink me," but nonetheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips: "I know something interesting is sure to happen," she said to herself, "whenever I eat or drink anything, so I'll see what this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow larger, for I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner [36] than she expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and she stooped to save her neck from being broken, and hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "that's quite enough—I hope I sha'n't grow any more—I wish I hadn't drunk so much!" Illustration Alas! it was too late: she went on growing and growing, and very soon had to kneel down: in another minute there was not room even for this, and she tried the effect of lying down, with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and as a last resource she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "now I can do no more—what will become of me?" [38] Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger; still it was very uncomfortable, and as there seemed to be no sort of chance of ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits—I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole, and yet, and yet—it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life. I do wonder what can have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that sort of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There out to be a book written about me, that there ought! and when I grow up I'll write one—but I'm grown up now" said she in a sorrowful tone, "at least there's no room to grow up any more here." Illustration "But then," thought Alice, "shall I [39] never get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way—never to be an old woman—but then—always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like that!" "Oh, you foolish Alice!" she said again, "how can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for you, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side, and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether, but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, which made her stop to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice, "fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs: Alice knew it was the rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the rabbit came to the door, and tried to open it, but as it opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was against it, the attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it [40] say to itself "then I'll go round and get in at the window." "That you wo'n't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the rabbit, just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall and a crash of breaking glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Illustration Next came an angry voice—the rabbit's—"Pat, Pat! where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "shure then I'm here! digging for apples, anyway, yer honour!" "Digging for apples indeed!" said the rabbit angrily, "here, come and help me [41] out of this!"—Sound of more breaking glass. "Now, tell me, Pat, what is that coming out of the window?" "Shure it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum".) "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw an arm that size? Why, it fills the whole window, don't you see?" "Shure, it does, yer honour, but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's no business there: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then, such as "shure I don't like it, yer honour, at all at all!" "do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again and made another snatch in the air. This time there were two little shrieks, and more breaking glass—"what a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice, "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they could! I'm sure I don't want to stop in here any longer!" She waited for some time without [42] hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cart-wheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words "where's the other ladder?—why, I hadn't to bring but one, Bill's got the other—here, put 'em up at this corner—no, tie 'em together first—they don't reach high enough yet—oh, they'll do well enough, don't be particular—here, Bill! catch hold of this rope—will the roof bear?—mind that loose slate—oh, it's coming down! heads below!—" (a loud crash) "now, who did that?—it was Bill, I fancy—who's to go down the chimney?—nay, I sha'n't! you do it!—that I won't then—Bill's got to go down—here, Bill! the master says you've to go down the chimney!" "Oh, so Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself, "why, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: the fireplace is a pretty tight one, but I think I can kick a little!" She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she [43] heard a little animal (she couldn't guess what sort it was) scratching and scrambling in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself "this is Bill," she gave one sharp kick, and waited again to see what would happen next. Illustration The first thing was a general chorus of "there goes Bill!" then the rabbit's voice alone "catch him, you by the hedge!" then silence, and then another confusion of voices, "how was it, old fellow? what happened to you? tell us all about it." Last came a little feeble squeaking voice, ("that's Bill" thought Alice,) which said "well, I hardly know—I'm all of a fluster myself—something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and the next minute up I goes like a rocket!" "And so you did, old fellow!" said the other voices. [44] "We must burn the house down!" said the voice of the rabbit, and Alice called out as loud as she could "if you do, I'll set Dinah at you!" This caused silence again, and while Alice was thinking "but how can I get Dinah here?" she found to her great delight that she was getting smaller: very soon she was able to get up out of the uncomfortable position in which she had been lying, and in two or three minutes more she was once more three inches high. She ran out of the house as quick as she could, and found quite a crowd of little animals waiting outside—guinea-pigs, white mice, squirrels, and "Bill" a little green lizard, that was being supported in the arms of one of the guinea-pigs, while another was giving it something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at her the moment she appeared, but Alice ran her hardest, and soon found herself in a thick wood. Illustration Illustration [46] Chapter III "The first thing I've got to do," said Alice to herself, as she wandered about in the wood, "is to grow to my right size, and the second thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be the best plan." It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply arranged: the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea how to set about it, and while she was peering anxiously among the trees round her, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a great hurry. An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying to reach her: "poor thing!" said Alice in a coaxing tone, [47] and she tried hard to whistle to it, but she was terribly alarmed all the while at the thought that it might be hungry, in which case it would probably devour her in spite of all her coaxing. Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and held it out to the puppy: whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off all its feet at once, and with a yelp of delight rushed at the stick, and made believe to worry it then Alice dodged behind a great thistle to keep herself from being run over, and, the moment she appeared at the other side, the puppy made another dart at the stick, and tumbled head over heels in its hurry to get hold: then Alice, thinking it was very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again: then the puppy begin a series of short charges at the stick, running a very little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut. [48] This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape. She set off at once, and ran till the puppy's bark sounded quite faint in the distance, and till she was quite tired and out of breath. "And yet what a dear little puppy it was!" said Alice, as she leant against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with her hat. "I should have liked teaching it tricks, if—if I'd only been the right size to do it! Oh! I'd nearly forgotten that I've got to grow up again! Let me see; how is it to be managed? I suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other, but the great question is what?" The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass but could not see anything that looked like the right thing to eat under the circumstances. There was a large mushroom near her, about the same height as herself, and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her to look and see what was on the top of it. She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the mushroom, [49] and her eyes immediately met those of a large blue caterpillar, which was sitting with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the least notice of her or of anything else. Illustration For some time they looked at each other in silence: at last the caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and languidly addressed her. "Who are you?" said the caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation: Alice replied rather shyly, "I—I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since that." "What do you mean by that?" said the caterpillar, "explain yourself!" "I ca'n't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir," [50] said Alice, "because I'm not myself, you see." "I don't see," said the caterpillar. "I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly," Alice replied very politely, "for I ca'n't understand it myself, and really to be so many different sizes in one day is very confusing." "It isn't," said the caterpillar. "Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet," said Alice, "but when you have to turn into a chrysalis, you know, and then after that into a butterfly, I should think it'll feel a little queer, don't you think so?" "Not a bit," said the caterpillar. "All I know is," said Alice, "it would feel queer to me." "You!" said the caterpillar contemptuously, "who are you?" Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation: Alice felt a little irritated at the caterpillar making such very short remarks, and she drew herself up and said very gravely "I think you ought to tell me who you are, first." "Why?" said the caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question: [51] and as Alice had no reason ready, and the caterpillar seemed to be in a very bad temper, she turned round and walked away. "Come back!" the caterpillar called after her, "I've something important to say!" This sounded promising: Alice turned and came back again. "Keep your temper," said the caterpillar. "Is that all?" said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. "No," said the caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all the caterpillar might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away at its hookah without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said "so you think you're changed, do you?" "Yes, sir," said Alice, "I ca'n't remember the things I used to know—I've tried to say "How doth the little busy bee" and it came all different!" "Try and repeat "You are old, father William"," said the caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began: Illustration [53] 1. "You are old, father William," the young man said, "And your hair is exceedingly white: And yet you incessantly stand on your head— Do you think, at your age, it is right?" 2. "In my youth," father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." Illustration [55] 3. "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat: Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door— Pray what is the reason of that?" 4. "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple, By the use of this ointment, five shillings the box— Allow me to sell you a couple." Illustration [57] 5. "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet: Yet you eat all the goose, with the bones and the beak— Pray, how did you manage to do it?" 6. "In my youth," said the old man, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife, And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." Illustration [59] 7. "You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever: Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— What made you so awfully clever?" 8. "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father, "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" [60] "That is not said right," said the caterpillar. "Not quite right, I'm afraid," said Alice timidly, "some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes: the caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied, "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "Are you content now?" said the caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a little larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice, "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the caterpillar loudly and angrily, rearing itself straight up as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone, and she thought to herself "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the caterpillar, and it put the hookah into its mouth, and began smoking again. [61] This time Alice waited quietly until it chose to speak again: in a few minutes the caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and got down off the mushroom, and crawled away into the grass, merely remarking as it went; "the top will make you grow taller, and the stalk will make you grow shorter." "The top of what? the stalk of what?" thought Alice. Illustration "Of the mushroom," said the caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud, and in another moment was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, and then picked it and carefully broke it in two, taking the stalk in one hand, and the top in the other. "Which does the stalk do?" she said, and nibbled a little bit of it to try; the next moment she felt a violent blow on her chin: it had struck her foot! [62] She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but as she did not shrink any further, and had not dropped the top of the mushroom, she did not give up hope yet. There was hardly room to open her mouth, with her chin pressing against her foot, but she did it at last, and managed to bite off a little bit of the top of the mushroom. "Come! my head's free at last!" said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be seen: she looked down upon an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. Illustration [63] "What can all that green stuff be?" said Alice, "and where have my shoulders got to? And oh! my poor hands! how is it I ca'n't see you?" She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little rustling among the leaves. Then she tried to bring her head down to her hands, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in every direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in bending it down in a beautiful zig-zag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be the tops of the trees of the wood she had been wandering in, when a sharp hiss made her draw back: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was violently beating her with its wings. Illustration "Serpent!" screamed the pigeon. "I'm not a serpent!" said Alice indignantly, "let me alone!" [64] "I've tried every way!" the pigeon said desperately, with a kind of sob: "nothing seems to suit 'em!" "I haven't the least idea what you mean," said Alice. "I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges," the pigeon went on without attending to her, "but them serpents! There's no pleasing 'em!" Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything till the pigeon had finished. "As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs!" said the pigeon, "without being on the look out for serpents, day and night! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!" "I'm very sorry you've been annoyed," said Alice, beginning to see its meaning. "And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood," said the pigeon raising its voice to a shriek, "and was just thinking I was free of 'em at last, they must needs come down from the sky! Ugh! Serpent!" "But I'm not a serpent," said Alice, "I'm a—I'm a—" "Well! What are you?" said the pigeon, "I see you're trying to invent something." [65] "I—I'm a little girl," said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through. "A likely story indeed!" said the pigeon, "I've seen a good many of them in my time, but never one with such a neck as yours! No, you're a serpent, I know that well enough! I suppose you'll tell me next that you never tasted an egg!" "I have tasted eggs, certainly," said Alice, who was a very truthful child, "but indeed I do'n't want any of yours. I do'n't like them raw." "Well, be off, then!" said the pigeon, and settled down into its nest again. Alice crouched down among the trees, as well as she could, as her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and several times she had to stop and untwist it. Soon she remembered the pieces of mushroom which she still held in her hands, and set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual size. It was so long since she had been of the right size that it felt quite strange [66] at first, but she got quite used to it in a minute or two, and began talking to herself as usual: "well! there's half my plan done now! How puzzling all these changes are! I'm never sure what I'm going to be, from one minute to another! However, I've got to my right size again: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden—how is that to be done, I wonder?" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a doorway leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought, "but everything's curious today: I may as well go in." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table: "now, I'll manage better this time" she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she set to work eating the pieces of mushroom till she was about fifteen inches high: then she walked down the little passage: and then—she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flowerbeds and the cool fountains. Illustration Illustration [68] Chapter IV A large rose tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. This Alice thought a very curious thing, and she went near to watch them, and just as she came up she heard one of them say "look out, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five in a sulky tone, "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven lifted up his head and said "that's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "You'd better not talk!" said Five, "I [69] heard the Queen say only yesterday she thought of having you beheaded!" "What for?" said the one who had spoken first. "That's not your business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it is his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him: it was for bringing in tulip-roots to the cook instead of potatoes." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "well! Of all the unjust things—" when his eye fell upon Alice, and he stopped suddenly; the others looked round, and all of them took off their hats and bowed low. "Would you tell me, please," said Alice timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven looked at Two, but said nothing: Two began, in a low voice, "why, Miss, the fact is, this ought to have been a red rose tree, and we put a white one in by mistake, and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off. So, you see, we're doing our best, before she comes, to—" At this moment Five, who had been looking anxiously across the garden called out "the Queen! the Queen!" and [70] the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, flat and oblong, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were all ornamented with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the Royal children: there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along, hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly kings and queens, among whom Alice recognised the white rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a cushion, and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Illustration When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and [72] the Queen said severely "who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!" said the Queen, turning up her nose, and asked Alice "what's your name?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice boldly, for she thought to herself "why, they're only a pack of cards! I needn't be afraid of them!" "Who are these?" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners lying round the rose tree, for, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should I know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage, "it's no business of mine." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a minute, began in a voice of thunder "off with her—" "Nonsense!" said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and said timidly "remember, my dear! She is only a child!" [73] The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave "turn them over!" The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. "Get up!" said the Queen, in a shrill loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the Royal children, and everybody else. "Leave off that!" screamed the Queen, "you make me giddy." And then, turning to the rose tree, she went on "what have you been doing here?" "May it please your Majesty," said Two very humbly, going down on one knee as he spoke, "we were trying—" "I see!" said the Queen, who had meantime been examining the roses, "off with their heads!" and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the three unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. "You sha'n't be beheaded!" said Alice, and she put them into her pocket: the three soldiers marched once round her, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. "Are their heads off?" shouted the Queen. "Their heads are gone," the soldiers shouted in reply, "if it please your Majesty!" [74] "That's right!" shouted the Queen, "can you play croquet?" The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. "Yes!" shouted Alice at the top of her voice. "Come on then!" roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next. "It's—it's a very fine day!" said a timid little voice: she was walking by the white rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. "Very," said Alice, "where's the Marchioness?" "Hush, hush!" said the rabbit in a low voice, "she'll hear you. The Queen's the Marchioness: didn't you know that?" "No, I didn't," said Alice, "what of?" "Queen of Hearts," said the rabbit in a whisper, putting its mouth close to her ear, "and Marchioness of Mock Turtles." "What are they?" said Alice, but there was no time for the answer, for they had reached the croquet-ground, and the game began instantly. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in all her life: it was all in ridges and furrows: the croquet-balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live ostriches, and the soldiers had to double themselves up, and stand [76] on their feet and hands, to make the arches. Illustration The chief difficulty which Alice found at first was to manage her ostrich: she got its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck straightened out nicely, and was going to give a blow with its head, it would twist itself round, and look up into her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very confusing to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or a furrow in her way, wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other [77] parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed. Illustration The players all played at once without waiting for turns, and quarrelled all the while at the tops of their voices, and in a very few minutes the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about and shouting "off with his head!" of "off with her head!" about once in a minute. All those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that, by the end of half an hour or so, there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody, and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice "have you seen the Mock Turtle?" "No," said Alice, "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "Come on then," said the Queen, "and it shall tell you its history." As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "you are all pardoned." "Come, that's a good thing!" thought Alice, who had felt quite grieved at the number of [78] executions which the Queen had ordered. Illustration They very soon came upon a Gryphon, which lay fast asleep in the sun: (if you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture): "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear its history. I must go back and see after some executions I ordered," and she walked off, leaving Alice with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it quite as safe to stay as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What is the fun?" said Alice. "Why, she," said the Gryphon; "it's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know: come on!" [79] "Everybody says 'come on!' here," thought Alice as she walked slowly after the Gryphon; "I never was ordered about so before in all my life—never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could here it sighing as if its heart would break. She pitied it deeply: "what is its sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "it's all its fancy, that: it hasn't got no sorrow, you know: come on!" Illustration So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady" said the Gryphon, [80] "wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it," said the Mock Turtle, in a deep hollow tone, "sit down, and don't speak till I've finished." So they sat down, and no one spoke for some minutes: Alice thought to herself "I don't see how it can ever finish, if it doesn't begin," but she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there must be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle—we used to call him Tortoise—" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" asked Alice. [81] "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily, "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon, and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth: at last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "get on, old fellow! Don't be all day!" and the Mock Turtle went on in these words: "You may not have lived much under the sea—" ("I haven't," said Alice,) "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster—" (Alice began to say "I once tasted—" but hastily checked herself, and said "no, never," instead,) "so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice, "what sort of a thing is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you form into a line along the sea shore—" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle, "seals, turtles, salmon, and so on—advance twice—" "Each with a lobster as partner!" cried the Gryphon. Illustration [83] "Of course," the Mock Turtle said, "advance twice, set to partners—" "Change lobsters, and retire in same order—" interrupted the Gryphon. "Then, you know," continued the Mock Turtle, "you throw the—" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "As far out to sea as you can—" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice, "and then—" Illustration "That's all," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping its voice, and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon, "we can do [84] it without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh! you sing!" said the Gryphon, "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they came too close, and waving their fore-paws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang, slowly and sadly, these words: "Beneath the waters of the sea Are lobsters thick as thick can be— They love to dance with you and me, My own, my gentle Salmon!" The Gryphon joined in singing the chorus, which was: "Salmon come up! Salmon go down! Salmon come twist your tail around! Of all the fishes of the sea There's none so good as Salmon!" [85] "Thank you," said Alice, feeling very glad that the figure was over. "Shall we try the second figure?" said the Gryphon, "or would you prefer a song?" "Oh, a song, please!" Alice replied, so eagerly, that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone, "hm! no accounting for tastes! Sing her 'Mock Turtle Soup', will you, old fellow!" The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this: "Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful beautiful Soup! "Chorus again!" cried the Gryphon, and [86] the Mock Turtle had just begun to repeat it, when a cry of "the trial's beginning!" was heard in the distance. "Come on!" cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, he hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song. "What trial is it?" panted Alice as she ran, but the Gryphon only answered "come on!" and ran the faster, and more and more faintly came, borne on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words: "Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful beautiful Soup!" The King and Queen were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd assembled around them: the Knave was in custody: and before the King stood the white rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. Illustration [88] "Herald! read the accusation!" said the King. On this the white rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows: "The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!" "Now for the evidence," said the King, "and then the sentence." Illustration "No!" said the Queen, "first the sentence, and then the evidence!" "Nonsense!" cried Alice, so loudly that everybody jumped, "the idea of having the sentence first!" "Hold your tongue!" said the Queen. "I won't!" said Alice, "you're nothing but a pack of cards! Who cares for you?" At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream of fright, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some leaves that had fluttered down from the trees on to her face. [89] "Wake up! Alice dear!" said her sister, "what a nice long sleep you've had!" "Oh, I've had such a curious dream!" said Alice, and she told her sister all her Adventures Under Ground, as you have read them, and when she had finished, her sister kissed her and said "it was a curious dream, dear, certainly! But now run in to your tea: it's getting late." So Alice ran off, thinking while she ran (as well she might) what a wonderful dream it had been. But her sister sat there some while longer, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and her Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream: She saw an ancient city, and a quiet river winding near it along the plain, and up the stream went slowly gliding a boat with a merry party of children on board—she could hear their voices and laughter like music over the water—and among them was another little Alice, who sat listening with bright eager eyes to a tale that was being told, and she listened for the words of the tale, and lo! it was the dream [90] of her own little sister. So the boat wound slowly along, beneath the bright summer-day, with its merry crew and its music of voices and laughter, till it passed round one of the many turnings of the stream, and she saw it no more. Then she thought, (in a dream within the dream, as it were,) how this same little Alice would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman: and how she would keep, through her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather around her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a wonderful tale, perhaps even with these very adventures of the little Alice of long-ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days. Illustration [91] happy summer days. THE END. POSTSCRIPT. The profits, if any, of this book will be given to Children's Hospitals and Convalescent Homes for Sick Children; and the accounts, down to June 30 in each year, will be published in the St. James's Gazette, on the second Tuesday of the following December. P.P.S.—The thought, so prettily expressed by the little boy, is also to be found in Longfellow's "Hiawatha," where he appeals to those who believe "That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God's right hand in that darkness, And are lifted up and strengthened." "Who will Riddle me the How and the Why?" So questions one of England's sweetest singers. The "How?" has already been told, after a fashion, in the verses prefixed to "Alice in Wonderland"; and some other memories of that happy summer day are set down, for those who care to see them, in this little book—the germ that was to grow into the published volume. But the "Why?" cannot, and need not, be put into words. Those for whom a child's mind is a sealed book, and who see no divinity in a child's smile, would read such words in vain: while for any one that has ever loved one true child, no words are needed. For he will have known the awe that falls on one in the presence of a spirit fresh from God's hands, on whom no shadow of sin, and but the outermost fringe of the shadow of sorrow, has yet fallen: he will have felt the bitter contrast between the haunting selfishness that spoils his best deeds and the life that is but an overflowing love—for I think a child's first attitude to the world is a simple love for all living things: and he will have learned that the best work a man can do is when he works for love's sake only, with no thought of name, or gain, or earthly reward. No deed of ours, I suppose, on this side the grave, is really unselfish: yet if one can put forth all one's powers in a task where nothing of reward is hoped for but a little child's whispered thanks, and the airy touch of a little child's pure lips, one seems to come somewhere near to this. There was no idea of publication in my mind when I wrote this little book: that was wholly an afterthought, pressed on me by the "perhaps too partial friends" who always have to bear the blame when a writer rushes into print: and I can truly say that no praise of theirs has ever given me one hundredth part of the pleasure it has been to think of the sick children in hospitals (where it has been a delight to me to send copies) forgetting, for a few bright hours, their pain and weariness—perhaps thinking lovingly of the unknown writer of the tale—perhaps even putting up a childish prayer (and oh, how much it needs!) for one who can but dimly hope to stand, some day, not quite out of sight of those pure young faces, before the great white throne. "I am very sure," writes a lady-visitor at a Home for Sick Children, "that there will be many loving earnest prayers for you on Easter morning from the children." I would like to quote further from her letters, as embodying a suggestion that may perhaps thus come to the notice of some one able and willing to carry it out. "I want you to send me one of your Easter Greetings for a very dear child who is dying at our Home. She is just fading away, and 'Alice' has brightened some of the weary hours in her illness, and I know that letter would be such a delight to her—especially if you would put 'Minnie' at the top, and she could know you had sent it for her. She knows you, and would so value it.... She suffers so much that I long for what I know would so please her." ... "Thank you very much for sending me the letter, and for writing Minnie's name.... I am quite sure that all these children will say a loving prayer for the 'Alice-man' on Easter Day: and I am sure the letter will help the little ones to the real Easter joy. How I do wish that you, who have won the hearts and confidence of so many children, would do for them what is so very near my heart, and yet what no one will do, viz. write a book for children about God and themselves, which is not goody, and which begins at the right end, about religion, to make them see what it really is. I get quite miserable very often over the children I come across: hardly any of them have an idea of really knowing that God loves them, or of loving and confiding in Him. They will love and trust me, and be sure that I want them to be happy, and will not let them suffer more than is necessary: but as for going to Him in the same way, they would never think of it. They are dreadfully afraid of Him, if they think of Him at all, which they generally only do when they have been naughty, and they look on all connected with Him as very grave and dull: and, when they are full of fun and thoroughly happy, I am sure they unconsciously hope He is not looking. I am sure I don't wonder they think of Him in this way, for people never talk of Him in connection with what makes their little lives the brightest. If they are naughty, people put on solemn faces, and say He is very angry or shocked, or something which frightens them: and, for the rest, He is talked about only in a way that makes them think of church and having to be quiet. As for being taught that all Joy and all Gladness and Brightness is His Joy—that He is wearying for them to be happy, and is not hard and stern, but always doing things to make their days brighter, and caring for them so tenderly, and wanting them to run to Him with all their little joys and sorrows, they are not taught that. I do so long to make them trust Him as they trust us, to feel that He will 'take their part' as they do with us in their little woes, and to go to Him in their plays and enjoyments and not only when they say their prayers. I was quite grateful to one little dot, a short time ago, who said to his mother 'when I am in bed, I put out my hand to see if I can feel Jesus and my angel. I thought perhaps in the dark they'd touch me, but they never have yet.' I do so want them to want to go to Him, and to feel how, if He is there, it must be happy." Let me add—for I feel I have drifted into far too serious a vein for a preface to a fairy-tale—the deliciously naïve remark of a very dear child-friend, whom I asked, after an acquaintance of two or three days, if she had read 'Alice' and the 'Looking-Glass.' "Oh yes," she replied readily, "I've read both of them! And I think" (this more slowly and thoughtfully) "I think 'Through the Looking-Glass' is more stupid than 'Alice's Adventures.' Don't you think so?" But this was a question I felt it would be hardly discreet for me to enter upon. LEWIS CARROLL. Dec. 1886. ... ... ... CHRISTMAS GREETINGS. [FROM A FAIRY TO A CHILD.] Lady dear, if Fairies may For a moment lay aside Cunning tricks and elfish play, 'Tis at happy Christmas-tide. We have heard the children say— Gentle children, whom we love— Long ago, on Christmas Day, Came a message from above. Still, as Christmas-tide comes round, They remember it again— Echo still the joyful sound "Peace on earth, good-will to men!" Yet the hearts must childlike be Where such heavenly guests abide: Unto children, in their glee, All the year is Christmas-tide! Thus, forgetting tricks and play For a moment, Lady dear, We would wish you, if we may, Merry Christmas, glad New Year! LEWIS CARROLL. Christmas, 1867. WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL. PUBLISHED BY MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With Forty-two Illustrations by Tenniel. (First published in 1865.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Seventy-eighth Thousand. AVENTURES D'ALICE AU PAYS DES MERVEILLES. Traduit de l'Anglais par Henri Bué. Ouvrage illustré de 42 Vignettes par John Tenniel. (First published in 1869.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Alice's Abenteuer im Wunderland. Aus dem Englischen, von Antonie Zimmermann. Mitt 42 Illustrationen von John Tenniel. (First published in 1869.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. LE AVVENTURE D'ALICE NEL PAESE DELLE MERAVIGLIE. Tradotte dall' Inglese da T. Pietrocòla-Rossetti. Con 42 Vignette di Giovanni Tenniel. (First published in 1872.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With Fifty Illustrations by Tenniel. (First published in 1871.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Fifty sixth Thousand. RHYME? AND REASON? With Sixty-five Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and Nine by Henry Holiday. (This book, first published in 1883, is a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portion of "Phantasmagoria and other Poems," published in 1869, and of "The Hunting of the Snark," published in 1876. Mr. Frost's pictures are new.) Crown 8vo, cloth, coloured edges, price 6s. Fifth Thousand. WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL. PUBLISHED BY MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. A TANGLED TALE. Reprinted from The Monthly Packet. With Six Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost. (First published in 1885.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 4s. 6d. Third Thousand. THE GAME OF LOGIC. (With an Envelope containing a card diagram and nine counters—four red and five grey.) Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. N.B.—The Envelope, etc., may be had separately at 3d. each. ALICE'S ADVENTURES UNDER GROUND. Being a Facsimile of the original MS. Book, afterwards developed into "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." With Thirty-seven Illustrations by the Author. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges. 4s. THE NURSERY ALICE. A selection of twenty of the pictures in "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," enlarged and coloured under the Artist's superintendence, with explanations. [In preparation. N.B. In selling the above-mentioned books to the Trade, Messrs. Macmillan and Co. will abate 2d. in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per cent. discount for payment within six months, and 10 per cent. for cash. In selling them to the Public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent. discount. Mr. Lewis Carroll, having been requested to allow "An Easter Greeting" (a leaflet, addressed to children, first published in 1876, and frequently given with his books) to be sold separately, has arranged with Messrs. Harrison, of 59, Pall Mall, who will supply a single copy for 1d., or 12 for 9d., or 100 for 5s. ============== ... ... ... *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALICE'S ADVENTURES UNDER GROUND *** ***** This file should be named 19002-h.htm or 19002-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/0/0/19002/ ===== Alice's Adventures in Wonderland ===== Project Gutenberg's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland Author: Lewis Carroll Release Date: June 25, 2008 [EBook #11] Last Updated: October 6, 2016 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND *** Produced by Arthur DiBianca and David Widger ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND By Lewis Carroll THE MILLENNIUM FULCRUM EDITION 3.0 Contents CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole CHAPTER II. The Pool of Tears CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill CHAPTER V. Advice from a Caterpillar CHAPTER VI. Pig and Pepper CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party CHAPTER VIII. The Queen’s Croquet-Ground CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle’s Story CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille CHAPTER XI. Who Stole the Tarts? CHAPTER XII. Alice’s Evidence CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversations?’ So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!’ (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE’, but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. ‘Well!’ thought Alice to herself, ‘after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they’ll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn’t say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!’ (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! ‘I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?’ she said aloud. ‘I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think—’ (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) ‘—yes, that’s about the right distance—but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I’ve got to?’ (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. ‘I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it’ll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think—’ (she was rather glad there was no one listening, this time, as it didn’t sound at all the right word) ‘—but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma’am, is this New Zealand or Australia?’ (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke—fancy curtseying as you’re falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) ‘And what an ignorant little girl she’ll think me for asking! No, it’ll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.’ Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. ‘Dinah’ll miss me very much to-night, I should think!’ (Dinah was the cat.) ‘I hope they’ll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I’m afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that’s very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?’ And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, ‘Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?’ and sometimes, ‘Do bats eat cats?’ for, you see, as she couldn’t answer either question, it didn’t much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, ‘Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?’ when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over. Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, ‘Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting!’ She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again. Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice’s first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted! Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway; ‘and even if my head would go through,’ thought poor Alice, ‘it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin.’ For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it, (‘which certainly was not here before,’ said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words ‘DRINK ME’ beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say ‘Drink me,’ but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. ‘No, I’ll look first,’ she said, ‘and see whether it’s marked “poison” or not’; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked ‘poison,’ it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was not marked ‘poison,’ so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ‘What a curious feeling!’ said Alice; ‘I must be shutting up like a telescope.’ And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; ‘for it might end, you know,’ said Alice to herself, ‘in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?’ And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. ‘Come, there’s no use in crying like that!’ said Alice to herself, rather sharply; ‘I advise you to leave off this minute!’ She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. ‘But it’s no use now,’ thought poor Alice, ‘to pretend to be two people! Why, there’s hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!’ Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words ‘EAT ME’ were beautifully marked in currants. ‘Well, I’ll eat it,’ said Alice, ‘and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I’ll get into the garden, and I don’t care which happens!’ She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, ‘Which way? Which way?’, holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way. So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * CHAPTER II. The Pool of Tears ‘Curiouser and curiouser!’ cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English); ‘now I’m opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Good-bye, feet!’ (for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off). ‘Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I’m sure I shan’t be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you: you must manage the best way you can;—but I must be kind to them,’ thought Alice, ‘or perhaps they won’t walk the way I want to go! Let me see: I’ll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas.’ And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. ‘They must go by the carrier,’ she thought; ‘and how funny it’ll seem, sending presents to one’s own feet! And how odd the directions will look! Alice’s Right Foot, Esq. Hearthrug, near The Fender, (with Alice’s love). Oh dear, what nonsense I’m talking!’ Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door. Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ said Alice, ‘a great girl like you,’ (she might well say this), ‘to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!’ But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall. After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, ‘Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won’t she be savage if I’ve kept her waiting!’ Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, ‘If you please, sir—’ The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go. Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: ‘Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle!’ And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. ‘I’m sure I’m not Ada,’ she said, ‘for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn’t go in ringlets at all; and I’m sure I can’t be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, she’s she, and I’m I, and—oh dear, how puzzling it all is! I’ll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is—oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate! However, the Multiplication Table doesn’t signify: let’s try Geography. London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and Rome—no, that’s all wrong, I’m certain! I must have been changed for Mabel! I’ll try and say “How doth the little—“’ and she crossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do:— ‘How doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale! ‘How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spread his claws, And welcome little fishes in With gently smiling jaws!’ ‘I’m sure those are not the right words,’ said poor Alice, and her eyes filled with tears again as she went on, ‘I must be Mabel after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I’ve made up my mind about it; if I’m Mabel, I’ll stay down here! It’ll be no use their putting their heads down and saying “Come up again, dear!” I shall only look up and say “Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I’ll come up: if not, I’ll stay down here till I’m somebody else”—but, oh dear!’ cried Alice, with a sudden burst of tears, ‘I do wish they would put their heads down! I am so very tired of being all alone here!’ As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see that she had put on one of the Rabbit’s little white kid gloves while she was talking. ‘How can I have done that?’ she thought. ‘I must be growing small again.’ She got up and went to the table to measure herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly: she soon found out that the cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped it hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether. ‘That was a narrow escape!’ said Alice, a good deal frightened at the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; ‘and now for the garden!’ and she ran with all speed back to the little door: but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as before, ‘and things are worse than ever,’ thought the poor child, ‘for I never was so small as this before, never! And I declare it’s too bad, that it is!’ As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that she had somehow fallen into the sea, ‘and in that case I can go back by railway,’ she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in her life, and had come to the general conclusion, that wherever you go to on the English coast you find a number of bathing machines in the sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row of lodging houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she soon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high. ‘I wish I hadn’t cried so much!’ said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. ‘I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That will be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day.’ Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was: at first she thought it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had slipped in like herself. ‘Would it be of any use, now,’ thought Alice, ‘to speak to this mouse? Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very likely it can talk: at any rate, there’s no harm in trying.’ So she began: ‘O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired of swimming about here, O Mouse!’ (Alice thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen in her brother’s Latin Grammar, ‘A mouse—of a mouse—to a mouse—a mouse—O mouse!’) The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t understand English,’ thought Alice; ‘I daresay it’s a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror.’ (For, with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) So she began again: ‘Ou est ma chatte?’ which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal’s feelings. ‘I quite forgot you didn’t like cats.’ ‘Not like cats!’ cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. ‘Would you like cats if you were me?’ ‘Well, perhaps not,’ said Alice in a soothing tone: ‘don’t be angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you’d take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear quiet thing,’ Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the pool, ‘and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face—and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse—and she’s such a capital one for catching mice—oh, I beg your pardon!’ cried Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended. ‘We won’t talk about her any more if you’d rather not.’ ‘We indeed!’ cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his tail. ‘As if I would talk on such a subject! Our family always hated cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don’t let me hear the name again!’ ‘I won’t indeed!’ said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. ‘Are you—are you fond—of—of dogs?’ The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: ‘There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it’ll fetch things when you throw them, and it’ll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things—I can’t remember half of them—and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it’s so useful, it’s worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and—oh dear!’ cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, ‘I’m afraid I’ve offended it again!’ For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, ‘Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won’t talk about cats or dogs either, if you don’t like them!’ When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, ‘Let us get to the shore, and then I’ll tell you my history, and you’ll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs.’ It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank—the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, ‘I am older than you, and must know better’; and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, ‘Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I’ll soon make you dry enough!’ They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. ‘Ahem!’ said the Mouse with an important air, ‘are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! “William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria—“’ ‘Ugh!’ said the Lory, with a shiver. ‘I beg your pardon!’ said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: ‘Did you speak?’ ‘Not I!’ said the Lory hastily. ‘I thought you did,’ said the Mouse. ‘—I proceed. “Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable—“’ ‘Found what?’ said the Duck. ‘Found it,’ the Mouse replied rather crossly: ‘of course you know what “it” means.’ ‘I know what “it” means well enough, when I find a thing,’ said the Duck: ‘it’s generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?’ The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, ‘“—found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William’s conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans—” How are you getting on now, my dear?’ it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. ‘As wet as ever,’ said Alice in a melancholy tone: ‘it doesn’t seem to dry me at all.’ ‘In that case,’ said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, ‘I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies—’ ‘Speak English!’ said the Eaglet. ‘I don’t know the meaning of half those long words, and, what’s more, I don’t believe you do either!’ And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. ‘What I was going to say,’ said the Dodo in an offended tone, ‘was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.’ ‘What is a Caucus-race?’ said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that somebody ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. ‘Why,’ said the Dodo, ‘the best way to explain it is to do it.’ (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (‘the exact shape doesn’t matter,’ it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no ‘One, two, three, and away,’ but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out ‘The race is over!’ and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, ‘But who has won?’ This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, ‘Everybody has won, and all must have prizes.’ ‘But who is to give the prizes?’ quite a chorus of voices asked. ‘Why, she, of course,’ said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, ‘Prizes! Prizes!’ Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece all round. ‘But she must have a prize herself, you know,’ said the Mouse. ‘Of course,’ the Dodo replied very gravely. ‘What else have you got in your pocket?’ he went on, turning to Alice. ‘Only a thimble,’ said Alice sadly. ‘Hand it over here,’ said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying ‘We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble’; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. ‘You promised to tell me your history, you know,’ said Alice, ‘and why it is you hate—C and D,’ she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. ‘Mine is a long and a sad tale!’ said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. ‘It is a long tail, certainly,’ said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse’s tail; ‘but why do you call it sad?’ And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:— ‘Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, “Let us both go to law: I will prosecute you.—Come, I’ll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I’ve nothing to do.” Said the mouse to the cur, “Such a trial, dear Sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.” “I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury,” Said cunning old Fury: “I’ll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.”’ ‘You are not attending!’ said the Mouse to Alice severely. ‘What are you thinking of?’ ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Alice very humbly: ‘you had got to the fifth bend, I think?’ ‘I had not!’ cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. ‘A knot!’ said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. ‘Oh, do let me help to undo it!’ ‘I shall do nothing of the sort,’ said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. ‘You insult me by talking such nonsense!’ ‘I didn’t mean it!’ pleaded poor Alice. ‘But you’re so easily offended, you know!’ The Mouse only growled in reply. ‘Please come back and finish your story!’ Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, ‘Yes, please do!’ but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. ‘What a pity it wouldn’t stay!’ sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter ‘Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose your temper!’ ‘Hold your tongue, Ma!’ said the young Crab, a little snappishly. ‘You’re enough to try the patience of an oyster!’ ‘I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!’ said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. ‘She’d soon fetch it back!’ ‘And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?’ said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: ‘Dinah’s our cat. And she’s such a capital one for catching mice you can’t think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she’ll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!’ This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, ‘I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn’t suit my throat!’ and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, ‘Come away, my dears! It’s high time you were all in bed!’ On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. ‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned Dinah!’ she said to herself in a melancholy tone. ‘Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I’m sure she’s the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!’ And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story. CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself ‘The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She’ll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets! Where can I have dropped them, I wonder?’ Alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were nowhere to be seen—everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, ‘Why, Mary Ann, what are you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!’ And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made. ‘He took me for his housemaid,’ she said to herself as she ran. ‘How surprised he’ll be when he finds out who I am! But I’d better take him his fan and gloves—that is, if I can find them.’ As she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass plate with the name ‘W. RABBIT’ engraved upon it. She went in without knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves. ‘How queer it seems,’ Alice said to herself, ‘to be going messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah’ll be sending me on messages next!’ And she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: ‘“Miss Alice! Come here directly, and get ready for your walk!” “Coming in a minute, nurse! But I’ve got to see that the mouse doesn’t get out.” Only I don’t think,’ Alice went on, ‘that they’d let Dinah stop in the house if it began ordering people about like that!’ By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves, and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label this time with the words ‘DRINK ME,’ but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips. ‘I know something interesting is sure to happen,’ she said to herself, ‘whenever I eat or drink anything; so I’ll just see what this bottle does. I do hope it’ll make me grow large again, for really I’m quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!’ It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself ‘That’s quite enough—I hope I shan’t grow any more—As it is, I can’t get out at the door—I do wish I hadn’t drunk quite so much!’ Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself ‘Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What will become of me?’ Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. ‘It was much pleasanter at home,’ thought poor Alice, ‘when one wasn’t always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn’t gone down that rabbit-hole—and yet—and yet—it’s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what can have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I’ll write one—but I’m grown up now,’ she added in a sorrowful tone; ‘at least there’s no room to grow up any more here.’ ‘But then,’ thought Alice, ‘shall I never get any older than I am now? That’ll be a comfort, one way—never to be an old woman—but then—always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn’t like that!’ ‘Oh, you foolish Alice!’ she answered herself. ‘How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there’s hardly room for you, and no room at all for any lesson-books!’ And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann!’ said the voice. ‘Fetch me my gloves this moment!’ Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice’s elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself ‘Then I’ll go round and get in at the window.’ ‘That you won’t’ thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice—the Rabbit’s—‘Pat! Pat! Where are you?’ And then a voice she had never heard before, ‘Sure then I’m here! Digging for apples, yer honour!’ ‘Digging for apples, indeed!’ said the Rabbit angrily. ‘Here! Come and help me out of this!’ (Sounds of more broken glass.) ‘Now tell me, Pat, what’s that in the window?’ ‘Sure, it’s an arm, yer honour!’ (He pronounced it ‘arrum.’) ‘An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!’ ‘Sure, it does, yer honour: but it’s an arm for all that.’ ‘Well, it’s got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!’ There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, ‘Sure, I don’t like it, yer honour, at all, at all!’ ‘Do as I tell you, you coward!’ and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were two little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. ‘What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!’ thought Alice. ‘I wonder what they’ll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they could! I’m sure I don’t want to stay in here any longer!’ She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: ‘Where’s the other ladder?—Why, I hadn’t to bring but one; Bill’s got the other—Bill! fetch it here, lad!—Here, put ‘em up at this corner—No, tie ‘em together first—they don’t reach half high enough yet—Oh! they’ll do well enough; don’t be particular—Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope—Will the roof bear?—Mind that loose slate—Oh, it’s coming down! Heads below!’ (a loud crash)—‘Now, who did that?—It was Bill, I fancy—Who’s to go down the chimney?—Nay, I shan’t! You do it!—That I won’t, then!—Bill’s to go down—Here, Bill! the master says you’re to go down the chimney!’ ‘Oh! So Bill’s got to come down the chimney, has he?’ said Alice to herself. ‘Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn’t be in Bill’s place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I think I can kick a little!’ She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn’t guess of what sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself ‘This is Bill,’ she gave one sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next. The first thing she heard was a general chorus of ‘There goes Bill!’ then the Rabbit’s voice along—‘Catch him, you by the hedge!’ then silence, and then another confusion of voices—‘Hold up his head—Brandy now—Don’t choke him—How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell us all about it!’ Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (‘That’s Bill,’ thought Alice,) ‘Well, I hardly know—No more, thank ye; I’m better now—but I’m a deal too flustered to tell you—all I know is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!’ ‘So you did, old fellow!’ said the others. ‘We must burn the house down!’ said the Rabbit’s voice; and Alice called out as loud as she could, ‘If you do. I’ll set Dinah at you!’ There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself, ‘I wonder what they will do next! If they had any sense, they’d take the roof off.’ After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and Alice heard the Rabbit say, ‘A barrowful will do, to begin with.’ ‘A barrowful of what?’ thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt, for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the window, and some of them hit her in the face. ‘I’ll put a stop to this,’ she said to herself, and shouted out, ‘You’d better not do that again!’ which produced another dead silence. Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her head. ‘If I eat one of these cakes,’ she thought, ‘it’s sure to make some change in my size; and as it can’t possibly make me larger, it must make me smaller, I suppose.’ So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, Bill, was in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at Alice the moment she appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself safe in a thick wood. ‘The first thing I’ve got to do,’ said Alice to herself, as she wandered about in the wood, ‘is to grow to my right size again; and the second thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be the best plan.’ It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea how to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a great hurry. An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her. ‘Poor little thing!’ said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of all her coaxing. Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and held it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick, and made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle, to keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut. This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and till the puppy’s bark sounded quite faint in the distance. ‘And yet what a dear little puppy it was!’ said Alice, as she leant against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the leaves: ‘I should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if—if I’d only been the right size to do it! Oh dear! I’d nearly forgotten that I’ve got to grow up again! Let me see—how is it to be managed? I suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great question is, what?’ The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that looked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances. There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as herself; and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what was on the top of it. She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large caterpillar, that was sitting on the top with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else. CHAPTER V. Advice from a Caterpillar The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. ‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, ‘I—I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar sternly. ‘Explain yourself!’ ‘I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself, you see.’ ‘I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied very politely, ‘for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.’ ‘It isn’t,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,’ said Alice; ‘but when you have to turn into a chrysalis—you will some day, you know—and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?’ ‘Not a bit,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,’ said Alice; ‘all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.’ ‘You!’ said the Caterpillar contemptuously. ‘Who are you?’ Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar’s making such very short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, ‘I think, you ought to tell me who you are, first.’ ‘Why?’ said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a very unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. ‘Come back!’ the Caterpillar called after her. ‘I’ve something important to say!’ This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. ‘Keep your temper,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Is that all?’ said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. ‘No,’ said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, ‘So you think you’re changed, do you?’ ‘I’m afraid I am, sir,’ said Alice; ‘I can’t remember things as I used—and I don’t keep the same size for ten minutes together!’ ‘Can’t remember what things?’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Well, I’ve tried to say “How doth the little busy bee,” but it all came different!’ Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. ‘Repeat, “You are old, Father William,”’ said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:— ‘You are old, Father William,’ the young man said, ‘And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head— Do you think, at your age, it is right?’ ‘In my youth,’ Father William replied to his son, ‘I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.’ ‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door— Pray, what is the reason of that?’ ‘In my youth,’ said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, ‘I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box— Allow me to sell you a couple?’ ‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak— Pray how did you manage to do it?’ ‘In my youth,’ said his father, ‘I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.’ ‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— What made you so awfully clever?’ ‘I have answered three questions, and that is enough,’ Said his father; ‘don’t give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!’ ‘That is not said right,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Not quite right, I’m afraid,’ said Alice, timidly; ‘some of the words have got altered.’ ‘It is wrong from beginning to end,’ said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. ‘What size do you want to be?’ it asked. ‘Oh, I’m not particular as to size,’ Alice hastily replied; ‘only one doesn’t like changing so often, you know.’ ‘I don’t know,’ said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. ‘Are you content now?’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Well, I should like to be a little larger, sir, if you wouldn’t mind,’ said Alice: ‘three inches is such a wretched height to be.’ ‘It is a very good height indeed!’ said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). ‘But I’m not used to it!’ pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, ‘I wish the creatures wouldn’t be so easily offended!’ ‘You’ll get used to it in time,’ said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, ‘One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.’ ‘One side of what? The other side of what?’ thought Alice to herself. ‘Of the mushroom,’ said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. ‘And now which is which?’ she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ‘Come, my head’s free at last!’ said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. ‘What can all that green stuff be?’ said Alice. ‘And where have my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can’t see you?’ She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. ‘Serpent!’ screamed the Pigeon. ‘I’m not a serpent!’ said Alice indignantly. ‘Let me alone!’ ‘Serpent, I say again!’ repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, ‘I’ve tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!’ ‘I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve tried the roots of trees, and I’ve tried banks, and I’ve tried hedges,’ the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; ‘but those serpents! There’s no pleasing them!’ Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. ‘As if it wasn’t trouble enough hatching the eggs,’ said the Pigeon; ‘but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven’t had a wink of sleep these three weeks!’ ‘I’m very sorry you’ve been annoyed,’ said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. ‘And just as I’d taken the highest tree in the wood,’ continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, ‘and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!’ ‘But I’m not a serpent, I tell you!’ said Alice. ‘I’m a—I’m a—’ ‘Well! What are you?’ said the Pigeon. ‘I can see you’re trying to invent something!’ ‘I—I’m a little girl,’ said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day. ‘A likely story indeed!’ said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt. ‘I’ve seen a good many little girls in my time, but never one with such a neck as that! No, no! You’re a serpent; and there’s no use denying it. I suppose you’ll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!’ ‘I have tasted eggs, certainly,’ said Alice, who was a very truthful child; ‘but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you know.’ ‘I don’t believe it,’ said the Pigeon; ‘but if they do, why then they’re a kind of serpent, that’s all I can say.’ This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, ‘You’re looking for eggs, I know that well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you’re a little girl or a serpent?’ ‘It matters a good deal to me,’ said Alice hastily; ‘but I’m not looking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn’t want yours: I don’t like them raw.’ ‘Well, be off, then!’ said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height. It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes, and began talking to herself, as usual. ‘Come, there’s half my plan done now! How puzzling all these changes are! I’m never sure what I’m going to be, from one minute to another! However, I’ve got back to my right size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden—how is that to be done, I wonder?’ As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open place, with a little house in it about four feet high. ‘Whoever lives there,’ thought Alice, ‘it’ll never do to come upon them this size: why, I should frighten them out of their wits!’ So she began nibbling at the righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she had brought herself down to nine inches high. CHAPTER VI. Pig and Pepper For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the wood—(she considered him to be a footman because he was in livery: otherwise, judging by his face only, she would have called him a fish)—and rapped loudly at the door with his knuckles. It was opened by another footman in livery, with a round face, and large eyes like a frog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all over their heads. She felt very curious to know what it was all about, and crept a little way out of the wood to listen. The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter, nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other, saying, in a solemn tone, ‘For the Duchess. An invitation from the Queen to play croquet.’ The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone, only changing the order of the words a little, ‘From the Queen. An invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.’ Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together. Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the sky. Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked. ‘There’s no sort of use in knocking,’ said the Footman, ‘and that for two reasons. First, because I’m on the same side of the door as you are; secondly, because they’re making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you.’ And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise going on within—a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces. ‘Please, then,’ said Alice, ‘how am I to get in?’ ‘There might be some sense in your knocking,’ the Footman went on without attending to her, ‘if we had the door between us. For instance, if you were inside, you might knock, and I could let you out, you know.’ He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this Alice thought decidedly uncivil. ‘But perhaps he can’t help it,’ she said to herself; ‘his eyes are so very nearly at the top of his head. But at any rate he might answer questions.—How am I to get in?’ she repeated, aloud. ‘I shall sit here,’ the Footman remarked, ‘till tomorrow—’ At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came skimming out, straight at the Footman’s head: it just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him. ‘—or next day, maybe,’ the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly as if nothing had happened. ‘How am I to get in?’ asked Alice again, in a louder tone. ‘Are you to get in at all?’ said the Footman. ‘That’s the first question, you know.’ It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so. ‘It’s really dreadful,’ she muttered to herself, ‘the way all the creatures argue. It’s enough to drive one crazy!’ The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his remark, with variations. ‘I shall sit here,’ he said, ‘on and off, for days and days.’ ‘But what am I to do?’ said Alice. ‘Anything you like,’ said the Footman, and began whistling. ‘Oh, there’s no use in talking to him,’ said Alice desperately: ‘he’s perfectly idiotic!’ And she opened the door and went in. The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup. ‘There’s certainly too much pepper in that soup!’ Alice said to herself, as well as she could for sneezing. There was certainly too much of it in the air. Even the Duchess sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling alternately without a moment’s pause. The only things in the kitchen that did not sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat which was sitting on the hearth and grinning from ear to ear. ‘Please would you tell me,’ said Alice, a little timidly, for she was not quite sure whether it was good manners for her to speak first, ‘why your cat grins like that?’ ‘It’s a Cheshire cat,’ said the Duchess, ‘and that’s why. Pig!’ She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby, and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again:— ‘I didn’t know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, I didn’t know that cats could grin.’ ‘They all can,’ said the Duchess; ‘and most of ‘em do.’ ‘I don’t know of any that do,’ Alice said very politely, feeling quite pleased to have got into a conversation. ‘You don’t know much,’ said the Duchess; ‘and that’s a fact.’ Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby—the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not. ‘Oh, please mind what you’re doing!’ cried Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror. ‘Oh, there goes his precious nose’; as an unusually large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off. ‘If everybody minded their own business,’ the Duchess said in a hoarse growl, ‘the world would go round a deal faster than it does.’ ‘Which would not be an advantage,’ said Alice, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. ‘Just think of what work it would make with the day and night! You see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis—’ ‘Talking of axes,’ said the Duchess, ‘chop off her head!’ Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again: ‘Twenty-four hours, I think; or is it twelve? I—’ ‘Oh, don’t bother me,’ said the Duchess; ‘I never could abide figures!’ And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line: ‘Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes: He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases.’ CHORUS. (In which the cook and the baby joined):— ‘Wow! wow! wow!’ While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:— ‘I speak severely to my boy, I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!’ CHORUS. ‘Wow! wow! wow!’ ‘Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!’ the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. ‘I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen,’ and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, ‘just like a star-fish,’ thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it. As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. ‘If I don’t take this child away with me,’ thought Alice, ‘they’re sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn’t it be murder to leave it behind?’ She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). ‘Don’t grunt,’ said Alice; ‘that’s not at all a proper way of expressing yourself.’ The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a very turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. ‘But perhaps it was only sobbing,’ she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. ‘If you’re going to turn into a pig, my dear,’ said Alice, seriously, ‘I’ll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!’ The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself, ‘Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?’ when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be no mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. ‘If it had grown up,’ she said to herself, ‘it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.’ And she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself, ‘if one only knew the right way to change them—’ when she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had very long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect. ‘Cheshire Puss,’ she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. ‘Come, it’s pleased so far,’ thought Alice, and she went on. ‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’ ‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat. ‘I don’t much care where—’ said Alice. ‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat. ‘—so long as I get somewhere,’ Alice added as an explanation. ‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.’ Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. ‘What sort of people live about here?’ ‘In that direction,’ the Cat said, waving its right paw round, ‘lives a Hatter: and in that direction,’ waving the other paw, ‘lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they’re both mad.’ ‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked. ‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: ‘we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’ ‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice. ‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’ Alice didn’t think that proved it at all; however, she went on ‘And how do you know that you’re mad?’ ‘To begin with,’ said the Cat, ‘a dog’s not mad. You grant that?’ ‘I suppose so,’ said Alice. ‘Well, then,’ the Cat went on, ‘you see, a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.’ ‘I call it purring, not growling,’ said Alice. ‘Call it what you like,’ said the Cat. ‘Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?’ ‘I should like it very much,’ said Alice, ‘but I haven’t been invited yet.’ ‘You’ll see me there,’ said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. ‘By-the-bye, what became of the baby?’ said the Cat. ‘I’d nearly forgotten to ask.’ ‘It turned into a pig,’ Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. ‘I thought it would,’ said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. ‘I’ve seen hatters before,’ she said to herself; ‘the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won’t be raving mad—at least not so mad as it was in March.’ As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. ‘Did you say pig, or fig?’ said the Cat. ‘I said pig,’ replied Alice; ‘and I wish you wouldn’t keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.’ ‘All right,’ said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. ‘Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,’ thought Alice; ‘but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!’ She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself ‘Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I’d gone to see the Hatter instead!’ CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. ‘Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,’ thought Alice; ‘only, as it’s asleep, I suppose it doesn’t mind.’ The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: ‘No room! No room!’ they cried out when they saw Alice coming. ‘There’s plenty of room!’ said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. ‘Have some wine,’ the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. ‘I don’t see any wine,’ she remarked. ‘There isn’t any,’ said the March Hare. ‘Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it,’ said Alice angrily. ‘It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,’ said the March Hare. ‘I didn’t know it was your table,’ said Alice; ‘it’s laid for a great many more than three.’ ‘Your hair wants cutting,’ said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. ‘You should learn not to make personal remarks,’ Alice said with some severity; ‘it’s very rude.’ The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said was, ‘Why is a raven like a writing-desk?’ ‘Come, we shall have some fun now!’ thought Alice. ‘I’m glad they’ve begun asking riddles.—I believe I can guess that,’ she added aloud. ‘Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?’ said the March Hare. ‘Exactly so,’ said Alice. ‘Then you should say what you mean,’ the March Hare went on. ‘I do,’ Alice hastily replied; ‘at least—at least I mean what I say—that’s the same thing, you know.’ ‘Not the same thing a bit!’ said the Hatter. ‘You might just as well say that “I see what I eat” is the same thing as “I eat what I see”!’ ‘You might just as well say,’ added the March Hare, ‘that “I like what I get” is the same thing as “I get what I like”!’ ‘You might just as well say,’ added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, ‘that “I breathe when I sleep” is the same thing as “I sleep when I breathe”!’ ‘It is the same thing with you,’ said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn’t much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. ‘What day of the month is it?’ he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said ‘The fourth.’ ‘Two days wrong!’ sighed the Hatter. ‘I told you butter wouldn’t suit the works!’ he added looking angrily at the March Hare. ‘It was the best butter,’ the March Hare meekly replied. ‘Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,’ the Hatter grumbled: ‘you shouldn’t have put it in with the bread-knife.’ The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, ‘It was the best butter, you know.’ Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. ‘What a funny watch!’ she remarked. ‘It tells the day of the month, and doesn’t tell what o’clock it is!’ ‘Why should it?’ muttered the Hatter. ‘Does your watch tell you what year it is?’ ‘Of course not,’ Alice replied very readily: ‘but that’s because it stays the same year for such a long time together.’ ‘Which is just the case with mine,’ said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter’s remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. ‘I don’t quite understand you,’ she said, as politely as she could. ‘The Dormouse is asleep again,’ said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, ‘Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.’ ‘Have you guessed the riddle yet?’ the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. ‘No, I give it up,’ Alice replied: ‘what’s the answer?’ ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ said the Hatter. ‘Nor I,’ said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. ‘I think you might do something better with the time,’ she said, ‘than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.’ ‘If you knew Time as well as I do,’ said the Hatter, ‘you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. It’s him.’ ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Alice. ‘Of course you don’t!’ the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. ‘I dare say you never even spoke to Time!’ ‘Perhaps not,’ Alice cautiously replied: ‘but I know I have to beat time when I learn music.’ ‘Ah! that accounts for it,’ said the Hatter. ‘He won’t stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he’d do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o’clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you’d only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!’ (‘I only wish it was,’ the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) ‘That would be grand, certainly,’ said Alice thoughtfully: ‘but then—I shouldn’t be hungry for it, you know.’ ‘Not at first, perhaps,’ said the Hatter: ‘but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.’ ‘Is that the way you manage?’ Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. ‘Not I!’ he replied. ‘We quarrelled last March—just before he went mad, you know—’ (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) ‘—it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing “Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you’re at!” You know the song, perhaps?’ ‘I’ve heard something like it,’ said Alice. ‘It goes on, you know,’ the Hatter continued, ‘in this way:— “Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle—“’ Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep ‘Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle—’ and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. ‘Well, I’d hardly finished the first verse,’ said the Hatter, ‘when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, “He’s murdering the time! Off with his head!”’ ‘How dreadfully savage!’ exclaimed Alice. ‘And ever since that,’ the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, ‘he won’t do a thing I ask! It’s always six o’clock now.’ A bright idea came into Alice’s head. ‘Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?’ she asked. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said the Hatter with a sigh: ‘it’s always tea-time, and we’ve no time to wash the things between whiles.’ ‘Then you keep moving round, I suppose?’ said Alice. ‘Exactly so,’ said the Hatter: ‘as the things get used up.’ ‘But what happens when you come to the beginning again?’ Alice ventured to ask. ‘Suppose we change the subject,’ the March Hare interrupted, yawning. ‘I’m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t know one,’ said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. ‘Then the Dormouse shall!’ they both cried. ‘Wake up, Dormouse!’ And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. ‘I wasn’t asleep,’ he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: ‘I heard every word you fellows were saying.’ ‘Tell us a story!’ said the March Hare. ‘Yes, please do!’ pleaded Alice. ‘And be quick about it,’ added the Hatter, ‘or you’ll be asleep again before it’s done.’ ‘Once upon a time there were three little sisters,’ the Dormouse began in a great hurry; ‘and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well—’ ‘What did they live on?’ said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. ‘They lived on treacle,’ said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. ‘They couldn’t have done that, you know,’ Alice gently remarked; ‘they’d have been ill.’ ‘So they were,’ said the Dormouse; ‘very ill.’ Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: ‘But why did they live at the bottom of a well?’ ‘Take some more tea,’ the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. ‘I’ve had nothing yet,’ Alice replied in an offended tone, ‘so I can’t take more.’ ‘You mean you can’t take less,’ said the Hatter: ‘it’s very easy to take more than nothing.’ ‘Nobody asked your opinion,’ said Alice. ‘Who’s making personal remarks now?’ the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. ‘Why did they live at the bottom of a well?’ The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, ‘It was a treacle-well.’ ‘There’s no such thing!’ Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went ‘Sh! sh!’ and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, ‘If you can’t be civil, you’d better finish the story for yourself.’ ‘No, please go on!’ Alice said very humbly; ‘I won’t interrupt again. I dare say there may be one.’ ‘One, indeed!’ said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. ‘And so these three little sisters—they were learning to draw, you know—’ ‘What did they draw?’ said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. ‘Treacle,’ said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. ‘I want a clean cup,’ interrupted the Hatter: ‘let’s all move one place on.’ He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse’s place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: ‘But I don’t understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?’ ‘You can draw water out of a water-well,’ said the Hatter; ‘so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well—eh, stupid?’ ‘But they were in the well,’ Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. ‘Of course they were’, said the Dormouse; ‘—well in.’ This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. ‘They were learning to draw,’ the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; ‘and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—’ ‘Why with an M?’ said Alice. ‘Why not?’ said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: ‘—that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness—you know you say things are “much of a muchness”—did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?’ ‘Really, now you ask me,’ said Alice, very much confused, ‘I don’t think—’ ‘Then you shouldn’t talk,’ said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. ‘At any rate I’ll never go there again!’ said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. ‘It’s the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!’ Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. ‘That’s very curious!’ she thought. ‘But everything’s curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.’ And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. ‘Now, I’ll manage better this time,’ she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and then—she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen’s Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, ‘Look out now, Five! Don’t go splashing paint over me like that!’ ‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Five, in a sulky tone; ‘Seven jogged my elbow.’ On which Seven looked up and said, ‘That’s right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!’ ‘You’d better not talk!’ said Five. ‘I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!’ ‘What for?’ said the one who had spoken first. ‘That’s none of your business, Two!’ said Seven. ‘Yes, it is his business!’ said Five, ‘and I’ll tell him—it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.’ Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun ‘Well, of all the unjust things—’ when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. ‘Would you tell me,’ said Alice, a little timidly, ‘why you are painting those roses?’ Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, ‘Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a red rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we’re doing our best, afore she comes, to—’ At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out ‘The Queen! The Queen!’ and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King’s crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; ‘and besides, what would be the use of a procession,’ thought she, ‘if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn’t see it?’ So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely ‘Who is this?’ She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. ‘Idiot!’ said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, ‘What’s your name, child?’ ‘My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,’ said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, ‘Why, they’re only a pack of cards, after all. I needn’t be afraid of them!’ ‘And who are these?’ said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rosetree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. ‘How should I know?’ said Alice, surprised at her own courage. ‘It’s no business of mine.’ The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed ‘Off with her head! Off—’ ‘Nonsense!’ said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said ‘Consider, my dear: she is only a child!’ The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave ‘Turn them over!’ The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. ‘Get up!’ said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else. ‘Leave off that!’ screamed the Queen. ‘You make me giddy.’ And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, ‘What have you been doing here?’ ‘May it please your Majesty,’ said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, ‘we were trying—’ ‘I see!’ said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. ‘Off with their heads!’ and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. ‘You shan’t be beheaded!’ said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. ‘Are their heads off?’ shouted the Queen. ‘Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!’ the soldiers shouted in reply. ‘That’s right!’ shouted the Queen. ‘Can you play croquet?’ The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. ‘Yes!’ shouted Alice. ‘Come on, then!’ roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next. ‘It’s—it’s a very fine day!’ said a timid voice at her side. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. ‘Very,’ said Alice: ‘—where’s the Duchess?’ ‘Hush! Hush!’ said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered ‘She’s under sentence of execution.’ ‘What for?’ said Alice. ‘Did you say “What a pity!”?’ the Rabbit asked. ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Alice: ‘I don’t think it’s at all a pity. I said “What for?”’ ‘She boxed the Queen’s ears—’ the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little scream of laughter. ‘Oh, hush!’ the Rabbit whispered in a frightened tone. ‘The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the Queen said—’ ‘Get to your places!’ shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches. The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it would twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed. The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and shouting ‘Off with his head!’ or ‘Off with her head!’ about once in a minute. Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute, ‘and then,’ thought she, ‘what would become of me? They’re dreadfully fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there’s any one left alive!’ She was looking about for some way of escape, and wondering whether she could get away without being seen, when she noticed a curious appearance in the air: it puzzled her very much at first, but, after watching it a minute or two, she made it out to be a grin, and she said to herself ‘It’s the Cheshire Cat: now I shall have somebody to talk to.’ ‘How are you getting on?’ said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth enough for it to speak with. Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded. ‘It’s no use speaking to it,’ she thought, ‘till its ears have come, or at least one of them.’ In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad she had someone to listen to her. The Cat seemed to think that there was enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared. ‘I don’t think they play at all fairly,’ Alice began, in rather a complaining tone, ‘and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can’t hear oneself speak—and they don’t seem to have any rules in particular; at least, if there are, nobody attends to them—and you’ve no idea how confusing it is all the things being alive; for instance, there’s the arch I’ve got to go through next walking about at the other end of the ground—and I should have croqueted the Queen’s hedgehog just now, only it ran away when it saw mine coming!’ ‘How do you like the Queen?’ said the Cat in a low voice. ‘Not at all,’ said Alice: ‘she’s so extremely—’ Just then she noticed that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on, ‘—likely to win, that it’s hardly worth while finishing the game.’ The Queen smiled and passed on. ‘Who are you talking to?’ said the King, going up to Alice, and looking at the Cat’s head with great curiosity. ‘It’s a friend of mine—a Cheshire Cat,’ said Alice: ‘allow me to introduce it.’ ‘I don’t like the look of it at all,’ said the King: ‘however, it may kiss my hand if it likes.’ ‘I’d rather not,’ the Cat remarked. ‘Don’t be impertinent,’ said the King, ‘and don’t look at me like that!’ He got behind Alice as he spoke. ‘A cat may look at a king,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve read that in some book, but I don’t remember where.’ ‘Well, it must be removed,’ said the King very decidedly, and he called the Queen, who was passing at the moment, ‘My dear! I wish you would have this cat removed!’ The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small. ‘Off with his head!’ she said, without even looking round. ‘I’ll fetch the executioner myself,’ said the King eagerly, and he hurried off. Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going on, as she heard the Queen’s voice in the distance, screaming with passion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew whether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog. The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the other: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a helpless sort of way to fly up into a tree. By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: ‘but it doesn’t matter much,’ thought Alice, ‘as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground.’ So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend. When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable. The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said. The executioner’s argument was, that you couldn’t cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn’t going to begin at his time of life. The King’s argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren’t to talk nonsense. The Queen’s argument was, that if something wasn’t done about it in less than no time she’d have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but ‘It belongs to the Duchess: you’d better ask her about it.’ ‘She’s in prison,’ the Queen said to the executioner: ‘fetch her here.’ And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat’s head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle’s Story ‘You can’t think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!’ said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice’s, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. ‘When I’m a Duchess,’ she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), ‘I won’t have any pepper in my kitchen at all. Soup does very well without—Maybe it’s always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,’ she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, ‘and vinegar that makes them sour—and camomile that makes them bitter—and—and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn’t be so stingy about it, you know—’ She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. ‘You’re thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can’t tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.’ ‘Perhaps it hasn’t one,’ Alice ventured to remark. ‘Tut, tut, child!’ said the Duchess. ‘Everything’s got a moral, if only you can find it.’ And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice’s side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was very ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice’s shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. ‘The game’s going on rather better now,’ she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. ‘’Tis so,’ said the Duchess: ‘and the moral of that is—“Oh, ‘tis love, ‘tis love, that makes the world go round!”’ ‘Somebody said,’ Alice whispered, ‘that it’s done by everybody minding their own business!’ ‘Ah, well! It means much the same thing,’ said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice’s shoulder as she added, ‘and the moral of that is—“Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.”’ ‘How fond she is of finding morals in things!’ Alice thought to herself. ‘I dare say you’re wondering why I don’t put my arm round your waist,’ the Duchess said after a pause: ‘the reason is, that I’m doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?’ ‘He might bite,’ Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. ‘Very true,’ said the Duchess: ‘flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is—“Birds of a feather flock together.”’ ‘Only mustard isn’t a bird,’ Alice remarked. ‘Right, as usual,’ said the Duchess: ‘what a clear way you have of putting things!’ ‘It’s a mineral, I think,’ said Alice. ‘Of course it is,’ said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; ‘there’s a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is—“The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.”’ ‘Oh, I know!’ exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, ‘it’s a vegetable. It doesn’t look like one, but it is.’ ‘I quite agree with you,’ said the Duchess; ‘and the moral of that is—“Be what you would seem to be”—or if you’d like it put more simply—“Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.”’ ‘I think I should understand that better,’ Alice said very politely, ‘if I had it written down: but I can’t quite follow it as you say it.’ ‘That’s nothing to what I could say if I chose,’ the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. ‘Pray don’t trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,’ said Alice. ‘Oh, don’t talk about trouble!’ said the Duchess. ‘I make you a present of everything I’ve said as yet.’ ‘A cheap sort of present!’ thought Alice. ‘I’m glad they don’t give birthday presents like that!’ But she did not venture to say it out loud. ‘Thinking again?’ the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. ‘I’ve a right to think,’ said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. ‘Just about as much right,’ said the Duchess, ‘as pigs have to fly; and the m—’ But here, to Alice’s great surprise, the Duchess’s voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word ‘moral,’ and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. ‘A fine day, your Majesty!’ the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. ‘Now, I give you fair warning,’ shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; ‘either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!’ The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. ‘Let’s go on with the game,’ the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen’s absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment’s delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting ‘Off with his head!’ or ‘Off with her head!’ Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, ‘Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?’ ‘No,’ said Alice. ‘I don’t even know what a Mock Turtle is.’ ‘It’s the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,’ said the Queen. ‘I never saw one, or heard of one,’ said Alice. ‘Come on, then,’ said the Queen, ‘and he shall tell you his history,’ As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, ‘You are all pardoned.’ ‘Come, that’s a good thing!’ she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don’t know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) ‘Up, lazy thing!’ said the Queen, ‘and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered’; and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. ‘What fun!’ said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. ‘What is the fun?’ said Alice. ‘Why, she,’ said the Gryphon. ‘It’s all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!’ ‘Everybody says “come on!” here,’ thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: ‘I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!’ They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. ‘What is his sorrow?’ she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, ‘It’s all his fancy, that: he hasn’t got no sorrow, you know. Come on!’ So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. ‘This here young lady,’ said the Gryphon, ‘she wants for to know your history, she do.’ ‘I’ll tell it her,’ said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: ‘sit down, both of you, and don’t speak a word till I’ve finished.’ So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, ‘I don’t see how he can ever finish, if he doesn’t begin.’ But she waited patiently. ‘Once,’ said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, ‘I was a real Turtle.’ These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of ‘Hjckrrh!’ from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, ‘Thank you, sir, for your interesting story,’ but she could not help thinking there must be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. ‘When we were little,’ the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, ‘we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle—we used to call him Tortoise—’ ‘Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn’t one?’ Alice asked. ‘We called him Tortoise because he taught us,’ said the Mock Turtle angrily: ‘really you are very dull!’ ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question,’ added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, ‘Drive on, old fellow! Don’t be all day about it!’ and he went on in these words: ‘Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn’t believe it—’ ‘I never said I didn’t!’ interrupted Alice. ‘You did,’ said the Mock Turtle. ‘Hold your tongue!’ added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. ‘We had the best of educations—in fact, we went to school every day—’ ‘I’ve been to a day-school, too,’ said Alice; ‘you needn’t be so proud as all that.’ ‘With extras?’ asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. ‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘we learned French and music.’ ‘And washing?’ said the Mock Turtle. ‘Certainly not!’ said Alice indignantly. ‘Ah! then yours wasn’t a really good school,’ said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. ‘Now at ours they had at the end of the bill, “French, music, and washing—extra.”’ ‘You couldn’t have wanted it much,’ said Alice; ‘living at the bottom of the sea.’ ‘I couldn’t afford to learn it.’ said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. ‘I only took the regular course.’ ‘What was that?’ inquired Alice. ‘Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,’ the Mock Turtle replied; ‘and then the different branches of Arithmetic—Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.’ ‘I never heard of “Uglification,”’ Alice ventured to say. ‘What is it?’ The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. ‘What! Never heard of uglifying!’ it exclaimed. ‘You know what to beautify is, I suppose?’ ‘Yes,’ said Alice doubtfully: ‘it means—to—make—anything—prettier.’ ‘Well, then,’ the Gryphon went on, ‘if you don’t know what to uglify is, you are a simpleton.’ Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said ‘What else had you to learn?’ ‘Well, there was Mystery,’ the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, ‘—Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling—the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: he taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.’ ‘What was that like?’ said Alice. ‘Well, I can’t show it you myself,’ the Mock Turtle said: ‘I’m too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.’ ‘Hadn’t time,’ said the Gryphon: ‘I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, he was.’ ‘I never went to him,’ the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: ‘he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say.’ ‘So he did, so he did,’ said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. ‘And how many hours a day did you do lessons?’ said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. ‘Ten hours the first day,’ said the Mock Turtle: ‘nine the next, and so on.’ ‘What a curious plan!’ exclaimed Alice. ‘That’s the reason they’re called lessons,’ the Gryphon remarked: ‘because they lessen from day to day.’ This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. ‘Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?’ ‘Of course it was,’ said the Mock Turtle. ‘And how did you manage on the twelfth?’ Alice went on eagerly. ‘That’s enough about lessons,’ the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: ‘tell her something about the games now.’ CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. ‘Same as if he had a bone in his throat,’ said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:— ‘You may not have lived much under the sea—’ (‘I haven’t,’ said Alice)—‘and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster—’ (Alice began to say ‘I once tasted—’ but checked herself hastily, and said ‘No, never’) ‘—so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!’ ‘No, indeed,’ said Alice. ‘What sort of a dance is it?’ ‘Why,’ said the Gryphon, ‘you first form into a line along the sea-shore—’ ‘Two lines!’ cried the Mock Turtle. ‘Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you’ve cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way—’ ‘That generally takes some time,’ interrupted the Gryphon. ‘—you advance twice—’ ‘Each with a lobster as a partner!’ cried the Gryphon. ‘Of course,’ the Mock Turtle said: ‘advance twice, set to partners—’ ‘—change lobsters, and retire in same order,’ continued the Gryphon. ‘Then, you know,’ the Mock Turtle went on, ‘you throw the—’ ‘The lobsters!’ shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. ‘—as far out to sea as you can—’ ‘Swim after them!’ screamed the Gryphon. ‘Turn a somersault in the sea!’ cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. ‘Change lobsters again!’ yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. ‘Back to land again, and that’s all the first figure,’ said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. ‘It must be a very pretty dance,’ said Alice timidly. ‘Would you like to see a little of it?’ said the Mock Turtle. ‘Very much indeed,’ said Alice. ‘Come, let’s try the first figure!’ said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. ‘We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?’ ‘Oh, you sing,’ said the Gryphon. ‘I’ve forgotten the words.’ So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:— ‘“Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail. “There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance? “You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!” But the snail replied “Too far, too far!” and gave a look askance— Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. ‘“What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied. “There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France— Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?”’ ‘Thank you, it’s a very interesting dance to watch,’ said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: ‘and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!’ ‘Oh, as to the whiting,’ said the Mock Turtle, ‘they—you’ve seen them, of course?’ ‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘I’ve often seen them at dinn—’ she checked herself hastily. ‘I don’t know where Dinn may be,’ said the Mock Turtle, ‘but if you’ve seen them so often, of course you know what they’re like.’ ‘I believe so,’ Alice replied thoughtfully. ‘They have their tails in their mouths—and they’re all over crumbs.’ ‘You’re wrong about the crumbs,’ said the Mock Turtle: ‘crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they have their tails in their mouths; and the reason is—’ here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.—‘Tell her about the reason and all that,’ he said to the Gryphon. ‘The reason is,’ said the Gryphon, ‘that they would go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn’t get them out again. That’s all.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Alice, ‘it’s very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before.’ ‘I can tell you more than that, if you like,’ said the Gryphon. ‘Do you know why it’s called a whiting?’ ‘I never thought about it,’ said Alice. ‘Why?’ ‘It does the boots and shoes,’ the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. ‘Does the boots and shoes!’ she repeated in a wondering tone. ‘Why, what are your shoes done with?’ said the Gryphon. ‘I mean, what makes them so shiny?’ Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. ‘They’re done with blacking, I believe.’ ‘Boots and shoes under the sea,’ the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, ‘are done with a whiting. Now you know.’ ‘And what are they made of?’ Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. ‘Soles and eels, of course,’ the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: ‘any shrimp could have told you that.’ ‘If I’d been the whiting,’ said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, ‘I’d have said to the porpoise, “Keep back, please: we don’t want you with us!”’ ‘They were obliged to have him with them,’ the Mock Turtle said: ‘no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.’ ‘Wouldn’t it really?’ said Alice in a tone of great surprise. ‘Of course not,’ said the Mock Turtle: ‘why, if a fish came to me, and told me he was going a journey, I should say “With what porpoise?”’ ‘Don’t you mean “purpose”?’ said Alice. ‘I mean what I say,’ the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added ‘Come, let’s hear some of your adventures.’ ‘I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,’ said Alice a little timidly: ‘but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’ ‘Explain all that,’ said the Mock Turtle. ‘No, no! The adventures first,’ said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: ‘explanations take such a dreadful time.’ So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so very wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating ‘You are old, Father William,’ to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said ‘That’s very curious.’ ‘It’s all about as curious as it can be,’ said the Gryphon. ‘It all came different!’ the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. ‘I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin.’ He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. ‘Stand up and repeat “‘Tis the voice of the sluggard,”’ said the Gryphon. ‘How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!’ thought Alice; ‘I might as well be at school at once.’ However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:— ‘’Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, “You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.” As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.’ [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark, But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.] ‘That’s different from what I used to say when I was a child,’ said the Gryphon. ‘Well, I never heard it before,’ said the Mock Turtle; ‘but it sounds uncommon nonsense.’ Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would ever happen in a natural way again. ‘I should like to have it explained,’ said the Mock Turtle. ‘She can’t explain it,’ said the Gryphon hastily. ‘Go on with the next verse.’ ‘But about his toes?’ the Mock Turtle persisted. ‘How could he turn them out with his nose, you know?’ ‘It’s the first position in dancing.’ Alice said; but was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject. ‘Go on with the next verse,’ the Gryphon repeated impatiently: ‘it begins “I passed by his garden.”’ Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:— ‘I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie—’ [later editions continued as follows The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat. When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon, Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl, And concluded the banquet—] ‘What is the use of repeating all that stuff,’ the Mock Turtle interrupted, ‘if you don’t explain it as you go on? It’s by far the most confusing thing I ever heard!’ ‘Yes, I think you’d better leave off,’ said the Gryphon: and Alice was only too glad to do so. ‘Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?’ the Gryphon went on. ‘Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?’ ‘Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,’ Alice replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone, ‘Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her “Turtle Soup,” will you, old fellow?’ The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:— ‘Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup! ‘Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful, beauti—FUL SOUP!’ ‘Chorus again!’ cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun to repeat it, when a cry of ‘The trial’s beginning!’ was heard in the distance. ‘Come on!’ cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song. ‘What trial is it?’ Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only answered ‘Come on!’ and ran the faster, while more and more faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:— ‘Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup!’ CHAPTER XI. Who Stole the Tarts? The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them—all sorts of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them—‘I wish they’d get the trial done,’ she thought, ‘and hand round the refreshments!’ But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time. Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew the name of nearly everything there. ‘That’s the judge,’ she said to herself, ‘because of his great wig.’ The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming. ‘And that’s the jury-box,’ thought Alice, ‘and those twelve creatures,’ (she was obliged to say ‘creatures,’ you see, because some of them were animals, and some were birds,) ‘I suppose they are the jurors.’ She said this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the meaning of it at all. However, ‘jury-men’ would have done just as well. The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. ‘What are they doing?’ Alice whispered to the Gryphon. ‘They can’t have anything to put down yet, before the trial’s begun.’ ‘They’re putting down their names,’ the Gryphon whispered in reply, ‘for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial.’ ‘Stupid things!’ Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, ‘Silence in the court!’ and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking. Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down ‘stupid things!’ on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them didn’t know how to spell ‘stupid,’ and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. ‘A nice muddle their slates’ll be in before the trial’s over!’ thought Alice. One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate. ‘Herald, read the accusation!’ said the King. On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:— ‘The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!’ ‘Consider your verdict,’ the King said to the jury. ‘Not yet, not yet!’ the Rabbit hastily interrupted. ‘There’s a great deal to come before that!’ ‘Call the first witness,’ said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, ‘First witness!’ The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. ‘I beg pardon, your Majesty,’ he began, ‘for bringing these in: but I hadn’t quite finished my tea when I was sent for.’ ‘You ought to have finished,’ said the King. ‘When did you begin?’ The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. ‘Fourteenth of March, I think it was,’ he said. ‘Fifteenth,’ said the March Hare. ‘Sixteenth,’ added the Dormouse. ‘Write that down,’ the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence. ‘Take off your hat,’ the King said to the Hatter. ‘It isn’t mine,’ said the Hatter. ‘Stolen!’ the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. ‘I keep them to sell,’ the Hatter added as an explanation; ‘I’ve none of my own. I’m a hatter.’ Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted. ‘Give your evidence,’ said the King; ‘and don’t be nervous, or I’ll have you executed on the spot.’ This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter. Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her. ‘I wish you wouldn’t squeeze so.’ said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. ‘I can hardly breathe.’ ‘I can’t help it,’ said Alice very meekly: ‘I’m growing.’ ‘You’ve no right to grow here,’ said the Dormouse. ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ said Alice more boldly: ‘you know you’re growing too.’ ‘Yes, but I grow at a reasonable pace,’ said the Dormouse: ‘not in that ridiculous fashion.’ And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court. All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, ‘Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!’ on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off. ‘Give your evidence,’ the King repeated angrily, ‘or I’ll have you executed, whether you’re nervous or not.’ ‘I’m a poor man, your Majesty,’ the Hatter began, in a trembling voice, ‘—and I hadn’t begun my tea—not above a week or so—and what with the bread-and-butter getting so thin—and the twinkling of the tea—’ ‘The twinkling of the what?’ said the King. ‘It began with the tea,’ the Hatter replied. ‘Of course twinkling begins with a T!’ said the King sharply. ‘Do you take me for a dunce? Go on!’ ‘I’m a poor man,’ the Hatter went on, ‘and most things twinkled after that—only the March Hare said—’ ‘I didn’t!’ the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry. ‘You did!’ said the Hatter. ‘I deny it!’ said the March Hare. ‘He denies it,’ said the King: ‘leave out that part.’ ‘Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said—’ the Hatter went on, looking anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied nothing, being fast asleep. ‘After that,’ continued the Hatter, ‘I cut some more bread-and-butter—’ ‘But what did the Dormouse say?’ one of the jury asked. ‘That I can’t remember,’ said the Hatter. ‘You must remember,’ remarked the King, ‘or I’ll have you executed.’ The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went down on one knee. ‘I’m a poor man, your Majesty,’ he began. ‘You’re a very poor speaker,’ said the King. Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just explain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig, head first, and then sat upon it.) ‘I’m glad I’ve seen that done,’ thought Alice. ‘I’ve so often read in the newspapers, at the end of trials, “There was some attempts at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court,” and I never understood what it meant till now.’ ‘If that’s all you know about it, you may stand down,’ continued the King. ‘I can’t go no lower,’ said the Hatter: ‘I’m on the floor, as it is.’ ‘Then you may sit down,’ the King replied. Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed. ‘Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!’ thought Alice. ‘Now we shall get on better.’ ‘I’d rather finish my tea,’ said the Hatter, with an anxious look at the Queen, who was reading the list of singers. ‘You may go,’ said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court, without even waiting to put his shoes on. ‘—and just take his head off outside,’ the Queen added to one of the officers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get to the door. ‘Call the next witness!’ said the King. The next witness was the Duchess’s cook. She carried the pepper-box in her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once. ‘Give your evidence,’ said the King. ‘Shan’t,’ said the cook. The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice, ‘Your Majesty must cross-examine this witness.’ ‘Well, if I must, I must,’ the King said, with a melancholy air, and, after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, ‘What are tarts made of?’ ‘Pepper, mostly,’ said the cook. ‘Treacle,’ said a sleepy voice behind her. ‘Collar that Dormouse,’ the Queen shrieked out. ‘Behead that Dormouse! Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his whiskers!’ For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had disappeared. ‘Never mind!’ said the King, with an air of great relief. ‘Call the next witness.’ And he added in an undertone to the Queen, ‘Really, my dear, you must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!’ Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, ‘—for they haven’t got much evidence yet,’ she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name ‘Alice!’ CHAPTER XII. Alice’s Evidence ‘Here!’ cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die. ‘The trial cannot proceed,’ said the King in a very grave voice, ‘until all the jurymen are back in their proper places—all,’ he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; ‘not that it signifies much,’ she said to herself; ‘I should think it would be quite as much use in the trial one way up as the other.’ As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. ‘What do you know about this business?’ the King said to Alice. ‘Nothing,’ said Alice. ‘Nothing whatever?’ persisted the King. ‘Nothing whatever,’ said Alice. ‘That’s very important,’ the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: ‘Unimportant, your Majesty means, of course,’ he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. ‘Unimportant, of course, I meant,’ the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, ‘important—unimportant—unimportant—important—’ as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down ‘important,’ and some ‘unimportant.’ Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; ‘but it doesn’t matter a bit,’ she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out ‘Silence!’ and read out from his book, ‘Rule Forty-two. All persons more than a mile high to leave the court.’ Everybody looked at Alice. ‘I’m not a mile high,’ said Alice. ‘You are,’ said the King. ‘Nearly two miles high,’ added the Queen. ‘Well, I shan’t go, at any rate,’ said Alice: ‘besides, that’s not a regular rule: you invented it just now.’ ‘It’s the oldest rule in the book,’ said the King. ‘Then it ought to be Number One,’ said Alice. The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. ‘Consider your verdict,’ he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice. ‘There’s more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,’ said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; ‘this paper has just been picked up.’ ‘What’s in it?’ said the Queen. ‘I haven’t opened it yet,’ said the White Rabbit, ‘but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to—to somebody.’ ‘It must have been that,’ said the King, ‘unless it was written to nobody, which isn’t usual, you know.’ ‘Who is it directed to?’ said one of the jurymen. ‘It isn’t directed at all,’ said the White Rabbit; ‘in fact, there’s nothing written on the outside.’ He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added ‘It isn’t a letter, after all: it’s a set of verses.’ ‘Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?’ asked another of the jurymen. ‘No, they’re not,’ said the White Rabbit, ‘and that’s the queerest thing about it.’ (The jury all looked puzzled.) ‘He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,’ said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) ‘Please your Majesty,’ said the Knave, ‘I didn’t write it, and they can’t prove I did: there’s no name signed at the end.’ ‘If you didn’t sign it,’ said the King, ‘that only makes the matter worse. You must have meant some mischief, or else you’d have signed your name like an honest man.’ There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day. ‘That proves his guilt,’ said the Queen. ‘It proves nothing of the sort!’ said Alice. ‘Why, you don’t even know what they’re about!’ ‘Read them,’ said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. ‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked. ‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’ These were the verses the White Rabbit read:— ‘They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don’t let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me.’ ‘That’s the most important piece of evidence we’ve heard yet,’ said the King, rubbing his hands; ‘so now let the jury—’ ‘If any one of them can explain it,’ said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn’t a bit afraid of interrupting him,) ‘I’ll give him sixpence. I don’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.’ The jury all wrote down on their slates, ‘She doesn’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it,’ but none of them attempted to explain the paper. ‘If there’s no meaning in it,’ said the King, ‘that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn’t try to find any. And yet I don’t know,’ he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; ‘I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. “—said I could not swim—” you can’t swim, can you?’ he added, turning to the Knave. The Knave shook his head sadly. ‘Do I look like it?’ he said. (Which he certainly did not, being made entirely of cardboard.) ‘All right, so far,’ said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: ‘“We know it to be true—” that’s the jury, of course—“I gave her one, they gave him two—” why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know—’ ‘But, it goes on “they all returned from him to you,”’ said Alice. ‘Why, there they are!’ said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. ‘Nothing can be clearer than that. Then again—“before she had this fit—” you never had fits, my dear, I think?’ he said to the Queen. ‘Never!’ said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.) ‘Then the words don’t fit you,’ said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence. ‘It’s a pun!’ the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed, ‘Let the jury consider their verdict,’ the King said, for about the twentieth time that day. ‘No, no!’ said the Queen. ‘Sentence first—verdict afterwards.’ ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Alice loudly. ‘The idea of having the sentence first!’ ‘Hold your tongue!’ said the Queen, turning purple. ‘I won’t!’ said Alice. ‘Off with her head!’ the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved. ‘Who cares for you?’ said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) ‘You’re nothing but a pack of cards!’ At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face. ‘Wake up, Alice dear!’ said her sister; ‘Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!’ ‘Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!’ said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, ‘It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.’ So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been. But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:— First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers—she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes—and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream. The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by—the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool—she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution—once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it—once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle. So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality—the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds—the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy—and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard—while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs. Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days. THE END End of Project Gutenberg’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND *** ***** This file should be named 11-h.htm or 11-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/1/11/ Produced by Arthur DiBianca and David Widger ... ... ... ===== Through the Looking-Glass ===== The Project Gutenberg EBook of Through the Looking-Glass, by Charles Dodgson, AKA Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Through the Looking-Glass Author: Charles Dodgson, AKA Lewis Carroll Release Date: February, 1991 [EBook #12] Last Updated: October 6, 2016 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS *** Produced by David Widger THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS By Lewis Carroll The Millennium Fulcrum Edition 1.7 Contents CHAPTER I. Looking-Glass house CHAPTER II. The Garden of Live Flowers CHAPTER III. Looking-Glass Insects CHAPTER IV. Tweedledum And Tweedledee CHAPTER V. Wool and Water CHAPTER VI. Humpty Dumpty CHAPTER VII. The Lion and the Unicorn CHAPTER VIII. ‘It’s my own Invention’ CHAPTER IX. Queen Alice CHAPTER X. Shaking CHAPTER XI. Waking CHAPTER XII. Which Dreamed it? CHAPTER I. Looking-Glass house One thing was certain, that the white kitten had had nothing to do with it:—it was the black kitten’s fault entirely. For the white kitten had been having its face washed by the old cat for the last quarter of an hour (and bearing it pretty well, considering); so you see that it couldn’t have had any hand in the mischief. The way Dinah washed her children’s faces was this: first she held the poor thing down by its ear with one paw, and then with the other paw she rubbed its face all over, the wrong way, beginning at the nose: and just now, as I said, she was hard at work on the white kitten, which was lying quite still and trying to purr—no doubt feeling that it was all meant for its good. But the black kitten had been finished with earlier in the afternoon, and so, while Alice was sitting curled up in a corner of the great arm-chair, half talking to herself and half asleep, the kitten had been having a grand game of romps with the ball of worsted Alice had been trying to wind up, and had been rolling it up and down till it had all come undone again; and there it was, spread over the hearth-rug, all knots and tangles, with the kitten running after its own tail in the middle. ‘Oh, you wicked little thing!’ cried Alice, catching up the kitten, and giving it a little kiss to make it understand that it was in disgrace. ‘Really, Dinah ought to have taught you better manners! You ought, Dinah, you know you ought!’ she added, looking reproachfully at the old cat, and speaking in as cross a voice as she could manage—and then she scrambled back into the arm-chair, taking the kitten and the worsted with her, and began winding up the ball again. But she didn’t get on very fast, as she was talking all the time, sometimes to the kitten, and sometimes to herself. Kitty sat very demurely on her knee, pretending to watch the progress of the winding, and now and then putting out one paw and gently touching the ball, as if it would be glad to help, if it might. ‘Do you know what to-morrow is, Kitty?’ Alice began. ‘You’d have guessed if you’d been up in the window with me—only Dinah was making you tidy, so you couldn’t. I was watching the boys getting in sticks for the bonfire—and it wants plenty of sticks, Kitty! Only it got so cold, and it snowed so, they had to leave off. Never mind, Kitty, we’ll go and see the bonfire to-morrow.’ Here Alice wound two or three turns of the worsted round the kitten’s neck, just to see how it would look: this led to a scramble, in which the ball rolled down upon the floor, and yards and yards of it got unwound again. ‘Do you know, I was so angry, Kitty,’ Alice went on as soon as they were comfortably settled again, ‘when I saw all the mischief you had been doing, I was very nearly opening the window, and putting you out into the snow! And you’d have deserved it, you little mischievous darling! What have you got to say for yourself? Now don’t interrupt me!’ she went on, holding up one finger. ‘I’m going to tell you all your faults. Number one: you squeaked twice while Dinah was washing your face this morning. Now you can’t deny it, Kitty: I heard you! What’s that you say?’ (pretending that the kitten was speaking.) ‘Her paw went into your eye? Well, that’s your fault, for keeping your eyes open—if you’d shut them tight up, it wouldn’t have happened. Now don’t make any more excuses, but listen! Number two: you pulled Snowdrop away by the tail just as I had put down the saucer of milk before her! What, you were thirsty, were you? How do you know she wasn’t thirsty too? Now for number three: you unwound every bit of the worsted while I wasn’t looking! ‘That’s three faults, Kitty, and you’ve not been punished for any of them yet. You know I’m saving up all your punishments for Wednesday week—Suppose they had saved up all my punishments!’ she went on, talking more to herself than the kitten. ‘What would they do at the end of a year? I should be sent to prison, I suppose, when the day came. Or—let me see—suppose each punishment was to be going without a dinner: then, when the miserable day came, I should have to go without fifty dinners at once! Well, I shouldn’t mind that much! I’d far rather go without them than eat them! ‘Do you hear the snow against the window-panes, Kitty? How nice and soft it sounds! Just as if some one was kissing the window all over outside. I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.” And when they wake up in the summer, Kitty, they dress themselves all in green, and dance about—whenever the wind blows—oh, that’s very pretty!’ cried Alice, dropping the ball of worsted to clap her hands. ‘And I do so wish it was true! I’m sure the woods look sleepy in the autumn, when the leaves are getting brown. ‘Kitty, can you play chess? Now, don’t smile, my dear, I’m asking it seriously. Because, when we were playing just now, you watched just as if you understood it: and when I said “Check!” you purred! Well, it was a nice check, Kitty, and really I might have won, if it hadn’t been for that nasty Knight, that came wiggling down among my pieces. Kitty, dear, let’s pretend—’ And here I wish I could tell you half the things Alice used to say, beginning with her favourite phrase ‘Let’s pretend.’ She had had quite a long argument with her sister only the day before—all because Alice had begun with ‘Let’s pretend we’re kings and queens;’ and her sister, who liked being very exact, had argued that they couldn’t, because there were only two of them, and Alice had been reduced at last to say, ‘Well, you can be one of them then, and I’ll be all the rest.’ And once she had really frightened her old nurse by shouting suddenly in her ear, ‘Nurse! Do let’s pretend that I’m a hungry hyaena, and you’re a bone.’ But this is taking us away from Alice’s speech to the kitten. ‘Let’s pretend that you’re the Red Queen, Kitty! Do you know, I think if you sat up and folded your arms, you’d look exactly like her. Now do try, there’s a dear!’ And Alice got the Red Queen off the table, and set it up before the kitten as a model for it to imitate: however, the thing didn’t succeed, principally, Alice said, because the kitten wouldn’t fold its arms properly. So, to punish it, she held it up to the Looking-glass, that it might see how sulky it was—‘and if you’re not good directly,’ she added, ‘I’ll put you through into Looking-glass House. How would you like that?’ ‘Now, if you’ll only attend, Kitty, and not talk so much, I’ll tell you all my ideas about Looking-glass House. First, there’s the room you can see through the glass—that’s just the same as our drawing room, only the things go the other way. I can see all of it when I get upon a chair—all but the bit behind the fireplace. Oh! I do so wish I could see that bit! I want so much to know whether they’ve a fire in the winter: you never can tell, you know, unless our fire smokes, and then smoke comes up in that room too—but that may be only pretence, just to make it look as if they had a fire. Well then, the books are something like our books, only the words go the wrong way; I know that, because I’ve held up one of our books to the glass, and then they hold up one in the other room. ‘How would you like to live in Looking-glass House, Kitty? I wonder if they’d give you milk in there? Perhaps Looking-glass milk isn’t good to drink—But oh, Kitty! now we come to the passage. You can just see a little peep of the passage in Looking-glass House, if you leave the door of our drawing-room wide open: and it’s very like our passage as far as you can see, only you know it may be quite different on beyond. Oh, Kitty! how nice it would be if we could only get through into Looking-glass House! I’m sure it’s got, oh! such beautiful things in it! Let’s pretend there’s a way of getting through into it, somehow, Kitty. Let’s pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze, so that we can get through. Why, it’s turning into a sort of mist now, I declare! It’ll be easy enough to get through—’ She was up on the chimney-piece while she said this, though she hardly knew how she had got there. And certainly the glass was beginning to melt away, just like a bright silvery mist. In another moment Alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly down into the Looking-glass room. The very first thing she did was to look whether there was a fire in the fireplace, and she was quite pleased to find that there was a real one, blazing away as brightly as the one she had left behind. ‘So I shall be as warm here as I was in the old room,’ thought Alice: ‘warmer, in fact, because there’ll be no one here to scold me away from the fire. Oh, what fun it’ll be, when they see me through the glass in here, and can’t get at me!’ Then she began looking about, and noticed that what could be seen from the old room was quite common and uninteresting, but that all the rest was as different as possible. For instance, the pictures on the wall next the fire seemed to be all alive, and the very clock on the chimney-piece (you know you can only see the back of it in the Looking-glass) had got the face of a little old man, and grinned at her. ‘They don’t keep this room so tidy as the other,’ Alice thought to herself, as she noticed several of the chessmen down in the hearth among the cinders: but in another moment, with a little ‘Oh!’ of surprise, she was down on her hands and knees watching them. The chessmen were walking about, two and two! ‘Here are the Red King and the Red Queen,’ Alice said (in a whisper, for fear of frightening them), ‘and there are the White King and the White Queen sitting on the edge of the shovel—and here are two castles walking arm in arm—I don’t think they can hear me,’ she went on, as she put her head closer down, ‘and I’m nearly sure they can’t see me. I feel somehow as if I were invisible—’ Here something began squeaking on the table behind Alice, and made her turn her head just in time to see one of the White Pawns roll over and begin kicking: she watched it with great curiosity to see what would happen next. ‘It is the voice of my child!’ the White Queen cried out as she rushed past the King, so violently that she knocked him over among the cinders. ‘My precious Lily! My imperial kitten!’ and she began scrambling wildly up the side of the fender. ‘Imperial fiddlestick!’ said the King, rubbing his nose, which had been hurt by the fall. He had a right to be a little annoyed with the Queen, for he was covered with ashes from head to foot. Alice was very anxious to be of use, and, as the poor little Lily was nearly screaming herself into a fit, she hastily picked up the Queen and set her on the table by the side of her noisy little daughter. The Queen gasped, and sat down: the rapid journey through the air had quite taken away her breath and for a minute or two she could do nothing but hug the little Lily in silence. As soon as she had recovered her breath a little, she called out to the White King, who was sitting sulkily among the ashes, ‘Mind the volcano!’ ‘What volcano?’ said the King, looking up anxiously into the fire, as if he thought that was the most likely place to find one. ‘Blew—me—up,’ panted the Queen, who was still a little out of breath. ‘Mind you come up—the regular way—don’t get blown up!’ Alice watched the White King as he slowly struggled up from bar to bar, till at last she said, ‘Why, you’ll be hours and hours getting to the table, at that rate. I’d far better help you, hadn’t I?’ But the King took no notice of the question: it was quite clear that he could neither hear her nor see her. So Alice picked him up very gently, and lifted him across more slowly than she had lifted the Queen, that she mightn’t take his breath away: but, before she put him on the table, she thought she might as well dust him a little, he was so covered with ashes. She said afterwards that she had never seen in all her life such a face as the King made, when he found himself held in the air by an invisible hand, and being dusted: he was far too much astonished to cry out, but his eyes and his mouth went on getting larger and larger, and rounder and rounder, till her hand shook so with laughing that she nearly let him drop upon the floor. ‘Oh! please don’t make such faces, my dear!’ she cried out, quite forgetting that the King couldn’t hear her. ‘You make me laugh so that I can hardly hold you! And don’t keep your mouth so wide open! All the ashes will get into it—there, now I think you’re tidy enough!’ she added, as she smoothed his hair, and set him upon the table near the Queen. The King immediately fell flat on his back, and lay perfectly still: and Alice was a little alarmed at what she had done, and went round the room to see if she could find any water to throw over him. However, she could find nothing but a bottle of ink, and when she got back with it she found he had recovered, and he and the Queen were talking together in a frightened whisper—so low, that Alice could hardly hear what they said. The King was saying, ‘I assure, you my dear, I turned cold to the very ends of my whiskers!’ To which the Queen replied, ‘You haven’t got any whiskers.’ ‘The horror of that moment,’ the King went on, ‘I shall never, never forget!’ ‘You will, though,’ the Queen said, ‘if you don’t make a memorandum of it.’ Alice looked on with great interest as the King took an enormous memorandum-book out of his pocket, and began writing. A sudden thought struck her, and she took hold of the end of the pencil, which came some way over his shoulder, and began writing for him. The poor King looked puzzled and unhappy, and struggled with the pencil for some time without saying anything; but Alice was too strong for him, and at last he panted out, ‘My dear! I really must get a thinner pencil. I can’t manage this one a bit; it writes all manner of things that I don’t intend—’ ‘What manner of things?’ said the Queen, looking over the book (in which Alice had put ‘The White Knight is sliding down the poker. He balances very badly’) ‘That’s not a memorandum of your feelings!’ There was a book lying near Alice on the table, and while she sat watching the White King (for she was still a little anxious about him, and had the ink all ready to throw over him, in case he fainted again), she turned over the leaves, to find some part that she could read, ‘—for it’s all in some language I don’t know,’ she said to herself. It was like this. YKCOWREBBAJ sevot yhtils eht dna,gillirb sawT’ ebaw eht ni elbmig dna eryg diD ,sevogorob eht erew ysmim llA .ebargtuo shtar emom eht dnA She puzzled over this for some time, but at last a bright thought struck her. ‘Why, it’s a Looking-glass book, of course! And if I hold it up to a glass, the words will all go the right way again.’ This was the poem that Alice read. JABBERWOCKY ‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. ‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!’ He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. ‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’ He chortled in his joy. ‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. ‘It seems very pretty,’ she said when she had finished it, ‘but it’s rather hard to understand!’ (You see she didn’t like to confess, ever to herself, that she couldn’t make it out at all.) ‘Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly know what they are! However, somebody killed something: that’s clear, at any rate—’ ‘But oh!’ thought Alice, suddenly jumping up, ‘if I don’t make haste I shall have to go back through the Looking-glass, before I’ve seen what the rest of the house is like! Let’s have a look at the garden first!’ She was out of the room in a moment, and ran down stairs—or, at least, it wasn’t exactly running, but a new invention of hers for getting down stairs quickly and easily, as Alice said to herself. She just kept the tips of her fingers on the hand-rail, and floated gently down without even touching the stairs with her feet; then she floated on through the hall, and would have gone straight out at the door in the same way, if she hadn’t caught hold of the door-post. She was getting a little giddy with so much floating in the air, and was rather glad to find herself walking again in the natural way. CHAPTER II. The Garden of Live Flowers ‘I should see the garden far better,’ said Alice to herself, ‘if I could get to the top of that hill: and here’s a path that leads straight to it—at least, no, it doesn’t do that—’ (after going a few yards along the path, and turning several sharp corners), ‘but I suppose it will at last. But how curiously it twists! It’s more like a corkscrew than a path! Well, this turn goes to the hill, I suppose—no, it doesn’t! This goes straight back to the house! Well then, I’ll try it the other way.’ And so she did: wandering up and down, and trying turn after turn, but always coming back to the house, do what she would. Indeed, once, when she turned a corner rather more quickly than usual, she ran against it before she could stop herself. ‘It’s no use talking about it,’ Alice said, looking up at the house and pretending it was arguing with her. ‘I’m not going in again yet. I know I should have to get through the Looking-glass again—back into the old room—and there’d be an end of all my adventures!’ So, resolutely turning her back upon the house, she set out once more down the path, determined to keep straight on till she got to the hill. For a few minutes all went on well, and she was just saying, ‘I really shall do it this time—’ when the path gave a sudden twist and shook itself (as she described it afterwards), and the next moment she found herself actually walking in at the door. ‘Oh, it’s too bad!’ she cried. ‘I never saw such a house for getting in the way! Never!’ However, there was the hill full in sight, so there was nothing to be done but start again. This time she came upon a large flower-bed, with a border of daisies, and a willow-tree growing in the middle. ‘O Tiger-lily,’ said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving gracefully about in the wind, ‘I wish you could talk!’ ‘We can talk,’ said the Tiger-lily: ‘when there’s anybody worth talking to.’ Alice was so astonished that she could not speak for a minute: it quite seemed to take her breath away. At length, as the Tiger-lily only went on waving about, she spoke again, in a timid voice—almost in a whisper. ‘And can all the flowers talk?’ ‘As well as you can,’ said the Tiger-lily. ‘And a great deal louder.’ ‘It isn’t manners for us to begin, you know,’ said the Rose, ‘and I really was wondering when you’d speak! Said I to myself, “Her face has got some sense in it, though it’s not a clever one!” Still, you’re the right colour, and that goes a long way.’ ‘I don’t care about the colour,’ the Tiger-lily remarked. ‘If only her petals curled up a little more, she’d be all right.’ Alice didn’t like being criticised, so she began asking questions. ‘Aren’t you sometimes frightened at being planted out here, with nobody to take care of you?’ ‘There’s the tree in the middle,’ said the Rose: ‘what else is it good for?’ ‘But what could it do, if any danger came?’ Alice asked. ‘It says “Bough-wough!”’ cried a Daisy: ‘that’s why its branches are called boughs!’ ‘Didn’t you know that?’ cried another Daisy, and here they all began shouting together, till the air seemed quite full of little shrill voices. ‘Silence, every one of you!’ cried the Tiger-lily, waving itself passionately from side to side, and trembling with excitement. ‘They know I can’t get at them!’ it panted, bending its quivering head towards Alice, ‘or they wouldn’t dare to do it!’ ‘Never mind!’ Alice said in a soothing tone, and stooping down to the daisies, who were just beginning again, she whispered, ‘If you don’t hold your tongues, I’ll pick you!’ There was silence in a moment, and several of the pink daisies turned white. ‘That’s right!’ said the Tiger-lily. ‘The daisies are worst of all. When one speaks, they all begin together, and it’s enough to make one wither to hear the way they go on!’ ‘How is it you can all talk so nicely?’ Alice said, hoping to get it into a better temper by a compliment. ‘I’ve been in many gardens before, but none of the flowers could talk.’ ‘Put your hand down, and feel the ground,’ said the Tiger-lily. ‘Then you’ll know why.’ Alice did so. ‘It’s very hard,’ she said, ‘but I don’t see what that has to do with it.’ ‘In most gardens,’ the Tiger-lily said, ‘they make the beds too soft—so that the flowers are always asleep.’ This sounded a very good reason, and Alice was quite pleased to know it. ‘I never thought of that before!’ she said. ‘It’s my opinion that you never think at all,’ the Rose said in a rather severe tone. ‘I never saw anybody that looked stupider,’ a Violet said, so suddenly, that Alice quite jumped; for it hadn’t spoken before. ‘Hold your tongue!’ cried the Tiger-lily. ‘As if you ever saw anybody! You keep your head under the leaves, and snore away there, till you know no more what’s going on in the world, than if you were a bud!’ ‘Are there any more people in the garden besides me?’ Alice said, not choosing to notice the Rose’s last remark. ‘There’s one other flower in the garden that can move about like you,’ said the Rose. ‘I wonder how you do it—’ (‘You’re always wondering,’ said the Tiger-lily), ‘but she’s more bushy than you are.’ ‘Is she like me?’ Alice asked eagerly, for the thought crossed her mind, ‘There’s another little girl in the garden, somewhere!’ ‘Well, she has the same awkward shape as you,’ the Rose said, ‘but she’s redder—and her petals are shorter, I think.’ ‘Her petals are done up close, almost like a dahlia,’ the Tiger-lily interrupted: ‘not tumbled about anyhow, like yours.’ ‘But that’s not your fault,’ the Rose added kindly: ‘you’re beginning to fade, you know—and then one can’t help one’s petals getting a little untidy.’ Alice didn’t like this idea at all: so, to change the subject, she asked ‘Does she ever come out here?’ ‘I daresay you’ll see her soon,’ said the Rose. ‘She’s one of the thorny kind.’ ‘Where does she wear the thorns?’ Alice asked with some curiosity. ‘Why all round her head, of course,’ the Rose replied. ‘I was wondering you hadn’t got some too. I thought it was the regular rule.’ ‘She’s coming!’ cried the Larkspur. ‘I hear her footstep, thump, thump, thump, along the gravel-walk!’ Alice looked round eagerly, and found that it was the Red Queen. ‘She’s grown a good deal!’ was her first remark. She had indeed: when Alice first found her in the ashes, she had been only three inches high—and here she was, half a head taller than Alice herself! ‘It’s the fresh air that does it,’ said the Rose: ‘wonderfully fine air it is, out here.’ ‘I think I’ll go and meet her,’ said Alice, for, though the flowers were interesting enough, she felt that it would be far grander to have a talk with a real Queen. ‘You can’t possibly do that,’ said the Rose: ‘I should advise you to walk the other way.’ This sounded nonsense to Alice, so she said nothing, but set off at once towards the Red Queen. To her surprise, she lost sight of her in a moment, and found herself walking in at the front-door again. A little provoked, she drew back, and after looking everywhere for the queen (whom she spied out at last, a long way off), she thought she would try the plan, this time, of walking in the opposite direction. It succeeded beautifully. She had not been walking a minute before she found herself face to face with the Red Queen, and full in sight of the hill she had been so long aiming at. ‘Where do you come from?’ said the Red Queen. ‘And where are you going? Look up, speak nicely, and don’t twiddle your fingers all the time.’ Alice attended to all these directions, and explained, as well as she could, that she had lost her way. ‘I don’t know what you mean by your way,’ said the Queen: ‘all the ways about here belong to me—but why did you come out here at all?’ she added in a kinder tone. ‘Curtsey while you’re thinking what to say, it saves time.’ Alice wondered a little at this, but she was too much in awe of the Queen to disbelieve it. ‘I’ll try it when I go home,’ she thought to herself, ‘the next time I’m a little late for dinner.’ ‘It’s time for you to answer now,’ the Queen said, looking at her watch: ‘open your mouth a little wider when you speak, and always say “your Majesty.”’ ‘I only wanted to see what the garden was like, your Majesty—’ ‘That’s right,’ said the Queen, patting her on the head, which Alice didn’t like at all, ‘though, when you say “garden,”—I’ve seen gardens, compared with which this would be a wilderness.’ Alice didn’t dare to argue the point, but went on: ‘—and I thought I’d try and find my way to the top of that hill—’ ‘When you say “hill,”’ the Queen interrupted, ‘I could show you hills, in comparison with which you’d call that a valley.’ ‘No, I shouldn’t,’ said Alice, surprised into contradicting her at last: ‘a hill can’t be a valley, you know. That would be nonsense—’ The Red Queen shook her head, ‘You may call it “nonsense” if you like,’ she said, ‘but I’ve heard nonsense, compared with which that would be as sensible as a dictionary!’ Alice curtseyed again, as she was afraid from the Queen’s tone that she was a little offended: and they walked on in silence till they got to the top of the little hill. For some minutes Alice stood without speaking, looking out in all directions over the country—and a most curious country it was. There were a number of tiny little brooks running straight across it from side to side, and the ground between was divided up into squares by a number of little green hedges, that reached from brook to brook. ‘I declare it’s marked out just like a large chessboard!’ Alice said at last. ‘There ought to be some men moving about somewhere—and so there are!’ She added in a tone of delight, and her heart began to beat quick with excitement as she went on. ‘It’s a great huge game of chess that’s being played—all over the world—if this is the world at all, you know. Oh, what fun it is! How I wish I was one of them! I wouldn’t mind being a Pawn, if only I might join—though of course I should like to be a Queen, best.’ She glanced rather shyly at the real Queen as she said this, but her companion only smiled pleasantly, and said, ‘That’s easily managed. You can be the White Queen’s Pawn, if you like, as Lily’s too young to play; and you’re in the Second Square to begin with: when you get to the Eighth Square you’ll be a Queen—’ Just at this moment, somehow or other, they began to run. Alice never could quite make out, in thinking it over afterwards, how it was that they began: all she remembers is, that they were running hand in hand, and the Queen went so fast that it was all she could do to keep up with her: and still the Queen kept crying ‘Faster! Faster!’ but Alice felt she could not go faster, though she had not breath left to say so. The most curious part of the thing was, that the trees and the other things round them never changed their places at all: however fast they went, they never seemed to pass anything. ‘I wonder if all the things move along with us?’ thought poor puzzled Alice. And the Queen seemed to guess her thoughts, for she cried, ‘Faster! Don’t try to talk!’ Not that Alice had any idea of doing that. She felt as if she would never be able to talk again, she was getting so much out of breath: and still the Queen cried ‘Faster! Faster!’ and dragged her along. ‘Are we nearly there?’ Alice managed to pant out at last. ‘Nearly there!’ the Queen repeated. ‘Why, we passed it ten minutes ago! Faster!’ And they ran on for a time in silence, with the wind whistling in Alice’s ears, and almost blowing her hair off her head, she fancied. ‘Now! Now!’ cried the Queen. ‘Faster! Faster!’ And they went so fast that at last they seemed to skim through the air, hardly touching the ground with their feet, till suddenly, just as Alice was getting quite exhausted, they stopped, and she found herself sitting on the ground, breathless and giddy. The Queen propped her up against a tree, and said kindly, ‘You may rest a little now.’ Alice looked round her in great surprise. ‘Why, I do believe we’ve been under this tree the whole time! Everything’s just as it was!’ ‘Of course it is,’ said the Queen, ‘what would you have it?’ ‘Well, in our country,’ said Alice, still panting a little, ‘you’d generally get to somewhere else—if you ran very fast for a long time, as we’ve been doing.’ ‘A slow sort of country!’ said the Queen. ‘Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!’ ‘I’d rather not try, please!’ said Alice. ‘I’m quite content to stay here—only I am so hot and thirsty!’ ‘I know what you’d like!’ the Queen said good-naturedly, taking a little box out of her pocket. ‘Have a biscuit?’ Alice thought it would not be civil to say ‘No,’ though it wasn’t at all what she wanted. So she took it, and ate it as well as she could: and it was very dry; and she thought she had never been so nearly choked in all her life. ‘While you’re refreshing yourself,’ said the Queen, ‘I’ll just take the measurements.’ And she took a ribbon out of her pocket, marked in inches, and began measuring the ground, and sticking little pegs in here and there. ‘At the end of two yards,’ she said, putting in a peg to mark the distance, ‘I shall give you your directions—have another biscuit?’ ‘No, thank you,’ said Alice: ‘one’s quite enough!’ ‘Thirst quenched, I hope?’ said the Queen. Alice did not know what to say to this, but luckily the Queen did not wait for an answer, but went on. ‘At the end of three yards I shall repeat them—for fear of your forgetting them. At the end of four, I shall say good-bye. And at the end of five, I shall go!’ She had got all the pegs put in by this time, and Alice looked on with great interest as she returned to the tree, and then began slowly walking down the row. At the two-yard peg she faced round, and said, ‘A pawn goes two squares in its first move, you know. So you’ll go very quickly through the Third Square—by railway, I should think—and you’ll find yourself in the Fourth Square in no time. Well, that square belongs to Tweedledum and Tweedledee—the Fifth is mostly water—the Sixth belongs to Humpty Dumpty—But you make no remark?’ ‘I—I didn’t know I had to make one—just then,’ Alice faltered out. ‘You should have said, “It’s extremely kind of you to tell me all this”—however, we’ll suppose it said—the Seventh Square is all forest—however, one of the Knights will show you the way—and in the Eighth Square we shall be Queens together, and it’s all feasting and fun!’ Alice got up and curtseyed, and sat down again. At the next peg the Queen turned again, and this time she said, ‘Speak in French when you can’t think of the English for a thing—turn out your toes as you walk—and remember who you are!’ She did not wait for Alice to curtsey this time, but walked on quickly to the next peg, where she turned for a moment to say ‘good-bye,’ and then hurried on to the last. How it happened, Alice never knew, but exactly as she came to the last peg, she was gone. Whether she vanished into the air, or whether she ran quickly into the wood (‘and she can run very fast!’ thought Alice), there was no way of guessing, but she was gone, and Alice began to remember that she was a Pawn, and that it would soon be time for her to move. CHAPTER III. Looking-Glass Insects Of course the first thing to do was to make a grand survey of the country she was going to travel through. ‘It’s something very like learning geography,’ thought Alice, as she stood on tiptoe in hopes of being able to see a little further. ‘Principal rivers—there are none. Principal mountains—I’m on the only one, but I don’t think it’s got any name. Principal towns—why, what are those creatures, making honey down there? They can’t be bees—nobody ever saw bees a mile off, you know—’ and for some time she stood silent, watching one of them that was bustling about among the flowers, poking its proboscis into them, ‘just as if it was a regular bee,’ thought Alice. However, this was anything but a regular bee: in fact it was an elephant—as Alice soon found out, though the idea quite took her breath away at first. ‘And what enormous flowers they must be!’ was her next idea. ‘Something like cottages with the roofs taken off, and stalks put to them—and what quantities of honey they must make! I think I’ll go down and—no, I won’t just yet,’ she went on, checking herself just as she was beginning to run down the hill, and trying to find some excuse for turning shy so suddenly. ‘It’ll never do to go down among them without a good long branch to brush them away—and what fun it’ll be when they ask me how I like my walk. I shall say—“Oh, I like it well enough—“’ (here came the favourite little toss of the head), ‘“only it was so dusty and hot, and the elephants did tease so!”’ ‘I think I’ll go down the other way,’ she said after a pause: ‘and perhaps I may visit the elephants later on. Besides, I do so want to get into the Third Square!’ So with this excuse she ran down the hill and jumped over the first of the six little brooks. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ‘Tickets, please!’ said the Guard, putting his head in at the window. In a moment everybody was holding out a ticket: they were about the same size as the people, and quite seemed to fill the carriage. ‘Now then! Show your ticket, child!’ the Guard went on, looking angrily at Alice. And a great many voices all said together (‘like the chorus of a song,’ thought Alice), ‘Don’t keep him waiting, child! Why, his time is worth a thousand pounds a minute!’ ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got one,’ Alice said in a frightened tone: ‘there wasn’t a ticket-office where I came from.’ And again the chorus of voices went on. ‘There wasn’t room for one where she came from. The land there is worth a thousand pounds an inch!’ ‘Don’t make excuses,’ said the Guard: ‘you should have bought one from the engine-driver.’ And once more the chorus of voices went on with ‘The man that drives the engine. Why, the smoke alone is worth a thousand pounds a puff!’ Alice thought to herself, ‘Then there’s no use in speaking.’ The voices didn’t join in this time, as she hadn’t spoken, but to her great surprise, they all thought in chorus (I hope you understand what thinking in chorus means—for I must confess that I don’t), ‘Better say nothing at all. Language is worth a thousand pounds a word!’ ‘I shall dream about a thousand pounds tonight, I know I shall!’ thought Alice. All this time the Guard was looking at her, first through a telescope, then through a microscope, and then through an opera-glass. At last he said, ‘You’re travelling the wrong way,’ and shut up the window and went away. ‘So young a child,’ said the gentleman sitting opposite to her (he was dressed in white paper), ‘ought to know which way she’s going, even if she doesn’t know her own name!’ A Goat, that was sitting next to the gentleman in white, shut his eyes and said in a loud voice, ‘She ought to know her way to the ticket-office, even if she doesn’t know her alphabet!’ There was a Beetle sitting next to the Goat (it was a very queer carriage-full of passengers altogether), and, as the rule seemed to be that they should all speak in turn, he went on with ‘She’ll have to go back from here as luggage!’ Alice couldn’t see who was sitting beyond the Beetle, but a hoarse voice spoke next. ‘Change engines—’ it said, and was obliged to leave off. ‘It sounds like a horse,’ Alice thought to herself. And an extremely small voice, close to her ear, said, ‘You might make a joke on that—something about “horse” and “hoarse,” you know.’ Then a very gentle voice in the distance said, ‘She must be labelled “Lass, with care,” you know—’ And after that other voices went on (‘What a number of people there are in the carriage!’ thought Alice), saying, ‘She must go by post, as she’s got a head on her—’ ‘She must be sent as a message by the telegraph—’ ‘She must draw the train herself the rest of the way—’ and so on. But the gentleman dressed in white paper leaned forwards and whispered in her ear, ‘Never mind what they all say, my dear, but take a return-ticket every time the train stops.’ ‘Indeed I shan’t!’ Alice said rather impatiently. ‘I don’t belong to this railway journey at all—I was in a wood just now—and I wish I could get back there.’ ‘You might make a joke on that,’ said the little voice close to her ear: ‘something about “you would if you could,” you know.’ ‘Don’t tease so,’ said Alice, looking about in vain to see where the voice came from; ‘if you’re so anxious to have a joke made, why don’t you make one yourself?’ The little voice sighed deeply: it was very unhappy, evidently, and Alice would have said something pitying to comfort it, ‘If it would only sigh like other people!’ she thought. But this was such a wonderfully small sigh, that she wouldn’t have heard it at all, if it hadn’t come quite close to her ear. The consequence of this was that it tickled her ear very much, and quite took off her thoughts from the unhappiness of the poor little creature. ‘I know you are a friend,’ the little voice went on; ‘a dear friend, and an old friend. And you won’t hurt me, though I am an insect.’ ‘What kind of insect?’ Alice inquired a little anxiously. What she really wanted to know was, whether it could sting or not, but she thought this wouldn’t be quite a civil question to ask. ‘What, then you don’t—’ the little voice began, when it was drowned by a shrill scream from the engine, and everybody jumped up in alarm, Alice among the rest. The Horse, who had put his head out of the window, quietly drew it in and said, ‘It’s only a brook we have to jump over.’ Everybody seemed satisfied with this, though Alice felt a little nervous at the idea of trains jumping at all. ‘However, it’ll take us into the Fourth Square, that’s some comfort!’ she said to herself. In another moment she felt the carriage rise straight up into the air, and in her fright she caught at the thing nearest to her hand, which happened to be the Goat’s beard. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * But the beard seemed to melt away as she touched it, and she found herself sitting quietly under a tree—while the Gnat (for that was the insect she had been talking to) was balancing itself on a twig just over her head, and fanning her with its wings. It certainly was a very large Gnat: ‘about the size of a chicken,’ Alice thought. Still, she couldn’t feel nervous with it, after they had been talking together so long. ‘—then you don’t like all insects?’ the Gnat went on, as quietly as if nothing had happened. ‘I like them when they can talk,’ Alice said. ‘None of them ever talk, where I come from.’ ‘What sort of insects do you rejoice in, where you come from?’ the Gnat inquired. ‘I don’t rejoice in insects at all,’ Alice explained, ‘because I’m rather afraid of them—at least the large kinds. But I can tell you the names of some of them.’ ‘Of course they answer to their names?’ the Gnat remarked carelessly. ‘I never knew them to do it.’ ‘What’s the use of their having names,’ the Gnat said, ‘if they won’t answer to them?’ ‘No use to them,’ said Alice; ‘but it’s useful to the people who name them, I suppose. If not, why do things have names at all?’ ‘I can’t say,’ the Gnat replied. ‘Further on, in the wood down there, they’ve got no names—however, go on with your list of insects: you’re wasting time.’ ‘Well, there’s the Horse-fly,’ Alice began, counting off the names on her fingers. ‘All right,’ said the Gnat: ‘half way up that bush, you’ll see a Rocking-horse-fly, if you look. It’s made entirely of wood, and gets about by swinging itself from branch to branch.’ ‘What does it live on?’ Alice asked, with great curiosity. ‘Sap and sawdust,’ said the Gnat. ‘Go on with the list.’ Alice looked up at the Rocking-horse-fly with great interest, and made up her mind that it must have been just repainted, it looked so bright and sticky; and then she went on. ‘And there’s the Dragon-fly.’ ‘Look on the branch above your head,’ said the Gnat, ‘and there you’ll find a snap-dragon-fly. Its body is made of plum-pudding, its wings of holly-leaves, and its head is a raisin burning in brandy.’ ‘And what does it live on?’ ‘Frumenty and mince pie,’ the Gnat replied; ‘and it makes its nest in a Christmas box.’ ‘And then there’s the Butterfly,’ Alice went on, after she had taken a good look at the insect with its head on fire, and had thought to herself, ‘I wonder if that’s the reason insects are so fond of flying into candles—because they want to turn into Snap-dragon-flies!’ ‘Crawling at your feet,’ said the Gnat (Alice drew her feet back in some alarm), ‘you may observe a Bread-and-Butterfly. Its wings are thin slices of Bread-and-butter, its body is a crust, and its head is a lump of sugar.’ ‘And what does it live on?’ ‘Weak tea with cream in it.’ A new difficulty came into Alice’s head. ‘Supposing it couldn’t find any?’ she suggested. ‘Then it would die, of course.’ ‘But that must happen very often,’ Alice remarked thoughtfully. ‘It always happens,’ said the Gnat. After this, Alice was silent for a minute or two, pondering. The Gnat amused itself meanwhile by humming round and round her head: at last it settled again and remarked, ‘I suppose you don’t want to lose your name?’ ‘No, indeed,’ Alice said, a little anxiously. ‘And yet I don’t know,’ the Gnat went on in a careless tone: ‘only think how convenient it would be if you could manage to go home without it! For instance, if the governess wanted to call you to your lessons, she would call out “come here—,” and there she would have to leave off, because there wouldn’t be any name for her to call, and of course you wouldn’t have to go, you know.’ ‘That would never do, I’m sure,’ said Alice: ‘the governess would never think of excusing me lessons for that. If she couldn’t remember my name, she’d call me “Miss!” as the servants do.’ ‘Well, if she said “Miss,” and didn’t say anything more,’ the Gnat remarked, ‘of course you’d miss your lessons. That’s a joke. I wish you had made it.’ ‘Why do you wish I had made it?’ Alice asked. ‘It’s a very bad one.’ But the Gnat only sighed deeply, while two large tears came rolling down its cheeks. ‘You shouldn’t make jokes,’ Alice said, ‘if it makes you so unhappy.’ Then came another of those melancholy little sighs, and this time the poor Gnat really seemed to have sighed itself away, for, when Alice looked up, there was nothing whatever to be seen on the twig, and, as she was getting quite chilly with sitting still so long, she got up and walked on. She very soon came to an open field, with a wood on the other side of it: it looked much darker than the last wood, and Alice felt a little timid about going into it. However, on second thoughts, she made up her mind to go on: ‘for I certainly won’t go back,’ she thought to herself, and this was the only way to the Eighth Square. ‘This must be the wood,’ she said thoughtfully to herself, ‘where things have no names. I wonder what’ll become of my name when I go in? I shouldn’t like to lose it at all—because they’d have to give me another, and it would be almost certain to be an ugly one. But then the fun would be trying to find the creature that had got my old name! That’s just like the advertisements, you know, when people lose dogs—“answers to the name of ‘Dash:’ had on a brass collar”—just fancy calling everything you met “Alice,” till one of them answered! Only they wouldn’t answer at all, if they were wise.’ She was rambling on in this way when she reached the wood: it looked very cool and shady. ‘Well, at any rate it’s a great comfort,’ she said as she stepped under the trees, ‘after being so hot, to get into the—into what?’ she went on, rather surprised at not being able to think of the word. ‘I mean to get under the—under the—under this, you know!’ putting her hand on the trunk of the tree. ‘What does it call itself, I wonder? I do believe it’s got no name—why, to be sure it hasn’t!’ She stood silent for a minute, thinking: then she suddenly began again. ‘Then it really has happened, after all! And now, who am I? I will remember, if I can! I’m determined to do it!’ But being determined didn’t help much, and all she could say, after a great deal of puzzling, was, ‘L, I know it begins with L!’ Just then a Fawn came wandering by: it looked at Alice with its large gentle eyes, but didn’t seem at all frightened. ‘Here then! Here then!’ Alice said, as she held out her hand and tried to stroke it; but it only started back a little, and then stood looking at her again. ‘What do you call yourself?’ the Fawn said at last. Such a soft sweet voice it had! ‘I wish I knew!’ thought poor Alice. She answered, rather sadly, ‘Nothing, just now.’ ‘Think again,’ it said: ‘that won’t do.’ Alice thought, but nothing came of it. ‘Please, would you tell me what you call yourself?’ she said timidly. ‘I think that might help a little.’ ‘I’ll tell you, if you’ll move a little further on,’ the Fawn said. ‘I can’t remember here.’ So they walked on together though the wood, Alice with her arms clasped lovingly round the soft neck of the Fawn, till they came out into another open field, and here the Fawn gave a sudden bound into the air, and shook itself free from Alice’s arms. ‘I’m a Fawn!’ it cried out in a voice of delight, ‘and, dear me! you’re a human child!’ A sudden look of alarm came into its beautiful brown eyes, and in another moment it had darted away at full speed. Alice stood looking after it, almost ready to cry with vexation at having lost her dear little fellow-traveller so suddenly. ‘However, I know my name now.’ she said, ‘that’s some comfort. Alice—Alice—I won’t forget it again. And now, which of these finger-posts ought I to follow, I wonder?’ It was not a very difficult question to answer, as there was only one road through the wood, and the two finger-posts both pointed along it. ‘I’ll settle it,’ Alice said to herself, ‘when the road divides and they point different ways.’ But this did not seem likely to happen. She went on and on, a long way, but wherever the road divided there were sure to be two finger-posts pointing the same way, one marked ‘TO TWEEDLEDUM’S HOUSE’ and the other ‘TO THE HOUSE OF TWEEDLEDEE.’ ‘I do believe,’ said Alice at last, ‘that they live in the same house! I wonder I never thought of that before—But I can’t stay there long. I’ll just call and say “how d’you do?” and ask them the way out of the wood. If I could only get to the Eighth Square before it gets dark!’ So she wandered on, talking to herself as she went, till, on turning a sharp corner, she came upon two fat little men, so suddenly that she could not help starting back, but in another moment she recovered herself, feeling sure that they must be. CHAPTER IV. Tweedledum And Tweedledee They were standing under a tree, each with an arm round the other’s neck, and Alice knew which was which in a moment, because one of them had ‘DUM’ embroidered on his collar, and the other ‘DEE.’ ‘I suppose they’ve each got “TWEEDLE” round at the back of the collar,’ she said to herself. They stood so still that she quite forgot they were alive, and she was just looking round to see if the word “TWEEDLE” was written at the back of each collar, when she was startled by a voice coming from the one marked ‘DUM.’ ‘If you think we’re wax-works,’ he said, ‘you ought to pay, you know. Wax-works weren’t made to be looked at for nothing, nohow!’ ‘Contrariwise,’ added the one marked ‘DEE,’ ‘if you think we’re alive, you ought to speak.’ ‘I’m sure I’m very sorry,’ was all Alice could say; for the words of the old song kept ringing through her head like the ticking of a clock, and she could hardly help saying them out loud:— ‘Tweedledum and Tweedledee Agreed to have a battle; For Tweedledum said Tweedledee Had spoiled his nice new rattle. Just then flew down a monstrous crow, As black as a tar-barrel; Which frightened both the heroes so, They quite forgot their quarrel.’ ‘I know what you’re thinking about,’ said Tweedledum: ‘but it isn’t so, nohow.’ ‘Contrariwise,’ continued Tweedledee, ‘if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.’ ‘I was thinking,’ Alice said very politely, ‘which is the best way out of this wood: it’s getting so dark. Would you tell me, please?’ But the little men only looked at each other and grinned. They looked so exactly like a couple of great schoolboys, that Alice couldn’t help pointing her finger at Tweedledum, and saying ‘First Boy!’ ‘Nohow!’ Tweedledum cried out briskly, and shut his mouth up again with a snap. ‘Next Boy!’ said Alice, passing on to Tweedledee, though she felt quite certain he would only shout out ‘Contrariwise!’ and so he did. ‘You’ve been wrong!’ cried Tweedledum. ‘The first thing in a visit is to say “How d’ye do?” and shake hands!’ And here the two brothers gave each other a hug, and then they held out the two hands that were free, to shake hands with her. Alice did not like shaking hands with either of them first, for fear of hurting the other one’s feelings; so, as the best way out of the difficulty, she took hold of both hands at once: the next moment they were dancing round in a ring. This seemed quite natural (she remembered afterwards), and she was not even surprised to hear music playing: it seemed to come from the tree under which they were dancing, and it was done (as well as she could make it out) by the branches rubbing one across the other, like fiddles and fiddle-sticks. ‘But it certainly was funny,’ (Alice said afterwards, when she was telling her sister the history of all this,) ‘to find myself singing “Here we go round the mulberry bush.” I don’t know when I began it, but somehow I felt as if I’d been singing it a long long time!’ The other two dancers were fat, and very soon out of breath. ‘Four times round is enough for one dance,’ Tweedledum panted out, and they left off dancing as suddenly as they had begun: the music stopped at the same moment. Then they let go of Alice’s hands, and stood looking at her for a minute: there was a rather awkward pause, as Alice didn’t know how to begin a conversation with people she had just been dancing with. ‘It would never do to say “How d’ye do?” now,’ she said to herself: ‘we seem to have got beyond that, somehow!’ ‘I hope you’re not much tired?’ she said at last. ‘Nohow. And thank you very much for asking,’ said Tweedledum. ‘So much obliged!’ added Tweedledee. ‘You like poetry?’ ‘Ye-es, pretty well—some poetry,’ Alice said doubtfully. ‘Would you tell me which road leads out of the wood?’ ‘What shall I repeat to her?’ said Tweedledee, looking round at Tweedledum with great solemn eyes, and not noticing Alice’s question. ‘“The Walrus and the Carpenter” is the longest,’ Tweedledum replied, giving his brother an affectionate hug. Tweedledee began instantly: ‘The sun was shining—’ Here Alice ventured to interrupt him. ‘If it’s very long,’ she said, as politely as she could, ‘would you please tell me first which road—’ Tweedledee smiled gently, and began again: ‘The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright— And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done— “It’s very rude of him,” she said, “To come and spoil the fun!” The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying over head— There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: “If this were only cleared away,” They said, “it would be grand!” “If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, “That they could get it clear?” “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. “O Oysters, come and walk with us!” The Walrus did beseech. “A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.” The eldest Oyster looked at him. But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head— Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat— And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn’t any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more— All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. “The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings.” “But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, “Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!” “No hurry!” said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. “A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, “Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed— Now if you’re ready Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.” “But not on us!” the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue, “After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!” “The night is fine,” the Walrus said “Do you admire the view? “It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!” The Carpenter said nothing but “Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf— I’ve had to ask you twice!” “It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, “To play them such a trick, After we’ve brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!” The Carpenter said nothing but “The butter’s spread too thick!” “I weep for you,” the Walrus said. “I deeply sympathize.” With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size. Holding his pocket handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. “O Oysters,” said the Carpenter. “You’ve had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?” But answer came there none— And that was scarcely odd, because They’d eaten every one.’ ‘I like the Walrus best,’ said Alice: ‘because you see he was a little sorry for the poor oysters.’ ‘He ate more than the Carpenter, though,’ said Tweedledee. ‘You see he held his handkerchief in front, so that the Carpenter couldn’t count how many he took: contrariwise.’ ‘That was mean!’ Alice said indignantly. ‘Then I like the Carpenter best—if he didn’t eat so many as the Walrus.’ ‘But he ate as many as he could get,’ said Tweedledum. This was a puzzler. After a pause, Alice began, ‘Well! They were both very unpleasant characters—’ Here she checked herself in some alarm, at hearing something that sounded to her like the puffing of a large steam-engine in the wood near them, though she feared it was more likely to be a wild beast. ‘Are there any lions or tigers about here?’ she asked timidly. ‘It’s only the Red King snoring,’ said Tweedledee. ‘Come and look at him!’ the brothers cried, and they each took one of Alice’s hands, and led her up to where the King was sleeping. ‘Isn’t he a lovely sight?’ said Tweedledum. Alice couldn’t say honestly that he was. He had a tall red night-cap on, with a tassel, and he was lying crumpled up into a sort of untidy heap, and snoring loud—‘fit to snore his head off!’ as Tweedledum remarked. ‘I’m afraid he’ll catch cold with lying on the damp grass,’ said Alice, who was a very thoughtful little girl. ‘He’s dreaming now,’ said Tweedledee: ‘and what do you think he’s dreaming about?’ Alice said ‘Nobody can guess that.’ ‘Why, about you!’ Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. ‘And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you’d be?’ ‘Where I am now, of course,’ said Alice. ‘Not you!’ Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. ‘You’d be nowhere. Why, you’re only a sort of thing in his dream!’ ‘If that there King was to wake,’ added Tweedledum, ‘you’d go out—bang!—just like a candle!’ ‘I shouldn’t!’ Alice exclaimed indignantly. ‘Besides, if I’m only a sort of thing in his dream, what are you, I should like to know?’ ‘Ditto’ said Tweedledum. ‘Ditto, ditto’ cried Tweedledee. He shouted this so loud that Alice couldn’t help saying, ‘Hush! You’ll be waking him, I’m afraid, if you make so much noise.’ ‘Well, it no use your talking about waking him,’ said Tweedledum, ‘when you’re only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you’re not real.’ ‘I am real!’ said Alice and began to cry. ‘You won’t make yourself a bit realler by crying,’ Tweedledee remarked: ‘there’s nothing to cry about.’ ‘If I wasn’t real,’ Alice said—half-laughing through her tears, it all seemed so ridiculous—‘I shouldn’t be able to cry.’ ‘I hope you don’t suppose those are real tears?’ Tweedledum interrupted in a tone of great contempt. ‘I know they’re talking nonsense,’ Alice thought to herself: ‘and it’s foolish to cry about it.’ So she brushed away her tears, and went on as cheerfully as she could. ‘At any rate I’d better be getting out of the wood, for really it’s coming on very dark. Do you think it’s going to rain?’ Tweedledum spread a large umbrella over himself and his brother, and looked up into it. ‘No, I don’t think it is,’ he said: ‘at least—not under here. Nohow.’ ‘But it may rain outside?’ ‘It may—if it chooses,’ said Tweedledee: ‘we’ve no objection. Contrariwise.’ ‘Selfish things!’ thought Alice, and she was just going to say ‘Good-night’ and leave them, when Tweedledum sprang out from under the umbrella and seized her by the wrist. ‘Do you see that?’ he said, in a voice choking with passion, and his eyes grew large and yellow all in a moment, as he pointed with a trembling finger at a small white thing lying under the tree. ‘It’s only a rattle,’ Alice said, after a careful examination of the little white thing. ‘Not a rattle-snake, you know,’ she added hastily, thinking that he was frightened: ‘only an old rattle—quite old and broken.’ ‘I knew it was!’ cried Tweedledum, beginning to stamp about wildly and tear his hair. ‘It’s spoilt, of course!’ Here he looked at Tweedledee, who immediately sat down on the ground, and tried to hide himself under the umbrella. Alice laid her hand upon his arm, and said in a soothing tone, ‘You needn’t be so angry about an old rattle.’ ‘But it isn’t old!’ Tweedledum cried, in a greater fury than ever. ‘It’s new, I tell you—I bought it yesterday—my nice new RATTLE!’ and his voice rose to a perfect scream. All this time Tweedledee was trying his best to fold up the umbrella, with himself in it: which was such an extraordinary thing to do, that it quite took off Alice’s attention from the angry brother. But he couldn’t quite succeed, and it ended in his rolling over, bundled up in the umbrella, with only his head out: and there he lay, opening and shutting his mouth and his large eyes—‘looking more like a fish than anything else,’ Alice thought. ‘Of course you agree to have a battle?’ Tweedledum said in a calmer tone. ‘I suppose so,’ the other sulkily replied, as he crawled out of the umbrella: ‘only she must help us to dress up, you know.’ So the two brothers went off hand-in-hand into the wood, and returned in a minute with their arms full of things—such as bolsters, blankets, hearth-rugs, table-cloths, dish-covers and coal-scuttles. ‘I hope you’re a good hand at pinning and tying strings?’ Tweedledum remarked. ‘Every one of these things has got to go on, somehow or other.’ Alice said afterwards she had never seen such a fuss made about anything in all her life—the way those two bustled about—and the quantity of things they put on—and the trouble they gave her in tying strings and fastening buttons—‘Really they’ll be more like bundles of old clothes than anything else, by the time they’re ready!’ she said to herself, as she arranged a bolster round the neck of Tweedledee, ‘to keep his head from being cut off,’ as he said. ‘You know,’ he added very gravely, ‘it’s one of the most serious things that can possibly happen to one in a battle—to get one’s head cut off.’ Alice laughed aloud: but she managed to turn it into a cough, for fear of hurting his feelings. ‘Do I look very pale?’ said Tweedledum, coming up to have his helmet tied on. (He called it a helmet, though it certainly looked much more like a saucepan.) ‘Well—yes—a little,’ Alice replied gently. ‘I’m very brave generally,’ he went on in a low voice: ‘only to-day I happen to have a headache.’ ‘And I’ve got a toothache!’ said Tweedledee, who had overheard the remark. ‘I’m far worse off than you!’ ‘Then you’d better not fight to-day,’ said Alice, thinking it a good opportunity to make peace. ‘We must have a bit of a fight, but I don’t care about going on long,’ said Tweedledum. ‘What’s the time now?’ Tweedledee looked at his watch, and said ‘Half-past four.’ ‘Let’s fight till six, and then have dinner,’ said Tweedledum. ‘Very well,’ the other said, rather sadly: ‘and she can watch us—only you’d better not come very close,’ he added: ‘I generally hit everything I can see—when I get really excited.’ ‘And I hit everything within reach,’ cried Tweedledum, ‘whether I can see it or not!’ Alice laughed. ‘You must hit the trees pretty often, I should think,’ she said. Tweedledum looked round him with a satisfied smile. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a tree left standing, for ever so far round, by the time we’ve finished!’ ‘And all about a rattle!’ said Alice, still hoping to make them a little ashamed of fighting for such a trifle. ‘I shouldn’t have minded it so much,’ said Tweedledum, ‘if it hadn’t been a new one.’ ‘I wish the monstrous crow would come!’ thought Alice. ‘There’s only one sword, you know,’ Tweedledum said to his brother: ‘but you can have the umbrella—it’s quite as sharp. Only we must begin quick. It’s getting as dark as it can.’ ‘And darker,’ said Tweedledee. It was getting dark so suddenly that Alice thought there must be a thunderstorm coming on. ‘What a thick black cloud that is!’ she said. ‘And how fast it comes! Why, I do believe it’s got wings!’ ‘It’s the crow!’ Tweedledum cried out in a shrill voice of alarm: and the two brothers took to their heels and were out of sight in a moment. Alice ran a little way into the wood, and stopped under a large tree. ‘It can never get at me here,’ she thought: ‘it’s far too large to squeeze itself in among the trees. But I wish it wouldn’t flap its wings so—it makes quite a hurricane in the wood—here’s somebody’s shawl being blown away!’ CHAPTER V. Wool and Water She caught the shawl as she spoke, and looked about for the owner: in another moment the White Queen came running wildly through the wood, with both arms stretched out wide, as if she were flying, and Alice very civilly went to meet her with the shawl. ‘I’m very glad I happened to be in the way,’ Alice said, as she helped her to put on her shawl again. The White Queen only looked at her in a helpless frightened sort of way, and kept repeating something in a whisper to herself that sounded like ‘bread-and-butter, bread-and-butter,’ and Alice felt that if there was to be any conversation at all, she must manage it herself. So she began rather timidly: ‘Am I addressing the White Queen?’ ‘Well, yes, if you call that a-dressing,’ The Queen said. ‘It isn’t my notion of the thing, at all.’ Alice thought it would never do to have an argument at the very beginning of their conversation, so she smiled and said, ‘If your Majesty will only tell me the right way to begin, I’ll do it as well as I can.’ ‘But I don’t want it done at all!’ groaned the poor Queen. ‘I’ve been a-dressing myself for the last two hours.’ It would have been all the better, as it seemed to Alice, if she had got some one else to dress her, she was so dreadfully untidy. ‘Every single thing’s crooked,’ Alice thought to herself, ‘and she’s all over pins!—may I put your shawl straight for you?’ she added aloud. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with it!’ the Queen said, in a melancholy voice. ‘It’s out of temper, I think. I’ve pinned it here, and I’ve pinned it there, but there’s no pleasing it!’ ‘It can’t go straight, you know, if you pin it all on one side,’ Alice said, as she gently put it right for her; ‘and, dear me, what a state your hair is in!’ ‘The brush has got entangled in it!’ the Queen said with a sigh. ‘And I lost the comb yesterday.’ Alice carefully released the brush, and did her best to get the hair into order. ‘Come, you look rather better now!’ she said, after altering most of the pins. ‘But really you should have a lady’s maid!’ ‘I’m sure I’ll take you with pleasure!’ the Queen said. ‘Twopence a week, and jam every other day.’ Alice couldn’t help laughing, as she said, ‘I don’t want you to hire me—and I don’t care for jam.’ ‘It’s very good jam,’ said the Queen. ‘Well, I don’t want any to-day, at any rate.’ ‘You couldn’t have it if you did want it,’ the Queen said. ‘The rule is, jam to-morrow and jam yesterday—but never jam to-day.’ ‘It must come sometimes to “jam to-day,”’ Alice objected. ‘No, it can’t,’ said the Queen. ‘It’s jam every other day: to-day isn’t any other day, you know.’ ‘I don’t understand you,’ said Alice. ‘It’s dreadfully confusing!’ ‘That’s the effect of living backwards,’ the Queen said kindly: ‘it always makes one a little giddy at first—’ ‘Living backwards!’ Alice repeated in great astonishment. ‘I never heard of such a thing!’ ‘—but there’s one great advantage in it, that one’s memory works both ways.’ ‘I’m sure mine only works one way,’ Alice remarked. ‘I can’t remember things before they happen.’ ‘It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards,’ the Queen remarked. ‘What sort of things do you remember best?’ Alice ventured to ask. ‘Oh, things that happened the week after next,’ the Queen replied in a careless tone. ‘For instance, now,’ she went on, sticking a large piece of plaster on her finger as she spoke, ‘there’s the King’s Messenger. He’s in prison now, being punished: and the trial doesn’t even begin till next Wednesday: and of course the crime comes last of all.’ ‘Suppose he never commits the crime?’ said Alice. ‘That would be all the better, wouldn’t it?’ the Queen said, as she bound the plaster round her finger with a bit of ribbon. Alice felt there was no denying that. ‘Of course it would be all the better,’ she said: ‘but it wouldn’t be all the better his being punished.’ ‘You’re wrong there, at any rate,’ said the Queen: ‘were you ever punished?’ ‘Only for faults,’ said Alice. ‘And you were all the better for it, I know!’ the Queen said triumphantly. ‘Yes, but then I had done the things I was punished for,’ said Alice: ‘that makes all the difference.’ ‘But if you hadn’t done them,’ the Queen said, ‘that would have been better still; better, and better, and better!’ Her voice went higher with each ‘better,’ till it got quite to a squeak at last. Alice was just beginning to say ‘There’s a mistake somewhere—,’ when the Queen began screaming so loud that she had to leave the sentence unfinished. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ shouted the Queen, shaking her hand about as if she wanted to shake it off. ‘My finger’s bleeding! Oh, oh, oh, oh!’ Her screams were so exactly like the whistle of a steam-engine, that Alice had to hold both her hands over her ears. ‘What is the matter?’ she said, as soon as there was a chance of making herself heard. ‘Have you pricked your finger?’ ‘I haven’t pricked it yet,’ the Queen said, ‘but I soon shall—oh, oh, oh!’ ‘When do you expect to do it?’ Alice asked, feeling very much inclined to laugh. ‘When I fasten my shawl again,’ the poor Queen groaned out: ‘the brooch will come undone directly. Oh, oh!’ As she said the words the brooch flew open, and the Queen clutched wildly at it, and tried to clasp it again. ‘Take care!’ cried Alice. ‘You’re holding it all crooked!’ And she caught at the brooch; but it was too late: the pin had slipped, and the Queen had pricked her finger. ‘That accounts for the bleeding, you see,’ she said to Alice with a smile. ‘Now you understand the way things happen here.’ ‘But why don’t you scream now?’ Alice asked, holding her hands ready to put over her ears again. ‘Why, I’ve done all the screaming already,’ said the Queen. ‘What would be the good of having it all over again?’ By this time it was getting light. ‘The crow must have flown away, I think,’ said Alice: ‘I’m so glad it’s gone. I thought it was the night coming on.’ ‘I wish I could manage to be glad!’ the Queen said. ‘Only I never can remember the rule. You must be very happy, living in this wood, and being glad whenever you like!’ ‘Only it is so very lonely here!’ Alice said in a melancholy voice; and at the thought of her loneliness two large tears came rolling down her cheeks. ‘Oh, don’t go on like that!’ cried the poor Queen, wringing her hands in despair. ‘Consider what a great girl you are. Consider what a long way you’ve come to-day. Consider what o’clock it is. Consider anything, only don’t cry!’ Alice could not help laughing at this, even in the midst of her tears. ‘Can you keep from crying by considering things?’ she asked. ‘That’s the way it’s done,’ the Queen said with great decision: ‘nobody can do two things at once, you know. Let’s consider your age to begin with—how old are you?’ ‘I’m seven and a half exactly.’ ‘You needn’t say “exactually,”’ the Queen remarked: ‘I can believe it without that. Now I’ll give you something to believe. I’m just one hundred and one, five months and a day.’ ‘I can’t believe that!’ said Alice. ‘Can’t you?’ the Queen said in a pitying tone. ‘Try again: draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.’ Alice laughed. ‘There’s no use trying,’ she said: ‘one can’t believe impossible things.’ ‘I daresay you haven’t had much practice,’ said the Queen. ‘When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. There goes the shawl again!’ The brooch had come undone as she spoke, and a sudden gust of wind blew the Queen’s shawl across a little brook. The Queen spread out her arms again, and went flying after it, and this time she succeeded in catching it for herself. ‘I’ve got it!’ she cried in a triumphant tone. ‘Now you shall see me pin it on again, all by myself!’ ‘Then I hope your finger is better now?’ Alice said very politely, as she crossed the little brook after the Queen. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ‘Oh, much better!’ cried the Queen, her voice rising to a squeak as she went on. ‘Much be-etter! Be-etter! Be-e-e-etter! Be-e-ehh!’ The last word ended in a long bleat, so like a sheep that Alice quite started. She looked at the Queen, who seemed to have suddenly wrapped herself up in wool. Alice rubbed her eyes, and looked again. She couldn’t make out what had happened at all. Was she in a shop? And was that really—was it really a sheep that was sitting on the other side of the counter? Rub as she could, she could make nothing more of it: she was in a little dark shop, leaning with her elbows on the counter, and opposite to her was an old Sheep, sitting in an arm-chair knitting, and every now and then leaving off to look at her through a great pair of spectacles. ‘What is it you want to buy?’ the Sheep said at last, looking up for a moment from her knitting. ‘I don’t quite know yet,’ Alice said, very gently. ‘I should like to look all round me first, if I might.’ ‘You may look in front of you, and on both sides, if you like,’ said the Sheep: ‘but you can’t look all round you—unless you’ve got eyes at the back of your head.’ But these, as it happened, Alice had not got: so she contented herself with turning round, looking at the shelves as she came to them. The shop seemed to be full of all manner of curious things—but the oddest part of it all was, that whenever she looked hard at any shelf, to make out exactly what it had on it, that particular shelf was always quite empty: though the others round it were crowded as full as they could hold. ‘Things flow about so here!’ she said at last in a plaintive tone, after she had spent a minute or so in vainly pursuing a large bright thing, that looked sometimes like a doll and sometimes like a work-box, and was always in the shelf next above the one she was looking at. ‘And this one is the most provoking of all—but I’ll tell you what—’ she added, as a sudden thought struck her, ‘I’ll follow it up to the very top shelf of all. It’ll puzzle it to go through the ceiling, I expect!’ But even this plan failed: the ‘thing’ went through the ceiling as quietly as possible, as if it were quite used to it. ‘Are you a child or a teetotum?’ the Sheep said, as she took up another pair of needles. ‘You’ll make me giddy soon, if you go on turning round like that.’ She was now working with fourteen pairs at once, and Alice couldn’t help looking at her in great astonishment. ‘How can she knit with so many?’ the puzzled child thought to herself. ‘She gets more and more like a porcupine every minute!’ ‘Can you row?’ the Sheep asked, handing her a pair of knitting-needles as she spoke. ‘Yes, a little—but not on land—and not with needles—’ Alice was beginning to say, when suddenly the needles turned into oars in her hands, and she found they were in a little boat, gliding along between banks: so there was nothing for it but to do her best. ‘Feather!’ cried the Sheep, as she took up another pair of needles. This didn’t sound like a remark that needed any answer, so Alice said nothing, but pulled away. There was something very queer about the water, she thought, as every now and then the oars got fast in it, and would hardly come out again. ‘Feather! Feather!’ the Sheep cried again, taking more needles. ‘You’ll be catching a crab directly.’ ‘A dear little crab!’ thought Alice. ‘I should like that.’ ‘Didn’t you hear me say “Feather”?’ the Sheep cried angrily, taking up quite a bunch of needles. ‘Indeed I did,’ said Alice: ‘you’ve said it very often—and very loud. Please, where are the crabs?’ ‘In the water, of course!’ said the Sheep, sticking some of the needles into her hair, as her hands were full. ‘Feather, I say!’ ‘Why do you say “feather” so often?’ Alice asked at last, rather vexed. ‘I’m not a bird!’ ‘You are,’ said the Sheep: ‘you’re a little goose.’ This offended Alice a little, so there was no more conversation for a minute or two, while the boat glided gently on, sometimes among beds of weeds (which made the oars stick fast in the water, worse then ever), and sometimes under trees, but always with the same tall river-banks frowning over their heads. ‘Oh, please! There are some scented rushes!’ Alice cried in a sudden transport of delight. ‘There really are—and such beauties!’ ‘You needn’t say “please” to me about ‘em,’ the Sheep said, without looking up from her knitting: ‘I didn’t put ‘em there, and I’m not going to take ‘em away.’ ‘No, but I meant—please, may we wait and pick some?’ Alice pleaded. ‘If you don’t mind stopping the boat for a minute.’ ‘How am I to stop it?’ said the Sheep. ‘If you leave off rowing, it’ll stop of itself.’ So the boat was left to drift down the stream as it would, till it glided gently in among the waving rushes. And then the little sleeves were carefully rolled up, and the little arms were plunged in elbow-deep to get the rushes a good long way down before breaking them off—and for a while Alice forgot all about the Sheep and the knitting, as she bent over the side of the boat, with just the ends of her tangled hair dipping into the water—while with bright eager eyes she caught at one bunch after another of the darling scented rushes. ‘I only hope the boat won’t tipple over!’ she said to herself. ‘Oh, what a lovely one! Only I couldn’t quite reach it.’ ‘And it certainly did seem a little provoking (‘almost as if it happened on purpose,’ she thought) that, though she managed to pick plenty of beautiful rushes as the boat glided by, there was always a more lovely one that she couldn’t reach. ‘The prettiest are always further!’ she said at last, with a sigh at the obstinacy of the rushes in growing so far off, as, with flushed cheeks and dripping hair and hands, she scrambled back into her place, and began to arrange her new-found treasures. What mattered it to her just then that the rushes had begun to fade, and to lose all their scent and beauty, from the very moment that she picked them? Even real scented rushes, you know, last only a very little while—and these, being dream-rushes, melted away almost like snow, as they lay in heaps at her feet—but Alice hardly noticed this, there were so many other curious things to think about. They hadn’t gone much farther before the blade of one of the oars got fast in the water and wouldn’t come out again (so Alice explained it afterwards), and the consequence was that the handle of it caught her under the chin, and, in spite of a series of little shrieks of ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ from poor Alice, it swept her straight off the seat, and down among the heap of rushes. However, she wasn’t hurt, and was soon up again: the Sheep went on with her knitting all the while, just as if nothing had happened. ‘That was a nice crab you caught!’ she remarked, as Alice got back into her place, very much relieved to find herself still in the boat. ‘Was it? I didn’t see it,’ Said Alice, peeping cautiously over the side of the boat into the dark water. ‘I wish it hadn’t let go—I should so like to see a little crab to take home with me!’ But the Sheep only laughed scornfully, and went on with her knitting. ‘Are there many crabs here?’ said Alice. ‘Crabs, and all sorts of things,’ said the Sheep: ‘plenty of choice, only make up your mind. Now, what do you want to buy?’ ‘To buy!’ Alice echoed in a tone that was half astonished and half frightened—for the oars, and the boat, and the river, had vanished all in a moment, and she was back again in the little dark shop. ‘I should like to buy an egg, please,’ she said timidly. ‘How do you sell them?’ ‘Fivepence farthing for one—Twopence for two,’ the Sheep replied. ‘Then two are cheaper than one?’ Alice said in a surprised tone, taking out her purse. ‘Only you must eat them both, if you buy two,’ said the Sheep. ‘Then I’ll have one, please,’ said Alice, as she put the money down on the counter. For she thought to herself, ‘They mightn’t be at all nice, you know.’ The Sheep took the money, and put it away in a box: then she said ‘I never put things into people’s hands—that would never do—you must get it for yourself.’ And so saying, she went off to the other end of the shop, and set the egg upright on a shelf. ‘I wonder why it wouldn’t do?’ thought Alice, as she groped her way among the tables and chairs, for the shop was very dark towards the end. ‘The egg seems to get further away the more I walk towards it. Let me see, is this a chair? Why, it’s got branches, I declare! How very odd to find trees growing here! And actually here’s a little brook! Well, this is the very queerest shop I ever saw!’ * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * So she went on, wondering more and more at every step, as everything turned into a tree the moment she came up to it, and she quite expected the egg to do the same. CHAPTER VI. Humpty Dumpty However, the egg only got larger and larger, and more and more human: when she had come within a few yards of it, she saw that it had eyes and a nose and mouth; and when she had come close to it, she saw clearly that it was HUMPTY DUMPTY himself. ‘It can’t be anybody else!’ she said to herself. ‘I’m as certain of it, as if his name were written all over his face.’ It might have been written a hundred times, easily, on that enormous face. Humpty Dumpty was sitting with his legs crossed, like a Turk, on the top of a high wall—such a narrow one that Alice quite wondered how he could keep his balance—and, as his eyes were steadily fixed in the opposite direction, and he didn’t take the least notice of her, she thought he must be a stuffed figure after all. ‘And how exactly like an egg he is!’ she said aloud, standing with her hands ready to catch him, for she was every moment expecting him to fall. ‘It’s very provoking,’ Humpty Dumpty said after a long silence, looking away from Alice as he spoke, ‘to be called an egg—Very!’ ‘I said you looked like an egg, Sir,’ Alice gently explained. ‘And some eggs are very pretty, you know’ she added, hoping to turn her remark into a sort of a compliment. ‘Some people,’ said Humpty Dumpty, looking away from her as usual, ‘have no more sense than a baby!’ Alice didn’t know what to say to this: it wasn’t at all like conversation, she thought, as he never said anything to her; in fact, his last remark was evidently addressed to a tree—so she stood and softly repeated to herself:— ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall: Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty in his place again.’ ‘That last line is much too long for the poetry,’ she added, almost out loud, forgetting that Humpty Dumpty would hear her. ‘Don’t stand there chattering to yourself like that,’ Humpty Dumpty said, looking at her for the first time, ‘but tell me your name and your business.’ ‘My name is Alice, but—’ ‘It’s a stupid enough name!’ Humpty Dumpty interrupted impatiently. ‘What does it mean?’ ‘Must a name mean something?’ Alice asked doubtfully. ‘Of course it must,’ Humpty Dumpty said with a short laugh: ‘my name means the shape I am—and a good handsome shape it is, too. With a name like yours, you might be any shape, almost.’ ‘Why do you sit out here all alone?’ said Alice, not wishing to begin an argument. ‘Why, because there’s nobody with me!’ cried Humpty Dumpty. ‘Did you think I didn’t know the answer to that? Ask another.’ ‘Don’t you think you’d be safer down on the ground?’ Alice went on, not with any idea of making another riddle, but simply in her good-natured anxiety for the queer creature. ‘That wall is so very narrow!’ ‘What tremendously easy riddles you ask!’ Humpty Dumpty growled out. ‘Of course I don’t think so! Why, if ever I did fall off—which there’s no chance of—but if I did—’ Here he pursed his lips and looked so solemn and grand that Alice could hardly help laughing. ‘If I did fall,’ he went on, ‘The King has promised me—with his very own mouth—to—to—’ ‘To send all his horses and all his men,’ Alice interrupted, rather unwisely. ‘Now I declare that’s too bad!’ Humpty Dumpty cried, breaking into a sudden passion. ‘You’ve been listening at doors—and behind trees—and down chimneys—or you couldn’t have known it!’ ‘I haven’t, indeed!’ Alice said very gently. ‘It’s in a book.’ ‘Ah, well! They may write such things in a book,’ Humpty Dumpty said in a calmer tone. ‘That’s what you call a History of England, that is. Now, take a good look at me! I’m one that has spoken to a King, I am: mayhap you’ll never see such another: and to show you I’m not proud, you may shake hands with me!’ And he grinned almost from ear to ear, as he leant forwards (and as nearly as possible fell off the wall in doing so) and offered Alice his hand. She watched him a little anxiously as she took it. ‘If he smiled much more, the ends of his mouth might meet behind,’ she thought: ‘and then I don’t know what would happen to his head! I’m afraid it would come off!’ ‘Yes, all his horses and all his men,’ Humpty Dumpty went on. ‘They’d pick me up again in a minute, they would! However, this conversation is going on a little too fast: let’s go back to the last remark but one.’ ‘I’m afraid I can’t quite remember it,’ Alice said very politely. ‘In that case we start fresh,’ said Humpty Dumpty, ‘and it’s my turn to choose a subject—’ (‘He talks about it just as if it was a game!’ thought Alice.) ‘So here’s a question for you. How old did you say you were?’ Alice made a short calculation, and said ‘Seven years and six months.’ ‘Wrong!’ Humpty Dumpty exclaimed triumphantly. ‘You never said a word like it!’ ‘I though you meant “How old are you?”’ Alice explained. ‘If I’d meant that, I’d have said it,’ said Humpty Dumpty. Alice didn’t want to begin another argument, so she said nothing. ‘Seven years and six months!’ Humpty Dumpty repeated thoughtfully. ‘An uncomfortable sort of age. Now if you’d asked my advice, I’d have said “Leave off at seven”—but it’s too late now.’ ‘I never ask advice about growing,’ Alice said indignantly. ‘Too proud?’ the other inquired. Alice felt even more indignant at this suggestion. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘that one can’t help growing older.’ ‘One can’t, perhaps,’ said Humpty Dumpty, ‘but two can. With proper assistance, you might have left off at seven.’ ‘What a beautiful belt you’ve got on!’ Alice suddenly remarked. (They had had quite enough of the subject of age, she thought: and if they really were to take turns in choosing subjects, it was her turn now.) ‘At least,’ she corrected herself on second thoughts, ‘a beautiful cravat, I should have said—no, a belt, I mean—I beg your pardon!’ she added in dismay, for Humpty Dumpty looked thoroughly offended, and she began to wish she hadn’t chosen that subject. ‘If I only knew,’ she thought to herself, ‘which was neck and which was waist!’ Evidently Humpty Dumpty was very angry, though he said nothing for a minute or two. When he did speak again, it was in a deep growl. ‘It is a—most—provoking—thing,’ he said at last, ‘when a person doesn’t know a cravat from a belt!’ ‘I know it’s very ignorant of me,’ Alice said, in so humble a tone that Humpty Dumpty relented. ‘It’s a cravat, child, and a beautiful one, as you say. It’s a present from the White King and Queen. There now!’ ‘Is it really?’ said Alice, quite pleased to find that she had chosen a good subject, after all. ‘They gave it me,’ Humpty Dumpty continued thoughtfully, as he crossed one knee over the other and clasped his hands round it, ‘they gave it me—for an un-birthday present.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ Alice said with a puzzled air. ‘I’m not offended,’ said Humpty Dumpty. ‘I mean, what is an un-birthday present?’ ‘A present given when it isn’t your birthday, of course.’ Alice considered a little. ‘I like birthday presents best,’ she said at last. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ cried Humpty Dumpty. ‘How many days are there in a year?’ ‘Three hundred and sixty-five,’ said Alice. ‘And how many birthdays have you?’ ‘One.’ ‘And if you take one from three hundred and sixty-five, what remains?’ ‘Three hundred and sixty-four, of course.’ Humpty Dumpty looked doubtful. ‘I’d rather see that done on paper,’ he said. Alice couldn’t help smiling as she took out her memorandum-book, and worked the sum for him: 365 1 ____ 364 ___ Humpty Dumpty took the book, and looked at it carefully. ‘That seems to be done right—’ he began. ‘You’re holding it upside down!’ Alice interrupted. ‘To be sure I was!’ Humpty Dumpty said gaily, as she turned it round for him. ‘I thought it looked a little queer. As I was saying, that seems to be done right—though I haven’t time to look it over thoroughly just now—and that shows that there are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents—’ ‘Certainly,’ said Alice. ‘And only one for birthday presents, you know. There’s glory for you!’ ‘I don’t know what you mean by “glory,”’ Alice said. Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. ‘Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant “there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!”’ ‘But “glory” doesn’t mean “a nice knock-down argument,”’ Alice objected. ‘When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.’ ‘The question is,’ said Alice, ‘whether you can make words mean so many different things.’ ‘The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty, ‘which is to be master—that’s all.’ Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again. ‘They’ve a temper, some of them—particularly verbs, they’re the proudest—adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs—however, I can manage the whole lot of them! Impenetrability! That’s what I say!’ ‘Would you tell me, please,’ said Alice ‘what that means?’ ‘Now you talk like a reasonable child,’ said Humpty Dumpty, looking very much pleased. ‘I meant by “impenetrability” that we’ve had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you’d mention what you mean to do next, as I suppose you don’t mean to stop here all the rest of your life.’ ‘That’s a great deal to make one word mean,’ Alice said in a thoughtful tone. ‘When I make a word do a lot of work like that,’ said Humpty Dumpty, ‘I always pay it extra.’ ‘Oh!’ said Alice. She was too much puzzled to make any other remark. ‘Ah, you should see ‘em come round me of a Saturday night,’ Humpty Dumpty went on, wagging his head gravely from side to side: ‘for to get their wages, you know.’ (Alice didn’t venture to ask what he paid them with; and so you see I can’t tell you.) ‘You seem very clever at explaining words, Sir,’ said Alice. ‘Would you kindly tell me the meaning of the poem called “Jabberwocky”?’ ‘Let’s hear it,’ said Humpty Dumpty. ‘I can explain all the poems that were ever invented—and a good many that haven’t been invented just yet.’ This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated the first verse: ‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. ‘That’s enough to begin with,’ Humpty Dumpty interrupted: ‘there are plenty of hard words there. “Brillig” means four o’clock in the afternoon—the time when you begin broiling things for dinner.’ ‘That’ll do very well,’ said Alice: ‘and “slithy”?’ ‘Well, “slithy” means “lithe and slimy.” “Lithe” is the same as “active.” You see it’s like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed up into one word.’ ‘I see it now,’ Alice remarked thoughtfully: ‘and what are “toves”?’ ‘Well, “toves” are something like badgers—they’re something like lizards—and they’re something like corkscrews.’ ‘They must be very curious looking creatures.’ ‘They are that,’ said Humpty Dumpty: ‘also they make their nests under sun-dials—also they live on cheese.’ ‘And what’s the “gyre” and to “gimble”?’ ‘To “gyre” is to go round and round like a gyroscope. To “gimble” is to make holes like a gimlet.’ ‘And “the wabe” is the grass-plot round a sun-dial, I suppose?’ said Alice, surprised at her own ingenuity. ‘Of course it is. It’s called “wabe,” you know, because it goes a long way before it, and a long way behind it—’ ‘And a long way beyond it on each side,’ Alice added. ‘Exactly so. Well, then, “mimsy” is “flimsy and miserable” (there’s another portmanteau for you). And a “borogove” is a thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round—something like a live mop.’ ‘And then “mome raths”?’ said Alice. ‘I’m afraid I’m giving you a great deal of trouble.’ ‘Well, a “rath” is a sort of green pig: but “mome” I’m not certain about. I think it’s short for “from home”—meaning that they’d lost their way, you know.’ ‘And what does “outgrabe” mean?’ ‘Well, “outgrabing” is something between bellowing and whistling, with a kind of sneeze in the middle: however, you’ll hear it done, maybe—down in the wood yonder—and when you’ve once heard it you’ll be quite content. Who’s been repeating all that hard stuff to you?’ ‘I read it in a book,’ said Alice. ‘But I had some poetry repeated to me, much easier than that, by—Tweedledee, I think it was.’ ‘As to poetry, you know,’ said Humpty Dumpty, stretching out one of his great hands, ‘I can repeat poetry as well as other folk, if it comes to that—’ ‘Oh, it needn’t come to that!’ Alice hastily said, hoping to keep him from beginning. ‘The piece I’m going to repeat,’ he went on without noticing her remark, ‘was written entirely for your amusement.’ Alice felt that in that case she really ought to listen to it, so she sat down, and said ‘Thank you’ rather sadly. ‘In winter, when the fields are white, I sing this song for your delight— only I don’t sing it,’ he added, as an explanation. ‘I see you don’t,’ said Alice. ‘If you can see whether I’m singing or not, you’ve sharper eyes than most.’ Humpty Dumpty remarked severely. Alice was silent. ‘In spring, when woods are getting green, I’ll try and tell you what I mean.’ ‘Thank you very much,’ said Alice. ‘In summer, when the days are long, Perhaps you’ll understand the song: In autumn, when the leaves are brown, Take pen and ink, and write it down.’ ‘I will, if I can remember it so long,’ said Alice. ‘You needn’t go on making remarks like that,’ Humpty Dumpty said: ‘they’re not sensible, and they put me out.’ ‘I sent a message to the fish: I told them “This is what I wish.” The little fishes of the sea, They sent an answer back to me. The little fishes’ answer was “We cannot do it, Sir, because—“’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,’ said Alice. ‘It gets easier further on,’ Humpty Dumpty replied. ‘I sent to them again to say “It will be better to obey.” The fishes answered with a grin, “Why, what a temper you are in!” I told them once, I told them twice: They would not listen to advice. I took a kettle large and new, Fit for the deed I had to do. My heart went hop, my heart went thump; I filled the kettle at the pump. Then some one came to me and said, “The little fishes are in bed.” I said to him, I said it plain, “Then you must wake them up again.” I said it very loud and clear; I went and shouted in his ear.’ Humpty Dumpty raised his voice almost to a scream as he repeated this verse, and Alice thought with a shudder, ‘I wouldn’t have been the messenger for anything!’ ‘But he was very stiff and proud; He said “You needn’t shout so loud!” And he was very proud and stiff; He said “I’d go and wake them, if—” I took a corkscrew from the shelf: I went to wake them up myself. And when I found the door was locked, I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked. And when I found the door was shut, I tried to turn the handle, but—’ There was a long pause. ‘Is that all?’ Alice timidly asked. ‘That’s all,’ said Humpty Dumpty. ‘Good-bye.’ This was rather sudden, Alice thought: but, after such a very strong hint that she ought to be going, she felt that it would hardly be civil to stay. So she got up, and held out her hand. ‘Good-bye, till we meet again!’ she said as cheerfully as she could. ‘I shouldn’t know you again if we did meet,’ Humpty Dumpty replied in a discontented tone, giving her one of his fingers to shake; ‘you’re so exactly like other people.’ ‘The face is what one goes by, generally,’ Alice remarked in a thoughtful tone. ‘That’s just what I complain of,’ said Humpty Dumpty. ‘Your face is the same as everybody has—the two eyes, so—’ (marking their places in the air with this thumb) ‘nose in the middle, mouth under. It’s always the same. Now if you had the two eyes on the same side of the nose, for instance—or the mouth at the top—that would be some help.’ ‘It wouldn’t look nice,’ Alice objected. But Humpty Dumpty only shut his eyes and said ‘Wait till you’ve tried.’ Alice waited a minute to see if he would speak again, but as he never opened his eyes or took any further notice of her, she said ‘Good-bye!’ once more, and, getting no answer to this, she quietly walked away: but she couldn’t help saying to herself as she went, ‘Of all the unsatisfactory—’ (she repeated this aloud, as it was a great comfort to have such a long word to say) ‘of all the unsatisfactory people I ever met—’ She never finished the sentence, for at this moment a heavy crash shook the forest from end to end. CHAPTER VII. The Lion and the Unicorn The next moment soldiers came running through the wood, at first in twos and threes, then ten or twenty together, and at last in such crowds that they seemed to fill the whole forest. Alice got behind a tree, for fear of being run over, and watched them go by. She thought that in all her life she had never seen soldiers so uncertain on their feet: they were always tripping over something or other, and whenever one went down, several more always fell over him, so that the ground was soon covered with little heaps of men. Then came the horses. Having four feet, these managed rather better than the foot-soldiers: but even they stumbled now and then; and it seemed to be a regular rule that, whenever a horse stumbled the rider fell off instantly. The confusion got worse every moment, and Alice was very glad to get out of the wood into an open place, where she found the White King seated on the ground, busily writing in his memorandum-book. ‘I’ve sent them all!’ the King cried in a tone of delight, on seeing Alice. ‘Did you happen to meet any soldiers, my dear, as you came through the wood?’ ‘Yes, I did,’ said Alice: ‘several thousand, I should think.’ ‘Four thousand two hundred and seven, that’s the exact number,’ the King said, referring to his book. ‘I couldn’t send all the horses, you know, because two of them are wanted in the game. And I haven’t sent the two Messengers, either. They’re both gone to the town. Just look along the road, and tell me if you can see either of them.’ ‘I see nobody on the road,’ said Alice. ‘I only wish I had such eyes,’ the King remarked in a fretful tone. ‘To be able to see Nobody! And at that distance, too! Why, it’s as much as I can do to see real people, by this light!’ All this was lost on Alice, who was still looking intently along the road, shading her eyes with one hand. ‘I see somebody now!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘But he’s coming very slowly—and what curious attitudes he goes into!’ (For the messenger kept skipping up and down, and wriggling like an eel, as he came along, with his great hands spread out like fans on each side.) ‘Not at all,’ said the King. ‘He’s an Anglo-Saxon Messenger—and those are Anglo-Saxon attitudes. He only does them when he’s happy. His name is Haigha.’ (He pronounced it so as to rhyme with ‘mayor.’) ‘I love my love with an H,’ Alice couldn’t help beginning, ‘because he is Happy. I hate him with an H, because he is Hideous. I fed him with—with—with Ham-sandwiches and Hay. His name is Haigha, and he lives—’ ‘He lives on the Hill,’ the King remarked simply, without the least idea that he was joining in the game, while Alice was still hesitating for the name of a town beginning with H. ‘The other Messenger’s called Hatta. I must have two, you know—to come and go. One to come, and one to go.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Alice. ‘It isn’t respectable to beg,’ said the King. ‘I only meant that I didn’t understand,’ said Alice. ‘Why one to come and one to go?’ ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ the King repeated impatiently. ‘I must have two—to fetch and carry. One to fetch, and one to carry.’ At this moment the Messenger arrived: he was far too much out of breath to say a word, and could only wave his hands about, and make the most fearful faces at the poor King. ‘This young lady loves you with an H,’ the King said, introducing Alice in the hope of turning off the Messenger’s attention from himself—but it was no use—the Anglo-Saxon attitudes only got more extraordinary every moment, while the great eyes rolled wildly from side to side. ‘You alarm me!’ said the King. ‘I feel faint—Give me a ham sandwich!’ On which the Messenger, to Alice’s great amusement, opened a bag that hung round his neck, and handed a sandwich to the King, who devoured it greedily. ‘Another sandwich!’ said the King. ‘There’s nothing but hay left now,’ the Messenger said, peeping into the bag. ‘Hay, then,’ the King murmured in a faint whisper. Alice was glad to see that it revived him a good deal. ‘There’s nothing like eating hay when you’re faint,’ he remarked to her, as he munched away. ‘I should think throwing cold water over you would be better,’ Alice suggested: ‘or some sal-volatile.’ ‘I didn’t say there was nothing better,’ the King replied. ‘I said there was nothing like it.’ Which Alice did not venture to deny. ‘Who did you pass on the road?’ the King went on, holding out his hand to the Messenger for some more hay. ‘Nobody,’ said the Messenger. ‘Quite right,’ said the King: ‘this young lady saw him too. So of course Nobody walks slower than you.’ ‘I do my best,’ the Messenger said in a sulky tone. ‘I’m sure nobody walks much faster than I do!’ ‘He can’t do that,’ said the King, ‘or else he’d have been here first. However, now you’ve got your breath, you may tell us what’s happened in the town.’ ‘I’ll whisper it,’ said the Messenger, putting his hands to his mouth in the shape of a trumpet, and stooping so as to get close to the King’s ear. Alice was sorry for this, as she wanted to hear the news too. However, instead of whispering, he simply shouted at the top of his voice ‘They’re at it again!’ ‘Do you call that a whisper?’ cried the poor King, jumping up and shaking himself. ‘If you do such a thing again, I’ll have you buttered! It went through and through my head like an earthquake!’ ‘It would have to be a very tiny earthquake!’ thought Alice. ‘Who are at it again?’ she ventured to ask. ‘Why the Lion and the Unicorn, of course,’ said the King. ‘Fighting for the crown?’ ‘Yes, to be sure,’ said the King: ‘and the best of the joke is, that it’s my crown all the while! Let’s run and see them.’ And they trotted off, Alice repeating to herself, as she ran, the words of the old song:— ‘The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown: The Lion beat the Unicorn all round the town. Some gave them white bread, some gave them brown; Some gave them plum-cake and drummed them out of town.’ ‘Does—the one—that wins—get the crown?’ she asked, as well as she could, for the run was putting her quite out of breath. ‘Dear me, no!’ said the King. ‘What an idea!’ ‘Would you—be good enough,’ Alice panted out, after running a little further, ‘to stop a minute—just to get—one’s breath again?’ ‘I’m good enough,’ the King said, ‘only I’m not strong enough. You see, a minute goes by so fearfully quick. You might as well try to stop a Bandersnatch!’ Alice had no more breath for talking, so they trotted on in silence, till they came in sight of a great crowd, in the middle of which the Lion and Unicorn were fighting. They were in such a cloud of dust, that at first Alice could not make out which was which: but she soon managed to distinguish the Unicorn by his horn. They placed themselves close to where Hatta, the other messenger, was standing watching the fight, with a cup of tea in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. ‘He’s only just out of prison, and he hadn’t finished his tea when he was sent in,’ Haigha whispered to Alice: ‘and they only give them oyster-shells in there—so you see he’s very hungry and thirsty. How are you, dear child?’ he went on, putting his arm affectionately round Hatta’s neck. Hatta looked round and nodded, and went on with his bread and butter. ‘Were you happy in prison, dear child?’ said Haigha. Hatta looked round once more, and this time a tear or two trickled down his cheek: but not a word would he say. ‘Speak, can’t you!’ Haigha cried impatiently. But Hatta only munched away, and drank some more tea. ‘Speak, won’t you!’ cried the King. ‘How are they getting on with the fight?’ Hatta made a desperate effort, and swallowed a large piece of bread-and-butter. ‘They’re getting on very well,’ he said in a choking voice: ‘each of them has been down about eighty-seven times.’ ‘Then I suppose they’ll soon bring the white bread and the brown?’ Alice ventured to remark. ‘It’s waiting for ‘em now,’ said Hatta: ‘this is a bit of it as I’m eating.’ There was a pause in the fight just then, and the Lion and the Unicorn sat down, panting, while the King called out ‘Ten minutes allowed for refreshments!’ Haigha and Hatta set to work at once, carrying rough trays of white and brown bread. Alice took a piece to taste, but it was very dry. ‘I don’t think they’ll fight any more to-day,’ the King said to Hatta: ‘go and order the drums to begin.’ And Hatta went bounding away like a grasshopper. For a minute or two Alice stood silent, watching him. Suddenly she brightened up. ‘Look, look!’ she cried, pointing eagerly. ‘There’s the White Queen running across the country! She came flying out of the wood over yonder—How fast those Queens can run!’ ‘There’s some enemy after her, no doubt,’ the King said, without even looking round. ‘That wood’s full of them.’ ‘But aren’t you going to run and help her?’ Alice asked, very much surprised at his taking it so quietly. ‘No use, no use!’ said the King. ‘She runs so fearfully quick. You might as well try to catch a Bandersnatch! But I’ll make a memorandum about her, if you like—She’s a dear good creature,’ he repeated softly to himself, as he opened his memorandum-book. ‘Do you spell “creature” with a double “e”?’ At this moment the Unicorn sauntered by them, with his hands in his pockets. ‘I had the best of it this time?’ he said to the King, just glancing at him as he passed. ‘A little—a little,’ the King replied, rather nervously. ‘You shouldn’t have run him through with your horn, you know.’ ‘It didn’t hurt him,’ the Unicorn said carelessly, and he was going on, when his eye happened to fall upon Alice: he turned round rather instantly, and stood for some time looking at her with an air of the deepest disgust. ‘What—is—this?’ he said at last. ‘This is a child!’ Haigha replied eagerly, coming in front of Alice to introduce her, and spreading out both his hands towards her in an Anglo-Saxon attitude. ‘We only found it to-day. It’s as large as life, and twice as natural!’ ‘I always thought they were fabulous monsters!’ said the Unicorn. ‘Is it alive?’ ‘It can talk,’ said Haigha, solemnly. The Unicorn looked dreamily at Alice, and said ‘Talk, child.’ Alice could not help her lips curling up into a smile as she began: ‘Do you know, I always thought Unicorns were fabulous monsters, too! I never saw one alive before!’ ‘Well, now that we have seen each other,’ said the Unicorn, ‘if you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you. Is that a bargain?’ ‘Yes, if you like,’ said Alice. ‘Come, fetch out the plum-cake, old man!’ the Unicorn went on, turning from her to the King. ‘None of your brown bread for me!’ ‘Certainly—certainly!’ the King muttered, and beckoned to Haigha. ‘Open the bag!’ he whispered. ‘Quick! Not that one—that’s full of hay!’ Haigha took a large cake out of the bag, and gave it to Alice to hold, while he got out a dish and carving-knife. How they all came out of it Alice couldn’t guess. It was just like a conjuring-trick, she thought. The Lion had joined them while this was going on: he looked very tired and sleepy, and his eyes were half shut. ‘What’s this!’ he said, blinking lazily at Alice, and speaking in a deep hollow tone that sounded like the tolling of a great bell. ‘Ah, what is it, now?’ the Unicorn cried eagerly. ‘You’ll never guess! I couldn’t.’ The Lion looked at Alice wearily. ‘Are you animal—vegetable—or mineral?’ he said, yawning at every other word. ‘It’s a fabulous monster!’ the Unicorn cried out, before Alice could reply. ‘Then hand round the plum-cake, Monster,’ the Lion said, lying down and putting his chin on his paws. ‘And sit down, both of you,’ (to the King and the Unicorn): ‘fair play with the cake, you know!’ The King was evidently very uncomfortable at having to sit down between the two great creatures; but there was no other place for him. ‘What a fight we might have for the crown, now!’ the Unicorn said, looking slyly up at the crown, which the poor King was nearly shaking off his head, he trembled so much. ‘I should win easy,’ said the Lion. ‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said the Unicorn. ‘Why, I beat you all round the town, you chicken!’ the Lion replied angrily, half getting up as he spoke. Here the King interrupted, to prevent the quarrel going on: he was very nervous, and his voice quite quivered. ‘All round the town?’ he said. ‘That’s a good long way. Did you go by the old bridge, or the market-place? You get the best view by the old bridge.’ ‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ the Lion growled out as he lay down again. ‘There was too much dust to see anything. What a time the Monster is, cutting up that cake!’ Alice had seated herself on the bank of a little brook, with the great dish on her knees, and was sawing away diligently with the knife. ‘It’s very provoking!’ she said, in reply to the Lion (she was getting quite used to being called ‘the Monster’). ‘I’ve cut several slices already, but they always join on again!’ ‘You don’t know how to manage Looking-glass cakes,’ the Unicorn remarked. ‘Hand it round first, and cut it afterwards.’ This sounded nonsense, but Alice very obediently got up, and carried the dish round, and the cake divided itself into three pieces as she did so. ‘Now cut it up,’ said the Lion, as she returned to her place with the empty dish. ‘I say, this isn’t fair!’ cried the Unicorn, as Alice sat with the knife in her hand, very much puzzled how to begin. ‘The Monster has given the Lion twice as much as me!’ ‘She’s kept none for herself, anyhow,’ said the Lion. ‘Do you like plum-cake, Monster?’ But before Alice could answer him, the drums began. Where the noise came from, she couldn’t make out: the air seemed full of it, and it rang through and through her head till she felt quite deafened. She started to her feet and sprang across the little brook in her terror, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and had just time to see the Lion and the Unicorn rise to their feet, with angry looks at being interrupted in their feast, before she dropped to her knees, and put her hands over her ears, vainly trying to shut out the dreadful uproar. ‘If that doesn’t “drum them out of town,”’ she thought to herself, ‘nothing ever will!’ CHAPTER VIII. ‘It’s my own Invention’ After a while the noise seemed gradually to die away, till all was dead silence, and Alice lifted up her head in some alarm. There was no one to be seen, and her first thought was that she must have been dreaming about the Lion and the Unicorn and those queer Anglo-Saxon Messengers. However, there was the great dish still lying at her feet, on which she had tried to cut the plum-cake, ‘So I wasn’t dreaming, after all,’ she said to herself, ‘unless—unless we’re all part of the same dream. Only I do hope it’s my dream, and not the Red King’s! I don’t like belonging to another person’s dream,’ she went on in a rather complaining tone: ‘I’ve a great mind to go and wake him, and see what happens!’ At this moment her thoughts were interrupted by a loud shouting of ‘Ahoy! Ahoy! Check!’ and a Knight dressed in crimson armour came galloping down upon her, brandishing a great club. Just as he reached her, the horse stopped suddenly: ‘You’re my prisoner!’ the Knight cried, as he tumbled off his horse. Startled as she was, Alice was more frightened for him than for herself at the moment, and watched him with some anxiety as he mounted again. As soon as he was comfortably in the saddle, he began once more ‘You’re my—’ but here another voice broke in ‘Ahoy! Ahoy! Check!’ and Alice looked round in some surprise for the new enemy. This time it was a White Knight. He drew up at Alice’s side, and tumbled off his horse just as the Red Knight had done: then he got on again, and the two Knights sat and looked at each other for some time without speaking. Alice looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. ‘She’s my prisoner, you know!’ the Red Knight said at last. ‘Yes, but then I came and rescued her!’ the White Knight replied. ‘Well, we must fight for her, then,’ said the Red Knight, as he took up his helmet (which hung from the saddle, and was something the shape of a horse’s head), and put it on. ‘You will observe the Rules of Battle, of course?’ the White Knight remarked, putting on his helmet too. ‘I always do,’ said the Red Knight, and they began banging away at each other with such fury that Alice got behind a tree to be out of the way of the blows. ‘I wonder, now, what the Rules of Battle are,’ she said to herself, as she watched the fight, timidly peeping out from her hiding-place: ‘one Rule seems to be, that if one Knight hits the other, he knocks him off his horse, and if he misses, he tumbles off himself—and another Rule seems to be that they hold their clubs with their arms, as if they were Punch and Judy—What a noise they make when they tumble! Just like a whole set of fire-irons falling into the fender! And how quiet the horses are! They let them get on and off them just as if they were tables!’ Another Rule of Battle, that Alice had not noticed, seemed to be that they always fell on their heads, and the battle ended with their both falling off in this way, side by side: when they got up again, they shook hands, and then the Red Knight mounted and galloped off. ‘It was a glorious victory, wasn’t it?’ said the White Knight, as he came up panting. ‘I don’t know,’ Alice said doubtfully. ‘I don’t want to be anybody’s prisoner. I want to be a Queen.’ ‘So you will, when you’ve crossed the next brook,’ said the White Knight. ‘I’ll see you safe to the end of the wood—and then I must go back, you know. That’s the end of my move.’ ‘Thank you very much,’ said Alice. ‘May I help you off with your helmet?’ It was evidently more than he could manage by himself; however, she managed to shake him out of it at last. ‘Now one can breathe more easily,’ said the Knight, putting back his shaggy hair with both hands, and turning his gentle face and large mild eyes to Alice. She thought she had never seen such a strange-looking soldier in all her life. He was dressed in tin armour, which seemed to fit him very badly, and he had a queer-shaped little deal box fastened across his shoulder, upside-down, and with the lid hanging open. Alice looked at it with great curiosity. ‘I see you’re admiring my little box.’ the Knight said in a friendly tone. ‘It’s my own invention—to keep clothes and sandwiches in. You see I carry it upside-down, so that the rain can’t get in.’ ‘But the things can get out,’ Alice gently remarked. ‘Do you know the lid’s open?’ ‘I didn’t know it,’ the Knight said, a shade of vexation passing over his face. ‘Then all the things must have fallen out! And the box is no use without them.’ He unfastened it as he spoke, and was just going to throw it into the bushes, when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he hung it carefully on a tree. ‘Can you guess why I did that?’ he said to Alice. Alice shook her head. ‘In hopes some bees may make a nest in it—then I should get the honey.’ ‘But you’ve got a bee-hive—or something like one—fastened to the saddle,’ said Alice. ‘Yes, it’s a very good bee-hive,’ the Knight said in a discontented tone, ‘one of the best kind. But not a single bee has come near it yet. And the other thing is a mouse-trap. I suppose the mice keep the bees out—or the bees keep the mice out, I don’t know which.’ ‘I was wondering what the mouse-trap was for,’ said Alice. ‘It isn’t very likely there would be any mice on the horse’s back.’ ‘Not very likely, perhaps,’ said the Knight: ‘but if they do come, I don’t choose to have them running all about.’ ‘You see,’ he went on after a pause, ‘it’s as well to be provided for everything. That’s the reason the horse has all those anklets round his feet.’ ‘But what are they for?’ Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. ‘To guard against the bites of sharks,’ the Knight replied. ‘It’s an invention of my own. And now help me on. I’ll go with you to the end of the wood—What’s the dish for?’ ‘It’s meant for plum-cake,’ said Alice. ‘We’d better take it with us,’ the Knight said. ‘It’ll come in handy if we find any plum-cake. Help me to get it into this bag.’ This took a very long time to manage, though Alice held the bag open very carefully, because the Knight was so very awkward in putting in the dish: the first two or three times that he tried he fell in himself instead. ‘It’s rather a tight fit, you see,’ he said, as they got it in a last; ‘There are so many candlesticks in the bag.’ And he hung it to the saddle, which was already loaded with bunches of carrots, and fire-irons, and many other things. ‘I hope you’ve got your hair well fastened on?’ he continued, as they set off. ‘Only in the usual way,’ Alice said, smiling. ‘That’s hardly enough,’ he said, anxiously. ‘You see the wind is so very strong here. It’s as strong as soup.’ ‘Have you invented a plan for keeping the hair from being blown off?’ Alice enquired. ‘Not yet,’ said the Knight. ‘But I’ve got a plan for keeping it from falling off.’ ‘I should like to hear it, very much.’ ‘First you take an upright stick,’ said the Knight. ‘Then you make your hair creep up it, like a fruit-tree. Now the reason hair falls off is because it hangs down—things never fall upwards, you know. It’s a plan of my own invention. You may try it if you like.’ It didn’t sound a comfortable plan, Alice thought, and for a few minutes she walked on in silence, puzzling over the idea, and every now and then stopping to help the poor Knight, who certainly was not a good rider. Whenever the horse stopped (which it did very often), he fell off in front; and whenever it went on again (which it generally did rather suddenly), he fell off behind. Otherwise he kept on pretty well, except that he had a habit of now and then falling off sideways; and as he generally did this on the side on which Alice was walking, she soon found that it was the best plan not to walk quite close to the horse. ‘I’m afraid you’ve not had much practice in riding,’ she ventured to say, as she was helping him up from his fifth tumble. The Knight looked very much surprised, and a little offended at the remark. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, as he scrambled back into the saddle, keeping hold of Alice’s hair with one hand, to save himself from falling over on the other side. ‘Because people don’t fall off quite so often, when they’ve had much practice.’ ‘I’ve had plenty of practice,’ the Knight said very gravely: ‘plenty of practice!’ Alice could think of nothing better to say than ‘Indeed?’ but she said it as heartily as she could. They went on a little way in silence after this, the Knight with his eyes shut, muttering to himself, and Alice watching anxiously for the next tumble. ‘The great art of riding,’ the Knight suddenly began in a loud voice, waving his right arm as he spoke, ‘is to keep—’ Here the sentence ended as suddenly as it had begun, as the Knight fell heavily on the top of his head exactly in the path where Alice was walking. She was quite frightened this time, and said in an anxious tone, as she picked him up, ‘I hope no bones are broken?’ ‘None to speak of,’ the Knight said, as if he didn’t mind breaking two or three of them. ‘The great art of riding, as I was saying, is—to keep your balance properly. Like this, you know—’ He let go the bridle, and stretched out both his arms to show Alice what he meant, and this time he fell flat on his back, right under the horse’s feet. ‘Plenty of practice!’ he went on repeating, all the time that Alice was getting him on his feet again. ‘Plenty of practice!’ ‘It’s too ridiculous!’ cried Alice, losing all her patience this time. ‘You ought to have a wooden horse on wheels, that you ought!’ ‘Does that kind go smoothly?’ the Knight asked in a tone of great interest, clasping his arms round the horse’s neck as he spoke, just in time to save himself from tumbling off again. ‘Much more smoothly than a live horse,’ Alice said, with a little scream of laughter, in spite of all she could do to prevent it. ‘I’ll get one,’ the Knight said thoughtfully to himself. ‘One or two—several.’ There was a short silence after this, and then the Knight went on again. ‘I’m a great hand at inventing things. Now, I daresay you noticed, that last time you picked me up, that I was looking rather thoughtful?’ ‘You were a little grave,’ said Alice. ‘Well, just then I was inventing a new way of getting over a gate—would you like to hear it?’ ‘Very much indeed,’ Alice said politely. ‘I’ll tell you how I came to think of it,’ said the Knight. ‘You see, I said to myself, “The only difficulty is with the feet: the head is high enough already.” Now, first I put my head on the top of the gate—then I stand on my head—then the feet are high enough, you see—then I’m over, you see.’ ‘Yes, I suppose you’d be over when that was done,’ Alice said thoughtfully: ‘but don’t you think it would be rather hard?’ ‘I haven’t tried it yet,’ the Knight said, gravely: ‘so I can’t tell for certain—but I’m afraid it would be a little hard.’ He looked so vexed at the idea, that Alice changed the subject hastily. ‘What a curious helmet you’ve got!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Is that your invention too?’ The Knight looked down proudly at his helmet, which hung from the saddle. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I’ve invented a better one than that—like a sugar loaf. When I used to wear it, if I fell off the horse, it always touched the ground directly. So I had a very little way to fall, you see—But there was the danger of falling into it, to be sure. That happened to me once—and the worst of it was, before I could get out again, the other White Knight came and put it on. He thought it was his own helmet.’ The knight looked so solemn about it that Alice did not dare to laugh. ‘I’m afraid you must have hurt him,’ she said in a trembling voice, ‘being on the top of his head.’ ‘I had to kick him, of course,’ the Knight said, very seriously. ‘And then he took the helmet off again—but it took hours and hours to get me out. I was as fast as—as lightning, you know.’ ‘But that’s a different kind of fastness,’ Alice objected. The Knight shook his head. ‘It was all kinds of fastness with me, I can assure you!’ he said. He raised his hands in some excitement as he said this, and instantly rolled out of the saddle, and fell headlong into a deep ditch. Alice ran to the side of the ditch to look for him. She was rather startled by the fall, as for some time he had kept on very well, and she was afraid that he really was hurt this time. However, though she could see nothing but the soles of his feet, she was much relieved to hear that he was talking on in his usual tone. ‘All kinds of fastness,’ he repeated: ‘but it was careless of him to put another man’s helmet on—with the man in it, too.’ ‘How can you go on talking so quietly, head downwards?’ Alice asked, as she dragged him out by the feet, and laid him in a heap on the bank. The Knight looked surprised at the question. ‘What does it matter where my body happens to be?’ he said. ‘My mind goes on working all the same. In fact, the more head downwards I am, the more I keep inventing new things.’ ‘Now the cleverest thing of the sort that I ever did,’ he went on after a pause, ‘was inventing a new pudding during the meat-course.’ ‘In time to have it cooked for the next course?’ said Alice. ‘Well, not the next course,’ the Knight said in a slow thoughtful tone: ‘no, certainly not the next course.’ ‘Then it would have to be the next day. I suppose you wouldn’t have two pudding-courses in one dinner?’ ‘Well, not the next day,’ the Knight repeated as before: ‘not the next day. In fact,’ he went on, holding his head down, and his voice getting lower and lower, ‘I don’t believe that pudding ever was cooked! In fact, I don’t believe that pudding ever will be cooked! And yet it was a very clever pudding to invent.’ ‘What did you mean it to be made of?’ Alice asked, hoping to cheer him up, for the poor Knight seemed quite low-spirited about it. ‘It began with blotting paper,’ the Knight answered with a groan. ‘That wouldn’t be very nice, I’m afraid—’ ‘Not very nice alone,’ he interrupted, quite eagerly: ‘but you’ve no idea what a difference it makes mixing it with other things—such as gunpowder and sealing-wax. And here I must leave you.’ They had just come to the end of the wood. Alice could only look puzzled: she was thinking of the pudding. ‘You are sad,’ the Knight said in an anxious tone: ‘let me sing you a song to comfort you.’ ‘Is it very long?’ Alice asked, for she had heard a good deal of poetry that day. ‘It’s long,’ said the Knight, ‘but very, very beautiful. Everybody that hears me sing it—either it brings the tears into their eyes, or else—’ ‘Or else what?’ said Alice, for the Knight had made a sudden pause. ‘Or else it doesn’t, you know. The name of the song is called “Haddocks’ Eyes.”’ ‘Oh, that’s the name of the song, is it?’ Alice said, trying to feel interested. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ the Knight said, looking a little vexed. ‘That’s what the name is called. The name really is “The Aged Aged Man.”’ ‘Then I ought to have said “That’s what the song is called”?’ Alice corrected herself. ‘No, you oughtn’t: that’s quite another thing! The song is called “Ways and Means”: but that’s only what it’s called, you know!’ ‘Well, what is the song, then?’ said Alice, who was by this time completely bewildered. ‘I was coming to that,’ the Knight said. ‘The song really is “A-sitting On A Gate”: and the tune’s my own invention.’ So saying, he stopped his horse and let the reins fall on its neck: then, slowly beating time with one hand, and with a faint smile lighting up his gentle foolish face, as if he enjoyed the music of his song, he began. Of all the strange things that Alice saw in her journey Through The Looking-Glass, this was the one that she always remembered most clearly. Years afterwards she could bring the whole scene back again, as if it had been only yesterday—the mild blue eyes and kindly smile of the Knight—the setting sun gleaming through his hair, and shining on his armour in a blaze of light that quite dazzled her—the horse quietly moving about, with the reins hanging loose on his neck, cropping the grass at her feet—and the black shadows of the forest behind—all this she took in like a picture, as, with one hand shading her eyes, she leant against a tree, watching the strange pair, and listening, in a half dream, to the melancholy music of the song. ‘But the tune isn’t his own invention,’ she said to herself: ‘it’s “I give thee all, I can no more.”’ She stood and listened very attentively, but no tears came into her eyes. ‘I’ll tell thee everything I can; There’s little to relate. I saw an aged aged man, A-sitting on a gate. “Who are you, aged man?” I said, “and how is it you live?” And his answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve. He said “I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat: I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men,” he said, “Who sail on stormy seas; And that’s the way I get my bread— A trifle, if you please.” But I was thinking of a plan To dye one’s whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, “Come, tell me how you live!” And thumped him on the head. His accents mild took up the tale: He said “I go my ways, And when I find a mountain-rill, I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rolands’ Macassar Oil— Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil.” But I was thinking of a way To feed oneself on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue: “Come, tell me how you live,” I cried, “And what it is you do!” He said “I hunt for haddocks’ eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine But for a copper halfpenny, And that will purchase nine. “I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of Hansom-cabs. And that’s the way” (he gave a wink) “By which I get my wealth— And very gladly will I drink Your Honour’s noble health.” I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health. And now, if e’er by chance I put My fingers into glue Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so, Of that old man I used to know— Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo— That summer evening, long ago, A-sitting on a gate.’ As the Knight sang the last words of the ballad, he gathered up the reins, and turned his horse’s head along the road by which they had come. ‘You’ve only a few yards to go,’ he said, ‘down the hill and over that little brook, and then you’ll be a Queen—But you’ll stay and see me off first?’ he added as Alice turned with an eager look in the direction to which he pointed. ‘I shan’t be long. You’ll wait and wave your handkerchief when I get to that turn in the road? I think it’ll encourage me, you see.’ ‘Of course I’ll wait,’ said Alice: ‘and thank you very much for coming so far—and for the song—I liked it very much.’ ‘I hope so,’ the Knight said doubtfully: ‘but you didn’t cry so much as I thought you would.’ So they shook hands, and then the Knight rode slowly away into the forest. ‘It won’t take long to see him off, I expect,’ Alice said to herself, as she stood watching him. ‘There he goes! Right on his head as usual! However, he gets on again pretty easily—that comes of having so many things hung round the horse—’ So she went on talking to herself, as she watched the horse walking leisurely along the road, and the Knight tumbling off, first on one side and then on the other. After the fourth or fifth tumble he reached the turn, and then she waved her handkerchief to him, and waited till he was out of sight. ‘I hope it encouraged him,’ she said, as she turned to run down the hill: ‘and now for the last brook, and to be a Queen! How grand it sounds!’ A very few steps brought her to the edge of the brook. ‘The Eighth Square at last!’ she cried as she bounded across, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and threw herself down to rest on a lawn as soft as moss, with little flower-beds dotted about it here and there. ‘Oh, how glad I am to get here! And what is this on my head?’ she exclaimed in a tone of dismay, as she put her hands up to something very heavy, and fitted tight all round her head. ‘But how can it have got there without my knowing it?’ she said to herself, as she lifted it off, and set it on her lap to make out what it could possibly be. It was a golden crown. CHAPTER IX. Queen Alice ‘Well, this is grand!’ said Alice. ‘I never expected I should be a Queen so soon—and I’ll tell you what it is, your majesty,’ she went on in a severe tone (she was always rather fond of scolding herself), ‘it’ll never do for you to be lolling about on the grass like that! Queens have to be dignified, you know!’ So she got up and walked about—rather stiffly just at first, as she was afraid that the crown might come off: but she comforted herself with the thought that there was nobody to see her, ‘and if I really am a Queen,’ she said as she sat down again, ‘I shall be able to manage it quite well in time.’ Everything was happening so oddly that she didn’t feel a bit surprised at finding the Red Queen and the White Queen sitting close to her, one on each side: she would have liked very much to ask them how they came there, but she feared it would not be quite civil. However, there would be no harm, she thought, in asking if the game was over. ‘Please, would you tell me—’ she began, looking timidly at the Red Queen. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to!’ The Queen sharply interrupted her. ‘But if everybody obeyed that rule,’ said Alice, who was always ready for a little argument, ‘and if you only spoke when you were spoken to, and the other person always waited for you to begin, you see nobody would ever say anything, so that—’ ‘Ridiculous!’ cried the Queen. ‘Why, don’t you see, child—’ here she broke off with a frown, and, after thinking for a minute, suddenly changed the subject of the conversation. ‘What do you mean by “If you really are a Queen”? What right have you to call yourself so? You can’t be a Queen, you know, till you’ve passed the proper examination. And the sooner we begin it, the better.’ ‘I only said “if”!’ poor Alice pleaded in a piteous tone. The two Queens looked at each other, and the Red Queen remarked, with a little shudder, ‘She says she only said “if”—’ ‘But she said a great deal more than that!’ the White Queen moaned, wringing her hands. ‘Oh, ever so much more than that!’ ‘So you did, you know,’ the Red Queen said to Alice. ‘Always speak the truth—think before you speak—and write it down afterwards.’ ‘I’m sure I didn’t mean—’ Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen interrupted her impatiently. ‘That’s just what I complain of! You should have meant! What do you suppose is the use of child without any meaning? Even a joke should have some meaning—and a child’s more important than a joke, I hope. You couldn’t deny that, even if you tried with both hands.’ ‘I don’t deny things with my hands,’ Alice objected. ‘Nobody said you did,’ said the Red Queen. ‘I said you couldn’t if you tried.’ ‘She’s in that state of mind,’ said the White Queen, ‘that she wants to deny something—only she doesn’t know what to deny!’ ‘A nasty, vicious temper,’ the Red Queen remarked; and then there was an uncomfortable silence for a minute or two. The Red Queen broke the silence by saying to the White Queen, ‘I invite you to Alice’s dinner-party this afternoon.’ The White Queen smiled feebly, and said ‘And I invite you.’ ‘I didn’t know I was to have a party at all,’ said Alice; ‘but if there is to be one, I think I ought to invite the guests.’ ‘We gave you the opportunity of doing it,’ the Red Queen remarked: ‘but I daresay you’ve not had many lessons in manners yet?’ ‘Manners are not taught in lessons,’ said Alice. ‘Lessons teach you to do sums, and things of that sort.’ ‘And you do Addition?’ the White Queen asked. ‘What’s one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Alice. ‘I lost count.’ ‘She can’t do Addition,’ the Red Queen interrupted. ‘Can you do Subtraction? Take nine from eight.’ ‘Nine from eight I can’t, you know,’ Alice replied very readily: ‘but—’ ‘She can’t do Subtraction,’ said the White Queen. ‘Can you do Division? Divide a loaf by a knife—what’s the answer to that?’ ‘I suppose—’ Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen answered for her. ‘Bread-and-butter, of course. Try another Subtraction sum. Take a bone from a dog: what remains?’ Alice considered. ‘The bone wouldn’t remain, of course, if I took it—and the dog wouldn’t remain; it would come to bite me—and I’m sure I shouldn’t remain!’ ‘Then you think nothing would remain?’ said the Red Queen. ‘I think that’s the answer.’ ‘Wrong, as usual,’ said the Red Queen: ‘the dog’s temper would remain.’ ‘But I don’t see how—’ ‘Why, look here!’ the Red Queen cried. ‘The dog would lose its temper, wouldn’t it?’ ‘Perhaps it would,’ Alice replied cautiously. ‘Then if the dog went away, its temper would remain!’ the Queen exclaimed triumphantly. Alice said, as gravely as she could, ‘They might go different ways.’ But she couldn’t help thinking to herself, ‘What dreadful nonsense we are talking!’ ‘She can’t do sums a bit!’ the Queens said together, with great emphasis. ‘Can you do sums?’ Alice said, turning suddenly on the White Queen, for she didn’t like being found fault with so much. The Queen gasped and shut her eyes. ‘I can do Addition, if you give me time—but I can’t do Subtraction, under any circumstances!’ ‘Of course you know your A B C?’ said the Red Queen. ‘To be sure I do.’ said Alice. ‘So do I,’ the White Queen whispered: ‘we’ll often say it over together, dear. And I’ll tell you a secret—I can read words of one letter! Isn’t that grand! However, don’t be discouraged. You’ll come to it in time.’ Here the Red Queen began again. ‘Can you answer useful questions?’ she said. ‘How is bread made?’ ‘I know that!’ Alice cried eagerly. ‘You take some flour—’ ‘Where do you pick the flower?’ the White Queen asked. ‘In a garden, or in the hedges?’ ‘Well, it isn’t picked at all,’ Alice explained: ‘it’s ground—’ ‘How many acres of ground?’ said the White Queen. ‘You mustn’t leave out so many things.’ ‘Fan her head!’ the Red Queen anxiously interrupted. ‘She’ll be feverish after so much thinking.’ So they set to work and fanned her with bunches of leaves, till she had to beg them to leave off, it blew her hair about so. ‘She’s all right again now,’ said the Red Queen. ‘Do you know Languages? What’s the French for fiddle-de-dee?’ ‘Fiddle-de-dee’s not English,’ Alice replied gravely. ‘Who ever said it was?’ said the Red Queen. Alice thought she saw a way out of the difficulty this time. ‘If you’ll tell me what language “fiddle-de-dee” is, I’ll tell you the French for it!’ she exclaimed triumphantly. But the Red Queen drew herself up rather stiffly, and said ‘Queens never make bargains.’ ‘I wish Queens never asked questions,’ Alice thought to herself. ‘Don’t let us quarrel,’ the White Queen said in an anxious tone. ‘What is the cause of lightning?’ ‘The cause of lightning,’ Alice said very decidedly, for she felt quite certain about this, ‘is the thunder—no, no!’ she hastily corrected herself. ‘I meant the other way.’ ‘It’s too late to correct it,’ said the Red Queen: ‘when you’ve once said a thing, that fixes it, and you must take the consequences.’ ‘Which reminds me—’ the White Queen said, looking down and nervously clasping and unclasping her hands, ‘we had such a thunderstorm last Tuesday—I mean one of the last set of Tuesdays, you know.’ Alice was puzzled. ‘In our country,’ she remarked, ‘there’s only one day at a time.’ The Red Queen said, ‘That’s a poor thin way of doing things. Now here, we mostly have days and nights two or three at a time, and sometimes in the winter we take as many as five nights together—for warmth, you know.’ ‘Are five nights warmer than one night, then?’ Alice ventured to ask. ‘Five times as warm, of course.’ ‘But they should be five times as cold, by the same rule—’ ‘Just so!’ cried the Red Queen. ‘Five times as warm, and five times as cold—just as I’m five times as rich as you are, and five times as clever!’ Alice sighed and gave it up. ‘It’s exactly like a riddle with no answer!’ she thought. ‘Humpty Dumpty saw it too,’ the White Queen went on in a low voice, more as if she were talking to herself. ‘He came to the door with a corkscrew in his hand—’ ‘What did he want?’ said the Red Queen. ‘He said he would come in,’ the White Queen went on, ‘because he was looking for a hippopotamus. Now, as it happened, there wasn’t such a thing in the house, that morning.’ ‘Is there generally?’ Alice asked in an astonished tone. ‘Well, only on Thursdays,’ said the Queen. ‘I know what he came for,’ said Alice: ‘he wanted to punish the fish, because—’ Here the White Queen began again. ‘It was such a thunderstorm, you can’t think!’ (‘She never could, you know,’ said the Red Queen.) ‘And part of the roof came off, and ever so much thunder got in—and it went rolling round the room in great lumps—and knocking over the tables and things—till I was so frightened, I couldn’t remember my own name!’ Alice thought to herself, ‘I never should try to remember my name in the middle of an accident! Where would be the use of it?’ but she did not say this aloud, for fear of hurting the poor Queen’s feeling. ‘Your Majesty must excuse her,’ the Red Queen said to Alice, taking one of the White Queen’s hands in her own, and gently stroking it: ‘she means well, but she can’t help saying foolish things, as a general rule.’ The White Queen looked timidly at Alice, who felt she ought to say something kind, but really couldn’t think of anything at the moment. ‘She never was really well brought up,’ the Red Queen went on: ‘but it’s amazing how good-tempered she is! Pat her on the head, and see how pleased she’ll be!’ But this was more than Alice had courage to do. ‘A little kindness—and putting her hair in papers—would do wonders with her—’ The White Queen gave a deep sigh, and laid her head on Alice’s shoulder. ‘I am so sleepy?’ she moaned. ‘She’s tired, poor thing!’ said the Red Queen. ‘Smooth her hair—lend her your nightcap—and sing her a soothing lullaby.’ ‘I haven’t got a nightcap with me,’ said Alice, as she tried to obey the first direction: ‘and I don’t know any soothing lullabies.’ ‘I must do it myself, then,’ said the Red Queen, and she began: ‘Hush-a-by lady, in Alice’s lap! Till the feast’s ready, we’ve time for a nap: When the feast’s over, we’ll go to the ball— Red Queen, and White Queen, and Alice, and all! ‘And now you know the words,’ she added, as she put her head down on Alice’s other shoulder, ‘just sing it through to me. I’m getting sleepy, too.’ In another moment both Queens were fast asleep, and snoring loud. ‘What am I to do?’ exclaimed Alice, looking about in great perplexity, as first one round head, and then the other, rolled down from her shoulder, and lay like a heavy lump in her lap. ‘I don’t think it ever happened before, that any one had to take care of two Queens asleep at once! No, not in all the History of England—it couldn’t, you know, because there never was more than one Queen at a time. Do wake up, you heavy things!’ she went on in an impatient tone; but there was no answer but a gentle snoring. The snoring got more distinct every minute, and sounded more like a tune: at last she could even make out the words, and she listened so eagerly that, when the two great heads vanished from her lap, she hardly missed them. She was standing before an arched doorway over which were the words QUEEN ALICE in large letters, and on each side of the arch there was a bell-handle; one was marked ‘Visitors’ Bell,’ and the other ‘Servants’ Bell.’ ‘I’ll wait till the song’s over,’ thought Alice, ‘and then I’ll ring—the—which bell must I ring?’ she went on, very much puzzled by the names. ‘I’m not a visitor, and I’m not a servant. There ought to be one marked “Queen,” you know—’ Just then the door opened a little way, and a creature with a long beak put its head out for a moment and said ‘No admittance till the week after next!’ and shut the door again with a bang. Alice knocked and rang in vain for a long time, but at last, a very old Frog, who was sitting under a tree, got up and hobbled slowly towards her: he was dressed in bright yellow, and had enormous boots on. ‘What is it, now?’ the Frog said in a deep hoarse whisper. Alice turned round, ready to find fault with anybody. ‘Where’s the servant whose business it is to answer the door?’ she began angrily. ‘Which door?’ said the Frog. Alice almost stamped with irritation at the slow drawl in which he spoke. ‘This door, of course!’ The Frog looked at the door with his large dull eyes for a minute: then he went nearer and rubbed it with his thumb, as if he were trying whether the paint would come off; then he looked at Alice. ‘To answer the door?’ he said. ‘What’s it been asking of?’ He was so hoarse that Alice could scarcely hear him. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. ‘I talks English, doesn’t I?’ the Frog went on. ‘Or are you deaf? What did it ask you?’ ‘Nothing!’ Alice said impatiently. ‘I’ve been knocking at it!’ ‘Shouldn’t do that—shouldn’t do that—’ the Frog muttered. ‘Vexes it, you know.’ Then he went up and gave the door a kick with one of his great feet. ‘You let it alone,’ he panted out, as he hobbled back to his tree, ‘and it’ll let you alone, you know.’ At this moment the door was flung open, and a shrill voice was heard singing: ‘To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said, “I’ve a sceptre 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.”’ And hundreds of voices joined in the chorus: ‘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!’ Then followed a confused noise of cheering, and Alice thought to herself, ‘Thirty times three makes ninety. I wonder if any one’s counting?’ In a minute there was silence again, and the same shrill voice sang another verse; ‘“O Looking-Glass creatures,” quoth Alice, “draw near! ‘Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear: ‘Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”’ Then came the chorus again:— ‘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!’ ‘Ninety times nine!’ Alice repeated in despair, ‘Oh, that’ll never be done! I’d better go in at once—’ and there was a dead silence the moment she appeared. Alice glanced nervously along the table, as she walked up the large hall, and noticed that there were about fifty guests, of all kinds: some were animals, some birds, and there were even a few flowers among them. ‘I’m glad they’ve come without waiting to be asked,’ she thought: ‘I should never have known who were the right people to invite!’ There were three chairs at the head of the table; the Red and White Queens had already taken two of them, but the middle one was empty. Alice sat down in it, rather uncomfortable in the silence, and longing for some one to speak. At last the Red Queen began. ‘You’ve missed the soup and fish,’ she said. ‘Put on the joint!’ And the waiters set a leg of mutton before Alice, who looked at it rather anxiously, as she had never had to carve a joint before. ‘You look a little shy; let me introduce you to that leg of mutton,’ said the Red Queen. ‘Alice—Mutton; Mutton—Alice.’ The leg of mutton got up in the dish and made a little bow to Alice; and Alice returned the bow, not knowing whether to be frightened or amused. ‘May I give you a slice?’ she said, taking up the knife and fork, and looking from one Queen to the other. ‘Certainly not,’ the Red Queen said, very decidedly: ‘it isn’t etiquette to cut any one you’ve been introduced to. Remove the joint!’ And the waiters carried it off, and brought a large plum-pudding in its place. ‘I won’t be introduced to the pudding, please,’ Alice said rather hastily, ‘or we shall get no dinner at all. May I give you some?’ But the Red Queen looked sulky, and growled ‘Pudding—Alice; Alice—Pudding. Remove the pudding!’ and the waiters took it away so quickly that Alice couldn’t return its bow. However, she didn’t see why the Red Queen should be the only one to give orders, so, as an experiment, she called out ‘Waiter! Bring back the pudding!’ and there it was again in a moment like a conjuring-trick. It was so large that she couldn’t help feeling a little shy with it, as she had been with the mutton; however, she conquered her shyness by a great effort and cut a slice and handed it to the Red Queen. ‘What impertinence!’ said the Pudding. ‘I wonder how you’d like it, if I were to cut a slice out of you, you creature!’ It spoke in a thick, suety sort of voice, and Alice hadn’t a word to say in reply: she could only sit and look at it and gasp. ‘Make a remark,’ said the Red Queen: ‘it’s ridiculous to leave all the conversation to the pudding!’ ‘Do you know, I’ve had such a quantity of poetry repeated to me to-day,’ Alice began, a little frightened at finding that, the moment she opened her lips, there was dead silence, and all eyes were fixed upon her; ‘and it’s a very curious thing, I think—every poem was about fishes in some way. Do you know why they’re so fond of fishes, all about here?’ She spoke to the Red Queen, whose answer was a little wide of the mark. ‘As to fishes,’ she said, very slowly and solemnly, putting her mouth close to Alice’s ear, ‘her White Majesty knows a lovely riddle—all in poetry—all about fishes. Shall she repeat it?’ ‘Her Red Majesty’s very kind to mention it,’ the White Queen murmured into Alice’s other ear, in a voice like the cooing of a pigeon. ‘It would be such a treat! May I?’ ‘Please do,’ Alice said very politely. The White Queen laughed with delight, and stroked Alice’s cheek. Then she began: ‘“First, the fish must be caught.” That is easy: a baby, I think, could have caught it. “Next, the fish must be bought.” That is easy: a penny, I think, would have bought it. “Now cook me the fish!” That is easy, and will not take more than a minute. “Let it lie in a dish!” That is easy, because it already is in it. “Bring it here! Let me sup!” It is easy to set such a dish on the table. “Take the dish-cover up!” Ah, that is so hard that I fear I’m unable! For it holds it like glue— Holds the lid to the dish, while it lies in the middle: Which is easiest to do, Un-dish-cover the fish, or dishcover the riddle?’ ‘Take a minute to think about it, and then guess,’ said the Red Queen. ‘Meanwhile, we’ll drink your health—Queen Alice’s health!’ she screamed at the top of her voice, and all the guests began drinking it directly, and very queerly they managed it: some of them put their glasses upon their heads like extinguishers, and drank all that trickled down their faces—others upset the decanters, and drank the wine as it ran off the edges of the table—and three of them (who looked like kangaroos) scrambled into the dish of roast mutton, and began eagerly lapping up the gravy, ‘just like pigs in a trough!’ thought Alice. ‘You ought to return thanks in a neat speech,’ the Red Queen said, frowning at Alice as she spoke. ‘We must support you, you know,’ the White Queen whispered, as Alice got up to do it, very obediently, but a little frightened. ‘Thank you very much,’ she whispered in reply, ‘but I can do quite well without.’ ‘That wouldn’t be at all the thing,’ the Red Queen said very decidedly: so Alice tried to submit to it with a good grace. (‘And they did push so!’ she said afterwards, when she was telling her sister the history of the feast. ‘You would have thought they wanted to squeeze me flat!’) In fact it was rather difficult for her to keep in her place while she made her speech: the two Queens pushed her so, one on each side, that they nearly lifted her up into the air: ‘I rise to return thanks—’ Alice began: and she really did rise as she spoke, several inches; but she got hold of the edge of the table, and managed to pull herself down again. ‘Take care of yourself!’ screamed the White Queen, seizing Alice’s hair with both her hands. ‘Something’s going to happen!’ And then (as Alice afterwards described it) all sorts of things happened in a moment. The candles all grew up to the ceiling, looking something like a bed of rushes with fireworks at the top. As to the bottles, they each took a pair of plates, which they hastily fitted on as wings, and so, with forks for legs, went fluttering about in all directions: ‘and very like birds they look,’ Alice thought to herself, as well as she could in the dreadful confusion that was beginning. At this moment she heard a hoarse laugh at her side, and turned to see what was the matter with the White Queen; but, instead of the Queen, there was the leg of mutton sitting in the chair. ‘Here I am!’ cried a voice from the soup tureen, and Alice turned again, just in time to see the Queen’s broad good-natured face grinning at her for a moment over the edge of the tureen, before she disappeared into the soup. There was not a moment to be lost. Already several of the guests were lying down in the dishes, and the soup ladle was walking up the table towards Alice’s chair, and beckoning to her impatiently to get out of its way. ‘I can’t stand this any longer!’ she cried as she jumped up and seized the table-cloth with both hands: one good pull, and plates, dishes, guests, and candles came crashing down together in a heap on the floor. ‘And as for you,’ she went on, turning fiercely upon the Red Queen, whom she considered as the cause of all the mischief—but the Queen was no longer at her side—she had suddenly dwindled down to the size of a little doll, and was now on the table, merrily running round and round after her own shawl, which was trailing behind her. At any other time, Alice would have felt surprised at this, but she was far too much excited to be surprised at anything now. ‘As for you,’ she repeated, catching hold of the little creature in the very act of jumping over a bottle which had just lighted upon the table, ‘I’ll shake you into a kitten, that I will!’ CHAPTER X. Shaking She took her off the table as she spoke, and shook her backwards and forwards with all her might. The Red Queen made no resistance whatever; only her face grew very small, and her eyes got large and green: and still, as Alice went on shaking her, she kept on growing shorter—and fatter—and softer—and rounder—and— CHAPTER XI. Waking —and it really was a kitten, after all. CHAPTER XII. Which Dreamed it? ‘Your majesty shouldn’t purr so loud,’ Alice said, rubbing her eyes, and addressing the kitten, respectfully, yet with some severity. ‘You woke me out of oh! such a nice dream! And you’ve been along with me, Kitty—all through the Looking-Glass world. Did you know it, dear?’ It is a very inconvenient habit of kittens (Alice had once made the remark) that, whatever you say to them, they always purr. ‘If they would only purr for “yes” and mew for “no,” or any rule of that sort,’ she had said, ‘so that one could keep up a conversation! But how can you talk with a person if they always say the same thing?’ On this occasion the kitten only purred: and it was impossible to guess whether it meant ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ So Alice hunted among the chessmen on the table till she had found the Red Queen: then she went down on her knees on the hearth-rug, and put the kitten and the Queen to look at each other. ‘Now, Kitty!’ she cried, clapping her hands triumphantly. ‘Confess that was what you turned into!’ (‘But it wouldn’t look at it,’ she said, when she was explaining the thing afterwards to her sister: ‘it turned away its head, and pretended not to see it: but it looked a little ashamed of itself, so I think it must have been the Red Queen.’) ‘Sit up a little more stiffly, dear!’ Alice cried with a merry laugh. ‘And curtsey while you’re thinking what to—what to purr. It saves time, remember!’ And she caught it up and gave it one little kiss, ‘just in honour of having been a Red Queen.’ ‘Snowdrop, my pet!’ she went on, looking over her shoulder at the White Kitten, which was still patiently undergoing its toilet, ‘when will Dinah have finished with your White Majesty, I wonder? That must be the reason you were so untidy in my dream—Dinah! do you know that you’re scrubbing a White Queen? Really, it’s most disrespectful of you! ‘And what did Dinah turn to, I wonder?’ she prattled on, as she settled comfortably down, with one elbow in the rug, and her chin in her hand, to watch the kittens. ‘Tell me, Dinah, did you turn to Humpty Dumpty? I think you did—however, you’d better not mention it to your friends just yet, for I’m not sure. ‘By the way, Kitty, if only you’d been really with me in my dream, there was one thing you would have enjoyed—I had such a quantity of poetry said to me, all about fishes! To-morrow morning you shall have a real treat. All the time you’re eating your breakfast, I’ll repeat “The Walrus and the Carpenter” to you; and then you can make believe it’s oysters, dear! ‘Now, Kitty, let’s consider who it was that dreamed it all. This is a serious question, my dear, and you should not go on licking your paw like that—as if Dinah hadn’t washed you this morning! You see, Kitty, it must have been either me or the Red King. He was part of my dream, of course—but then I was part of his dream, too! Was it the Red King, Kitty? You were his wife, my dear, so you ought to know—Oh, Kitty, do help to settle it! I’m sure your paw can wait!’ But the provoking kitten only began on the other paw, and pretended it hadn’t heard the question. Which do you think it was? —— A boat beneath a sunny sky, Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July— Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear— Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die. Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes. Children yet, the tale to hear, Eager eye and willing ear, Lovingly shall nestle near. In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream— Lingering in the golden gleam— Life, what is it but a dream? THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Through the Looking-Glass, by Charles Dodgson AKA Lewis Carroll *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS *** ***** This file should be named 12-h.htm or 12-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/1/12/ Produced by David Widger ... ... ... ===== The Nursery Alice ===== THE NURSERY “ALICE” CONTAINING TWENTY COLOURED ENLARGEMENTS FROM TENNIEL’S ILLUSTRATIONS TO “ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND” WITH TEXT ADAPTED TO NURSERY READERS BY LEWIS CARROLL THE COVER DESIGNED AND COLOURED BY E. GERTRUDE THOMSON London MACMILLAN AND CO. 1889 [All rights reserved] LONDON ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS A Nursery Darling. A Mother’s breast: Safe refuge from her childish fears, From childish troubles, childish tears, Mists that enshroud her dawning years! See how in sleep she seems to sing A voiceless psalm—an offering Raised, to the glory of her King, In Love: for Love is Rest. A Darling’s kiss: Dearest of all the signs that fleet From lips that lovingly repeat Again, again, their message sweet! Full to the brim with girlish glee, A child, a very child is she, Whose dream of Heaven is still to be A: Home: for Home is Bliss. PREFACE. (ADDRESSED TO ANY MOTHER.) I have reason to believe that “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” has been read by some hundreds of English Children, aged from Five to Fifteen: also by Children, aged from Fifteen to Twenty-five: yet again by Children, aged from Twenty-five to Thirty-five: and even by Children—for there are such—Children in whom no waning of health and strength, no weariness of the solemn mockery, and the gaudy glitter, and the hopeless misery, of Life has availed to parch the pure fountain of joy that wells up in all child-like hearts—Children of a “certain” age, whose tale of years must be left untold, and buried in respectful silence. And my ambition now is (is it a vain one?) to be read by Children aged from Nought to Five. To be read? Nay, not so! Say rather to be thumbed, to be cooed over, to be dogs’-eared, to be rumpled, to be kissed, by the illiterate, ungrammatical, dimpled Darlings, that fill your Nursery with merry uproar, and your inmost heart of hearts with a restful gladness! Such, for instance, as a child I once knew, who—having been carefully instructed that one of any earthly thing was enough for any little girl; and that to ask for two buns, two oranges, two of anything, would certainly bring upon her the awful charge of being “greedy”—was found one morning sitting up in bed, solemnly regarding her two little naked feet, and murmuring to herself, softly and penitently, “deedy!” Eastertide, 1889. CONTENTS. PAGE I. THE WHITE RABBIT 1 II. HOW ALICE GREW TALL 5 III. THE POOL OF TEARS 9 IV. THE CAUCUS-RACE 13 V. BILL, THE LIZARD 17 VI. THE DEAR LITTLE PUPPY 21 VII. THE BLUE CATERPILLAR 25 VIII. THE PIG-BABY 29 IX. THE CHESHIRE-CAT 33 X. THE MAD TEA-PARTY 37 XI. THE QUEEN’S GARDEN 41 XII. THE LOBSTER-QUADRILLE 45 XIII. WHO STOLE THE TARTS? 49 XIV. THE SHOWER OF CARDS 54 [1] White Rabbit I. THE WHITE RABBIT. Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Alice: and she had a very curious dream. Would you like to hear what it was that she dreamed about? Well, this was the first thing that happened. A White Rabbit came running by, in a great hurry; and, just as it passed Alice, it stopped, and took its watch out of its pocket. [2] Wasn’t that a funny thing? Did you ever see a Rabbit that had a watch, and a pocket to put it in? Of course, when a Rabbit has a watch, it must have a pocket to put it in: it would never do to carry it about in its mouth——and it wants its hands sometimes, to run about with. Hasn’t it got pretty pink eyes (I think all White Rabbits have pink eyes); and pink ears; and a nice brown coat; and you can just see its red pocket-handkerchief peeping out of its coat-pocket: and, what with its blue neck-tie and its yellow waistcoat, it really is very nicely dressed. “Oh dear, oh dear!” said the Rabbit. “I shall be too late!” What would it be too late for, I wonder? Well, you see, it had to go and visit the Duchess (you’ll see a picture of the Duchess, soon, sitting in her kitchen): and the Duchess was a very cross old lady: and the Rabbit knew she’d be very angry indeed if he kept her waiting. So the poor thing was as frightened as frightened could be (Don’t you see how he’s trembling? Just shake the book a little,[3] from side to side, and you’ll soon see him tremble), because he thought the Duchess would have his head cut off, for a punishment. That was what the Queen of Hearts used to do, when she was angry with people (you’ll see a picture of her, soon): at least she used to order their heads to be cut off, and she always thought it was done, though they never really did it. And so, when the White Rabbit ran away, Alice wanted to see what would happen to it: so she ran after it: and she ran, and she ran, till she tumbled right down the rabbit-hole. And then she had a very long fall indeed. Down, and down, and down, till she began to wonder if she was going right through the World, so as to come out on the other side! It was just like a very deep well: only there was no water in it. If anybody really had such a fall as that, it would kill them, most likely: but you know it doesn’t hurt a bit to fall in a dream, because, all the time you think you’re falling, you really are lying somewhere, safe and sound, and fast asleep! [4] However, this terrible fall came to an end at last, and down came Alice on a heap of sticks and dry leaves. But she wasn’t a bit hurt, and up she jumped, and ran after the Rabbit again. And so that was the beginning of Alice’s curious dream. And, next time you see a White Rabbit, try and fancy you’re going to have a curious dream, just like dear little Alice. [5] Alice with bottle labeled drink II. HOW ALICE GREW TALL. And so, after Alice had tumbled down the rabbit-hole, and had run a long long way underground, all of a sudden she found herself in a great hall, with doors all round it. But all the doors were locked: so, you see, poor Alice couldn’t get out of the hall: and that made her very sad. [6] However, after a little while, she came to a little table, all made of glass, with three legs (There are two of the legs in the picture, and just the beginning of the other leg, do you see?), and on the table was a little key: and she went round the hall, and tried if she could unlock any of the doors with it. Poor Alice! The key wouldn’t unlock any of the doors. But at last she came upon a tiny little door: and oh, how glad she was, when she found the key would fit it! So she unlocked the tiny little door, and she stooped down and looked through it, and what do you think she saw? Oh, such a beautiful garden! And she did so long to go into it! But the door was far too small. She couldn’t squeeze herself through, any more than you could squeeze yourself into a mouse-hole! So poor little Alice locked up the door, and took the key back to the table again: and this time she found quite a new thing on it (now look at the picture again), and what do you think it was? It was a little bottle, with a label[7] tied to it, with the words “DRINK ME” on the label. So she tasted it: and it was very nice: so she set to work, and drank it up. And then such a curious thing happened to her! You’ll never guess what it was: so I shall have to tell you. She got smaller, and smaller, till at last she was just the size of a little doll! Then she said to herself “Now I’m the right size to get through the little door!” And away she ran. But, when she got there, the door was locked, and the key was on the top of the table, and she couldn’t reach it! Wasn’t it a pity she had locked up the door again? very tall Alice with very long neck Well, the next thing she found was a little cake: and it had the words “EAT ME” marked on it. So of course she set to work and ate it up. And then what do you think happened to her? No, you’ll never guess! I shall have to tell you again. She grew, and she grew, and she grew. Taller than she was before! Taller than any child! Taller than any grown-up person! Taller,[8] and taller, and taller! Just look at the picture, and you’ll see how tall she got! Which would you have liked the best, do you think, to be a little tiny Alice, no larger than a kitten, or a great tall Alice, with your head always knocking against the ceiling? [9] III. THE POOL OF TEARS. Perhaps you think Alice must have been very much pleased, when she had eaten the little cake, to find herself growing so tremendously tall? Because of course it would be easy enough, now, to reach the little key off the glass table, and to open the little tiny door. Well, of course she could do that: but what good was it to get the door open, when she couldn’t get through? She was worse off than ever, poor thing! She could just manage, by putting her head down, close to the ground, to look through with one eye! But that was all she could do. No wonder the poor tall child sat down and cried as if her heart would break. So she cried, and she cried. And her tears ran down the middle of the hall, like a deep[10] river. And very soon there was quite a large Pool of Tears, reaching half-way down the hall. And there she might have staid, till this very day, if the White Rabbit hadn’t happened to come through the hall, on his way to visit the Duchess. He was dressed up as grand as grand could be, and he had a pair of white kid gloves in one hand, and a little fan in the other hand: and he kept on muttering to himself “Oh, the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh, won’t she be savage if I’ve kept her waiting!” But he didn’t see Alice, you know. So, when she began to say “If you please, Sir——” her voice seemed to come from the top of the hall, because her head was so high up. And the Rabbit was dreadfully frightened: and he dropped the gloves and the fan, and ran away as hard as he could go. Then a very curious thing indeed happened. Alice took up the fan, and began to fan herself with it: and, lo and behold, she got quite small again, and, all in a minute, she was just about the size of a mouse! [11] Alice and a mouse in water Now look at the picture, and you’ll soon guess what happened next. It looks just like the sea, doesn’t it? But it really is the Pool of Tears——all made of Alice’s tears, you know! And Alice has tumbled into the Pool: and the Mouse has tumbled in: and there they are, swimming about together. Doesn’t Alice look pretty, as she swims across the picture? You can just see her blue stockings, far away under the water. [12] But why is the Mouse swimming away from Alice in such a hurry? Well, the reason is, that Alice began talking about cats and dogs: and a Mouse always hates talking about cats and dogs! Suppose you were swimming about, in a Pool of your own Tears: and suppose somebody began talking to you about lesson-books and bottles of medicine, wouldn’t you swim away as hard as you could go? [13] IV. THE CAUCUS-RACE. When Alice and the Mouse had got out of the Pool of Tears, of course they were very wet: and so were a lot of other curious creatures, that had tumbled in as well. There was a Dodo (that’s the great bird, in front, leaning on a walking-stick); and a Duck; and a Lory (that’s just behind the Duck, looking over its head); and an Eaglet (that’s on the left-hand side of the Lory); and several others. Well, and so they didn’t know how in the world they were to get dry again. But the Dodo——who was a very wise bird——told them the right way was to have a Caucus-Race. And what do you think that was? You don’t know? Well, you are an ignorant child! Now, be very attentive, and I’ll soon cure you of your ignorance! [14] First, you must have a racecourse. It ought to be a sort of circle, but it doesn’t much matter what shape it is, so long as it goes a good way round, and joins on to itself again. Then, you must put all the racers on the course, here and there: it doesn’t matter where, so long as you don’t crowd them too much together. Then, you needn’t say “One, two, three, and away!” but let them all set off running just when they like, and leave off just when they like. So all these creatures, Alice and all, went on running round and round, till they were all quite dry again. And then the Dodo said everybody had won, and everybody must have prizes! Of course Alice had to give them their prizes. And she had nothing to give them but a few comfits she happened to have in her pocket. And there was just one a-piece, all round. And there was no prize for Alice! So what do you think they did? Alice had nothing left but her thimble. Now look at the picture, and you’ll see what happened. [15] Alice, a dodo, and other animals “Hand it over here!” said the Dodo. Then the Dodo took the thimble and handed it back to Alice, and said “We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble!” And then all the other creatures cheered. [16] Wasn’t that a curious sort of present to give her? Suppose they wanted to give you a birthday-present, would you rather they should go to your toy-cupboard, and pick out your nicest doll, and say “Here, my love, here’s a lovely birthday-present for you!” or would you like them to give you something new, something that didn’t belong to you before? [17] V. BILL, THE LIZARD. Now I’m going to tell you about Alice’s Adventures in the White Rabbit’s house. Do you remember how the Rabbit dropped his gloves and his fan, when he was so frightened at hearing Alice’s voice, that seemed to come down from the sky? Well, of course he couldn’t go to visit the Duchess without his gloves and his fan: so, after a bit, he came back again to look for them. By this time the Dodo and all the other curious creatures had gone away, and Alice was wandering about all alone. So what do you think he did? Actually he thought she was his housemaid, and began[18] ordering her about! “Mary Ann!” he said. “Go home this very minute, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!” Perhaps he couldn’t see very clearly with his pink eyes: for I’m sure Alice doesn’t look very like a housemaid, does she? However she was a very good-natured little girl: so she wasn’t a bit offended, but ran off to the Rabbit’s house as quick as she could. It was lucky she found the door open: for, if she had had to ring, I suppose the real Mary Ann would have come to open the door: and she would never have let Alice come in. And I’m sure it was very lucky she didn’t meet the real Mary Ann, as she trotted upstairs: for I’m afraid she would have taken Alice for a robber! So at last she found her way into the Rabbit’s room: and there was a pair of gloves lying on the table, and she was just going to take them up and go away, when she happened to see a little bottle on the table. And of course it had the words “DRINK ME!” on the label. And of course Alice drank some! [19] Well, I think that was rather lucky, too: don’t you? For, if she hadn’t drunk any, all this wonderful adventure, that I’m going to tell you about, wouldn’t have happened at all. And wouldn’t that have been a pity? Bill the Lizard flying out of a chimney You’re getting so used to Alice’s Adventures, that I daresay you can guess what happened next? If you can’t, I’ll tell you. She grew, and she grew, and she grew. And in a very short time the room was full of Alice: just in the same way as a jar is full of jam! There was Alice all the way up to the ceiling: and Alice in every corner of the room! [20] The door opened inwards: so of course there wasn’t any room to open it: so when the Rabbit got tired of waiting, and came to fetch his gloves for himself, of course he couldn’t get in. So what do you think he did? (Now we come to the picture). He sent Bill, the Lizard, up to the roof of the house, and told him to get down the chimney. But Alice happened to have one of her feet in the fire-place: so, when she heard Bill coming down the chimney, she just gave a little tiny kick, and away went Bill, flying up into the sky! Poor little Bill! Don’t you pity him very much? How frightened he must have been! [21] VI. THE DEAR LITTLE PUPPY. Well, it doesn’t look such a very little Puppy, does it? But then, you see, Alice had grown very small indeed: and that’s what makes the Puppy look so large. When Alice had eaten one of those little magic cakes, that she found in the White Rabbit’s house, it made her get quite small, directly, so that she could get through the door: or else she could never have got out of the house again. Wouldn’t that have been a pity? Because then she wouldn’t have dreamed all the other curious things that we’re going to read about. So it really was a little Puppy, you see. And isn’t it a little pet? And look at the way[22] it’s barking at the little stick that Alice is holding out for it! You can see she was a little afraid of it, all the time, because she’s got behind that great thistle, for fear it should run over her. That would have been just about as bad, for her, as it would be for you to be run over by a waggon and four horses! Have you got a little pet puppy at your home? If you have, I hope you’re always kind to it, and give it nice things to eat. Once upon a time, I knew some little children, about as big as you; and they had a little pet dog of their own; and it was called Dash. And this is what they told me about its birthday-treat. “Do you know, one day we remembered it was Dash’s birthday that day. So we said ‘Let’s give Dash a nice birthday-treat, like what we have on our birthdays!’ So we thought and we thought ‘Now, what is it we like best of all, on our birthdays?’ And we thought and we thought. And at last we all called out together “Why, its oatmeal-porridge, of course!” So of[23] course we thought Dash would be quite sure to like it very much, too. a puppy and Alice when she was just small [24] “So we went to the cook, and we got her to make a saucerful of nice oatmeal-porridge. And then we called Dash into the house, and we said ‘Now, Dash, you’re going to have your birthday-treat!’ We expected Dash would jump for joy: but it didn’t, one bit! “So we put the saucer down before it, and we said ‘Now, Dash, don’t be greedy! Eat it nicely, like a good dog!’ “So Dash just tasted it with the tip of its tongue: and then it made, oh, such a horrid face! And then, do you know, it did hate it so, it wouldn’t eat a bit more of it! So we had to put it all down its throat with a spoon!” I wonder if Alice will give this little Puppy some porridge? I don’t think she can, because she hasn’t got any with her. I can’t see any saucer in the picture. [25] VII. THE BLUE CATERPILLAR. Would you like to know what happened to Alice, after she had got away from the Puppy? It was far too large an animal, you know, for her to play with. (I don’t suppose you would much enjoy playing with a young Hippopotamus, would you? You would always be expecting to be crushed as flat as a pancake under its great heavy feet!) So Alice was very glad to run away, while it wasn’t looking. Well, she wandered up and down, and didn’t know what in the world to do, to make herself grow up to her right size again. Of course she knew that she had to eat or drink something: that was the regular rule, you know: but she couldn’t guess what thing. [26] Alice looking at the blue caterpillar sitting on a mushroom However, she soon came to a great mushroom, that was so tall that she couldn’t see over the top of it without standing on tip-toe. And what do you think she saw? Something that I’m sure you never talked to, in all your life! [27] It was a large Blue Caterpillar. I’ll tell you, soon, what Alice and the Caterpillar talked about: but first let us have a good look at the picture. That curious thing, standing in front of the Caterpillar, is called a “hookah”: and it’s used for smoking. The smoke comes through that long tube, that winds round and round like a serpent. And do you see its long nose and chin? At least, they look exactly like a nose and chin, don’t they? But they really are two of its legs. You know a Caterpillar has got quantities of legs: you can see some more of them, further down. What a bother it must be to a Caterpillar, counting over such a lot of legs, every night, to make sure it hasn’t lost any of them! And another great bother must be, having to settle which leg it had better move first. I think, if you had forty or fifty legs, and if you wanted to go a walk, you’d be such a time in settling which leg to begin with, that you’d never go a walk at all! [28] And what did Alice and the Caterpillar talk about, I wonder? Well, Alice told it how very confusing it was, being first one size and then another. And the Caterpillar asked her if she liked the size she was, just then. And Alice said she would like to be just a little bit larger——three inches was such a wretched height to be! (Just mark off three inches on the wall, about the length of your middle finger, and you’ll see what size she was.) And the Caterpillar told her one side of the mushroom would make her grow taller, and the other side would make her grow shorter. So Alice took two little bits of it with her to nibble, and managed to make herself quite a nice comfortable height, before she went on to visit the Duchess. [29] Duchess holding a baby while Alice looks on and the cook is cooking VIII. THE PIG-BABY. Would you like to hear about Alice’s visit to the Duchess? It was a very interesting visit indeed, I can assure you. Of course she knocked at the door to begin with: but nobody came: so she had to open it for herself. [30] Now, if you look at the picture, you’ll see exactly what Alice saw when she got inside. The door led right into the kitchen, you see. The Duchess sat in the middle of the room, nursing the Baby. The Baby was howling. The soup was boiling. The Cook was stirring the soup. The Cat——it was a Cheshire Cat——was grinning, as Cheshire Cats always do. All these things were happening just as Alice went in. The Duchess has a beautiful cap and gown, hasn’t she? But I’m afraid she hasn’t got a very beautiful face. The Baby——well, I daresay you’ve seen several nicer babies than that: and more good-tempered ones, too. However, take a good look at it, and we’ll see if you know it again, next time you meet it! The Cook——well, you may have seen nicer cooks, once or twice. But I’m nearly sure you’ve never seen a nicer Cat! Now have you? And wouldn’t you like to have a Cat of your own, just like that one, with lovely green eyes, and smiling so sweetly? [31] The Duchess was very rude to Alice. And no wonder. Why, she even called her own Baby “Pig!” And it wasn’t a Pig, was it? And she ordered the Cook to chop off Alice’s head: though of course the Cook didn’t do it: and at last she threw the Baby at her! So Alice caught the Baby, and took it away with her: and I think that was about the best thing she could do. So she wandered away, through the wood, carrying the ugly little thing with her. And a great job it was to keep hold of it, it wriggled about so. But at last she found out that the proper way was, to keep tight hold of its left foot and its right ear. But don’t you try to hold on to a Baby like that, my Child! There are not many babies that like being nursed in that way! Well, and so the Baby kept grunting, and grunting so that Alice had to say to it, quite seriously, “If you’re going to turn into a Pig, my dear, I’ll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!” [32] Alice holding the pig And at last she looked down into its face, and what do you think had happened to it? Look at the picture, and see if you can guess. “Why, that’s not the Baby that Alice was nursing, is it?” Ah, I knew you wouldn’t know it again, though I told you to take a good look at it! Yes, it is the Baby. And it’s turned into a little Pig! So Alice put it down, and let it trot away into the wood. And she said to herself “It was a very ugly Baby: but it makes rather a handsome Pig, I think.” Don’t you think she was right? [33] IX. THE CHESHIRE-CAT. All alone, all alone! Poor Alice! No Baby, not even a Pig to keep her company! So you may be sure she was very glad indeed, when she saw the Cheshire-Cat, perched up in a tree, over her head. The Cat has a very nice smile, no doubt: but just look what a lot of teeth it’s got! Isn’t Alice just a little shy of it? Well, yes, a little. But then, it couldn’t help having teeth, you know: and it could have helped smiling, supposing it had been cross. So, on the whole, she was glad. Doesn’t Alice look very prim, holding her head so straight up, and with her hands behind her, just as if she were going to say her lessons to the Cat! [34] Cheshire cat in a tree, looking down at Alice And that reminds me. There’s a little lesson I want to teach you, while we’re looking at this picture of Alice and the Cat. Now don’t be in a bad temper about it, my dear Child! It’s a very little lesson indeed! Do you see that Fox-Glove growing close to the tree? And do you know why it’s called a Fox-Glove? Perhaps you[35] think it’s got something to do with a Fox? No indeed! Foxes never wear Gloves! The right word is “Folk’s-Gloves.” Did you ever hear that Fairies used to be called “the good Folk”? Now we’ve finished the lesson, and we’ll wait a minute, till you’ve got your temper again. Well? Do you feel quite good-natured again? No temper-ache? No crossness about the corners of the mouth? Then we’ll go on. “Cheshire Puss!” said Alice. (Wasn’t that a pretty name for a Cat?) “Would you tell me which way I ought to go from here?” And so the Cheshire-Cat told her which way she ought to go, if she wanted to visit the Hatter, and which way to go, to visit the March Hare. “They’re both mad!” said the Cat. And then the Cat vanished away, just like the flame of a candle when it goes out! So Alice set off, to visit the March Hare. And as she went along, there was the Cat again! And she told it she didn’t like it coming and going so quickly. [36] Faded Cheshire cat in a tree So this time the Cat vanished quite slowly, beginning with the tail, and ending with the grin. Wasn’t that a curious thing, a Grin without any Cat? Would you like to see one? If you turn up the corner of this leaf, you’ll have Alice looking at the Grin: and she doesn’t look a bit more frightened than when she was looking at the Cat, does she? [37] X. THE MAD TEA-PARTY. This is the Mad Tea-Party. You see Alice had left the Cheshire-Cat, and had gone off to see the March Hare and the Hatter, as the Cheshire-Cat had advised her: and she found them having tea under a great tree, with a Dormouse sitting between them. There were only those three at the table, but there were quantities of tea-cups set all along it. You ca’n’t see all the table, you know, and even in the bit you can see there are nine cups, counting the one the March Hare has got in his hand. That’s the March Hare, with the long ears, and straws mixed up with his hair. The straws[38] showed he was mad——I don’t know why. Never twist up straws among your hair, for fear people should think you’re mad! There was a nice green arm-chair at the end of the table, that looked as if it was just meant for Alice: so she went and sat down in it. Then she had quite a long talk with the March Hare and the Hatter. The Dormouse didn’t say much. You see it was fast asleep generally, and it only just woke up for a moment, now and then. As long as it was asleep, it was very useful to the March Hare and the Hatter, because it had a nice round soft head, just like a pillow: so they could put their elbows on it, and lean across it, and talk to each other quite comfortably. You wouldn’t like people to use your head for a pillow, would you? But if you were fast asleep, like the Dormouse, you wouldn’t feel it: so I suppose you wouldn’t care about it. Alice, March Hare, and Mad Hatter at a table laid for tea I’m afraid they gave Alice very little to eat and drink. However, after a bit, she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter: only[39] I don’t quite see where she got the bread-and-butter: and she had no plate for it. Nobody seems to have a plate except the Hatter. I believe the March Hare must have had one as well: because, when they all moved one place on (that was the rule at this curious tea-party), and Alice had to go into the place of the March Hare, she found he had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. So I suppose[40] his plate and the milk-jug are hidden behind that large tea-pot. The Hatter used to carry about hats to sell: and even the one that he’s got on his head is meant to be sold. You see it’s got its price marked on it——a “10” and a “6”——that means “ten shillings and sixpence.” Wasn’t that a funny way of selling hats? And hasn’t he got a beautiful neck-tie on? Such a lovely yellow tie, with large red spots. He has just got up to say to Alice “Your hair wants cutting!” That was a rude thing to say, wasn’t it? And do you think her hair does want cutting? I think it’s a very pretty length——just the right length. [41] XI. THE QUEEN’S GARDEN. This is a little bit of the beautiful garden I told you about. You see Alice had managed at last to get quite small, so that she could go through the little door. I suppose she was about as tall as a mouse, if it stood on its hind-legs: so of course this was a very tiny rose-tree: and these are very tiny gardeners. Three playing-card men standing by a rose bush What funny little men they are! But are they men, do you think? I think they must be live cards, with just a head, and arms, and legs, so as to look like little men. And what are they doing with that red paint, I wonder? Well, you see, this is what they told Alice[42] The Queen of Hearts wanted to have a red rose-tree just in that corner: and these poor little gardeners had made a great mistake, and had put in a white one instead: and they were so frightened about it, because the Queen was sure to be angry, and then she would order all their heads to be cut off! [43] She was a dreadfully savage Queen, and that was the way she always did, when she was angry with people. “Off with their heads!” They didn’t really cut their heads off, you know: because nobody ever obeyed her: but that was what she always said. Now ca’n’t you guess what the poor little gardeners are trying to do? They’re trying to paint the roses red, and they’re in a great hurry to get it done before the Queen comes. And then perhaps the Queen won’t find out it was a white rose-tree to begin with: and then perhaps the little men won’t get their heads cut off! You see there were five large white roses on the tree——such a job to get them all painted red! But they’ve got three and a half done, now, and if only they wouldn’t stop to talk——work away, little men, do work away! Or the Queen will be coming before it’s done! And if she finds any white roses on the tree, do you know what will happen? It will be “Off with their heads!” Oh, work away, my little men! Hurry, hurry! [44] Angry Queen of Hearts addressing Alice The Queen has come! And isn’t she angry? Oh, my poor little Alice! [45] XII. THE LOBSTER-QUADRILLE. Did you ever play at Croquet? There are large wooden balls, painted with different colours, that you have to roll about; and arches of wire, that you have to send them through; and great wooden mallets, with long handles, to knock the balls about with. Now look at the picture, and you’ll see that Alice has just been playing a Game of Croquet. “But she couldn’t play, with that great red what’s-its-name in her arms! Why, how could she hold the mallet?” Alice holding a flamingo and talking to the Duchess Why, my dear Child, that great red what’s-its-name (its real name is “a Flamingo”) is the mallet! In this Croquet-Game, the balls were[46] live Hedge-hogs——you know a hedge-hog can roll itself up into a ball?——and the mallets were live Flamingos! So Alice is just resting from the Game, for a minute, to have a chat with that dear old thing, the Duchess: and of course she keeps her mallet under her arm, so as not to lose it. [47] “But I don’t think she was a dear old thing, one bit! To call her Baby a Pig, and to want to chop off Alice’s head!” Oh, that was only a joke, about chopping off Alice’s head: and as to the Baby——why, it was a Pig, you know! And just look at her smile! Why, it’s wider than all Alice’s head: and yet you can only see half of it! Well, they’d only had a very little chat, when the Queen came and took Alice away, to see the Gryphon and the Mock Turtle. You don’t know what a Gryphon is? Well! Do you know anything? That’s the question. However, look at the picture. That creature with a red head, and red claws, and green scales, is the Gryphon. Now you know. And the other’s the Mock Turtle. It’s got a calf’s-head, because calf’s head is used to make Mock Turtle Soup. Now you know. “But what are they doing, going round and round Alice like that?” Why, I thought of course you’d know that! They’re dancing a Lobster-Quadrille. [48] Alice, Gryphon, and Mock Turtle And next time you meet a Gryphon and a Mock Turtle, I daresay they’ll dance it for you, if you ask them prettily. Only don’t let them come quite close, or they’ll be treading on your toes, as they did on poor Alice’s. [49] XIII. WHO STOLE THE TARTS? Did you ever hear how the Queen of Hearts made some tarts? And can you tell me what became of them? “Why, of course I can! Doesn’t the song tell all about it? The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts: All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!” Well, yes, the Song says so. But it would never do to punish the poor Knave, just because there was a Song about him. They had to take[50] him prisoner, and put chains on his wrists, and bring him before the King of Hearts, so that there might be a regular trial. Now, if you look at the big picture, at the beginning of this book, you’ll see what a grand thing a trial is, when the Judge is a King! The King is very grand, isn’t he? But he doesn’t look very happy. I think that big crown, on the top of his wig, must be very heavy and uncomfortable. But he had to wear them both, you see, so that people might know he was a Judge and a King. And doesn’t the Queen look cross? She can see the dish of tarts on the table, that she had taken such trouble to make. And she can see the bad Knave (do you see the chains hanging from his wrists?) that stole them away from her: so I don’t think it’s any wonder if she does feel a little cross. The White Rabbit is standing near the King, reading out the Song, to tell everybody what a bad Knave he is: and the Jury (you can just see two of them, up in the Jury-box,[51] the Frog and the Duck) have to settle whether he’s “guilty” or “not guilty.” Now I’ll tell you about the accident that happened to Alice. You see, she was sitting close by the Jury-box: and she was called as a witness. You know what a “witness” is? A “witness” is a person who has seen the prisoner do whatever he’s accused of, or at any rate knows something that’s important in the trial. But Alice hadn’t seen the Queen make the tarts: and she hadn’t seen the Knave take the tarts: and, in fact, she didn’t know anything about it: so why in the world they wanted her to be a witness, I’m sure I ca’n’t tell you! Anyhow, they did want her. And the White Rabbit blew his big trumpet, and shouted out “Alice!” And so Alice jumped up in a great hurry. And then—— And then what do you think happened? Why, her skirt caught against the Jury-box, and tipped it over, and all the poor little Jurors came tumbling out of it! [52] Alice watching as the Jurors fall from the Jury-box Let’s try if we can make out all the twelve. You know there ought to be twelve to make up[53] a Jury. I see the Frog, and the Dormouse, and the Rat and the Ferret, and the Hedgehog, and the Lizard, and the Bantam-Cock, and the Mole, and the Duck, and the Squirrel, and a screaming bird, with a long beak, just behind the Mole. But that only makes eleven: we must find one more creature. Oh, do you see a little white head, coming out behind the Mole, and just under the Duck’s beak? That makes up the twelve. Mr. Tenniel says the screaming bird is a Storkling (of course you know what that is?) and the little white head is a Mouseling. Isn’t it a little darling? Alice picked them all up again, very carefully, and I hope they weren’t much hurt! [54] XIV. THE SHOWER OF CARDS. Oh dear, oh dear! What is it all about? And what’s happening to Alice? Well, I’ll tell you all about it, as well I can. The way the trial ended was this. The King wanted the Jury to settle whether the Knave of Hearts was guilty or not guilty——that means that they were to settle whether he had stolen the Tarts, or if somebody else had taken them. But the wicked Queen wanted to have his punishment settled, first of all. That wasn’t at all fair, was it? Because, you know, supposing he never took the Tarts, then of course he oughtn’t to be punished. Would you like to be punished for something you hadn’t done? [55] Alice shielding herself as cards fly over her head [56] So Alice said “Stuff and nonsense!” So the Queen said “Off with her head!” (Just what she always said, when she was angry.) So Alice said “Who cares for you? You’re nothing but a pack of cards!” So they were all very angry, and flew up into the air, and came tumbling down again, all over Alice, just like a shower of rain. And I think you’ll never guess what happened next. The next thing was, Alice woke up out of her curious dream. And she found that the cards were only some leaves off the tree, that the wind had blown down upon her face. Wouldn’t it be a nice thing to have a curious dream, just like Alice? The best plan is this. First lie down under a tree, and wait till a White Rabbit runs by, with a watch in his hand: then shut your eyes, and pretend to be dear little Alice. Good-bye, Alice dear, good-bye! THE END. [57] [58] AN EASTER GREETING TO EVERY CHILD WHO LOVES “ALICE.” My dear Child, Please to fancy, if you can, that you are reading a real letter, from a real friend whom you have seen, and whose voice you can seem to yourself to hear, wishing you, as I do now with all my heart, a happy Easter. Do you know that delicious dreamy feeling, when one first wakes on a summer morning, with the twitter of birds in the air, and the fresh breeze coming in at the open window——when, lying lazily with eyes half shut, one sees as in a dream green boughs waving, or waters rippling in a golden light? It is a pleasure very near to sadness, bringing tears to one’s eyes like a beautiful[59] picture or poem. And is not that a Mother’s gentle hand that undraws your curtains, and a Mother’s sweet voice that summons you to rise? To rise and forget, in the bright sunlight, the ugly dreams that frightened you so when all was dark——to rise and enjoy another happy day, first kneeling to thank that unseen Friend who sends you the beautiful sun? Are these strange words from a writer of such tales as “Alice”? And is this a strange letter to find in a book of nonsense? It may be so. Some perhaps may blame me for thus mixing together things grave and gay; others may smile and think it odd that any one should speak of solemn things at all, except in Church and on a Sunday: but I think——nay, I am sure——that some children will read this gently and lovingly, and in the spirit in which I have written it. For I do not believe God means us thus to divide life into two halves——to wear a grave face on Sunday, and to think it out-of-place to even so much as mention Him on a week-day. Do you think He cares to see only kneeling figures and to hear only tones of prayer——and that He does not also love to see the lambs leaping in the sunlight, and to hear the merry voices of the children, as they roll among the hay? Surely their innocent laughter is as sweet in His ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from the “dim religious light” of some solemn cathedral? And if I have written anything to add to those stores of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the[60] children I love so well, it is surely something I may hope to look back upon without shame and sorrow (as how much of life must then be recalled!) when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows. This Easter sun will rise on you, dear child, “feeling your life in every limb,” and eager to rush out into the fresh morning air——and many an Easter-day will come and go, before it finds you feeble and grey-headed, creeping wearily out to bask once more in the sunlight——but it is good, even now, to think sometimes of that great morning when “the Sun of righteousness” shall “arise with healing in his wings.” Surely your gladness need not be the less for the thought that you will one day see a brighter dawn than this——when lovelier sights will meet your eyes than any waving trees or rippling waters——when angel-hands shall undraw your curtains, and sweeter tones than ever loving Mother breathed shall wake you to a new and glorious day——and when all the sadness, and the sin, that darkened life on this little earth, shall be forgotten like the dreams of a night that is past! Your affectionate Friend, LEWIS CARROLL. [61] CHRISTMAS GREETINGS. (FROM A FAIRY TO A CHILD.) Lady dear, if Fairies may For a moment lay aside Cunning tricks and elfish play, ’Tis at happy Christmas-tide. We have heard the children say— Gentle children, whom we love— Long ago, on Christmas Day, Came a message from above. Still, as Christmas-tide comes round, They remember it again— Echo still the joyful sound “Peace on earth, good-will to men!” Yet the hearts must childlike be Where such heavenly guests abide: Unto children, in their glee, All the year is Christmas-tide! Thus, forgetting tricks and play For a moment, Lady dear, We would wish you, if we may, Merry Christmas, glad New Year! LEWIS CARROLL [62] WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL PUBLISHED BY MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With Forty-two Illustrations by Tenniel. (First published in 1865.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Eighty-second Thousand. THE SAME; PEOPLE’S EDITION. (First published in 1887.) Crown 8vo, cloth, price 2s. 6d. Fourteenth Thousand. AVENTURES D’ALICE AU PAYS DES MERVEILLES. Traduit de l’Anglais par Henri Bue. Ouvrage illustré de 42 Vignettes par John Tenniel. (First published in 1869.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Second Thousand. Alice’s Abenteuer im Wundererland. Aus dem Englischen, von Antonie Zimmermann. Mit 42 Illustrationen von John Tenniel. (First published in 1869.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. LE AVVENTURE D’ALICE NEL PAESE DELLE MERAVIGLIE. Tradotte dall’ Inglese da T. Pietrocòla-Rossetti. Con 42 Vignette di Giovanni Tenniel. (First published in 1872.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. ALICE’S ADVENTURES UNDER GROUND. Being a Facsimile of the original MS. Book, which was afterwards developed into “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” With Thirty-seven Illustrations by the Author. (Begun, July, 1862; finished, Feb. 1863; first published, in Facsimile, in 1886.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 4s. Second Thousand. THE NURSERY “ALICE.” Containing Twenty Coloured Enlargements from Tenniel’s Illustrations to “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” With Text adapted to Nursery Readers by Lewis Carroll. The Cover designed and coloured by E. Gertrude Thomson. (First published in 1889.) 4to, boards, price 3s. THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With Fifty Illustrations by Tenniel. (First published in 1871.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Fifty-ninth thousand. THE SAME; PEOPLE’S EDITION. (First published in 1887.) Crown 8vo, cloth, price 2s. 6d. Ninth Thousand. ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND: AND THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS; PEOPLE’S EDITIONS. Both Books together in One Volume. (First published in 1887.) Crown 8vo, cloth, price 4s. 6d. Second Thousand. [63] THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK. An Agony in Eight Fits. With Nine Illustrations by H. Holiday. (First published in 1876.) Crown 8vo, cloth, large gilt designs on cover, and gilt edges, price 4s. 6d. Eighteenth Thousand. RHYME? AND REASON? With Sixty-five Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and Nine by Henry Holiday. (First published in 1883, being a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portion of “Phantasmagoria and other Poems,” published in 1869, and of “The Hunting of the Snark,” published in 1876.) Crown 8vo, cloth, coloured edges, price 6s. Fourth Thousand. A TANGLED TALE. Reprinted from The Monthly Packet. With Six Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost. (First published in 1885.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 4s. 6d. Third Thousand. THE GAME OF LOGIC. With an Envelope containing a card diagram and nine counters—four red and five grey. (First published in 1886.) Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. Second Thousand. N.B.—The Envelope, etc., may be had separately at 3d. each. N.B.—In selling Mr. Lewis Carroll’s books to the Trade, Messrs. Macmillan & Co. will abate 2d. in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per cent. discount for payment within six months, and 10 per cent. for cash. In selling them to the Public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent. discount. Mr. Lewis Carroll, having been requested to allow “An Easter Greeting” (a leaflet, addressed to children, first published in 1876, and frequently given with his books) to be sold separately, has arranged with Messrs. Harrison, of 59, Pall Mall, who will supply a single copy for 1d., or 12 for 9d., or 100 for 5s. CAUTIONS TO READERS. On August 1st, 1881, a story appeared in Aunt Judy’s Magazine No. 184, entitled “The Land of Idleness, by Lewis Carroll.” This story was really written by a lady, Fräulein Ida Lackowitz. Acting on her behalf, Mr. Carroll forwarded it to the Editor: and this led to the mistake of naming him as its author. In October, 1887, the writer of an article on “Literature for the Little ones,” in The Nineteenth Century, stated that, in 1864, “Tom Hood was delighting the world with such works as From Nowhere to the North Pole. Between Tom Hood and Mr. Lewis Carroll there is more than a suspicion of resemblance in some particulars. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland narrowly escapes challenging a comparison with From Nowhere to the North Pole. The idea of both is so similar that Mr. Carroll can hardly have been surprised if some people have believed he was inspired by Hood.” The date 1864 is a mistake. From Nowhere to the North Pole was first published in 1874. Back Cover - White Rabbit End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Nursery Alice, by Lewis Carroll *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NURSERY ALICE *** ***** This file should be named 55040-h.htm or 55040-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/0/4/55040/ Produced by Cindy Horton, readbueno, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The University of Florida, The Internet Archive/Children's Library) ===== Sylvie and Bruno I ===== Project Gutenberg's Sylvie and Bruno (Illustrated), by Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Sylvie and Bruno (Illustrated) Author: Lewis Carroll Illustrator: Harry Furniss Release Date: April 2, 2015 [EBook #48630] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIE AND BRUNO (ILLUSTRATED) *** Produced by MWS, Stephen Hutcheson, Carol Spears, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Sylvie and Bruno SYLVIE AND BRUNO BY LEWIS CARROLL WITH FORTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRY FURNISS London MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1890 The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved Presswork by John Wilson and Son, University Press. 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 flutter 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. ix PREFACE. One little picture in this book, the Magic Locket, at p. 77, was drawn by ‘Miss Alice Havers.’ I did not state this on the title-page, since it seemed only due, to the artist of all these (to my mind) wonderful pictures, that his name should stand there alone. The descriptions, at pp. 386, 387, of Sunday as spent by children of the last generation, are quoted verbatim from a speech made to me by a child-friend and a letter written to me by a lady-friend. The Chapters, headed ‘Fairy Sylvie’ and ‘Bruno’s Revenge,’ are a reprint, with a few alterations, of a little fairy-tale which I wrote in the year 1867, at the request of the late Mrs. Gatty, for ‘Aunt Judy’s Magazine,’ which she was then editing. It was in 1874, I believe, that the idea first occurred to me of making it the nucleus of a longer story. As the years went on, I jotted down, at odd moments, all sorts of odd ideas, and fragments of dialogue, that occurred to me—who knows how?—with a transitory suddenness that left me no choice but either to record them then and there, or to abandon them to oblivion. Sometimes one could trace to their x source these random flashes of thought—as being suggested by the book one was reading, or struck out from the ‘flint’ of one’s own mind by the ‘steel’ of a friend’s chance remark—but they had also a way of their own, of occurring, à propos of nothing—specimens of that hopelessly illogical phenomenon, ‘an effect without a cause.’ Such, for example, was the last line of ‘The Hunting of the Snark,’ which came into my head (as I have already related in ‘The Theatre’ for April, 1887) quite suddenly, during a solitary walk: and such, again, have been passages which occurred in dreams, and which I cannot trace to any antecedent cause whatever. There are at least two instances of such dream-suggestions in this book—one, my Lady’s remark, ‘it often runs in families, just as a love for pastry does’, at p. 88; the other, Eric Lindon’s badinage about having been in domestic service, at p. 332. And thus it came to pass that I found myself at last in possession of a huge unwieldy mass of litterature—if the reader will kindly excuse the spelling—which only needed stringing together, upon the thread of a consecutive story, to constitute the book I hoped to write. Only! The task, at first, seemed absolutely hopeless, and gave me a far clearer idea, than I ever had before, of the meaning of the word ‘chaos’: and I think it must have been ten years, or more, before I had succeeded in classifying these odds-and-ends sufficiently to see what sort of a story they indicated: for the story had to grow out of the incidents, not the incidents out of the story. xi I am telling all this, in no spirit of egoism, but because I really believe that some of my readers will be interested in these details of the ‘genesis’ of a book, which looks so simple and straight-forward a matter, when completed, that they might suppose it to have been written straight off, page by page, as one would write a letter, beginning at the beginning and ending at the end. It is, no doubt, possible to write a story in that way: and, if it be not vanity to say so, I believe that I could, myself,—if I were in the unfortunate position (for I do hold it to be a real misfortune) of being obliged to produce a given amount of fiction in a given time,—that I could ‘fulfil my task,’ and produce my ‘tale of bricks,’ as other slaves have done. One thing, at any rate, I could guarantee as to the story so produced—that it should be utterly commonplace, should contain no new ideas whatever, and should be very very weary reading! This species of literature has received the very appropriate name of ‘padding’—which might fitly be defined as ‘that which all can write and none can read.’ That the present volume contains no such writing I dare not avow: sometimes, in order to bring a picture into its proper place, it has been necessary to eke out a page with two or three extra lines: but I can honestly say I have put in no more than I was absolutely compelled to do. My readers may perhaps like to amuse themselves by trying to detect, in a given passage, the one piece of ‘padding’ it contains. While arranging the ‘slips’ xii into pages, I found that the passage, which now extends from the top of p. 35 to the middle of p. 38, was 3 lines too short. I supplied the deficiency, not by interpolating a word here and a word there, but by writing in 3 consecutive lines. Now can my readers guess which they are? A harder puzzle—if a harder be desired—would be to determine, as to the Gardener’s Song, in which cases (if any) the stanza was adapted to the surrounding text, and in which (if any) the text was adapted to the stanza. Perhaps the hardest thing in all literature—at least I have found it so: by no voluntary effort can I accomplish it: I have to take it as it comes—is to write anything original. And perhaps the easiest is, when once an original line has been struck out, to follow it up, and to write any amount more to the same tune. I do not know if ‘Alice in Wonderland’ was an original story—I was, at least, no conscious imitator in writing it—but I do know that, since it came out, something like a dozen story-books have appeared, on identically the same pattern. The path I timidly explored—believing myself to be ‘the first that ever burst into that silent sea’—is now a beaten high-road: all the way-side flowers have long ago been trampled into the dust: and it would be courting disaster for me to attempt that style again. Hence it is that, in ‘Sylvie and Bruno,’ I have striven—with I know not what success—to strike out yet another new path: be it bad or good, it is xiii the best I can do. It is written, not for money, and not for fame, but in the hope of supplying, for the children whom I love, some thoughts that may suit those hours of innocent merriment which are the very life of Childhood; and also in the hope of suggesting, to them and to others, some thoughts that may prove, I would fain hope, not wholly out of harmony with the graver cadences of Life. If I have not already exhausted the patience of my readers, I would like to seize this opportunity—perhaps the last I shall have of addressing so many friends at once—of putting on record some ideas that have occurred to me, as to books desirable to be written—which I should much like to attempt, but may not ever have the time or power to carry through—in the hope that, if I should fail (and the years are gliding away very fast) to finish the task I have set myself, other hands may take it up. First, a Child’s Bible. The only real essentials of this would be, carefully selected passages, suitable for a child’s reading, and pictures. One principle of selection, which I would adopt, would be that Religion should be put before a child as a revelation of love—no need to pain and puzzle the young mind with the history of crime and punishment. (On such a principle I should, for example, omit the history of the Flood.) The supplying of the pictures would involve no great difficulty: no new ones would be needed: hundreds of excellent pictures already exist, xiv the copyright of which has long ago expired, and which simply need photo-zincography, or some similar process, for their successful reproduction. The book should be handy in size—with a pretty attractive-looking cover—in a clear legible type—and, above all, with abundance of pictures, pictures, pictures! Secondly, a book of pieces selected from the Bible—not single texts, but passages of from 10 to 20 verses each—to be committed to memory. Such passages would be found useful, to repeat to one’s-self and to ponder over, on many occasions when reading is difficult, if not impossible: for instance, when lying awake at night—on a railway-journey—when taking a solitary walk—in old age, when eye-sight is failing or wholly lost—and, best of all, when illness, while incapacitating us for reading or any other occupation, condemns us to lie awake through many weary silent hours: at such a time how keenly one may realise the truth of David’s rapturous cry ‘O how sweet are thy words unto my throat: yea, sweeter than honey unto my mouth!’ I have said ‘passages,’ rather than single texts, because we have no means of recalling single texts: memory needs links, and here are none: one may have a hundred texts stored in the memory, and not be able to recall, at will, more than half-a-dozen—and those by mere chance: whereas, once get hold of any portion of a chapter that has been committed to memory, and the whole can be recovered: all hangs together. xv Thirdly, a collection of passages, both prose and verse, from books other than the Bible. There is not perhaps much, in what is called ‘un-inspired’ literature (a misnomer, I hold: if Shakespeare was not inspired, one may well doubt if any man ever was), that will bear the process of being pondered over, a hundred times: still there are such passages—enough, I think, to make a goodly store for the memory. These two books—of sacred, and secular, passages for memory—will serve other good purposes besides merely occupying vacant hours: they will help to keep at bay many anxious thoughts, worrying thoughts, uncharitable thoughts, unholy thoughts. Let me say this, in better words than my own, by copying a passage from that most interesting book, Robertson’s Lectures on the Epistles to the Corinthians, Lecture XLIX. “If a man finds himself haunted by evil desires and unholy images, which will generally be at periodical hours, let him commit to memory passages of Scripture, or passages from the best writers in verse or prose. Let him store his mind with these, as safe-guards to repeat when he lies awake in some restless night, or when despairing imaginations, or gloomy, suicidal thoughts, beset him. Let these be to him the sword, turning everywhere to keep the way of the Garden of Life from the intrusion of profaner footsteps.” Fourthly, a “Shakespeare” for girls: that is, an edition in which everything, not suitable for the perusal of girls of (say) from 10 to 17, should be omitted. Few xvi children under 10 would be likely to understand or enjoy the greatest of poets: and those, who have passed out of girlhood, may safely be left to read Shakespeare, in any edition, ‘expurgated’ or not, that they may prefer: but it seems a pity that so many children, in the intermediate stage, should be debarred from a great pleasure for want of an edition suitable to them. Neither Bowdler’s, Chambers’s, Brandram’s, nor Cundell’s ‘Boudoir’ Shakespeare, seems to me to meet the want: they are not sufficiently ‘expurgated.’ Bowdler’s is the most extraordinary of all: looking through it, I am filled with a deep sense of wonder, considering what he has left in, that he should have cut anything out! Besides relentlessly erasing all that is unsuitable on the score of reverence or decency, I should be inclined to omit also all that seems too difficult, or not likely to interest young readers. The resulting book might be slightly fragmentary: but it would be a real treasure to all British maidens who have any taste for poetry. If it be needful to apologize to any one for the new departure I have taken in this story—by introducing, along with what will, I hope, prove to be acceptable nonsense for children, some of the graver thoughts of human life—it must be to one who has learned the Art of keeping such thoughts wholly at a distance in hours of mirth and careless ease. To him such a mixture will seem, no doubt, ill-judged and repulsive. And that such an Art exists I do not dispute: with youth, good health, and sufficient money, xvii it seems quite possible to lead, for years together, a life of unmixed gaiety—with the exception of one solemn fact, with which we are liable to be confronted at any moment, even in the midst of the most brilliant company or the most sparkling entertainment. A man may fix his own times for admitting serious thought, for attending public worship, for prayer, for reading the Bible: all such matters he can defer to that ‘convenient season’, which is so apt never to occur at all: but he cannot defer, for one single moment, the necessity of attending to a message, which may come before he has finished reading this page, ‘this night shall thy soul be required of thee.’ The ever-present sense of this grim possibility has been, in all ages,[1] an incubus that men have striven to shake off. Few more interesting subjects of enquiry could be found, by a student of history, than the various weapons that have been used against this shadowy foe. Saddest of all must have been the thoughts of those who saw indeed an existence beyond the grave, but an existence far more terrible than annihilation—an existence as filmy, impalpable, all but invisible spectres, drifting about, through endless ages, in a world of shadows, with nothing to do, nothing to hope for, nothing to love! In the midst of the gay verses of that genial ‘bon vivant’ Horace, there stands one dreary word whose utter sadness goes to xviii one’s heart. It is the word ‘exilium’ in the well-known passage Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium Versatur urnâ serius ocius Sors exitura et nos in æternum Exilium impositura cymbæ. Yes, to him this present life—spite of all its weariness and all its sorrow—was the only life worth having: all else was ‘exile’! Does it not seem almost incredible that one, holding such a creed, should ever have smiled? And many in this day, I fear, even though believing in an existence beyond the grave far more real than Horace ever dreamed of, yet regard it as a sort of ‘exile’ from all the joys of life, and so adopt Horace’s theory, and say ‘let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.’ We go to entertainments, such as the theatre—I say ‘we’, for I also go to the play, whenever I get a chance of seeing a really good one—and keep at arm’s length, if possible, the thought that we may not return alive. Yet how do you know—dear friend, whose patience has carried you through this garrulous preface—that it may not be your lot, when mirth is fastest and most furious, to feel the sharp pang, or the deadly faintness, which heralds the final crisis—to see, with vague wonder, anxious friends bending over you—to hear their troubled whispers—perhaps yourself to shape the question, with trembling lips, “Is it xix serious?”, and to be told “Yes: the end is near” (and oh, how different all Life will look when those words are said!)—how do you know, I say, that all this may not happen to you, this night? And dare you, knowing this, say to yourself “Well, perhaps it is an immoral play: perhaps the situations are a little too ‘risky’, the dialogue a little too strong, the ‘business’ a little too suggestive. I don’t say that conscience is quite easy: but the piece is so clever, I must see it this once! I’ll begin a stricter life to-morrow.” To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow! “Who sins in hope, who, sinning, says, ‘Sorrow for sin God’s judgement stays!’ Against God’s Spirit he lies; quite stops Mercy with insult; dares, and drops, Like a scorch’d fly, that spins in vain Upon the axis of its pain, Then takes its doom, to limp and crawl, Blind and forgot, from fall to fall.” Let me pause for a moment to say that I believe this thought, of the possibility of death—if calmly realised, and steadily faced—would be one of the best possible tests as to our going to any scene of amusement being right or wrong. If the thought of sudden death acquires, for you, a special horror when imagined as happening in a theatre, then be very sure the theatre is harmful for you, however harmless it may be for others; and that you are xx incurring a deadly peril in going. Be sure the safest rule is that we should not dare to live in any scene in which we dare not die. But, once realise what the true object is in life—that it is not pleasure, not knowledge, not even fame itself, ‘that last infirmity of noble minds’—but that it is the development of character, the rising to a higher, nobler, purer standard, the building-up of the perfect Man—and then, so long as we feel that this is going on, and will (we trust) go on for evermore, death has for us no terror; it is not a shadow, but a light; not an end, but a beginning! One other matter may perhaps seem to call for apology—that I should have treated with such entire want of sympathy the British passion for ‘Sport’, which no doubt has been in by-gone days, and is still, in some forms of it, an excellent school for hardihood and for coolness in moments of danger. But I am not entirely without sympathy for genuine ‘Sport’: I can heartily admire the courage of the man who, with severe bodily toil, and at the risk of his life, hunts down some ‘man-eating’ tiger: and I can heartily sympathize with him when he exults in the glorious excitement of the chase and the hand-to-hand struggle with the monster brought to bay. But I can but look with deep wonder and sorrow on the hunter who, at his ease and in safety, can find pleasure in what involves, for some defenceless creature, wild terror and a death of agony: deeper, if the hunter be one who has pledged himself to preach xxi to men the Religion of universal Love: deepest of all, if it be one of those ‘tender and delicate’ beings, whose very name serves as a symbol of Love—‘thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women’—whose mission here is surely to help and comfort all that are in pain or sorrow! ‘Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.’ xxiii CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. LESS BREAD! MORE TAXES! 1 II. L’AMIE INCONNUE 16 III. BIRTHDAY-PRESENTS 29 IV. A CUNNING CONSPIRACY 43 V. A BEGGAR’S PALACE 56 VI. THE MAGIC LOCKET 73 VII. THE BARON’S EMBASSY 87 VIII. A RIDE ON A LION 100 IX. A JESTER AND A BEAR 113 X. THE OTHER PROFESSOR 129 XI. PETER AND PAUL 143 XII. A MUSICAL GARDENER 156 XIII. A VISIT TO DOGLAND 171 XIV. FAIRY-SYLVIE 187 XV. BRUNO’S REVENGE 207 XVI. A CHANGED CROCODILE 222 XVII. THE THREE BADGERS 234 XVIII. QUEER STREET, NUMBER FORTY 255 XIX. HOW TO MAKE A PHLIZZ 271 XX. LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO 287 XXI. THROUGH THE IVORY DOOR 304 XXII. CROSSING THE LINE 325 XXIII. AN OUTLANDISH WATCH 345 XXIV. THE FROGS’ BIRTHDAY-TREAT 361 XXV. LOOKING EASTWARD 383 Index 396 1 SYLVIE AND BRUNO. CHAPTER I. LESS BREAD! MORE TAXES! —and then all the people cheered again, and one man, who was more excited than the rest, flung his hat high into the air, and shouted (as well as I could make out) “Who roar for the Sub-Warden?” Everybody roared, but whether it was for the Sub-Warden, or not, did not clearly appear: some were shouting “Bread!” and some “Taxes!”, but no one seemed to know what it was they really wanted. All this I saw from the open window of the Warden’s breakfast-saloon, looking across the shoulder of the Lord Chancellor, who had 2 sprung to his feet the moment the shouting began, almost as if he had been expecting it, and had rushed to the window which commanded the best view of the market-place. “What can it all mean?” he kept repeating to himself, as, with his hands clasped behind him, and his gown floating in the air, he paced rapidly up and down the room. “I never heard such shouting before—and at this time of the morning, too! And with such unanimity! Doesn’t it strike you as very remarkable?” I represented, modestly, that to my ears it appeared that they were shouting for different things, but the Chancellor would not listen to my suggestion for a moment. “They all shout the same words, I assure you!” he said: then, leaning well out of the window, he whispered to a man who was standing close underneath, “Keep ’em together, ca’n’t you? The Warden will be here directly. Give ’em the signal for the march up!” All this was evidently not meant for my ears, but I could scarcely help hearing it, considering that my chin was almost on the Chancellor’s shoulder. 3 THE MARCH-UP THE MARCH-UP The ‘march up’ was a very curious sight: a straggling procession of men, marching two and two, began from the other side of the market-place, and advanced in an irregular zig-zag fashion towards the Palace, wildly tacking from side to side, like a sailing vessel making way against an unfavourable wind—so 4 that the head of the procession was often further from us at the end of one tack than it had been at the end of the previous one. Yet it was evident that all was being done under orders, for I noticed that all eyes were fixed on the man who stood just under the window, and to whom the Chancellor was continually whispering. This man held his hat in one hand and a little green flag in the other: whenever he waved the flag the procession advanced a little nearer, when he dipped it they sidled a little farther off, and whenever he waved his hat they all raised a hoarse cheer. “Hoo-roah!” they cried, carefully keeping time with the hat as it bobbed up and down. “Hoo-roah! Noo! Consti! Tooshun! Less! Bread! More! Taxes!” “That’ll do, that’ll do!” the Chancellor whispered. “Let ’em rest a bit till I give you the word. He’s not here yet!” But at this moment the great folding-doors of the saloon were flung open, and he turned with a guilty start to receive His High Excellency. However it was only Bruno, and the Chancellor gave a little gasp of relieved anxiety. 5 “Morning!” said the little fellow, addressing the remark, in a general sort of way, to the Chancellor and the waiters. “Doos oo know where Sylvie is? I’s looking for Sylvie!” “She’s with the Warden, I believe, y’reince!” the Chancellor replied with a low bow. There was, no doubt, a certain amount of absurdity in applying this title (which, as of course you see without my telling you, was nothing but ‘your Royal Highness’ condensed into one syllable) to a small creature whose father was merely the Warden of Outland: still, large excuse must be made for a man who had passed several years at the Court of Fairyland, and had there acquired the almost impossible art of pronouncing five syllables as one. But the bow was lost upon Bruno, who had run out of the room, even while the great feat of The Unpronounceable Monosyllable was being triumphantly performed. Just then, a single voice in the distance was understood to shout “A speech from the Chancellor!” “Certainly, my friends!” the Chancellor replied with extraordinary promptitude. “You shall have a speech!” Here one of the 6 waiters, who had been for some minutes busy making a queer-looking mixture of egg and sherry, respectfully presented it on a large silver salver. The Chancellor took it haughtily, drank it off thoughtfully, smiled benevolently on the happy waiter as he set down the empty glass, and began. To the best of my recollection this is what he said. “Ahem! Ahem! Ahem! Fellow-sufferers, or rather suffering fellows——” (“Don’t call ’em names!” muttered the man under the window. “I didn’t say felons!” the Chancellor explained.) “You may be sure that I always sympa——” (“’Ear, ’ear!” shouted the crowd, so loudly as quite to drown the orator’s thin squeaky voice) “—that I always sympa——” he repeated. (“Don’t simper quite so much!” said the man under the window. “It makes yer look a hidiot!” And, all this time, “’Ear, ’ear!” went rumbling round the market-place, like a peal of thunder.) “That I always sympathise!” yelled the Chancellor, the first moment there was silence. “But your true friend is the Sub-Warden! Day and night he is brooding on your wrongs—I should say your 7 rights—that is to say your wrongs—no, I mean your rights——” (“Don’t talk no more!” growled the man under the window. “You’re making a mess of it!”) At this moment the Sub-Warden entered the saloon. He was a thin man, with a mean and crafty face, and a greenish-yellow complexion; and he crossed the room very slowly, looking suspiciously about him as if he thought there might be a savage dog hidden somewhere. “Bravo!” he cried, patting the Chancellor on the back. “You did that speech very well indeed. Why, you’re a born orator, man!” “Oh, that’s nothing!” the Chancellor replied, modestly, with downcast eyes. “Most orators are born, you know.” The Sub-Warden thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Why, so they are!” he admitted. “I never considered it in that light. Still, you did it very well. A word in your ear!” The rest of their conversation was all in whispers: so, as I could hear no more, I thought I would go and find Bruno. I found the little fellow standing in the passage, and being addressed by one of the 8 men in livery, who stood before him, nearly bent double from extreme respectfulness, with his hands hanging in front of him like the fins of a fish. “His High Excellency,” this respectful man was saying, “is in his Study, y’reince!” (He didn’t pronounce this quite so well as the Chancellor.) Thither Bruno trotted, and I thought it well to follow him. The Warden, a tall dignified man with a grave but very pleasant face, was seated before a writing-table, which was covered with papers, and holding on his knee one of the sweetest and loveliest little maidens it has ever been my lot to see. She looked four or five years older than Bruno, but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the same wealth of curly brown hair. Her eager smiling face was turned upwards towards her father’s, and it was a pretty sight to see the mutual love with which the two faces—one in the Spring of Life, the other in its late Autumn—were gazing on each other. “No, you’ve never seen him,” the old man was saying: “you couldn’t, you know, he’s been away so long—traveling from land to 9 land, and seeking for health, more years than you’ve been alive, little Sylvie!” Here Bruno climbed upon his other knee, and a good deal of kissing, on a rather complicated system, was the result. “He only came back last night,” said the Warden, when the kissing was over: “he’s been traveling post-haste, for the last thousand miles or so, in order to be here on Sylvie’s birthday. But he’s a very early riser, and I dare say he’s in the Library already. Come with me and see him. He’s always kind to children. You’ll be sure to like him.” “Has the Other Professor come too?” Bruno asked in an awe-struck voice. “Yes, they arrived together. The Other Professor is—well, you won’t like him quite so much, perhaps. He’s a little more dreamy, you know.” “I wiss Sylvie was a little more dreamy,” said Bruno. “What do you mean, Bruno?” said Sylvie. Bruno went on addressing his father. “She says she ca’n’t, oo know. But I thinks it isn’t ca’n’t, it’s wo’n’t.” 10 “Says she ca’n’t dream!” the puzzled Warden repeated. “She do say it,” Bruno persisted. “When I says to her ‘Let’s stop lessons!’, she says ‘Oh, I ca’n’t dream of letting oo stop yet!’” “He always wants to stop lessons,” Sylvie explained, “five minutes after we begin!” “Five minutes’ lessons a day!” said the Warden. “You won’t learn much at that rate, little man!” “That’s just what Sylvie says,” Bruno rejoined. “She says I wo’n’t learn my lessons. And I tells her, over and over, I ca’n’t learn ’em. And what doos oo think she says? She says ‘It isn’t ca’n’t, it’s wo’n’t!’” “Let’s go and see the Professor,” the Warden said, wisely avoiding further discussion. The children got down off his knees, each secured a hand, and the happy trio set off for the Library—followed by me. I had come to the conclusion by this time that none of the party (except, for a few moments, the Lord Chancellor) was in the least able to see me. “What’s the matter with him?” Sylvie asked, walking with a little extra sedateness, by way 11 of example to Bruno at the other side, who never ceased jumping up and down. VISITING THE PROFESSOR VISITING THE PROFESSOR “What was the matter—but I hope he’s all right now—was lumbago, and rheumatism, and that kind of thing. He’s been curing himself, you know: he’s a very learned doctor. Why, he’s actually invented three new diseases, besides a new way of breaking your collar-bone!” 12 “Is it a nice way?” said Bruno. “Well, hum, not very,” the Warden said, as we entered the Library. “And here is the Professor. Good morning, Professor! Hope you’re quite rested after your journey!” A jolly-looking, fat little man, in a flowery dressing-gown, with a large book under each arm, came trotting in at the other end of the room, and was going straight across without taking any notice of the children. “I’m looking for Vol. Three,” he said. “Do you happen to have seen it?” “You don’t see my children, Professor!” the Warden exclaimed, taking him by the shoulders and turning him round to face them. The Professor laughed violently: then he gazed at them through his great spectacles, for a minute or two, without speaking. At last he addressed Bruno. “I hope you have had a good night, my child?” Bruno looked puzzled. “I’s had the same night oo’ve had,” he replied. “There’s only been one night since yesterday!” It was the Professor’s turn to look puzzled now. He took off his spectacles, and rubbed 13 them with his hankerchief. Then he gazed at them again. Then he turned to the Warden. “Are they bound?” he enquired. “No, we aren’t,” said Bruno, who thought himself quite able to answer this question. The Professor shook his head sadly. “Not even half-bound?” “Why would we be half-bound?” said Bruno. “We’re not prisoners!” But the Professor had forgotten all about them by this time, and was speaking to the Warden again. “You’ll be glad to hear,” he was saying, “that the Barometer’s beginning to move——” “Well, which way?” said the Warden—adding to the children, “Not that I care, you know. Only he thinks it affects the weather. He’s a wonderfully clever man, you know. Sometimes he says things that only the Other Professor can understand. Sometimes he says things that nobody can understand! Which way is it, Professor? Up or down?” “Neither!” said the Professor, gently clapping his hands. “It’s going sideways—if I may so express myself.” 14 “And what kind of weather does that produce?” said the Warden. “Listen, children! Now you’ll hear something worth knowing!” “Horizontal weather,” said the Professor, and made straight for the door, very nearly trampling on Bruno, who had only just time to get out of his way. “Isn’t he learned?” the Warden said, looking after him with admiring eyes. “Positively he runs over with learning!” “But he needn’t run over me!” said Bruno. The Professor was back in a moment: he had changed his dressing-gown for a frock-coat, and had put on a pair of very strange-looking boots, the tops of which were open umbrellas. “I thought you’d like to see them,” he said. “These are the boots for horizontal weather!” “But what’s the use of wearing umbrellas round one’s knees?” “In ordinary rain,” the Professor admitted, “they would not be of much use. But if ever it rained horizontally, you know, they would be invaluable—simply invaluable!” “Take the Professor to the breakfast-saloon, children,” said the Warden. “And tell them 15 not to wait for me. I had breakfast early, as I’ve some business to attend to.” The children seized the Professor’s hands, as familiarly as if they had known him for years, and hurried him away. I followed respectfully behind. BOOTS FOR HORIZONTAL WEATHER BOOTS FOR HORIZONTAL WEATHER 16 CHAPTER II. L’AMIE INCONNUE. As we entered the breakfast-saloon, the Professor was saying “—and he had breakfast by himself, early: so he begged you wouldn’t wait for him, my Lady. This way, my Lady,” he added, “this way!” And then, with (as it seemed to me) most superfluous politeness, he flung open the door of my compartment, and ushered in “—a young and lovely lady!” I muttered to myself with some bitterness. “And this is, of course, the opening scene of Vol. I. She is the Heroine. And I am one of those subordinate characters that only turn up when 17 needed for the development of her destiny, and whose final appearance is outside the church, waiting to greet the Happy Pair!” “Yes, my Lady, change at Fayfield,” were the next words I heard (oh that too obsequious Guard!), “next station but one.” And the door closed, and the lady settled down into her corner, and the monotonous throb of the engine (making one feel as if the train were some gigantic monster, whose very circulation we could feel) proclaimed that we were once more speeding on our way. “The lady had a perfectly formed nose,” I caught myself saying to myself, “hazel eyes, and lips——” and here it occurred to me that to see, for myself, what “the lady” was really like, would be more satisfactory than much speculation. I looked round cautiously, and—was entirely disappointed of my hope. The veil, which shrouded her whole face, was too thick for me to see more than the glitter of bright eyes and the hazy outline of what might be a lovely oval face, but might also, unfortunately, be an equally unlovely one. I closed my eyes again, saying to myself “—couldn’t have a 18 better chance for an experiment in Telepathy! I’ll think out her face, and afterwards test the portrait with the original.” At first, no result at all crowned my efforts, though I ‘divided my swift mind,’ now hither, now thither, in a way that I felt sure would have made Æneas green with envy: but the dimly-seen oval remained as provokingly blank as ever—a mere Ellipse, as if in some mathematical diagram, without even the Foci that might be made to do duty as a nose and a mouth. Gradually, however, the conviction came upon me that I could, by a certain concentration of thought, think the veil away, and so get a glimpse of the mysterious face—as to which the two questions, “is she pretty?” and “is she plain?”, still hung suspended, in my mind, in beautiful equipoise. Success was partial—and fitful—still there was a result: ever and anon, the veil seemed to vanish, in a sudden flash of light: but, before I could fully realise the face, all was dark again. In each such glimpse, the face seemed to grow more childish and more innocent: and, when I had at last thought the veil 19 entirely away, it was, unmistakeably, the sweet face of little Sylvie! “So, either I’ve been dreaming about Sylvie,” I said to myself, “and this is the reality. Or else I’ve really been with Sylvie, and this is a dream! Is Life itself a dream, I wonder?” To occupy the time, I got out the letter, which had caused me to take this sudden railway-journey from my London home down to a strange fishing-town on the North coast, and read it over again:— “Dear old Friend, “I’m sure it will be as great a pleasure to me, as it can possibly be to you, to meet once more after so many years: and of course I shall be ready to give you all the benefit of such medical skill as I have: only, you know, one mustn’t violate professional etiquette! And you are already in the hands of a first-rate London doctor, with whom it would be utter affectation for me to pretend to compete. (I make no doubt he is right in saying the heart is affected: all your symptoms point that way.) One thing, at any rate, I have already done in 20 my doctorial capacity—secured you a bedroom on the ground-floor, so that you will not need to ascend the stairs at all. “I shall expect you by last train on Friday, in accordance with your letter: and, till then, I shall say, in the words of the old song, ‘Oh for Friday nicht! Friday’s lang a-coming!’ “Yours always, “Arthur Forester. “P.S. Do you believe in Fate?” This Postscript puzzled me sorely. “He is far too sensible a man,” I thought, “to have become a Fatalist. And yet what else can he mean by it?” And, as I folded up the letter and put it away, I inadvertently repeated the words aloud. “Do you believe in Fate?” The fair ‘Incognita’ turned her head quickly at the sudden question. “No, I don’t!” she said with a smile. “Do you?” “I—I didn’t mean to ask the question!” I stammered, a little taken aback at having begun a conversation in so unconventional a fashion. The lady’s smile became a laugh—not a mocking laugh, but the laugh of a happy child 21 who is perfectly at her ease. “Didn’t you?” she said. “Then it was a case of what you Doctors call ‘unconscious cerebration’?” “I am no Doctor,” I replied. “Do I look so like one? Or what makes you think it?” She pointed to the book I had been reading, which was so lying that its title, “Diseases of the Heart,” was plainly visible. “One needn’t be a Doctor,” I said, “to take an interest in medical books. There’s another class of readers, who are yet more deeply interested——” “You mean the Patients?” she interrupted, while a look of tender pity gave new sweetness to her face. “But,” with an evident wish to avoid a possibly painful topic, “one needn’t be either, to take an interest in books of Science. Which contain the greatest amount of Science, do you think, the books, or the minds?” “Rather a profound question for a lady!” I said to myself, holding, with the conceit so natural to Man, that Woman’s intellect is essentially shallow. And I considered a minute before replying. “If you mean living minds, I don’t think it’s possible to decide. There is 22 so much written Science that no living person has ever read: and there is so much thought-out Science that hasn’t yet been written. But, if you mean the whole human race, then I think the minds have it: everything, recorded in books, must have once been in some mind, you know.” “Isn’t that rather like one of the Rules in Algebra?” my Lady enquired. (“Algebra too!” I thought with increasing wonder.) “I mean, if we consider thoughts as factors, may we not say that the Least Common Multiple of all the minds contains that of all the books; but not the other way?” “Certainly we may!” I replied, delighted with the illustration. “And what a grand thing it would be,” I went on dreamily, thinking aloud rather than talking, “if we could only apply that Rule to books! You know, in finding the Least Common Multiple, we strike out a quantity wherever it occurs, except in the term where it is raised to its highest power. So we should have to erase every recorded thought, except in the sentence where it is expressed with the greatest intensity.” 23 My Lady laughed merrily. “Some books would be reduced to blank paper, I’m afraid!” she said. “They would. Most libraries would be terribly diminished in bulk. But just think what they would gain in quality!” “When will it be done?” she eagerly asked. “If there’s any chance of it in my time, I think I’ll leave off reading, and wait for it!” “Well, perhaps in another thousand years or so——” “Then there’s no use waiting!” said my Lady. “Let’s sit down. Uggug, my pet, come and sit by me!” “Anywhere but by me!” growled the Sub-Warden. “The little wretch always manages to upset his coffee!” I guessed at once (as perhaps the reader will also have guessed, if, like myself, he is very clever at drawing conclusions) that my Lady was the Sub-Warden’s wife, and that Uggug (a hideous fat boy, about the same age as Sylvie, with the expression of a prize-pig) was their son. Sylvie and Bruno, with the Lord Chancellor, made up a party of seven. 24 A PORTABLE PLUNGE-BATH A PORTABLE PLUNGE-BATH 25 “And you actually got a plunge-bath every morning?” said the Sub-Warden, seemingly in continuation of a conversation with the Professor. “Even at the little roadside-inns?” “Oh, certainly, certainly!” the Professor replied with a smile on his jolly face. “Allow me to explain. It is, in fact, a very simple problem in Hydrodynamics. (That means a combination of Water and Strength.) If we take a plunge-bath, and a man of great strength (such as myself) about to plunge into it, we have a perfect example of this science. I am bound to admit,” the Professor continued, in a lower tone and with downcast eyes, “that we need a man of remarkable strength. He must be able to spring from the floor to about twice his own height, gradually turning over as he rises, so as to come down again head first.” “Why, you need a flea, not a man!” exclaimed the Sub-Warden. “Pardon me,” said the Professor. “This particular kind of bath is not adapted for a flea. Let us suppose,” he continued, folding his table-napkin into a graceful festoon, “that this represents what is perhaps the necessity 26 of this Age—the Active Tourist’s Portable Bath. You may describe it briefly, if you like,” looking at the Chancellor, “by the letters A. T. P. B.” The Chancellor, much disconcerted at finding everybody looking at him, could only murmur, in a shy whisper, “Precisely so!” “One great advantage of this plunge-bath,” continued the Professor, “is that it requires only half-a-gallon of water——” “I don’t call it a plunge-bath,” His Sub-Excellency remarked, “unless your Active Tourist goes right under!” “But he does go right under,” the old man gently replied. “The A. T. hangs up the P. B. on a nail—thus. He then empties the water-jug into it—places the empty jug below the bag—leaps into the air—descends head-first into the bag—the water rises round him to the top of the bag—and there you are!” he triumphantly concluded. “The A. T. is as much under water as if he’d gone a mile or two down into the Atlantic!” “And he’s drowned, let us say, in about four minutes——” 27 “By no means!” the Professor answered with a proud smile. “After about a minute, he quietly turns a tap at the lower end of the P. B.—all the water runs back into the jug—and there you are again!” “But how in the world is he to get out of the bag again?” “That, I take it,” said the Professor, “is the most beautiful part of the whole invention. All the way up the P. B., inside, are loops for the thumbs; so it’s something like going up-stairs, only perhaps less comfortable; and, by the time the A. T. has risen out of the bag, all but his head, he’s sure to topple over, one way or the other—the Law of Gravity secures that. And there he is on the floor again!” “A little bruised, perhaps?” “Well, yes, a little bruised; but having had his plunge-bath: that’s the great thing.” “Wonderful! It’s almost beyond belief!” murmured the Sub-Warden. The Professor took it as a compliment, and bowed with a gratified smile. “Quite beyond belief!” my Lady added—meaning, no doubt, to be more complimentary 28 still. The Professor bowed, but he didn’t smile this time. “I can assure you,” he said earnestly, “that, provided the bath was made, I used it every morning. I certainly ordered it—that I am clear about—my only doubt is, whether the man ever finished making it. It’s difficult to remember, after so many years——” At this moment the door, very slowly and creakingly, began to open, and Sylvie and Bruno jumped up, and ran to meet the well-known footstep. 29 CHAPTER III. BIRTHDAY-PRESENTS. “It’s my brother!” the Sub-Warden exclaimed, in a warning whisper. “Speak out, and be quick about it!” The appeal was evidently addressed to the Lord Chancellor, who instantly replied, in a shrill monotone, like a little boy repeating the alphabet, “As I was remarking, your Sub-Excellency, this portentous movement——” “You began too soon!” the other interrupted, scarcely able to restrain himself to a whisper, so great was his excitement. “He couldn’t have heard you. Begin again!” 30 “As I was remarking,” chanted the obedient Lord Chancellor, “this portentous movement has already assumed the dimensions of a Revolution!” “And what are the dimensions of a Revolution?” The voice was genial and mellow, and the face of the tall dignified old man, who had just entered the room, leading Sylvie by the hand, and with Bruno riding triumphantly on his shoulder, was too noble and gentle to have scared a less guilty man: but the Lord Chancellor turned pale instantly, and could hardly articulate the words “The dimensions—your—your High Excellency? I—I—scarcely comprehend!” “Well, the length, breadth, and thickness, if you like it better!” And the old man smiled, half-contemptuously. The Lord Chancellor recovered himself with a great effort, and pointed to the open window. “If your High Excellency will listen for a moment to the shouts of the exasperated populace——” (“of the exasperated populace!” the Sub-Warden repeated in a louder tone, as the Lord Chancellor, being in a state 31 of abject terror, had dropped almost into a whisper)“—you will understand what it is they want.” And at that moment there surged into the room a hoarse confused cry, in which the only clearly audible words were “Less—bread—More—taxes!” The old man laughed heartily. “What in the world——” he was beginning: but the Chancellor heard him not. “Some mistake!” he muttered, hurrying to the window, from which he shortly returned with an air of relief. “Now listen!” he exclaimed, holding up his hand impressively. And now the words came quite distinctly, and with the regularity of the ticking of a clock, “More—bread—Less—taxes!” “More bread!” the Warden repeated in astonishment. “Why, the new Government Bakery was opened only last week, and I gave orders to sell the bread at cost-price during the present scarcity! What can they expect more?” “The Bakery’s closed, y’reince!” the Chancellor said, more loudly and clearly than he had spoken yet. He was emboldened by 32 the consciousness that here, at least, he had evidence to produce: and he placed in the Warden’s hands a few printed notices, that were lying ready, with some open ledgers, on a side-table. “Yes, yes, I see!” the Warden muttered, glancing carelessly through them. “Order countermanded by my brother, and supposed to be my doing! Rather sharp practice! It’s all right!” he added in a louder tone. “My name is signed to it: so I take it on myself. But what do they mean by ‘Less Taxes’? How can they be less? I abolished the last of them a month ago!” “It’s been put on again, y’reince, and by y’reince’s own orders!”, and other printed notices were submitted for inspection. The Warden, whilst looking them over, glanced once or twice at the Sub-Warden, who had seated himself before one of the open ledgers, and was quite absorbed in adding it up; but he merely repeated “It’s all right. I accept it as my doing.” “And they do say,” the Chancellor went on sheepishly—looking much more like a convicted 33 thief than an Officer of State, “that a change of Government, by the abolition of the Sub-Warden—I mean,” he hastily added, on seeing the Warden’s look of astonishment, “the abolition of the office of Sub-Warden, and giving the present holder the right to act as Vice-Warden whenever the Warden is absent—would appease all this seedling discontent. I mean,” he added, glancing at a paper he held in his hand, “all this seething discontent!” “For fifteen years,” put in a deep but very harsh voice, “my husband has been acting as Sub-Warden. It is too long! It is much too long!” My Lady was a vast creature at all times: but, when she frowned and folded her arms, as now, she looked more gigantic than ever, and made one try to fancy what a haystack would look like, if out of temper. “He would distinguish himself as a Vice!” my Lady proceeded, being far too stupid to see the double meaning of her words. “There has been no such Vice in Outland for many a long year, as he would be!” “What course would you suggest, Sister?” the Warden mildly enquired. 34 My Lady stamped, which was undignified: and snorted, which was ungraceful. “This is no jesting matter!” she bellowed. “I will consult my brother,” said the Warden. “Brother!” “—and seven makes a hundred and ninety-four, which is sixteen and twopence,” the Sub-Warden replied. “Put down two and carry sixteen.” The Chancellor raised his hands and eyebrows, lost in admiration. “Such a man of business!” he murmured. “Brother, could I have a word with you in my Study?” the Warden said in a louder tone. The Sub-Warden rose with alacrity, and the two left the room together. My Lady turned to the Professor, who had uncovered the urn, and was taking its temperature with his pocket-thermometer. “Professor!” she began, so loudly and suddenly that even Uggug, who had gone to sleep in his chair, left off snoring and opened one eye. The Professor pocketed his thermometer in a moment, clasped his hands, and put his head on one side with a meek smile. 35 “You were teaching my son before breakfast, I believe?” my Lady loftily remarked. “I hope he strikes you as having talent?” “Oh, very much so indeed, my Lady!” the Professor hastily replied, unconsciously rubbing his ear, while some painful recollection seemed to cross his mind. “I was very forcibly struck by His Magnificence, I assure you!” “He is a charming boy!” my Lady exclaimed. “Even his snores are more musical than those of other boys!” If that were so, the Professor seemed to think, the snores of other boys must be something too awful to be endured: but he was a cautious man, and he said nothing. “And he’s so clever!” my Lady continued. “No one will enjoy your Lecture more—by the way, have you fixed the time for it yet? You’ve never given one, you know: and it was promised years ago, before you——” “Yes, yes, my Lady, I know! Perhaps next Tuesday—or Tuesday week——” “That will do very well,” said my Lady, graciously. “Of course you will let the Other Professor lecture as well?” 36 “I think not, my Lady,” the Professor said with some hesitation. “You see, he always stands with his back to the audience. It does very well for reciting; but for lecturing——” “You are quite right,” said my Lady. “And, now I come to think of it, there would hardly be time for more than one Lecture. And it will go off all the better, if we begin with a Banquet, and a Fancy-dress Ball——” “It will indeed!” the Professor cried, with enthusiasm. “I shall come as a Grass-hopper,” my Lady calmly proceeded. “What shall you come as, Professor?” The Professor smiled feebly. “I shall come as—as early as I can, my Lady!” “You mustn’t come in before the doors are opened,” said my Lady. “I ca’n’t,” said the Professor. “Excuse me a moment. As this is Lady Sylvie’s birthday, I would like to——” and he rushed away. Bruno began feeling in his pockets, looking more and more melancholy as he did so: then he put his thumb in his mouth, and considered for a minute: then he quietly left the room. 37 He had hardly done so before the Professor was back again, quite out of breath. “Wishing you many happy returns of the day, my dear child!” he went on, addressing the smiling little girl, who had run to meet him. “Allow me to give you a birthday-present. It’s a second-hand pincushion, my dear. And it only cost fourpence-halfpenny!” “Thank you, it’s very pretty!” And Sylvie rewarded the old man with a hearty kiss. “And the pins they gave me for nothing!” the Professor added in high glee. “Fifteen of em, and only one bent!” “I’ll make the bent one into a hook!” said Sylvie. “To catch Bruno with, when he runs away from his lessons!” “You ca’n’t guess what my present is!” said Uggug, who had taken the butter-dish from the table, and was standing behind her, with a wicked leer on his face. “No, I ca’n’t guess,” Sylvie said without looking up. She was still examining the Professor’s pincushion. “It’s this!” cried the bad boy, exultingly, as he emptied the dish over her, and then, with 38 a grin of delight at his own cleverness, looked round for applause. Sylvie coloured crimson, as she shook off the butter from her frock: but she kept her lips tight shut, and walked away to the window, where she stood looking out and trying to recover her temper. Uggug’s triumph was a very short one: the Sub-Warden had returned, just in time to be a witness of his dear child’s playfulness, and in another moment a skilfully-applied box on the ear had changed the grin of delight into a howl of pain. “My darling!” cried his mother, enfolding him in her fat arms. “Did they box his ears for nothing? A precious pet!” “It’s not for nothing!” growled the angry father. “Are you aware, Madam, that I pay the house-bills, out of a fixed annual sum? The loss of all that wasted butter falls on me! Do you hear, Madam!” “Hold your tongue, Sir!” My Lady spoke very quietly—almost in a whisper. But there was something in her look which silenced him. “Don’t you see it was only a joke? And a 39 very clever one, too! He only meant that he loved nobody but her! And, instead of being pleased with the compliment, the spiteful little thing has gone away in a huff!” The Sub-Warden was a very good hand at changing a subject. He walked across to the window. “My dear,” he said, “is that a pig that I see down below, rooting about among your flower-beds?” “A pig!” shrieked my Lady, rushing madly to the window, and almost pushing her husband out, in her anxiety to see for herself. “Whose pig is it? How did it get in? Where’s that crazy Gardener gone?” At this moment Bruno re-entered the room, and passing Uggug (who was blubbering his loudest, in the hope of attracting notice) as if he was quite used to that sort of thing, he ran up to Sylvie and threw his arms round her. “I went to my toy-cupboard,” he said with a very sorrowful face, “to see if there were somefin fit for a present for oo! And there isn’t nuffin! They’s all broken, every one! And I haven’t got no money left, to buy oo a birthday-present! And I ca’n’t give oo 40 nuffin but this!” (“This” was a very earnest hug and a kiss.) “Oh, thank you, darling!” cried Sylvie. “I like your present best of all!” (But if so, why did she give it back so quickly?) His Sub-Excellency turned and patted the two children on the head with his long lean hands. “Go away, dears!” he said. “There’s business to talk over.” Sylvie and Bruno went away hand in hand: but, on reaching the door, Sylvie came back again and went up to Uggug timidly. “I don’t mind about the butter,” she said, “and I—I’m sorry he hurt you!” And she tried to shake hands with the little ruffian: but Uggug only blubbered louder, and wouldn’t make friends. Sylvie left the room with a sigh. The Sub-Warden glared angrily at his weeping son. “Leave the room, Sirrah!” he said, as loud as he dared. His wife was still leaning out of the window, and kept repeating “I ca’n’t see that pig! Where is it?” “It’s moved to the right—now it’s gone a little to the left,” said the Sub-Warden: but he had his back to the window, and was making 41 signals to the Lord Chancellor, pointing to Uggug and the door, with many a cunning nod and wink. REMOVAL OF UGGUG REMOVAL OF UGGUG The Chancellor caught his meaning at last, and, crossing the room, took that interesting child by the ear—the next moment he and Uggug were out of the room, and the door shut behind them: but not before one piercing yell had rung through the room, and reached the ears of the fond mother. “What is that hideous noise?” she fiercely asked, turning upon her startled husband. 42 “It’s some hyæna—or other,” replied the Sub-Warden, looking vaguely up to the ceiling, as if that was where they usually were to be found. “Let us to business, my dear. Here comes the Warden.” And he picked up from the floor a wandering scrap of manuscript, on which I just caught the words ‘after which Election duly holden the said Sibimet and Tabikat his wife may at their pleasure assume Imperial——’ before, with a guilty look, he crumpled it up in his hand. 43 CHAPTER IV. A CUNNING CONSPIRACY. The Warden entered at this moment: and close behind him came the Lord Chancellor, a little flushed and out of breath, and adjusting his wig, which appeared to have been dragged partly off his head. “But where is my precious child?” my Lady enquired, as the four took their seats at the small side-table devoted to ledgers and bundles and bills. “He left the room a few minutes ago—with the Lord Chancellor,” the Sub-Warden briefly explained. 44 “Ah!” said my Lady, graciously smiling on that high official. “Your Lordship has a very taking way with children! I doubt if any one could gain the ear of my darling Uggug so quickly as you can!” For an entirely stupid woman, my Lady’s remarks were curiously full of meaning, of which she herself was wholly unconscious. The Chancellor bowed, but with a very uneasy air. “I think the Warden was about to speak,” he remarked, evidently anxious to change the subject. But my Lady would not be checked. “He is a clever boy,” she continued with enthusiasm, “but he needs a man like your Lordship to draw him out!” The Chancellor bit his lip, and was silent. He evidently feared that, stupid as she looked, she understood what she said this time, and was having a joke at his expense. He might have spared himself all anxiety: whatever accidental meaning her words might have, she herself never meant anything at all. “It is all settled!” the Warden announced, wasting no time over preliminaries. “The 45 Sub-Wardenship is abolished, and my brother is appointed to act as Vice-Warden whenever I am absent. So, as I am going abroad for a while, he will enter on his new duties at once.” “And there will really be a Vice after all?” my Lady enquired. “I hope so!” the Warden smilingly replied. My Lady looked much pleased, and tried to clap her hands: but you might as well have knocked two feather-beds together, for any noise it made. “When my husband is Vice,” she said, “it will be the same as if we had a hundred Vices!” “Hear, hear!” cried the Sub-Warden. “You seem to think it very remarkable,” my Lady remarked with some severity, “that your wife should speak the truth!” “No, not remarkable at all!” her husband anxiously explained. “Nothing is remarkable that you say, sweet one!” My Lady smiled approval of the sentiment, and went on. “And am I Vice-Wardeness?” “If you choose to use that title,” said the Warden: “but ‘Your Excellency’ will be the proper style of address. And I trust that both 46 ‘His Excellency’ and ‘Her Excellency’ will observe the Agreement I have drawn up. The provision I am most anxious about is this.” He unrolled a large parchment scroll, and read aloud the words “‘item, that we will be kind to the poor.’ The Chancellor worded it for me,” he added, glancing at that great Functionary. “I suppose, now, that word ‘item’ has some deep legal meaning?” “Undoubtedly!” replied the Chancellor, as articulately as he could with a pen between his lips. He was nervously rolling and unrolling several other scrolls, and making room among them for the one the Warden had just handed to him. “These are merely the rough copies,” he explained: “and, as soon as I have put in the final corrections—” making a great commotion among the different parchments, “—a semi-colon or two that I have accidentally omitted—” here he darted about, pen in hand, from one part of the scroll to another, spreading sheets of blotting-paper over his corrections, “all will be ready for signing.” “Should it not be read out, first?” my Lady enquired. 47 “No need, no need!” the Sub-Warden and the Chancellor exclaimed at the same moment, with feverish eagerness. “No need at all,” the Warden gently assented. “Your husband and I have gone through it together. It provides that he shall exercise the full authority of Warden, and shall have the disposal of the annual revenue attached to the office, until my return, or, failing that, until Bruno comes of age: and that he shall then hand over, to myself or to Bruno as the case may be, the Wardenship, the unspent revenue, and the contents of the Treasury, which are to be preserved, intact, under his guardianship.” All this time the Sub-Warden was busy, with the Chancellor’s help, shifting the papers from side to side, and pointing out to the Warden the place where he was to sign. He then signed it himself, and my Lady and the Chancellor added their names as witnesses. “Short partings are best,” said the Warden. “All is ready for my journey. My children are waiting below to see me off.” He gravely kissed my Lady, shook hands with his brother and the Chancellor, and left the room. 48 ‘WHAT A GAME!’ ‘WHAT A GAME!’ 49 The three waited in silence till the sound of wheels announced that the Warden was out of hearing: then, to my surprise, they broke into peals of uncontrollable laughter. “What a game, oh, what a game!” cried the Chancellor. And he and the Vice-Warden joined hands, and skipped wildly about the room. My Lady was too dignified to skip, but she laughed like the neighing of a horse, and waved her handkerchief above her head: it was clear to her very limited understanding that something very clever had been done, but what it was she had yet to learn. “You said I should hear all about it when the Warden had gone,” she remarked, as soon as she could make herself heard. “And so you shall, Tabby!” her husband graciously replied, as he removed the blotting-paper, and showed the two parchments lying side by side. “This is the one he read but didn’t sign: and this is the one he signed but didn’t read! You see it was all covered up, except the place for signing the names——” “Yes, yes!” my Lady interrupted eagerly, and began comparing the two Agreements. 50 “‘Item, that he shall exercise the authority of Warden, in the Warden’s absence.’ Why, that’s been changed into ‘shall be absolute governor for life, with the title of Emperor, if elected to that office by the people.’ What! Are you Emperor, darling?” “Not yet, dear,” the Vice-Warden replied. “It won’t do to let this paper be seen, just at present. All in good time.” My Lady nodded, and read on. “‘Item, that we will be kind to the poor.’ Why, that’s omitted altogether!” “Course it is!” said her husband. “We’re not going to bother about the wretches!” “Good,” said my Lady, with emphasis, and read on again. “‘Item, that the contents of the Treasury be preserved intact.’ Why, that’s altered into ‘shall be at the absolute disposal of the Vice-Warden’! Well, Sibby, that was a clever trick! All the Jewels, only think! May I go and put them on directly?” “Well, not just yet, Lovey,” her husband uneasily replied. “You see the public mind isn’t quite ripe for it yet. We must feel our way. Of course we’ll have the coach-and-four 51 out, at once. And I’ll take the title of Emperor, as soon as we can safely hold an Election. But they’ll hardly stand our using the Jewels, as long as they know the Warden’s alive. We must spread a report of his death. A little Conspiracy——” “A Conspiracy!” cried the delighted lady, clapping her hands. “Of all things, I do like a Conspiracy! It’s so interesting!” The Vice-Warden and the Chancellor interchanged a wink or two. “Let her conspire to her heart’s content!” the cunning Chancellor whispered. “It’ll do no harm!” “And when will the Conspiracy——” “Hist!” her husband hastily interrupted her, as the door opened, and Sylvie and Bruno came in, with their arms twined lovingly round each other—Bruno sobbing convulsively, with his face hidden on his sister’s shoulder, and Sylvie more grave and quiet, but with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mustn’t cry like that!” the Vice-Warden said sharply, but without any effect on the weeping children. “Cheer ’em up a bit!” he hinted to my Lady. 52 “Cake!” my Lady muttered to herself with great decision, crossing the room and opening a cupboard, from which she presently returned with two slices of plum-cake. “Eat, and don’t cry!” were her short and simple orders: and the poor children sat down side by side, but seemed in no mood for eating. For the second time the door opened—or rather was burst open, this time, as Uggug rushed violently into the room, shouting “that old Beggar’s come again!” “He’s not to have any food——” the Vice-Warden was beginning, but the Chancellor interrupted him. “It’s all right,” he said, in a low voice: “the servants have their orders.” “He’s just under here,” said Uggug, who had gone to the window, and was looking down into the court-yard. “Where, my darling?” said his fond mother, flinging her arms round the neck of the little monster. All of us (except Sylvie and Bruno, who took no notice of what was going on) followed her to the window. The old Beggar looked up at us with hungry eyes. “Only a crust of bread, your Highness!” he pleaded. 53 He was a fine old man, but looked sadly ill and worn. “A crust of bread is what I crave!” he repeated. “A single crust, and a little water!” ‘DRINK THIS!’ ‘DRINK THIS!’ “Here’s some water, drink this!” Uggug bellowed, emptying a jug of water over his head. “Well done, my boy!” cried the Vice-Warden. “That’s the way to settle such folk!” “Clever boy!” the Wardeness chimed in. “Hasn’t he good spirits?” “Take a stick to him!” shouted 54 the Vice-Warden, as the old Beggar shook the water from his ragged cloak, and again gazed meekly upwards. “Take a red-hot poker to him!” my Lady again chimed in. Possibly there was no red-hot poker handy: but some sticks were forthcoming in a moment, and threatening faces surrounded the poor old wanderer, who waved them back with quiet dignity. “No need to break my old bones,” he said. “I am going. Not even a crust!” “Poor, poor old man!” exclaimed a little voice at my side, half choked with sobs. Bruno was at the window, trying to throw out his slice of plum-cake, but Sylvie held him back. “He shall have my cake!” Bruno cried, passionately struggling out of Sylvie’s arms. “Yes, yes, darling!” Sylvie gently pleaded. “But don’t throw it out! He’s gone away, don’t you see? Let’s go after him.” And she led him out of the room, unnoticed by the rest of the party, who were wholly absorbed in watching the old Beggar. The Conspirators returned to their seats, and continued their conversation in an undertone, 55 so as not to be heard by Uggug, who was still standing at the window. “By the way, there was something about Bruno succeeding to the Wardenship,” said my Lady. “How does that stand in the new Agreement?” The Chancellor chuckled. “Just the same, word for word,” he said, “with one exception, my Lady. Instead of ‘Bruno,’ I’ve taken the liberty to put in——” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “—to put in ‘Uggug,’ you know!” “Uggug, indeed!” I exclaimed, in a burst of indignation I could no longer control. To bring out even that one word seemed a gigantic effort: but, the cry once uttered, all effort ceased at once: a sudden gust swept away the whole scene, and I found myself sitting up, staring at the young lady in the opposite corner of the carriage, who had now thrown back her veil, and was looking at me with an expression of amused surprise. 56 CHAPTER V. A BEGGAR’S PALACE. That I had said something, in the act of waking, I felt sure: the hoarse stifled cry was still ringing in my ears, even if the startled look of my fellow-traveler had not been evidence enough: but what could I possibly say by way of apology? “I hope I didn’t frighten you?” I stammered out at last. “I have no idea what I said. I was dreaming.” “You said ‘Uggug indeed!’” the young lady replied, with quivering lips that would curve themselves into a smile, in spite of all her 57 efforts to look grave. “At least—you didn’t say it—you shouted it!” “I’m very sorry,” was all I could say, feeling very penitent and helpless. “She has Sylvie’s eyes!” I thought to myself, half-doubting whether, even now, I were fairly awake. “And that sweet look of innocent wonder is all Sylvie’s, too. But Sylvie hasn’t got that calm resolute mouth—nor that far-away look of dreamy sadness, like one that has had some deep sorrow, very long ago——” And the thick-coming fancies almost prevented my hearing the lady’s next words. “If you had had a ‘Shilling Dreadful’ in your hand,” she proceeded, “something about Ghosts—or Dynamite—or Midnight Murder—one could understand it: those things aren’t worth the shilling, unless they give one a Nightmare. But really—with only a medical treatise, you know——” and she glanced, with a pretty shrug of contempt, at the book over which I had fallen asleep. Her friendliness, and utter unreserve, took me aback for a moment; yet there was no touch of forwardness, or boldness, about the child—for 58 child, almost, she seemed to be: I guessed her at scarcely over twenty—all was the innocent frankness of some angelic visitant, new to the ways of earth and the conventionalisms—or, if you will, the barbarisms—of Society. “Even so,” I mused, “will Sylvie look and speak, in another ten years.” “You don’t care for Ghosts, then,” I ventured to suggest, “unless they are really terrifying?” “Quite so,” the lady assented. “The regular Railway-Ghosts—I mean the Ghosts of ordinary Railway-literature—are very poor affairs. I feel inclined to say, with Alexander Selkirk, ‘Their tameness is shocking to me’! And they never do any Midnight Murders. They couldn’t ‘welter in gore,’ to save their lives!” “‘Weltering in gore’ is a very expressive phrase, certainly. Can it be done in any fluid, I wonder?” “I think not,” the lady readily replied—quite as if she had thought it out, long ago. “It has to be something thick. For instance, you might welter in bread-sauce. That, being white, would be more suitable for a Ghost, supposing it wished to welter!” 59 “You have a real good terrifying Ghost in that book?” I hinted. “How could you guess?” she exclaimed with the most engaging frankness, and placed the volume in my hands. I opened it eagerly, with a not unpleasant thrill (like what a good ghost-story gives one) at the ‘uncanny’ coincidence of my having so unexpectedly divined the subject of her studies. It was a book of Domestic Cookery, open at the article ‘Bread Sauce.’ I returned the book, looking, I suppose, a little blank, as the lady laughed merrily at my discomfiture. “It’s far more exciting than some of the modern ghosts, I assure you! Now there was a Ghost last month—I don’t mean a real Ghost in—in Supernature—but in a Magazine. It was a perfectly flavourless Ghost. It wouldn’t have frightened a mouse! It wasn’t a Ghost that one would even offer a chair to!” “Three score years and ten, baldness, and spectacles, have their advantages after all!” I said to myself. “Instead of a bashful youth and maiden, gasping out monosyllables at awful intervals, here we have an old man and a 60 child, quite at their ease, talking as if they had known each other for years! Then you think,” I continued aloud, “that we ought sometimes to ask a Ghost to sit down? But have we any authority for it? In Shakespeare, for instance—there are plenty of ghosts there—does Shakespeare ever give the stage-direction ‘hands chair to Ghost’?” The lady looked puzzled and thoughtful for a moment: then she almost clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, he does!” she cried. “He makes Hamlet say ‘Rest, rest, perturbed Spirit!’” “And that, I suppose, means an easy-chair?” “An American rocking-chair, I think——” “Fayfield Junction, my Lady, change for Elveston!” the guard announced, flinging open the door of the carriage: and we soon found ourselves, with all our portable property around us, on the platform. The accommodation, provided for passengers waiting at this Junction, was distinctly inadequate—a single wooden bench, apparently intended for three sitters only: and even this was already partially occupied by a very old man, in a smock frock, who sat, with rounded 61 shoulders and drooping head, and with hands clasped on the top of his stick so as to make a sort of pillow for that wrinkled face with its look of patient weariness. “Come, you be off!” the Station-master roughly accosted the poor old man. “You be off, and make way for your betters! This way, my Lady!” he added in a perfectly different tone. “If your Ladyship will take a seat, the train will be up in a few minutes.” The cringing servility of his manner was due, no doubt, to the address legible on the pile of luggage, which announced their owner to be “Lady Muriel Orme, passenger to Elveston, viâ Fayfield Junction.” As I watched the old man slowly rise to his feet, and hobble a few paces down the platform, the lines came to my lips:— “From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, With toil his stiffen’d limbs he rear’d; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard.” 62 ‘COME, YOU BE OFF!’ ‘COME, YOU BE OFF!’ But the lady scarcely noticed the little incident. After one glance at the ‘banished man,’ who stood tremulously leaning on his stick, she turned to me. “This is not an 63 American rocking-chair, by any means! Yet may I say,” slightly changing her place, so as to make room for me beside her, “may I say, in Hamlet’s words, ‘Rest, rest——’” she broke off with a silvery laugh. “‘—perturbed Spirit!’” I finished the sentence for her. “Yes, that describes a railway-traveler exactly! And here is an instance of it,” I added, as the tiny local train drew up alongside the platform, and the porters bustled about, opening carriage-doors—one of them helping the poor old man to hoist himself into a third-class carriage, while another of them obsequiously conducted the lady and myself into a first-class. She paused, before following him, to watch the progress of the other passenger. “Poor old man!” she said. “How weak and ill he looks! It was a shame to let him be turned away like that. I’m very sorry——” At this moment it dawned on me that these words were not addressed to me, but that she was unconsciously thinking aloud. I moved away a few steps, and waited to follow her into the carriage, where I resumed the conversation. 64 “Shakespeare must have traveled by rail, if only in a dream: ‘perturbed Spirit’ is such a happy phrase.” “‘Perturbed’ referring, no doubt,” she rejoined, “to the sensational booklets peculiar to the Rail. If Steam has done nothing else, it has at least added a whole new Species to English Literature!” “No doubt of it,” I echoed. “The true origin of all our medical books—and all our cookery-books——” “No, no!” she broke in merrily. “I didn’t mean our Literature! We are quite abnormal. But the booklets—the little thrilling romances, where the Murder comes at page fifteen, and the Wedding at page forty—surely they are due to Steam?” “And when we travel by Electricity—if I may venture to develop your theory—we shall have leaflets instead of booklets, and the Murder and the Wedding will come on the same page.” “A development worthy of Darwin!” the lady exclaimed enthusiastically. “Only you reverse his theory. Instead of developing a 65 mouse into an elephant, you would develop an elephant into a mouse!” But here we plunged into a tunnel, and I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall a few of the incidents of my recent dream. “I thought I saw——” I murmured sleepily: and then the phrase insisted on conjugating itself, and ran into “you thought you saw—he thought he saw——” and then it suddenly went off into a song:— “He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. ‘At length I realise,’ he said, ‘The bitterness of Life!’” And what a wild being it was who sang 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! 66 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. THE GARDENER THE GARDENER Sylvie and Bruno waited patiently till the end of the first verse. Then Sylvie advanced alone (Bruno having suddenly turned shy) and timidly introduced herself with the words “Please, I’m Sylvie!” “And who’s that other thing?” said the Gardener. “What thing?” said Sylvie, looking round. “Oh, that’s Bruno. He’s my brother.” “Was he your brother yesterday?” the Gardener anxiously enquired. 67 “Course I were!” cried Bruno, who had gradually crept nearer, and didn’t at all like being talked about without having his share in the conversation. “Ah, well!” the Gardener said with a kind of groan. “Things change so, here. Whenever I look again, it’s sure to be something different! Yet I does my duty! I gets up wriggle-early at five——” “If I was oo,” said Bruno, “I wouldn’t wriggle so early. It’s as bad as being a worm!” he added, in an undertone to Sylvie. “But you shouldn’t be lazy in the morning, Bruno,” said Sylvie. “Remember, it’s the early bird that picks up the worm!” “It may, if it likes!” Bruno said with a slight yawn. “I don’t like eating worms, one bit. I always stop in bed till the early bird has picked them up!” “I wonder you’ve the face to tell me such fibs!” cried the Gardener. To which Bruno wisely replied “Oo don’t want a face to tell fibs wiz—only a mouf.” Sylvie discreetly changed the subject. “And did you plant all these flowers?” she said. 68 “What a lovely garden you’ve made! Do you know, I’d like to live here always!” “In the winter-nights——” the Gardener was beginning. “But I’d nearly forgotten what we came about!” Sylvie interrupted. “Would you please let us through into the road? There’s a poor old beggar just gone out—and he’s very hungry—and Bruno wants to give him his cake, you know!” “It’s as much as my place is worth!” the Gardener muttered, taking a key from his pocket, and beginning to unlock a door in the garden-wall. “How much are it wurf?” Bruno innocently enquired. But the Gardener only grinned. “That’s a secret!” he said. “Mind you come back quick!” he called after the children, as they passed out into the road. I had just time to follow them, before he shut the door again. We hurried down the road, and very soon caught sight of the old Beggar, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and the children at once set off running to overtake him. 69 Lightly and swiftly they skimmed over the ground, and I could not in the least understand how it was I kept up with them so easily. But the unsolved problem did not worry me so much as at another time it might have done, there were so many other things to attend to. The old Beggar must have been very deaf, as he paid no attention whatever to Bruno’s eager shouting, but trudged wearily on, never pausing until the child got in front of him and held up the slice of cake. The poor little fellow was quite out of breath, and could only utter the one word “Cake!”—not with the gloomy decision with which Her Excellency had so lately pronounced it, but with a sweet childish timidity, looking up into the old man’s face with eyes that loved ‘all things both great and small.’ The old man snatched it from him, and devoured it greedily, as some hungry wild beast might have done, but never a word of thanks did he give his little benefactor—only growled “More, more!” and glared at the half-frightened children. “There is no more!” Sylvie said with tears in her eyes. “I’d eaten mine. It was a shame 70 to let you be turned away like that. I’m very sorry——” I lost the rest of the sentence, for my mind had recurred, with a great shock of surprise, to Lady Muriel Orme, who had so lately uttered these very words of Sylvie’s—yes, and in Sylvie’s own voice, and with Sylvie’s gentle pleading eyes! “Follow me!” were the next words I heard, as the old man waved his hand, with a dignified grace that ill suited his ragged dress, over a bush, that stood by the road side, which began instantly to sink into the earth. At another time I might have doubted the evidence of my eyes, or at least have felt some astonishment: but, in this strange scene, my whole being seemed absorbed in strong curiosity as to what would happen next. When the bush had sunk quite out of our sight, marble steps were seen, leading downwards into darkness. The old man led the way, and we eagerly followed. The staircase was so dark, at first, that I could only just see the forms of the children, as, hand-in-hand, they groped their way down after their 71 guide: but it got lighter every moment, with a strange silvery brightness, that seemed to exist in the air, as there were no lamps visible; and, when at last we reached a level floor, the room, in which we found ourselves, was almost as light as day. It was eight-sided, having in each angle a slender pillar, round which silken draperies were twined. The wall between the pillars was entirely covered, to the height of six or seven feet, with creepers, from which hung quantities of ripe fruit and of brilliant flowers, that almost hid the leaves. In another place, perchance, I might have wondered to see fruit and flowers growing together: here, my chief wonder was that neither fruit nor flowers were such as I had ever seen before. Higher up, each wall contained a circular window of coloured glass; and over all was an arched roof, that seemed to be spangled all over with jewels. With hardly less wonder, I turned this way and that, trying to make out how in the world we had come in: for there was no door: and all the walls were thickly covered with the lovely creepers. 72 “We are safe here, my darlings!” said the old man, laying a hand on Sylvie’s shoulder, and bending down to kiss her. Sylvie drew back hastily, with an offended air: but in another moment, with a glad cry of “Why, it’s Father!”, she had run into his arms. A BEGGAR’S PALACE A BEGGAR’S PALACE “Father! Father!” Bruno repeated: and, while the happy children were being hugged and kissed, I could but rub my eyes and say “Where, then, are the rags gone to?”; for the old man was now dressed in royal robes that glittered with jewels and gold embroidery, and wore a circlet of gold around his head. 73 CHAPTER VI. THE MAGIC LOCKET. “Where are we, father?” Sylvie whispered, with her arms twined closely around the old man’s neck, and with her rosy cheek lovingly pressed to his. “In Elfland, darling. It’s one of the provinces of Fairyland.” “But I thought Elfland was ever so far from Outland: and we’ve come such a tiny little way!” “You came by the Royal Road, sweet one. Only those of royal blood can travel along it: but you’ve been royal ever since I was made 74 King of Elfland—that’s nearly a month ago. They sent two ambassadors, to make sure that their invitation to me, to be their new King, should reach me. One was a Prince; so he was able to come by the Royal Road, and to come invisibly to all but me: the other was a Baron; so he had to come by the common road, and I dare say he hasn’t even arrived yet.” “Then how far have we come?” Sylvie enquired. “Just a thousand miles, sweet one, since the Gardener unlocked that door for you.” “A thousand miles!” Bruno repeated. “And may I eat one?” “Eat a mile, little rogue?” “No,” said Bruno. “I mean may I eat one of that fruits?” “Yes, child,” said his father: “and then you’ll find out what Pleasure is like—the Pleasure we all seek so madly, and enjoy so mournfully!” Bruno ran eagerly to the wall, and picked a fruit that was shaped something like a banana, but had the colour of a strawberry. 75 He ate it with beaming looks, that became gradually more gloomy, and were very blank indeed by the time he had finished. “It hasn’t got no taste at all!” he complained. “I couldn’t feel nuffin in my mouf! It’s a—what’s that hard word, Sylvie?” “It was a Phlizz,” Sylvie gravely replied. “Are they all like that, father?” “They’re all like that to you, darling, because you don’t belong to Elfland—yet. But to me they are real.” Bruno looked puzzled. “I’ll try anuvver kind of fruits!” he said, and jumped down off the King’s knee. “There’s some lovely striped ones, just like a rainbow!” And off he ran. Meanwhile the Fairy-King and Sylvie were talking together, but in such low tones that I could not catch the words: so I followed Bruno, who was picking and eating other kinds of fruit, in the vain hope of finding some that had a taste. I tried to pick some myself—but it was like grasping air, and I soon gave up the attempt and returned to Sylvie. “Look well at it, my darling,” the old man was saying, “and tell me how you like it.” 76 “It’s just lovely,” cried Sylvie, delightedly. “Bruno, come and look!” And she held up, so that he might see the light through it, a heart-shaped Locket, apparently cut out of a single jewel, of a rich blue colour, with a slender gold chain attached to it. “It are welly pretty,” Bruno more soberly remarked: and he began spelling out some words inscribed on it. “All—will—love—Sylvie,” he made them out at last. “And so they doos!” he cried, clasping his arms round her neck. “Everybody loves Sylvie!” “But we love her best, don’t we, Bruno?” said the old King, as he took possession of the Locket. “Now, Sylvie, look at this.” And he showed her, lying on the palm of his hand, a Locket of a deep crimson colour, the same shape as the blue one and, like it, attached to a slender golden chain. “Lovelier and lovelier!” exclaimed Sylvie, clasping her hands in ecstasy. “Look, Bruno!” “And there’s words on this one, too,” said Bruno. “Sylvie—will—love—all.” “Now you see the difference,” said the old man: “different colours and different words. 77 Choose one of them, darling. I’ll give you whichever you like best.” THE CRIMSON LOCKET THE CRIMSON LOCKET Sylvie whispered the words, several times over, with a thoughtful smile, and then made her decision. “It’s very nice to be loved,” she said: “but it’s nicer to love other people! May I have the red one, Father?” The old man said nothing: but I could see his eyes fill with tears, as he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead in a long loving kiss. Then he undid the chain, and showed her how to fasten it round her neck, and to hide it away under the edge of her 78 frock. “It’s for you to keep, you know,” he said in a low voice, “not for other people to see. You’ll remember how to use it?” “Yes, I’ll remember,” said Sylvie. “And now, darlings, it’s time for you to go back, or they’ll be missing you, and then that poor Gardener will get into trouble!” Once more a feeling of wonder rose in my mind as to how in the world we were to get back again—since I took it for granted that, wherever the children went, I was to go—but no shadow of doubt seemed to cross their minds, as they hugged and kissed him, murmuring, over and over again, “Good-bye, darling Father!” And then, suddenly and swiftly, the darkness of midnight seemed to close in upon us, and through the darkness harshly rang a strange wild song:— “He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sisters Husband’s Niece. ‘Unless you leave this house,’ he said, ‘I’ll send for the Police!’” 79 ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A BUFFALO’ ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A BUFFALO’ “That was me!” he added, looking out at us, through the half-opened door, as we stood waiting in the road. “And that’s what I’d have done—as sure as potatoes aren’t radishes—if she hadn’t have tooken herself off! But I always loves my pay-rints like anything.” “Who are oor pay-rints?” said Bruno. “Them as pay rint for me, a course!” the Gardener replied. “You can come in now, if you like.” He flung the door open as he spoke, and we got out, a little dazzled and stupefied (at least I 80 felt so) at the sudden transition from the half-darkness of the railway-carriage to the brilliantly-lighted platform of Elveston Station. A footman, in a handsome livery, came forwards and respectfully touched his hat. “The carriage is here, my Lady,” he said, taking from her the wraps and small articles she was carrying: and Lady Muriel, after shaking hands and bidding me “Good-night!” with a pleasant smile, followed him. It was with a somewhat blank and lonely feeling that I betook myself to the van from which the luggage was being taken out: and, after giving directions to have my boxes sent after me, I made my way on foot to Arthur’s lodgings, and soon lost my lonely feeling in the hearty welcome my old friend gave me, and the cozy warmth and cheerful light of the little sitting-room into which he led me. “Little, as you see, but quite enough for us two. Now, take the easy-chair, old fellow, and let’s have another look at you! Well, you do look a bit pulled down!” and he put on a solemn professional air. “I prescribe Ozone, quant. suff. Social dissipation, fiant pilulæ 81 quam plurimæ: to be taken, feasting, three times a day!” “But, Doctor!” I remonstrated. “Society doesn’t ‘receive’ three times a day!” “That’s all you know about it!” the young Doctor gaily replied. “At home, lawn-tennis, 3 P.M. At home, kettledrum, 5 P.M. At home, music (Elveston doesn’t give dinners), 8 P.M. Carriages at 10. There you are!” It sounded very pleasant, I was obliged to admit. “And I know some of the lady-society already,” I added. “One of them came in the same carriage with me.” “What was she like? Then perhaps I can identify her.” “The name was Lady Muriel Orme. As to what she was like—well, I thought her very beautiful. Do you know her?” “Yes—I do know her.” And the grave Doctor coloured slightly as he added “Yes, I agree with you. She is beautiful.” “I quite lost my heart to her!” I went on mischievously. “We talked——” “Have some supper!” Arthur interrupted with an air of relief, as the maid entered with 82 the tray. And he steadily resisted all my attempts to return to the subject of Lady Muriel until the evening had almost worn itself away. Then, as we sat gazing into the fire, and conversation was lapsing into silence, he made a hurried confession. “I hadn’t meant to tell you anything about her,” he said (naming no names, as if there were only one ‘she’ in the world!) “till you had seen more of her, and formed your own judgment of her: but somehow you surprised it out of me. And I’ve not breathed a word of it to any one else. But I can trust you with a secret, old friend! Yes! It’s true of me, what I suppose you said in jest.” “In the merest jest, believe me!” I said earnestly. “Why, man, I’m three times her age! But if she’s your choice, then I’m sure she’s all that is good and——” “—and sweet,” Arthur went on, “and pure, and self-denying, and true-hearted, and—” he broke off hastily, as if he could not trust himself to say more on a subject so sacred and so precious. Silence followed: and I leaned back drowsily in my easy-chair, filled with bright 83 and beautiful imaginings of Arthur and his lady-love, and of all the peace and happiness in store for them. I pictured them to myself walking together, lingeringly and lovingly, under arching trees, in a sweet garden of their own, and welcomed back by their faithful gardener, on their return from some brief excursion. It seemed natural enough that the gardener should be filled with exuberant delight at the return of so gracious a master and mistress—and how strangely childlike they looked! I could have taken them for Sylvie and Bruno—less natural that he should show it by such wild dances, such crazy songs! “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!’” —least natural of all that the Vice-Warden and ‘my Lady’ should be standing close beside 84 me, discussing an open letter, which had just been handed to him by the Professor, who stood, meekly waiting, a few yards off. “If it were not for those two brats,” I heard him mutter, glancing savagely at Sylvie and Bruno, who were courteously listening to the Gardener’s song, “there would be no difficulty whatever.” “Let’s hear that bit of the letter again,” said my Lady. And the Vice-Warden read aloud:— “——and we therefore entreat you graciously to accept the Kingship, to which you have been unanimously elected by the Council of Elfland: and that you will allow your son Bruno—of whose goodness, cleverness, and beauty, reports have reached us—to be regarded as Heir-Apparent.” “But what’s the difficulty?” said my Lady. “Why, don’t you see? The Ambassador, that brought this, is waiting in the house: and he’s sure to see Sylvie and Bruno: and then, when he sees Uggug, and remembers all that about ‘goodness, cleverness, and beauty,’ why, he’s sure to——” 85 “And where will you find a better boy than Uggug?” my Lady indignantly interrupted. “Or a wittier, or a lovelier?” To all of which the Vice-Warden simply replied “Don’t you be a great blethering goose! Our only chance is to keep those two brats out of sight. If you can manage that, you may leave the rest to me. I’ll make him believe Uggug to be a model of cleverness and all that.” “We must change his name to Bruno, of course?” said my Lady. The Vice-Warden rubbed his chin. “Humph! No!” he said musingly. “Wouldn’t do. The boy’s such an utter idiot, he’d never learn to answer to it.” “Idiot, indeed!” cried my Lady. “He’s no more an idiot than I am!” “You’re right, my dear,” the Vice-Warden soothingly replied. “He isn’t, indeed!” My Lady was appeased. “Let’s go in and receive the Ambassador,” she said, and beckoned to the Professor. “Which room is he waiting in?” she inquired. “In the Library, Madam.” 86 “And what did you say his name was?” said the Vice-Warden. The Professor referred to a card he held in his hand. “His Adiposity the Baron Doppelgeist.” “Why does he come with such a funny name?” said my Lady. “He couldn’t well change it on the journey,” the Professor meekly replied, “because of the luggage.” “You go and receive him,” my Lady said to the Vice-Warden, “and I’ll attend to the children.” 87 CHAPTER VII. THE BARON’S EMBASSY. I was following the Vice-Warden, but, on second thoughts, went after my Lady, being curious to see how she would manage to keep the children out of sight. I found her holding Sylvie’s hand, and with her other hand stroking Bruno’s hair in a most tender and motherly fashion: both children were looking bewildered and half-frightened. “My own darlings,” she was saying, “I’ve been planning a little treat for you! The Professor shall take you a long walk into the 88 woods this beautiful evening: and you shall take a basket of food with you, and have a little picnic down by the river!” Bruno jumped, and clapped his hands. “That are nice!” he cried. “Aren’t it, Sylvie?” Sylvie, who hadn’t quite lost her surprised look, put up her mouth for a kiss. “Thank you very much,” she said earnestly. My Lady turned her head away to conceal the broad grin of triumph that spread over her vast face, like a ripple on a lake. “Little simpletons!” she muttered to herself, as she marched up to the house. I followed her in. “Quite so, your Excellency,” the Baron was saying as we entered the Library. “All the infantry were under my command.” He turned, and was duly presented to my Lady. “A military hero?” said my Lady. The fat little man simpered. “Well, yes,” he replied, modestly casting down his eyes. “My ancestors were all famous for military genius.” My Lady smiled graciously. “It often runs in families,” she remarked: “just as a love for pastry does.” 89 The Baron looked slightly offended, and the Vice-Warden discreetly changed the subject. “Dinner will soon be ready,” he said. “May I have the honour of conducting your Adiposity to the guest-chamber?” “Certainly, certainly!” the Baron eagerly assented. “It would never do to keep dinner waiting!” And he almost trotted out of the room after the Vice-Warden. He was back again so speedily that the Vice-Warden had barely time to explain to my Lady that her remark about “a love for pastry” was “unfortunate. You might have seen, with half an eye,” he added, “that that’s his line. Military genius, indeed! Pooh!” “Dinner ready yet?” the Baron enquired, as he hurried into the room. “Will be in a few minutes,” the Vice-Warden replied. “Meanwhile, let’s take a turn in the garden. You were telling me,” he continued, as the trio left the house, “something about a great battle in which you had the command of the infantry——” “True,” said the Baron. “The enemy, as I was saying, far outnumbered us: but I marched 90 my men right into the middle of—what’s that?” the Military Hero exclaimed in agitated tones, drawing back behind the Vice-Warden, as a strange creature rushed wildly upon them, brandishing a spade. “It’s only the Gardener!” the Vice-Warden replied in an encouraging tone. “Quite harmless, I assure you. Hark, he’s singing! It’s his favorite amusement.” And once more those shrill discordant tones rang out:— “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!’” Throwing away the spade, he broke into a frantic jig, snapping his fingers, and repeating, again and again “There won’t be much for us! There won’t be much for us!” 91 ‘IT WAS A HIPPOPOTAMUS’ ‘IT WAS A HIPPOPOTAMUS’ Once more the Baron looked slightly offended, but the Vice-Warden hastily explained that the song had no allusion to him, and in fact had no meaning at all. “You didn’t mean anything by it, now did you?” He appealed to the Gardener, who had finished his song, and stood, balancing himself on one leg, and looking at them, with his mouth open. 92 “I never means nothing,” said the Gardener: and Uggug luckily came up at the moment, and gave the conversation a new turn. “Allow me to present my son,” said the Vice-Warden; adding, in a whisper, “one of the best and cleverest boys that ever lived! I’ll contrive for you to see some of his cleverness. He knows everything that other boys don’t know; and in archery, in fishing, in painting, and in music, his skill is—but you shall judge for yourself. You see that target over there? He shall shoot an arrow at it. Dear boy,” he went on aloud, “his Adiposity would like to see you shoot. Bring his Highness’ bow and arrows!” Uggug looked very sulky as he received the bow and arrow, and prepared to shoot. Just as the arrow left the bow, the Vice-Warden trod heavily on the toe of the Baron, who yelled with the pain. “Ten thousand pardons!” he exclaimed. “I stepped back in my excitement. See! It is a bull’s-eye!” The Baron gazed in astonishment. “He held the bow so awkwardly, it seemed impossible!” he muttered. But there was no room for doubt: 93 there was the arrow, right in the centre of the bull’s-eye! “The lake is close by,” continued the Vice-Warden. “Bring his Highness’ fishing-rod!” And Uggug most unwillingly held the rod, and dangled the fly over the water. “A beetle on your arm!” cried my Lady, pinching the poor Baron’s arm worse than if ten lobsters had seized it at once. “That kind is poisonous,” she explained. “But what a pity! You missed seeing the fish pulled out!” An enormous dead cod-fish was lying on the bank, with the hook in its mouth. “I had always fancied,” the Baron faltered, “that cod were salt-water fish?” “Not in this country,” said the Vice-Warden. “Shall we go in? Ask my son some question on the way—any subject you like!” And the sulky boy was violently shoved forwards, to walk at the Baron’s side. “Could your Highness tell me,” the Baron cautiously began, “how much seven times nine would come to?” “Turn to the left!” cried the Vice-Warden, hastily stepping forwards to show the way—so 94 hastily, that he ran against his unfortunate guest, who fell heavily on his face. “So sorry!” my Lady exclaimed, as she and her husband helped him to his feet again. “My son was in the act of saying ‘sixty-three’ as you fell!” The Baron said nothing: he was covered with dust, and seemed much hurt, both in body and mind. However, when they had got him into the house, and given him a good brushing, matters looked a little better. Dinner was served in due course, and every fresh dish seemed to increase the good-humour of the Baron: but all efforts, to get him to express his opinion as to Uggug’s cleverness, were in vain, until that interesting youth had left the room, and was seen from the open window, prowling about the lawn with a little basket, which he was filling with frogs. “So fond of Natural History as he is, dear boy!” said the doting mother. “Now do tell us, Baron, what you think of him!” “To be perfectly candid,” said the cautious Baron, “I would like a little more evidence. I think you mentioned his skill in——” 95 “Music?” said the Vice-Warden. “Why, he’s simply a prodigy! You shall hear him play the piano.” And he walked to the window. “Ug——I mean my boy! Come in for a minute, and bring the music-master with you! To turn over the music for him,” he added as an explanation. Uggug, having filled his basket with frogs, had no objection to obey, and soon appeared in the room, followed by a fierce-looking little man, who asked the Vice-Warden “Vot music vill you haf?” “The Sonata that His Highness plays so charmingly,” said the Vice-Warden. “His Highness haf not——” the music-master began, but was sharply stopped by the Vice-Warden. “Silence, Sir! Go and turn over the music for his Highness. My dear,” (to the Wardeness) “will you show him what to do? And meanwhile, Baron, I’ll just show you a most interesting map we have—of Outland, and Fairyland, and that sort of thing.” 96 THE MAP OF FAIRYLAND THE MAP OF FAIRYLAND 97 By the time my Lady had returned, from explaining things to the music-master, the map had been hung up, and the Baron was already much bewildered by the Vice-Warden’s habit of pointing to one place while he shouted out the name of another. My Lady joining in, pointing out other places, and shouting other names, only made matters worse; and at last the Baron, in despair, took to pointing out places for himself, and feebly asked “Is that great yellow splotch Fairyland?” “Yes, that’s Fairyland,” said the Vice-Warden: “and you might as well give him a hint,” he muttered to my Lady, “about going back to-morrow. He eats like a shark! It would hardly do for me to mention it.” His wife caught the idea, and at once began giving hints of the most subtle and delicate kind. “Just see what a short way it is back to Fairyland! Why, if you started to-morrow morning, you’d get there in very little more than a week!” The Baron looked incredulous. “It took me a full month to come,” he said. “But it’s ever so much shorter, going back, you know!” 98 The Baron looked appealingly to the Vice-Warden, who chimed in readily. “You can go back five times, in the time it took you to come here once—if you start to-morrow morning!” All this time the Sonata was pealing through the room. The Baron could not help admitting to himself that it was being magnificently played: but he tried in vain to get a glimpse of the youthful performer. Every time he had nearly succeeded in catching sight of him, either the Vice-Warden or his wife was sure to get in the way, pointing out some new place on the map, and deafening him with some new name. He gave in at last, wished a hasty good-night, and left the room, while his host and hostess interchanged looks of triumph. “Deftly done!” cried the Vice-Warden. “Craftily contrived! But what means all that tramping on the stairs?” He half-opened the door, looked out, and added in a tone of dismay, “The Baron’s boxes are being carried down!” “And what means all that rumbling of wheels?” cried my Lady. She peeped through the window curtains. “The Baron’s carriage has come round!” she groaned. 99 At this moment the door opened: a fat, furious face looked in: a voice, hoarse with passion, thundered out the words “My room is full of frogs—I leave you!”: and the door closed again. And still the noble Sonata went pealing through the room: but it was Arthur’s masterly touch that roused the echoes, and thrilled my very soul with the tender music of the immortal ‘Sonata Pathetique’: and it was not till the last note had died away that the tired but happy traveler could bring himself to utter the words “good-night!” and to seek his much-needed pillow. 100 CHAPTER VIII. A RIDE ON A LION. The next day glided away, pleasantly enough, partly in settling myself in my new quarters, and partly in strolling round the neighbourhood, under Arthur’s guidance, and trying to form a general idea of Elveston and its inhabitants. When five o’clock arrived, Arthur proposed—without any embarrassment this time—to take me with him up to ‘the Hall,’ in order that I might make acquaintance with the Earl of Ainslie, who had taken it for the season, and renew acquaintance with his daughter Lady Muriel. 101 My first impressions of the gentle, dignified, and yet genial old man were entirely favourable: and the real satisfaction that showed itself on his daughter’s face, as she met me with the words “this is indeed an unlooked-for pleasure!”, was very soothing for whatever remains of personal vanity the failures and disappointments of many long years, and much buffeting with a rough world, had left in me. Yet I noted, and was glad to note, evidence of a far deeper feeling than mere friendly regard, in her meeting with Arthur—though this was, as I gathered, an almost daily occurrence—and the conversation between them, in which the Earl and I were only occasional sharers, had an ease and a spontaneity rarely met with except between very old friends: and, as I knew that they had not known each other for a longer period than the summer which was now rounding into autumn, I felt certain that ‘Love,’ and Love alone, could explain the phenomenon. “How convenient it would be,” Lady Muriel laughingly remarked, à propos of my having insisted on saving her the trouble of carrying a 102 cup of tea across the room to the Earl, “if cups of tea had no weight at all! Then perhaps ladies would sometimes be permitted to carry them for short distances!” “One can easily imagine a situation,” said Arthur, “where things would necessarily have no weight, relatively to each other, though each would have its usual weight, looked at by itself.” “Some desperate paradox!” said the Earl. “Tell us how it could be. We shall never guess it.” “Well, suppose this house, just as it is, placed a few billion miles above a planet, and with nothing else near enough to disturb it: of course it falls to the planet?” The Earl nodded. “Of course—though it might take some centuries to do it.” “And is five-o’clock-tea to be going on all the while?” said Lady Muriel. “That, and other things,” said Arthur. “The inhabitants would live their lives, grow up and die, and still the house would be falling, falling, falling! But now as to the relative weight of things. Nothing can be heavy, you know, 103 except by trying to fall, and being prevented from doing so. You all grant that?” We all granted that. “Well, now, if I take this book, and hold it out at arms length, of course I feel its weight. It is trying to fall, and I prevent it. And, if I let go, it falls to the floor. But, if we were all falling together, it couldn’t be trying to fall any quicker, you know: for, if I let go, what more could it do than fall? And, as my hand would be falling too—at the same rate—it would never leave it, for that would be to get ahead of it in the race. And it could never overtake the falling floor!” “I see it clearly,” said Lady Muriel. “But it makes one dizzy to think of such things! How can you make us do it?” “There is a more curious idea yet,” I ventured to say. “Suppose a cord fastened to the house, from below, and pulled down by some one on the planet. Then of course the house goes faster than its natural rate of falling: but the furniture—with our noble selves—would go on falling at their old pace, and would therefore be left behind.” 104 “Practically, we should rise to the ceiling,” said the Earl. “The inevitable result of which would be concussion of brain.” “To avoid that,” said Arthur, “let us have the furniture fixed to the floor, and ourselves tied down to the furniture. Then the five-o’clock-tea could go on in peace.” “With one little drawback!” Lady Muriel gaily interrupted. “We should take the cups down with us: but what about the tea?” “I had forgotten the tea,” Arthur confessed. “That, no doubt, would rise to the ceiling—unless you chose to drink it on the way!” “Which, I think, is quite nonsense enough for one while!” said the Earl. “What news does this gentleman bring us from the great world of London?” This drew me into the conversation, which now took a more conventional tone. After a while, Arthur gave the signal for our departure, and in the cool of the evening we strolled down to the beach, enjoying the silence, broken only by the murmur of the sea and the far-away music of some fishermen’s song, almost as much as our late pleasant talk. 105 We sat down among the rocks, by a little pool, so rich in animal, vegetable, and zoöphytic—or whatever is the right word—life, that I became entranced in the study of it, and, when Arthur proposed returning to our lodgings, I begged to be left there for a while, to watch and muse alone. The fishermen’s song grew ever nearer and clearer, as their boat stood in for the beach; and I would have gone down to see them land their cargo of fish, had not the microcosm at my feet stirred my curiosity yet more keenly. One ancient crab, that was for ever shuffling frantically from side to side of the pool, had particularly fascinated me: there was a vacancy in its stare, and an aimless violence in its behaviour, that irresistibly recalled the Gardener who had befriended Sylvie and Bruno: and, as I gazed, I caught the concluding notes of the tune of his crazy song. The silence that followed was broken by the sweet voice of Sylvie. “Would you please let us out into the road?” “What! After that old beggar again?” the Gardener yelled, and began singing:— 106 “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!’” “We don’t want him to swallow anything,” Sylvie explained. “He’s not hungry. But we want to see him. So will you please——” ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A KANGAROO’ ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A KANGAROO’ “Certainly!” the Gardener promptly replied. “I always please. Never displeases nobody. 107 There you are!” And he flung the door open, and let us out upon the dusty high-road. We soon found our way to the bush, which had so mysteriously sunk into the ground: and here Sylvie drew the Magic Locket from its hiding-place, turned it over with a thoughtful air, and at last appealed to Bruno in a rather helpless way. “What was it we had to do with it, Bruno? It’s all gone out of my head!” “Kiss it!” was Bruno’s invariable recipe in cases of doubt and difficulty. Sylvie kissed it, but no result followed. “Rub it the wrong way,” was Bruno’s next suggestion. “Which is the wrong way?” Sylvie most reasonably enquired. The obvious plan was to try both ways. Rubbing from left to right had no visible effect whatever. From right to left—“Oh, stop, Sylvie!” Bruno cried in sudden alarm. “Whatever is going to happen?” For a number of trees, on the neighbouring hillside, were moving slowly upwards, in solemn procession: while a mild little brook, that had been rippling at our feet a moment before, began to swell, and foam, and hiss, and bubble, in a truly alarming fashion. 108 THE MOUSE-LION THE MOUSE-LION 109 “Rub it some other way!” cried Bruno. “Try up-and-down! Quick!” It was a happy thought. Up-and-down did it: and the landscape, which had been showing signs of mental aberration in various directions, returned to its normal condition of sobriety—with the exception of a small yellowish-brown mouse, which continued to run wildly up and down the road, lashing its tail like a little lion. “Let’s follow it,” said Sylvie: and this also turned out a happy thought. The mouse at once settled down into a business-like jog-trot, with which we could easily keep pace. The only phenomenon, that gave me any uneasiness, was the rapid increase in the size of the little creature we were following, which became every moment more and more like a real lion. Soon the transformation was complete: and a noble lion stood patiently waiting for us to come up with it. No thought of fear seemed to occur to the children, who patted and stroked it as if it had been a Shetland-pony. 110 “Help me up!” cried Bruno. And in another moment Sylvie had lifted him upon the broad back of the gentle beast, and seated herself behind him, pillion-fashion. Bruno took a good handful of mane in each hand, and made believe to guide this new kind of steed. “Gee-up!” seemed quite sufficient by way of verbal direction: the lion at once broke into an easy canter, and we soon found ourselves in the depths of the forest. I say ‘we,’ for I am certain that I accompanied them—though how I managed to keep up with a cantering lion I am wholly unable to explain. But I was certainly one of the party when we came upon an old beggar-man cutting sticks, at whose feet the lion made a profound obeisance, Sylvie and Bruno at the same moment dismounting, and leaping into the arms of their father. “From bad to worse!” the old man said to himself, dreamily, when the children had finished their rather confused account of the Ambassador’s visit, gathered no doubt from general report, as they had not seen him themselves. “From bad to worse! That is their destiny. I see it, but I cannot alter it. The 111 selfishness of a mean and crafty man—the selfishness of an ambitious and silly woman—the selfishness of a spiteful and loveless child—all tend one way, from bad to worse! And you, my darlings, must suffer it awhile, I fear. Yet, when things are at their worst, you can come to me. I can do but little as yet——” Gathering up a handful of dust and scattering it in the air, he slowly and solemnly pronounced some words that sounded like a charm, the children looking on in awe-struck silence:— “Let craft, ambition, spite, Be quenched in Reason’s night, Till weakness turn to might, Till what is dark be light, Till what is wrong be right!” The cloud of dust spread itself out through the air, as if it were alive, forming curious shapes that were for ever changing into others. “It makes letters! It makes words!” Bruno whispered, as he clung, half-frightened, to Sylvie. “Only I ca’n’t make them out! Read them, Sylvie!” 112 “I’ll try,” Sylvie gravely replied. “Wait a minute—if only I could see that word——” “I should be very ill!” a discordant voice yelled in our ears. “‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said, ‘I should be very ill!’” 113 CHAPTER IX. A JESTER AND A BEAR. Yes, we were in the garden once more: and, to escape that horrid discordant voice, we hurried indoors, and found ourselves in the library—Uggug blubbering, the Professor standing by with a bewildered air, and my Lady, with her arms clasped round her son’s neck, repeating, over and over again, “and did they give him nasty lessons to learn? My own pretty pet!” “What’s all this noise about?” the Vice-Warden angrily enquired, as he strode into the room. “And who put the hat-stand here?” 114 And he hung his hat up on Bruno, who was standing in the middle of the room, too much astonished by the sudden change of scene to make any attempt at removing it, though it came down to his shoulders, making him look something like a small candle with a large extinguisher over it. The Professor mildly explained that His Highness had been graciously pleased to say he wouldn’t do his lessons. “Do your lessons this instant, you young cub!” thundered the Vice-Warden. “And take this!” and a resounding box on the ear made the unfortunate Professor reel across the room. “Save me!” faltered the poor old man, as he sank, half-fainting, at my Lady’s feet. “Shave you? Of course I will!” my Lady replied, as she lifted him into a chair, and pinned an anti-macassar round his neck. “Where’s the razor?” The Vice-Warden meanwhile had got hold of Uggug, and was belabouring him with his umbrella. “Who left this loose nail in the floor?” he shouted. “Hammer it in, I say! 115 Hammer it in!” Blow after blow fell on the writhing Uggug, till he dropped howling to the floor. ‘HAMMER IT IN!’ ‘HAMMER IT IN!’ Then his father turned to the ‘shaving’ scene which was being enacted, and roared with laughter. “Excuse me, dear, I ca’n’t help it!” he said as soon as he could speak. “You are such an utter donkey! Kiss me, Tabby!” 116 And he flung his arms round the neck of the terrified Professor, who raised a wild shriek, but whether he received the threatened kiss or not I was unable to see, as Bruno, who had by this time released himself from his extinguisher, rushed headlong out of the room, followed by Sylvie; and I was so fearful of being left alone among all these crazy creatures that I hurried after them. “We must go to Father!” Sylvie panted, as they ran down the garden. “I’m sure things are at their worst! I’ll ask the Gardener to let us out again.” “But we ca’n’t walk all the way!” Bruno whimpered. “How I wiss we had a coach-and-four, like Uncle!” And, shrill and wild, rang through the air the familiar voice:— “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!’” 117 A BEAR WITHOUT A HEAD A BEAR WITHOUT A HEAD “No, I ca’n’t let you out again!” he said, before the children could speak. “The Vice-Warden gave it me, he did, for letting you out last time! So be off with you!” And, turning away from them, he began digging frantically in the middle of a gravel-walk, singing, over and over again, “‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing! It’s waiting to be fed!’” but in a more musical tone than the shrill screech in which he had begun. 118 The music grew fuller and richer at every moment: other manly voices joined in the refrain: and soon I heard the heavy thud that told me the boat had touched the beach, and the harsh grating of the shingle as the men dragged it up. I roused myself, and, after lending them a hand in hauling up their boat, I lingered yet awhile to watch them disembark a goodly assortment of the hard-won ‘treasures of the deep.’ When at last I reached our lodgings I was tired and sleepy, and glad enough to settle down again into the easy-chair, while Arthur hospitably went to his cupboard, to get me out some cake and wine, without which, he declared, he could not, as a doctor, permit my going to bed. And how that cupboard-door did creak! It surely could not be Arthur, who was opening and shutting it so often, moving so restlessly about, and muttering like the soliloquy of a tragedy-queen! No, it was a female voice. Also the figure—half-hidden by the cupboard-door—was a female figure, massive, and in flowing robes. 119 Could it be the landlady? The door opened, and a strange man entered the room. “What is that donkey doing?” he said to himself, pausing, aghast, on the threshold. The lady, thus rudely referred to, was his wife. She had got one of the cupboards open, and stood with her back to him, smoothing down a sheet of brown paper on one of the shelves, and whispering to herself “So, so! Deftly done! Craftily contrived!” Her loving husband stole behind her on tiptoe, and tapped her on the head. “Boh!” he playfully shouted at her ear. “Never tell me again I ca’n’t say ‘boh’ to a goose!” My Lady wrung her hands. “Discovered!” she groaned. “Yet no—he is one of us! Reveal it not, oh Man! Let it bide its time!” “Reveal what not?” her husband testily replied, dragging out the sheet of brown paper. “What are you hiding here, my Lady? I insist upon knowing!” My Lady cast down her eyes, and spoke in the littlest of little voices. “Don’t make fun of it, Benjamin!” she pleaded. “It’s—it’s—don’t you understand? It’s a DAGGER!” 120 “And what’s that for?” sneered His Excellency. “We’ve only got to make people think he’s dead! We haven’t got to kill him! And made of tin, too!” he snarled, contemptuously bending the blade round his thumb. “Now, Madam, you’ll be good enough to explain. First, what do you call me Benjamin for?” “It’s part of the Conspiracy, Love! One must have an alias, you know——” “Oh, an alias, is it? Well! And next, what did you get this dagger for? Come, no evasions! You ca’n’t deceive me!” “I got it for—for—for——” the detected Conspirator stammered, trying her best to put on the assassin-expression that she had been practising at the looking-glass. “For——” “For what, Madam!” “Well, for eighteenpence, if you must know, dearest! That’s what I got it for, on my——” “Now don’t say your Word and Honour!” groaned the other Conspirator. “Why, they aren’t worth half the money, put together!” “On my birthday,” my Lady concluded in a meek whisper. “One must have a dagger, you know. It’s part of the——” 121 “Oh, don’t talk of Conspiracies!” her husband savagely interrupted, as he tossed the dagger into the cupboard. “You know about as much how to manage a Conspiracy as if you were a chicken. Why, the first thing is to get a disguise. Now, just look at this!” And with pardonable pride he fitted on the cap and bells, and the rest of the Fool’s dress, and winked at her, and put his tongue in his cheek. “Is that the sort of thing, now?” he demanded. My Lady’s eyes flashed with all a Conspirator’s enthusiasm. “The very thing!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You do look, oh, such a perfect Fool!” The Fool smiled a doubtful smile. He was not quite clear whether it was a compliment or not, to express it so plainly. “You mean a Jester? Yes, that’s what I intended. And what do you think your disguise is to be?” And he proceeded to unfold the parcel, the lady watching him in rapture. “Oh, how lovely!” she cried, when at last the dress was unfolded. “What a splendid disguise! An Esquimaux peasant-woman!” 122 “An Esquimaux peasant, indeed!” growled the other. “Here, put it on, and look at yourself in the glass. Why, it’s a Bear, ca’n’t you use your eyes?” He checked himself suddenly, as a harsh voice yelled through the room “He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head!” But it was only the Gardener, singing under the open window. The Vice-Warden stole on tip-toe to the window, and closed it noiselessly, before he ventured to go on. “Yes, Lovey, a Bear: but not without a head, I hope! You’re the Bear, and me the Keeper. And if any one knows us, they’ll have sharp eyes, that’s all!” “I shall have to practise the steps a bit,” my Lady said, looking out through the Bear’s mouth: “one ca’n’t help being rather human just at first, you know. And of course you’ll say ‘Come up, Bruin!’, won’t you?” “Yes, of course,” replied the Keeper, laying hold of the chain, that hung from the Bear’s collar, with one hand, while with the other he cracked a little whip. “Now go round the room in a sort of a dancing attitude. Very 123 good, my dear, very good. Come up, Bruin! Come up, I say!” ‘COME UP, BRUIN!’ ‘COME UP, BRUIN!’ He roared out the last words for the benefit of Uggug, who had just come into the room, and was now standing, with his hands spread out, and eyes and mouth wide open, the very picture of stupid amazement. “Oh, my!” was all he could gasp out. 124 The Keeper pretended to be adjusting the bear’s collar, which gave him an opportunity of whispering, unheard by Uggug, “my fault, I’m afraid! Quite forgot to fasten the door. Plot’s ruined if he finds it out! Keep it up a minute or two longer. Be savage!” Then, while seeming to pull it back with all his strength, he let it advance upon the scared boy: my Lady, with admirable presence of mind, kept up what she no doubt intended for a savage growl, though it was more like the purring of a cat: and Uggug backed out of the room with such haste that he tripped over the mat, and was heard to fall heavily outside—an accident to which even his doting mother paid no heed, in the excitement of the moment. The Vice-Warden shut and bolted the door. “Off with the disguises!” he panted. “There’s not a moment to lose. He’s sure to fetch the Professor, and we couldn’t take him in, you know!” And in another minute the disguises were stowed away in the cupboard, the door unbolted, and the two Conspirators seated lovingly side-by-side on the sofa, earnestly discussing a book the Vice-Warden had hastily 125 snatched off the table, which proved to be the City-Directory of the capital of Outland. The door opened, very slowly and cautiously, and the Professor peeped in, Uggug’s stupid face being just visible behind him. “It is a beautiful arrangement!” the Vice-Warden was saying with enthusiasm. “You see, my precious one, that there are fifteen houses in Green Street, before you turn into West Street.” “Fifteen houses! Is it possible?” my Lady replied. “I thought it was fourteen!” And, so intent were they on this interesting question, that neither of them even looked up till the Professor, leading Uggug by the hand, stood close before them. My Lady was the first to notice their approach. “Why, here’s the Professor!” she exclaimed in her blandest tones. “And my precious child too! Are lessons over?” “A strange thing has happened!” the Professor began in a trembling tone. “His Exalted Fatness” (this was one of Uggug’s many titles) “tells me he has just seen, in this very room, a Dancing-Bear and a Court-Jester!” 126 The Vice-Warden and his wife shook with well-acted merriment. “Not in this room, darling!” said the fond mother. “We’ve been sitting here this hour or more, reading——,” here she referred to the book lying on her lap, “—reading the—the City-Directory.” “Let me feel your pulse, my boy!” said the anxious father. “Now put out your tongue. Ah, I thought so! He’s a little feverish, Professor, and has had a bad dream. Put him to bed at once, and give him a cooling draught.” “I ain’t been dreaming!” his Exalted Fatness remonstrated, as the Professor led him away. “Bad grammar, Sir!” his father remarked with some sternness. “Kindly attend to that little matter, Professor, as soon as you have corrected the feverishness. And, by the way, Professor!” (The Professor left his distinguished pupil standing at the door, and meekly returned.) “There is a rumour afloat, that the people wish to elect an—in point of fact, an—you understand that I mean an——” “Not another Professor!” the poor old man exclaimed in horror. 127 “No! Certainly not!” the Vice-Warden eagerly explained. “Merely an Emperor, you understand.” “An Emperor!” cried the astonished Professor, holding his head between his hands, as if he expected it to come to pieces with the shock. “What will the Warden——” “Why, the Warden will most likely be the new Emperor!” my Lady explained. “Where could we find a better? Unless, perhaps——” she glanced at her husband. “Where indeed!” the Professor fervently responded, quite failing to take the hint. The Vice-Warden resumed the thread of his discourse. “The reason I mentioned it, Professor, was to ask you to be so kind as to preside at the Election. You see it would make the thing respectable—no suspicion of anything underhand——” “I fear I ca’n’t, your Excellency!” the old man faltered. “What will the Warden——” “True, true!” the Vice-Warden interrupted. “Your position, as Court-Professor, makes it awkward, I admit. Well, well! Then the Election shall be held without you.” 128 “Better so, than if it were held within me!” the Professor murmured with a bewildered air, as if he hardly knew what he was saying. “Bed, I think your Highness said, and a cooling-draught?” And he wandered dreamily back to where Uggug sulkily awaited him. I followed them out of the room, and down the passage, the Professor murmuring to himself, all the time, as a kind of aid to his feeble memory, “C, C, C; Couch, Cooling-Draught, Correct-Grammar,” till, in turning a corner, he met Sylvie and Bruno, so suddenly that the startled Professor let go of his fat pupil, who instantly took to his heels. 129 CHAPTER X. THE OTHER PROFESSOR. “We were looking for you!” cried Sylvie, in a tone of great relief. “We do want you so much, you ca’n’t think!” “What is it, dear children?” the Professor asked, beaming on them with a very different look from what Uggug ever got from him. “We want you to speak to the Gardener for us,” Sylvie said, as she and Bruno took the old man’s hands and led him into the hall. “He’s ever so unkind!” Bruno mournfully added. “They’s all unkind to us, now that Father’s gone. The Lion were much nicer!” 130 “But you must explain to me, please,” the Professor said with an anxious look, “which is the Lion, and which is the Gardener. It’s most important not to get two such animals confused together. And one’s very liable to do it in their case—both having mouths, you know——” “Doos oo always confuses two animals together?” Bruno asked. “Pretty often, I’m afraid,” the Professor candidly confessed. “Now, for instance, there’s the rabbit-hutch and the hall-clock.” The Professor pointed them out. “One gets a little confused with them—both having doors, you know. Now, only yesterday—would you believe it?—I put some lettuces into the clock, and tried to wind up the rabbit!” “Did the rabbit go, after oo wounded it up?” said Bruno. The Professor clasped his hands on the top of his head, and groaned. “Go? I should think it did go! Why, it’s gone! And where ever it’s gone to—that’s what I ca’n’t find out! I’ve done my best—I’ve read all the article ‘Rabbit’ in the great dictionary—— Come in!” 131 “Only the tailor, Sir, with your little bill,” said a meek voice outside the door. “Ah, well, I can soon settle his business,” the Professor said to the children, “if you’ll just wait a minute. How much is it, this year, my man?” The tailor had come in while he was speaking. “Well, it’s been a doubling so many years, you see,” the tailor replied, a little gruffly, “and I think I’d like the money now. It’s two thousand pound, it is!” “Oh, that’s nothing!” the Professor carelessly remarked, feeling in his pocket, as if he always carried at least that amount about with him. “But wouldn’t you like to wait just another year, and make it four thousand? Just think how rich you’d be! Why, you might be a King, if you liked!” “I don’t know as I’d care about being a King,” the man said thoughtfully. “But it dew sound a powerful sight o’ money! Well, I think I’ll wait——” “Of course you will!” said the Professor. “There’s good sense in you, I see. Good-day to you, my man!” 132 “Will you ever have to pay him that four thousand pounds?” Sylvie asked as the door closed on the departing creditor. “Never, my child!” the Professor replied emphatically. “He’ll go on doubling it, till he dies. You see it’s always worth while waiting another year, to get twice as much money! And now what would you like to do, my little friends? Shall I take you to see the Other Professor? This would be an excellent opportunity for a visit,“ he said to himself, glancing at his watch: “he generally takes a short rest—of fourteen minutes and a half—about this time.” Bruno hastily went round to Sylvie, who was standing at the other side of the Professor, and put his hand into hers. “I thinks we’d like to go,” he said doubtfully: “only please let’s go all together. It’s best to be on the safe side, oo know!” “Why, you talk as if you were Sylvie!” exclaimed the Professor. “I know I did,” Bruno replied very humbly. “I quite forgotted I wasn’t Sylvie. Only I fought he might be rarver fierce!” 133 The Professor laughed a jolly laugh. “Oh, he’s quite tame!” he said. “He never bites. He’s only a little—a little dreamy, you know.” He took hold of Bruno’s other hand, and led the children down a long passage I had never noticed before—not that there was anything remarkable in that: I was constantly coming on new rooms and passages in that mysterious Palace, and very seldom succeeded in finding the old ones again. Near the end of the passage the Professor stopped. “This is his room,” he said, pointing to the solid wall. “We ca’n’t get in through there!” Bruno exclaimed. Sylvie said nothing, till she had carefully examined whether the wall opened anywhere. Then she laughed merrily: “You’re playing us a trick, you dear old thing!” she said. “There’s no door here!” “There isn’t any door to the room,” said the Professor. “We shall have to climb in at the window.” 134 THE OTHER PROFESSOR THE OTHER PROFESSOR 135 So we went into the garden, and soon found the window of the Other Professor’s room. It was a ground-floor window, and stood invitingly open: the Professor first lifted the two children in, and then he and I climbed in after them. The Other Professor was seated at a table, with a large book open before him, on which his forehead was resting: he had clasped his arms round the book, and was snoring heavily. “He usually reads like that,” the Professor remarked, “when the book’s very interesting: and then sometimes it’s very difficult to get him to attend!” This seemed to be one of the difficult times: the Professor lifted him up, once or twice, and shook him violently: but he always returned to his book the moment he was let go of, and showed by his heavy breathing that the book was as interesting as ever. “How dreamy he is!” the Professor exclaimed. “He must have got to a very interesting part of the book!” And he rained quite a shower of thumps on the Other Professor’s back, shouting “Hoy! Hoy!” all the time. “Isn’t it wonderful that he should be so dreamy?” he said to Bruno. 136 “If he’s always as sleepy as that,” Bruno remarked, “a course he’s dreamy!” “But what are we to do?” said the Professor. “You see he’s quite wrapped up in the book!” “Suppose oo shuts the book?” Bruno suggested. “That’s it!” cried the delighted Professor. “Of course that’ll do it!” And he shut up the book so quickly that he caught the Other Professor’s nose between the leaves, and gave it a severe pinch. The Other Professor instantly rose to his feet, and carried the book away to the end of the room, where he put it back in its place in the book-case. “I’ve been reading for eighteen hours and three-quarters,” he said, “and now I shall rest for fourteen minutes and a half. Is the Lecture all ready?” “Very nearly,” the Professor humbly replied. “I shall ask you to give me a hint or two—there will be a few little difficulties——” “And a Banquet, I think you said?” “Oh, yes! The Banquet comes first, of course. People never enjoy Abstract Science, 137 you know, when they’re ravenous with hunger. And then there’s the Fancy-Dress-Ball. Oh, there’ll be lots of entertainment!” “Where will the Ball come in?” said the Other Professor. “I think it had better come at the beginning of the Banquet—it brings people together so nicely, you know.” “Yes, that’s the right order. First the Meeting: then the Eating: then the Treating—for I’m sure any Lecture you give us will be a treat!” said the Other Professor, who had been standing with his back to us all this time, occupying himself in taking the books out, one by one, and turning them upside-down. An easel, with a black board on it, stood near him: and, every time that he turned a book upside-down, he made a mark on the board with a piece of chalk. “And as to the ‘Pig-Tale’—which you have so kindly promised to give us—” the Professor went on, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “I think that had better come at the end of the Banquet: then people can listen to it quietly.” 138 “Shall I sing it?” the Other Professor asked, with a smile of delight. “If you can,” the Professor replied, cautiously. “Let me try,” said the Other Professor, seating himself at the pianoforte. “For the sake of argument, let us assume that it begins on A flat.” And he struck the note in question. “La, la, la! I think that’s within an octave of it.” He struck the note again, and appealed to Bruno, who was standing at his side. “Did I sing it like that, my child?” “No, oo didn’t,” Bruno replied with great decision. “It were more like a duck.” “Single notes are apt to have that effect,” the Other Professor said with a sigh. “Let me try a whole verse. There was a Pig, that sat alone, Beside a ruined Pump. By day and night he made his moan: It would have stirred a heart of stone To see him wring his hoofs and groan, Because he could not jump. Would you call that a tune, Professor?” he asked, when he had finished. 139 The Professor considered a little. “Well,” he said at last, “some of the notes are the same as others—and some are different—but I should hardly call it a tune.” “Let me try it a bit by myself,” said the Other Professor. And he began touching the notes here and there, and humming to himself like an angry bluebottle. “How do you like his singing?” the Professor asked the children in a low voice. “It isn’t very beautiful,” Sylvie said, hesitatingly. “It’s very extremely ugly!” Bruno said, without any hesitation at all. “All extremes are bad,” the Professor said, very gravely. “For instance, Sobriety is a very good thing, when practised in moderation: but even Sobriety, when carried to an extreme, has its disadvantages.” “What are its disadvantages?” was the question that rose in my mind—and, as usual, Bruno asked it for me. “What are its lizard bandages?” “Well, this is one of them,” said the Professor. “When a man’s tipsy (that’s one extreme, 140 you know), he sees one thing as two. But, when he’s extremely sober (that’s the other extreme), he sees two things as one. It’s equally inconvenient, whichever happens.” “What does ‘illconvenient’ mean?” Bruno whispered to Sylvie. “The difference between ‘convenient’ and ‘inconvenient’ is best explained by an example,” said the Other Professor, who had overheard the question. “If you’ll just think over any Poem that contains the two words—such as——” The Professor put his hands over his ears, with a look of dismay. “If you once let him begin a Poem,” he said to Sylvie, “he’ll never leave off again! He never does!” “Did he ever begin a Poem and not leave off again?” Sylvie enquired. “Three times,” said the Professor. Bruno raised himself on tiptoe, till his lips were on a level with Sylvie’s ear. “What became of them three Poems?” he whispered. “Is he saying them all, now?” “Hush!” said Sylvie. “The Other Professor is speaking!” 141 “I’ll say it very quick,” murmured the Other Professor, with downcast eyes, and melancholy voice, which contrasted oddly with his face, as he had forgotten to leave off smiling. (“At least it wasn’t exactly a smile,” as Sylvie said afterwards: “it looked as if his mouth was made that shape.”) “Go on then,” said the Professor. “What must be must be.” “Remember that!” Sylvie whispered to Bruno, “It’s a very good rule for whenever you hurt yourself.” “And it’s a very good rule for whenever I make a noise,” said the saucy little fellow. “So you remember it too, Miss!” “Whatever do you mean?” said Sylvie, trying to frown, a thing she never managed particularly well. “Oftens and oftens,” said Bruno, “haven’t oo told me ‘There mustn’t be so much noise, Bruno!’ when I’ve tolded oo ‘There must!’ Why, there isn’t no rules at all about ‘There mustn’t’! But oo never believes me!” “As if any one could believe you, you wicked wicked boy!” said Sylvie. The words were 142 severe enough, but I am of opinion that, when you are really anxious to impress a criminal with a sense of his guilt, you ought not to pronounce the sentence with your lips quite close to his cheek—since a kiss at the end of it, however accidental, weakens the effect terribly. 143 CHAPTER XI. PETER AND PAUL. “As I was saying,” the Other Professor resumed, “if you’ll just think over any Poem, that contains the words—such as ‘Peter is poor,’ said noble Paul, ‘And I have always been his friend: And, though my means to give are small, At least I can afford to lend. How few, in this cold age of greed, Do good, except on selfish grounds! But I can feel for Peter’s need, And I will lend him fifty pounds!’ How great was Peter’s joy to find His friend in such a genial vein! 144 How cheerfully the bond he signed, To pay the money back again! ‘We ca’n’t,’ said Paul, ‘be too precise: ’Tis best to fix the very day: So, by a learned friend’s advice, I’ve made it Noon, the Fourth of May.’ ‘HOW CHEERFULLY THE BOND HE SIGNED!’ ‘HOW CHEERFULLY THE BOND HE SIGNED!’ 145 ‘But this is April!’ Peter said. ‘The First of April, as I think. Five little weeks will soon be fled: One scarcely will have time to wink! Give me a year to speculate— To buy and sell—to drive a trade—’ Said Paul ‘I cannot change the date. On May the Fourth it must be paid.’ ‘Well, well!’ said Peter, with a sigh. ‘Hand me the cash, and I will go. I’ll form a Joint-Stock Company, And turn an honest pound or so.’ ‘I’m grieved,’ said Paul, ‘to seem unkind: The money shall of course be lent: But, for a week or two, I find It will not be convenient.’ So, week by week, poor Peter came And turned in heaviness away; For still the answer was the same, ‘I cannot manage it to-day.’ And now the April showers were dry— The five short weeks were nearly spent— Yet still he got the old reply, ‘It is not quite convenient!’ 146 The Fourth arrived, and punctual Paul Came, with his legal friend, at noon. ‘I thought it best,’ said he, ‘to call: One cannot settle things too soon.’ Poor Peter shuddered in despair: His flowing locks he wildly tore: And very soon his yellow hair Was lying all about the floor. The legal friend was standing by, With sudden pity half unmanned: The tear-drop trembled in his eye, The signed agreement in his hand: But when at length the legal soul Resumed its customary force, ‘The Law,’ he said, ‘we ca’n’t control: Pay, or the Law must take its course!’ Said Paul, ‘How bitterly I rue That fatal morning when I called! Consider, Peter, what you do! You won’t be richer when you’re bald! Think you, by rending curls away, To make your difficulties less? Forbear this violence, I pray: You do but add to my distress!’ 147 ‘POOR PETER SHUDDERED IN DESPAIR’ ‘POOR PETER SHUDDERED IN DESPAIR’ ‘Not willingly would I inflict,’ Said Peter, ‘on that noble heart One needless pang. Yet why so strict? Is this to act a friendly part? However legal it may be To pay what never has been lent, 148 This style of business seems to me Extremely inconvenient! ‘No Nobleness of soul have I, Like some that in this Age are found!’ (Paul blushed in sheer humility, And cast his eyes upon the ground.) ‘This debt will simply swallow all, And make my life a life of woe!’ ‘Nay, nay, my Peter!’ answered Paul. ‘You must not rail on Fortune so! ‘You have enough to eat and drink: You are respected in the world: And at the barber’s, as I think, You often get your whiskers curled. Though Nobleness you ca’n’t attain— To any very great extent— The path of Honesty is plain, However inconvenient!’ ‘’Tis true,’ said Peter, ‘I’m alive: I keep my station in the world: Once in the week I just contrive To get my whiskers oiled and curled. 149 But my assets are very low: My little income’s overspent: To trench on capital, you know, Is always inconvenient!’ ‘But pay your debts!’ cried honest Paul. ‘My gentle Peter, pay your debts! What matter if it swallows all That you describe as your “assets”? Already you’re an hour behind: Yet Generosity is best. It pinches me—but never mind! I will not charge you interest!’ ‘How good! How great!’ poor Peter cried. ‘Yet I must sell my Sunday wig— The scarf-pin that has been my pride— My grand piano—and my pig!’ Full soon his property took wings: And daily, as each treasure went, He sighed to find the state of things Grow less and less convenient. Weeks grew to months, and months to years: Peter was worn to skin and bone: 150 And once he even said, with tears, ‘Remember, Paul, that promised Loan!’ Said Paul ‘I’ll lend you, when I can, All the spare money I have got— Ah, Peter, you’re a happy man! Yours is an enviable lot! ‘SUCH BOOTS AS THESE YOU SELDOM SEE’ ‘SUCH BOOTS AS THESE YOU SELDOM SEE’ 151 ‘I’m getting stout, as you may see: It is but seldom I am well: I cannot feel my ancient glee In listening to the dinner-bell: But you, you gambol like a boy, Your figure is so spare and light: The dinner-bell’s a note of joy To such a healthy appetite!’ Said Peter ‘I am well aware Mine is a state of happiness: And yet how gladly could I spare Some of the comforts I possess! What you call healthy appetite I feel as Hunger’s savage tooth: And, when no dinner is in sight, The dinner-bell’s a sound of ruth! ‘No scare-crow would accept this coat: Such boots as these you seldom see. Ah, Paul, a single five-pound-note Would make another man of me!’ Said Paul ‘It fills me with surprise To hear you talk in such a tone: I fear you scarcely realise The blessings that are all your own! 152 ‘You’re safe from being overfed: You’re sweetly picturesque in rags: You never know the aching head That comes along with money-bags: And you have time to cultivate That best of qualities, Content— For which you’ll find your present state Remarkably convenient!’ Said Peter ‘Though I cannot sound The depths of such a man as you, Yet in your character I’ve found An inconsistency or two. You seem to have long years to spare When there’s a promise to fulfil: And yet how punctual you were In calling with that little bill!’ ‘One can’t be too deliberate,’ Said Paul, ‘in parting with one’s pelf. With bills, as you correctly state, I’m punctuality itself. A man may surely claim his dues: But, when there’s money to be lent, A man must be allowed to choose Such times as are convenient!’ 153 It chanced one day, as Peter sat Gnawing a crust—his usual meal— Paul bustled in to have a chat, And grasped his hand with friendly zeal. ‘I knew,’ said he, ‘your frugal ways: So, that I might not wound your pride By bringing strangers in to gaze, I’ve left my legal friend outside! ‘You well remember, I am sure, When first your wealth began to go, And people sneered at one so poor, I never used my Peter so! And when you’d lost your little all, And found yourself a thing despised, I need not ask you to recall How tenderly I sympathised! ‘Then the advice I’ve poured on you, So full of wisdom and of wit: All given gratis, though ’tis true I might have fairly charged for it! But I refrain from mentioning Full many a deed I might relate— For boasting is a kind of thing That I particularly hate. 154 ‘I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!’ ‘I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!’ ‘How vast the total sum appears Of all the kindnesses I’ve done, From Childhood’s half-forgotten years Down to that Loan of April One! That Fifty Pounds! You little guessed How deep it drained my slender store: 155 But there’s a heart within this breast, And I will lend you fifty more!’ ‘Not so,’ was Peter’s mild reply, His cheeks all wet with grateful tears: ‘No man recalls, so well as I, Your services in bygone years: And this new offer, I admit, Is very very kindly meant— Still, to avail myself of it Would not be quite convenient!’ You’ll see in a moment what the difference is between ‘convenient’ and ‘inconvenient.’ You quite understand it now, don’t you?” he added, looking kindly at Bruno, who was sitting, at Sylvie’s side, on the floor. “Yes,” said Bruno, very quietly. Such a short speech was very unusual, for him: but just then he seemed, I fancied, a little exhausted. In fact, he climbed up into Sylvie’s lap as he spoke, and rested his head against her shoulder. “What a many verses it was!” he whispered. 156 CHAPTER XII. A MUSICAL GARDENER. The Other Professor regarded him with some anxiety. “The smaller animal ought to go to bed at once,” he said with an air of authority. “Why at once?” said the Professor. “Because he can’t go at twice,” said the Other Professor. The Professor gently clapped his hands. “Isn’t he wonderful!” he said to Sylvie. “Nobody else could have thought of the reason, so quick. Why, of course he ca’n’t go at twice! It would hurt him to be divided.” 157 This remark woke up Bruno, suddenly and completely. “I don’t want to be divided,” he said decisively. “It does very well on a diagram,” said the Other Professor. “I could show it you in a minute, only the chalk’s a little blunt.” “Take care!” Sylvie anxiously exclaimed, as he began, rather clumsily, to point it. “You’ll cut your finger off, if you hold the knife so!” “If oo cuts it off, will oo give it to me, please?” Bruno thoughtfully added. “It’s like this,” said the Other Professor, hastily drawing a long line upon the black board, and marking the letters ‘A,’ ‘B,’ at the two ends, and ‘C’ in the middle: “let me explain it to you. If AB were to be divided into two parts at C——” “It would be drownded,” Bruno pronounced confidently. The Other Professor gasped. “What would be drownded?” “Why the bumble-bee, of course!” said Bruno. “And the two bits would sink down in the sea!” 158 Here the Professor interfered, as the Other Professor was evidently too much puzzled to go on with his diagram. “When I said it would hurt him, I was merely referring to the action of the nerves——” The Other Professor brightened up in a moment. “The action of the nerves,” he began eagerly, “is curiously slow in some people. I had a friend, once, that, if you burnt him with a red-hot poker, it would take years and years before he felt it!” “And if you only pinched him?” queried Sylvie. “Then it would take ever so much longer, of course. In fact, I doubt if the man himself would ever feel it, at all. His grandchildren might.” “I wouldn’t like to be the grandchild of a pinched grandfather, would you, Mister Sir?” Bruno whispered. “It might come just when you wanted to be happy!” That would be awkward, I admitted, taking it quite as a matter of course that he had so suddenly caught sight of me. “But don’t you always want to be happy, Bruno?” 159 “Not always,” Bruno said thoughtfully. “Sometimes, when I’s too happy, I wants to be a little miserable. Then I just tell Sylvie about it, oo know, and Sylvie sets me some lessons. Then it’s all right.” “I’m sorry you don’t like lessons,” I said. “You should copy Sylvie. She’s always as busy as the day is long!” “Well, so am I!” said Bruno. “No, no!” Sylvie corrected him. “You’re as busy as the day is short!” “Well, what’s the difference?” Bruno asked. “Mister Sir, isn’t the day as short as it’s long? I mean, isn’t it the same length?” Never having considered the question in this light, I suggested that they had better ask the Professor; and they ran off in a moment to appeal to their old friend. The Professor left off polishing his spectacles to consider. “My dears,” he said after a minute, “the day is the same length as anything that is the same length as it.” And he resumed his neverending task of polishing. The children returned, slowly and thoughtfully, to report his answer. “Isn’t he wise?” 160 Sylvie asked in an awestruck whisper. “If I was as wise as that, I should have a head-ache all day long. I know I should!” “You appear to be talking to somebody—that isn’t here,” the Professor said, turning round to the children. “Who is it?” Bruno looked puzzled. “I never talks to nobody when he isn’t here!” he replied. “It isn’t good manners. Oo should always wait till he comes, before oo talks to him!” The Professor looked anxiously in my direction, and seemed to look through and through me without seeing me. “Then who are you talking to?” he said. “There isn’t anybody here, you know, except the Other Professor—and he isn’t here!” he added wildly, turning round and round like a teetotum. “Children! Help to look for him! Quick! He’s got lost again!” The children were on their feet in a moment. “Where shall we look?” said Sylvie. “Anywhere!” shouted the excited Professor. “Only be quick about it!” And he began trotting round and round the room, lifting up the chairs, and shaking them. 161 Bruno took a very small book out of the bookcase, opened it, and shook it in imitation of the Professor. “He isn’t here,” he said. “He ca’n’t be there, Bruno!” Sylvie said indignantly. “Course he ca’n’t!” said Bruno. “I should have shooked him out, if he’d been in there!” “Has he ever been lost before?” Sylvie enquired, turning up a corner of the hearth-rug, and peeping under it. “Once before,” said the Professor: “he once lost himself in a wood——” “And couldn’t he find his-self again?” said Bruno. “Why didn’t he shout? He’d be sure to hear his-self, ’cause he couldn’t be far off, oo know.” “Let’s try shouting,” said the Professor. “What shall we shout?” said Sylvie. “On second thoughts, don’t shout,” the Professor replied. “The Vice-Warden might hear you. He’s getting awfully strict!” This reminded the poor children of all the troubles, about which they had come to their old friend. Bruno sat down on the floor and began crying. “He is so cruel!” he 162 sobbed. “And he lets Uggug take away all my toys! And such horrid meals!” “What did you have for dinner to-day?” said the Professor. “A little piece of a dead crow,” was Bruno’s mournful reply. “He means rook-pie,” Sylvie explained. “It were a dead crow,” Bruno persisted. “And there were a apple-pudding—and Uggug ate it all—and I got nuffin but a crust! And I asked for a orange—and—didn’t get it!” And the poor little fellow buried his face in Sylvie’s lap, who kept gently stroking his hair, as she went on. “It’s all true, Professor dear! They do treat my darling Bruno very badly! And they’re not kind to me either,” she added in a lower tone, as if that were a thing of much less importance. The Professor got out a large red silk handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. “I wish I could help you, dear children!” he said. “But what can I do?” “We know the way to Fairyland—where Father’s gone—quite well,” said Sylvie: “if only the Gardener would let us out.” 163 “Won’t he open the door for you?” said the Professor. “Not for us,” said Sylvie: “but I’m sure he would for you. Do come and ask him, Professor dear!” “I’ll come this minute!” said the Professor. Bruno sat up and dried his eyes. “Isn’t he kind, Mister Sir?” “He is indeed,” said I. But the Professor took no notice of my remark. He had put on a beautiful cap with a long tassel, and was selecting one of the Other Professor’s walking-sticks, from a stand in the corner of the room. “A thick stick in one’s hand makes people respectful,” he was saying to himself. “Come along, dear children!” And we all went out into the garden together. “I shall address him, first of all,” the Professor explained as we went along, “with a few playful remarks on the weather. I shall then question him about the Other Professor. This will have a double advantage. First, it will open the conversation (you can’t even drink a bottle of wine without opening it first): and secondly, if he’s seen the Other Professor, 164 we shall find him that way: and, if he hasn’t, we sha’n’t.” On our way, we passed the target, at which Uggug had been made to shoot during the Ambassador’s visit. “See!” said the Professor, pointing out a hole in the middle of the bull’s-eye. “His Imperial Fatness had only one shot at it; and he went in just here!” Bruno carefully examined the hole. “Couldn’t go in there,” he whispered to me. “He are too fat!” We had no sort of difficulty in finding the Gardener. Though he was hidden from us by some trees, that harsh voice of his served to direct us; and, as we drew nearer, the words of his song became more and more plainly audible:— “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!’” 165 ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ALBATROSS’ ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ALBATROSS’ “Would it be afraid of catching cold?” said Bruno. “If it got very damp,” Sylvie suggested, “it might stick to something, you know.” “And that somefin would have to go by the post, whatever it was!” Bruno eagerly exclaimed. “Suppose it was a cow! Wouldn’t it be dreadful for the other things!” “And all these things happened to him,” said the Professor. “That’s what makes the song so interesting.” “He must have had a very curious life,” said Sylvie. “You may say that!” the Professor heartily rejoined. 166 “Of course she may!” cried Bruno. By this time we had come up to the Gardener, who was standing on one leg, as usual, and busily employed in watering a bed of flowers with an empty watering-can. “It hasn’t got no water in it!” Bruno explained to him, pulling his sleeve to attract his attention. “It’s lighter to hold,” said the Gardener. “A lot of water in it makes one’s arms ache.” And he went on with his work, singing softly to himself “The nights are very damp!” “In digging things out of the ground—which you probably do now and then,” the Professor began in a loud voice; “in making things into heaps—which no doubt you often do; and in kicking things about with one heel—which you seem never to leave off doing; have you ever happened to notice another Professor, something like me, but different?” “Never!” shouted the Gardener, so loudly and violently that we all drew back in alarm. “There ain’t such a thing!” 167 “We will try a less exciting topic,” the Professor mildly remarked to the children. “You were asking——” “We asked him to let us through the garden-door,” said Sylvie: “but he wouldn’t: but perhaps he would for you!” The Professor put the request, very humbly and courteously. “I wouldn’t mind letting you out,” said the Gardener. “But I mustn’t open the door for children. D’you think I’d disobey the Rules? Not for one-and-sixpence!” The Professor cautiously produced a couple of shillings. “That’ll do it!” the Gardener shouted, as he hurled the watering-can across the flower-bed, and produced a handful of keys—one large one, and a number of small ones. “But look here, Professor dear!” whispered Sylvie. “He needn’t open the door for us, at all. We can go out with you.” “True, dear child!” the Professor thankfully replied, as he replaced the coins in his pocket. “That saves two shillings!” And he took the children’s hands, that they might all go out 168 together when the door was opened. This, however, did not seem a very likely event, though the Gardener patiently tried all the small keys, over and over again. At last the Professor ventured on a gentle suggestion. “Why not try the large one? I have often observed that a door unlocks much more nicely with its own key.” The very first trial of the large key proved a success: the Gardener opened the door, and held out his hand for the money. The Professor shook his head. “You are acting by Rule,” he explained, “in opening the door for me. And now it’s open, we are going out by Rule—the Rule of Three.” The Gardener looked puzzled, and let us go out; but, as he locked the door behind us, we heard him singing thoughtfully to himself “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!’” 169 “I shall now return,” said the Professor, when we had walked a few yards: “you see, it’s impossible to read here, for all my books are in the house.” But the children still kept fast hold of his hands. “Do come with us!” Sylvie entreated with tears in her eyes. “Well, well!” said the good-natured old man. “Perhaps I’ll come after you, some day soon. But I must go back now. You see I left off at a comma, and it’s so awkward not knowing how the sentence finishes! Besides, you’ve got to go through Dogland first, and I’m always a little nervous about dogs. But it’ll be quite easy to come, as soon as I’ve completed my new invention—for carrying one’s-self, you know. It wants just a little more working-out.” “Won’t that be very tiring, to carry yourself?” Sylvie enquired. “Well, no, my child. You see, whatever fatigue one incurs by carrying, one saves by being carried! Good-bye, dears! Good-bye, Sir!” he added to my intense surprise, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze. 170 “Good-bye, Professor!” I replied: but my voice sounded strange and far away, and the children took not the slightest notice of our farewell. Evidently they neither saw me nor heard me, as, with their arms lovingly twined round each other, they marched boldly on. 171 CHAPTER XIII. A VISIT TO DOGLAND. “There’s a house, away there to the left,” said Sylvie, after we had walked what seemed to me about fifty miles. “Let’s go and ask for a night’s lodging.” “It looks a very comfable house,” Bruno said, as we turned into the road leading up to it. “I doos hope the Dogs will be kind to us, I is so tired and hungry!” A Mastiff, dressed in a scarlet collar, and carrying a musket, was pacing up and down, like a sentinel, in front of the entrance. He started, on catching sight of the children, and 172 came forwards to meet them, keeping his musket pointed straight at Bruno, who stood quite still, though he turned pale and kept tight hold of Sylvie’s hand, while the Sentinel walked solemnly round and round them, and looked at them from all points of view. THE MASTIFF-SENTINEL THE MASTIFF-SENTINEL “Oobooh, hooh boohooyah!” He growled at last. “Woobah yahwah oobooh! Bow wahbah woobooyah? Bow wow?” he asked Bruno, severely. 173 Of course Bruno understood all this, easily enough. All Fairies understand Doggee—that is, Dog-language. But, as you may find it a little difficult, just at first, I had better put it into English for you. “Humans, I verily believe! A couple of stray Humans! What Dog do you belong to? What do you want?” “We don’t belong to a Dog!” Bruno began, in Doggee. (“Peoples never belongs to Dogs!” he whispered to Sylvie.) But Sylvie hastily checked him, for fear of hurting the Mastiff’s feelings. “Please, we want a little food, and a night’s lodging—if there’s room in the house,” she added timidly. Sylvie spoke Doggee very prettily: but I think it’s almost better, for you, to give the conversation in English. “The house, indeed!” growled the Sentinel. “Have you never seen a Palace in your life? Come along with me! His Majesty must settle what’s to be done with you.” They followed him through the entrance-hall, down a long passage, and into a magnificent Saloon, around which were grouped dogs of all sorts and sizes. Two splendid Blood-hounds 174 were solemnly sitting up, one on each side of the crown-bearer. Two or three Bull-dogs—whom I guessed to be the Body-Guard of the King—were waiting in grim silence: in fact the only voices at all plainly audible were those of two little dogs, who had mounted a settee, and were holding a lively discussion that looked very like a quarrel. “Lords and Ladies in Waiting, and various Court Officials,” our guide gruffly remarked, as he led us in. Of me the Courtiers took no notice whatever: but Sylvie and Bruno were the subject of many inquisitive looks, and many whispered remarks, of which I only distinctly caught one—made by a sly-looking Dachshund to his friend—“Bah wooh wahyah hoobah Oobooh, hah bah?” (“She’s not such a bad-looking Human, is she?”) Leaving the new arrivals in the centre of the Saloon, the Sentinel advanced to a door, at the further end of it, which bore an inscription, painted on it in Doggee, “Royal Kennel—Scratch and Yell.” Before doing this, the Sentinel turned to the children, and said “Give me your names.” 175 “We’d rather not!” Bruno exclaimed, pulling Sylvie away from the door. “We want them ourselves. Come back, Sylvie! Come quick!” “Nonsense!” said Sylvie very decidedly: and gave their names in Doggee. Then the Sentinel scratched violently at the door, and gave a yell that made Bruno shiver from head to foot. “Hooyah wah!” said a deep voice inside. (That’s Doggee for “Come in!”) “It’s the King himself!” the Mastiff whispered in an awestruck tone. “Take off your wigs, and lay them humbly at his paws.” (What we should call “at his feet.”) Sylvie was just going to explain, very politely, that really they couldn’t perform that ceremony, because their wigs wouldn’t come off, when the door of the Royal Kennel opened, and an enormous Newfoundland Dog put his head out. “Bow wow?” was his first question. “When His Majesty speaks to you,” the Sentinel hastily whispered to Bruno, “you should prick up your ears!” Bruno looked doubtfully at Sylvie. “I’d rather not, please,” he said. “It would hurt.” 176 THE DOG-KING THE DOG-KING 177 “It doesn’t hurt a bit!” the Sentinel said with some indignation. “Look! It’s like this!” And he pricked up his ears like two railway signals. Sylvie gently explained matters. “I’m afraid we ca’n’t manage it,” she said in a low voice. “I’m very sorry: but our ears haven’t got the right—” she wanted to say “machinery” in Doggee: but she had forgotten the word, and could only think of “steam-engine.” The Sentinel repeated Sylvie’s explanation to the King. “Can’t prick up their ears without a steam-engine!” His Majesty exclaimed. “They must be curious creatures! I must have a look at them!” And he came out of his Kennel, and walked solemnly up to the children. What was the amazement—not to say the horror—of the whole assembly, when Sylvie actually patted His Majesty on the head, while Bruno seized his long ears and pretended to tie them together under his chin! The Sentinel groaned aloud: a beautiful Greyhound—who appeared to be one of the Ladies in Waiting—fainted away: and all the 178 other Courtiers hastily drew back, and left plenty of room for the huge Newfoundland to spring upon the audacious strangers, and tear them limb from limb. Only—he didn’t. On the contrary his Majesty actually smiled—so far as a Dog can smile—and (the other Dogs couldn’t believe their eyes, but it was true, all the same) his Majesty wagged his tail! “Yah! Hooh hahwooh!” (that is “Well! I never!”) was the universal cry. His Majesty looked round him severely, and gave a slight growl, which produced instant silence. “Conduct my friends to the banqueting-hall!” he said, laying such an emphasis on “my friends” that several of the dogs rolled over helplessly on their backs and began to lick Bruno’s feet. A procession was formed, but I only ventured to follow as far as the door of the banqueting-hall, so furious was the uproar of barking dogs within. So I sat down by the King, who seemed to have gone to sleep, and waited till the children returned to say good-night, when His Majesty got up and shook himself. 179 “Time for bed!” he said with a sleepy yawn. “The attendants will show you your room,” he added, aside, to Sylvie and Bruno. “Bring lights!” And, with a dignified air, he held out his paw for them to kiss. But the children were evidently not well practised in Court-manners. Sylvie simply stroked the great paw: Bruno hugged it: the Master of the Ceremonies looked shocked. All this time Dog-waiters, in splendid livery, were running up with lighted candles: but, as fast as they put them upon the table, other waiters ran away with them, so that there never seemed to be one for me, though the Master kept nudging me with his elbow, and repeating “I ca’n’t let you sleep here! You’re not in bed, you know!” I made a great effort, and just succeeded in getting out the words “I know I’m not. I’m in an arm-chair.” “Well, forty winks will do you no harm,” the Master said, and left me. I could scarcely hear his words: and no wonder: he was leaning over the side of a ship, that was miles away from the pier on which I stood. The ship 180 passed over the horizon, and I sank back into the arm-chair. The next thing I remember is that it was morning: breakfast was just over: Sylvie was lifting Bruno down from a high chair, and saying to a Spaniel, who was regarding them with a most benevolent smile, “Yes, thank you, we’ve had a very nice breakfast. Haven’t we, Bruno?” “There was too many bones in the——” Bruno began, but Sylvie frowned at him, and laid her finger on her lips, for, at this moment, the travelers were waited on by a very dignified officer, the Head-Growler, whose duty it was, first to conduct them to the King to bid him farewell, and then to escort them to the boundary of Dogland. The great Newfoundland received them most affably, but, instead of saying “good-bye,” he startled the Head-Growler into giving three savage growls, by announcing that he would escort them himself. “It is a most unusual proceeding, your Majesty!” the Head-Growler exclaimed, almost choking with vexation at being set aside, for he had put on his best Court-suit, made entirely of cat-skins, for the occasion. 181 “I shall escort them myself,” his Majesty repeated, gently but firmly, laying aside the Royal robes, and changing his crown for a small coronet, “and you may stay at home.” “I are glad!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie, when they had got well out of hearing. “He were so welly cross!” And he not only patted their Royal escort, but even hugged him round the neck in the exuberance of his delight. His Majesty calmly wagged the Royal tail. “It’s quite a relief,” he said, “getting away from that Palace now and then! Royal Dogs have a dull life of it, I can tell you! Would you mind” (this to Sylvie, in a low voice, and looking a little shy and embarrassed) “would you mind the trouble of just throwing that stick for me to fetch?” Sylvie was too much astonished to do anything for a moment: it sounded such a monstrous impossibility that a King should wish to run after a stick. But Bruno was equal to the occasion, and with a glad shout of “Hi then! Fetch it, good Doggie!” he hurled it over a clump of bushes. The next moment the Monarch of Dogland had bounded over the 182 bushes, and picked up the stick, and came galloping back to the children with it in his mouth. Bruno took it from him with great decision. “Beg for it!” he insisted; and His Majesty begged. “Paw!” commanded Sylvie; and His Majesty gave his paw. In short, the solemn ceremony of escorting the travelers to the boundaries of Dogland became one long uproarious game of play! “But business is business!” the Dog-King said at last. “And I must go back to mine. I couldn’t come any further,” he added, consulting a dog-watch, which hung on a chain round his neck, “not even if there were a Cat in sight!” They took an affectionate farewell of His Majesty, and trudged on. “That were a dear dog!” Bruno exclaimed. “Has we to go far, Sylvie? I’s tired!” “Not much further, darling!” Sylvie gently replied. “Do you see that shining, just beyond those trees? I’m almost sure it’s the gate of Fairyland! I know it’s all golden—Father told me so—and so bright, so bright!” she went on dreamily. 183 “It dazzles!” said Bruno, shading his eyes with one little hand, while the other clung tightly to Sylvie’s hand, as if he were half-alarmed at her strange manner. For the child moved on as if walking in her sleep, her large eyes gazing into the far distance, and her breath coming and going in quick pantings of eager delight. I knew, by some mysterious mental light, that a great change was taking place in my sweet little friend (for such I loved to think her) and that she was passing from the condition of a mere Outland Sprite into the true Fairy-nature. Upon Bruno the change came later: but it was completed in both before they reached the golden gate, through which I knew it would be impossible for me to follow. I could but stand outside, and take a last look at the two sweet children, ere they disappeared within, and the golden gate closed with a bang. And with such a bang! “It never will shut like any other cupboard-door,” Arthur explained. “There’s something wrong with the hinge. However, here’s the cake and wine. And you’ve had your forty winks. So you 184 really must get off to bed, old man! You’re fit for nothing else. Witness my hand, Arthur Forester, M.D.” By this time I was wide-awake again. “Not quite yet!” I pleaded. “Really I’m not sleepy now. And it isn’t midnight yet.” “Well, I did want to say another word to you,” Arthur replied in a relenting tone, as he supplied me with the supper he had prescribed. “Only I thought you were too sleepy for it to-night.” We took our midnight meal almost in silence; for an unusual nervousness seemed to have seized on my old friend. “What kind of a night is it?” he asked, rising and undrawing the window-curtains, apparently to change the subject for a minute. I followed him to the window, and we stood together, looking out, in silence. “When I first spoke to you about——” Arthur began, after a long and embarrassing silence, “that is, when we first talked about her—for I think it was you that introduced the subject—my own position in life forbade me to do more than worship her from a distance: 185 and I was turning over plans for leaving this place finally, and settling somewhere out of all chance of meeting her again. That seemed to be my only chance of usefulness in life.” “Would that have been wise?” I said. “To leave yourself no hope at all?” “There was no hope to leave,” Arthur firmly replied, though his eyes glittered with tears as he gazed upwards into the midnight sky, from which one solitary star, the glorious ‘Vega,’ blazed out in fitful splendour through the driving clouds. “She was like that star to me—bright, beautiful, and pure, but out of reach, out of reach!” He drew the curtains again, and we returned to our places by the fireside. “What I wanted to tell you was this,” he resumed. “I heard this evening from my solicitor. I can’t go into the details of the business, but the upshot is that my worldly wealth is much more than I thought, and I am (or shall soon be) in a position to offer marriage, without imprudence, to any lady, even if she brought nothing. I doubt if there would be anything on her side: the Earl is poor, I 186 believe. But I should have enough for both, even if health failed.” “I wish you all happiness in your married life!” I cried. “Shall you speak to the Earl to-morrow?” “Not yet awhile,” said Arthur. “He is very friendly, but I dare not think he means more than that, as yet. And as for—as for Lady Muriel, try as I may, I cannot read her feelings towards me. If there is love, she is hiding it! No, I must wait, I must wait!” I did not like to press any further advice on my friend, whose judgment, I felt, was so much more sober and thoughtful than my own; and we parted without more words on the subject that had now absorbed his thoughts, nay, his very life. The next morning a letter from my solicitor arrived, summoning me to town on important business. 187 CHAPTER XIV. FAIRY-SYLVIE. For a full month the business, for which I had returned to London, detained me there: and even then it was only the urgent advice of my physician that induced me to leave it unfinished and pay another visit to Elveston. Arthur had written once or twice during the month; but in none of his letters was there any mention of Lady Muriel. Still, I did not augur ill from his silence: to me it looked like the natural action of a lover, who, even while his heart was singing “She is mine!”, would fear to paint his happiness in 188 the cold phrases of a written letter, but would wait to tell it by word of mouth. “Yes,” I thought, “I am to hear his song of triumph from his own lips!” The night I arrived we had much to say on other matters: and, tired with the journey, I went to bed early, leaving the happy secret still untold. Next day, however, as we chatted on over the remains of luncheon, I ventured to put the momentous question. “Well, old friend, you have told me nothing of Lady Muriel—nor when the happy day is to be?” “The happy day,” Arthur said, looking unexpectedly grave, “is yet in the dim future. We need to know—or, rather, she needs to know me better. I know her sweet nature, thoroughly, by this time. But I dare not speak till I am sure that my love is returned.” “Don’t wait too long!” I said gaily. “Faint heart never won fair lady!” “It is ‘faint heart,’ perhaps. But really I dare not speak just yet.” “But meanwhile,” I pleaded, “you are running a risk that perhaps you have not thought of. Some other man——” 189 “No,” said Arthur firmly. “She is heart-whole: I am sure of that. Yet, if she loves another better than me, so be it! I will not spoil her happiness. The secret shall die with me. But she is my first—and my only love!” “That is all very beautiful sentiment,” I said, “but it is not practical. It is not like you. He either fears his fate too much, Or his desert is small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To win or lose it all.” “I dare not ask the question whether there is another!” he said passionately. “It would break my heart to know it!” “Yet is it wise to leave it unasked? You must not waste your life upon an ‘if’!” “I tell you I dare not!” “May I find it out for you?” I asked, with the freedom of an old friend. “No, no!” he replied with a pained look. “I entreat you to say nothing. Let it wait.” “As you please,” I said: and judged it best to say no more just then. “But this evening,” I thought, “I will call on the Earl. I may be 190 able to see how the land lies, without so much as saying a word!” It was a very hot afternoon—too hot to go for a walk or do anything—or else it wouldn’t have happened, I believe. In the first place, I want to know—dear Child who reads this!—why Fairies should always be teaching us to do our duty, and lecturing us when we go wrong, and we should never teach them anything? You can’t mean to say that Fairies are never greedy, or selfish, or cross, or deceitful, because that would be nonsense, you know. Well then, don’t you think they might be all the better for a little lecturing and punishing now and then? I really don’t see why it shouldn’t be tried, and I’m almost sure that, if you could only catch a Fairy, and put it in the corner, and give it nothing but bread and water for a day or two, you’d find it quite an improved character—it would take down its conceit a little, at all events. The next question is, what is the best time for seeing Fairies? I believe I can tell you all about that. 191 The first rule is, that it must be a very hot day—that we may consider as settled: and you must be just 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. The first thing I noticed, as I went lazily along through an open place in the wood, was a large Beetle lying struggling on its back, and I went down upon one knee to help the poor thing to its feet again. In some things, you know, you can’t be quite sure what an insect would like: for instance, I never could quite settle, supposing I were a moth, whether I would rather be kept out of the candle, or be 192 allowed to fly straight in and get burnt—or again, supposing I were a spider, I’m not sure if I should be quite pleased to have my web torn down, and the fly let loose—but I feel quite certain that, if I were a beetle and had rolled over on my back, I should always be glad to be helped up again. So, as I was saying, I had gone down upon one knee, and was just reaching out a little stick to turn the Beetle over, when I saw a sight that made me draw back hastily and hold my breath, for fear of making any noise and frightening the little creature away. Not that she looked as if she would be easily frightened: she seemed so good and gentle that I’m sure she would never expect that any one could wish to hurt her. She was only a few inches high, and was dressed in green, so that you really would hardly have noticed her among the long grass; and she was so delicate and graceful that she quite seemed to belong to the place, almost as if she were one of the flowers. I may tell you, besides, that she had no wings (I don’t believe in Fairies with wings), and that she had quantities 193 of long brown hair and large earnest brown eyes, and then I shall have done all I can to give you an idea of her. FAIRY-SYLVIE FAIRY-SYLVIE Sylvie (I found out her name afterwards) had knelt down, just as I was doing, to help the Beetle; but it needed more than a little stick for her to get it on its legs again; it was as much as she could do, with both arms, to roll the heavy thing over; and all the while she was talking to it, half scolding and half comforting, as a nurse might do with a child that had fallen down. 194 “There, there! You needn’t cry so much about it. You’re not killed yet—though if you were, you couldn’t cry, you know, and so it’s a general rule against crying, my dear! And how did you come to tumble over? But I can see well enough how it was—I needn’t ask you that—walking over sand-pits with your chin in the air, as usual. Of course if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect to tumble. You should look.” The Beetle murmured something that sounded like “I did look,” and Sylvie went on again. “But I know you didn’t! You never do! You always walk with your chin up—you’re so dreadfully conceited. Well, let’s see how many legs are broken this time. Why, none of them, I declare! And what’s the good of having six legs, my dear, if you can only kick them all about in the air when you tumble? Legs are meant to walk with, you know. Now don’t begin putting out your wings yet; I’ve more to say. Go to the frog that lives behind that buttercup—give him my compliments—Sylvie’s compliments—can you say ‘compliments’?” 195 The Beetle tried and, I suppose, succeeded. “Yes, that’s right. And tell him he’s to give you some of that salve I left with him yesterday. And you’d better get him to rub it in for you. He’s got rather cold hands, but you mustn’t mind that.” I think the Beetle must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went on in a graver tone. “Now you needn’t pretend to be so particular as all that, as if you were too grand to be rubbed by a frog. The fact is, you ought to be very much obliged to him. Suppose you could get nobody but a toad to do it, how would you like that?” There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added “Now you may go. Be a good beetle, and don’t keep your chin in the air.” And then began one of those performances of humming, and whizzing, and restless banging about, such as a beetle indulges in when it has decided on flying, but hasn’t quite made up its mind which way to go. At last, in one of its awkward zig-zags, it managed to fly right into my face, and, by the time I had recovered from the shock, the little Fairy was gone. 196 I looked about in all directions for the little creature, but there was no trace of her—and my ‘eerie’ feeling was quite gone off, and the crickets were chirping again merrily—so I knew she was really gone. And now I’ve got time to tell you the rule about the crickets. They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by—because a Fairy’s a kind of queen over them, I suppose—at all events it’s a much grander thing than a cricket—so whenever you’re walking out, and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping, you may be sure that they see a Fairy. I walked on sadly enough, you may be sure. However, I comforted myself with thinking “It’s been a very wonderful afternoon, so far. I’ll just go quietly on and look about me, and I shouldn’t wonder if I were to come across another Fairy somewhere.” Peering about in this way, I happened to notice a plant with rounded leaves, and with queer little holes cut in the middle of several of them. “Ah, the leafcutter bee!” I carelessly remarked—you know I am very learned in Natural History (for instance, I can always tell 197 kittens from chickens at one glance)—and I was passing on, when a sudden thought made me stoop down and examine the leaves. Then a little thrill of delight ran through me—for I noticed that the holes were all arranged so as to form letters; there were three leaves side by side, with “B,” “R,” and “U” marked on them, and after some search I found two more, which contained an “N” and an “O.” And then, all in a moment, a flash of inner light seemed to illumine a part of my life that had all but faded into oblivion—the strange visions I had experienced during my journey to Elveston: and with a thrill of delight I thought “Those visions are destined to be linked with my waking life!” By this time the ‘eerie’ feeling had come back again, and I suddenly observed that no crickets were chirping; so I felt quite sure that “Bruno” was somewhere very near. And so indeed he was—so near that I had very nearly walked over him without seeing him; which would have been dreadful, always supposing that Fairies can be walked over—my own belief is that they are something of 198 the nature of Will-o’-the-Wisps: and there’s no walking over them. Think of any pretty little boy you know, with rosy cheeks, large dark eyes, and tangled brown hair, and then fancy him made small enough to go comfortably into a coffee-cup, and you’ll have a very fair idea of him. “What’s your name, little one?” I began, in as soft a voice as I could manage. And, by the way, why is it we always begin by asking little children their names? Is it because we fancy a name will help to make them a little bigger? You never thought of asking a real large man his name, now, did you? But, however that may be, I felt it quite necessary to know his name; so, as he didn’t answer my question, I asked it again a little louder. “What’s your name, my little man?” “What’s oors?” he said, without looking up. I told him my name quite gently, for he was much too small to be angry with. “Duke of Anything?” he asked, just looking at me for a moment, and then going on with his work. 199 “Not Duke at all,” I said, a little ashamed of having to confess it. “Oo’re big enough to be two Dukes,” said the little creature. “I suppose oo’re Sir Something, then?” “No,” I said, feeling more and more ashamed. “I haven’t got any title.” The Fairy seemed to think that in that case I really wasn’t worth the trouble of talking to, for he quietly went on digging, and tearing the flowers to pieces. After a few minutes I tried again. “Please tell me what your name is.” “Bruno,” the little fellow answered, very readily. “Why didn’t oo say ‘please’ before?” “That’s something like what we used to be taught in the nursery,” I thought to myself, looking back through the long years (about a hundred of them, since you ask the question), to the time when I was a little child. And here an idea came into my head, and I asked him “Aren’t you one of the Fairies that teach children to be good?” “Well, we have to do that sometimes,” said Bruno, “and a dreadful bother it is.” As he 200 said this, he savagely tore a heartsease in two, and trampled on the pieces. “What are you doing there, Bruno?” I said. “Spoiling Sylvie’s garden,” was all the answer Bruno would give at first. But, as he went on tearing up the flowers, he muttered to himself “The nasty cross thing—wouldn’t let me go and play this morning,—said I must finish my lessons first—lessons, indeed! I’ll vex her finely, though!” “Oh, Bruno, you shouldn’t do that!” I cried. “Don’t you know that’s revenge? And revenge is a wicked, cruel, dangerous thing!” “River-edge?” said Bruno. “What a funny word! I suppose oo call it cruel and dangerous ’cause, if oo wented too far and tumbleded in, oo’d get drownded.” “No, not river-edge,” I explained: “re-venge” (saying the word very slowly). But I couldn’t help thinking that Bruno’s explanation did very well for either word. “Oh!” said Bruno, opening his eyes very wide, but without trying to repeat the word. “Come! Try and pronounce it, Bruno!” I said, cheerfully. “Re-venge, re-venge.” 201 But Bruno only tossed his little head, and said he couldn’t; that his mouth wasn’t the right shape for words of that kind. And the more I laughed, the more sulky the little fellow got about it. “Well, never mind, my little man!” I said. “Shall I help you with that job?” “Yes, please,” Bruno said, quite pacified. “Only I wiss I could think of somefin to vex her more than this. Oo don’t know how hard it is to make her angry!” “Now listen to me, Bruno, and I’ll teach you quite a splendid kind of revenge!” “Somefin that’ll vex her finely?” he asked with gleaming eyes. “Something that will vex her finely. First, we’ll get up all the weeds in her garden. See, there are a good many at this end—quite hiding the flowers.” “But that won’t vex her!” said Bruno. “After that,” I said, without noticing the remark, “we’ll water this highest bed—up here. You see it’s getting quite dry and dusty.” Bruno looked at me inquisitively, but he said nothing this time. 202 “Then after that,” I went on, “the walks want sweeping a bit; and I think you might cut down that tall nettle—it’s so close to the garden that it’s quite in the way——” “What is oo talking about?” Bruno impatiently interrupted me. “All that won’t vex her a bit!” “Won’t it?” I said, innocently. “Then, after that, suppose we put in some of these coloured pebbles—just to mark the divisions between the different kinds of flowers, you know. That’ll have a very pretty effect.” Bruno turned round and had another good stare at me. At last there came an odd little twinkle into his eyes, and he said, with quite a new meaning in his voice, “That’ll do nicely. Let’s put ’em in rows—all the red together, and all the blue together.” “That’ll do capitally,” I said; “and then—what kind of flowers does Sylvie like best?” Bruno had to put his thumb in his mouth and consider a little before he could answer. “Violets,” he said, at last. “There’s a beautiful bed of violets down by the brook——” 203 “Oh, let’s fetch ’em!” cried Bruno, giving a little skip into the air. “Here! Catch hold of my hand, and I’ll help oo along. The grass is rather thick down that way.” I couldn’t help laughing at his having so entirely forgotten what a big creature he was talking to. “No, not yet, Bruno,” I said: “we must consider what’s the right thing to do first. You see we’ve got quite a business before us.” “Yes, let’s consider,” said Bruno, putting his thumb into his mouth again, and sitting down upon a dead mouse. “What do you keep that mouse for?” I said. “You should either bury it, or else throw it into the brook.” “Why, it’s to measure with!” cried Bruno. “How ever would oo do a garden without one? We make each bed three mouses and a half long, and two mouses wide.” I stopped him, as he was dragging it off by the tail to show me how it was used, for I was half afraid the ‘eerie’ feeling might go off before we had finished the garden, and in that case I should see no more of him or Sylvie. “I think the best way will be for you to weed 204 the beds, while I sort out these pebbles, ready to mark the walks with.” “That’s it!” cried Bruno. “And I’ll tell oo about the caterpillars while we work.” “Ah, let’s hear about the caterpillars,” I said, as I drew the pebbles together into a heap and began dividing them into colours. And Bruno went on in a low, rapid tone, more as if he were talking to himself. “Yesterday I saw two little caterpillars, when I was sitting by the brook, just where oo go into the wood. They were quite green, and they had yellow eyes, and they didn’t see me. And one of them had got a moth’s wing to carry—a great brown moth’s wing, oo know, all dry, with feathers. So he couldn’t want it to eat, I should think—perhaps he meant to make a cloak for the winter?” “Perhaps,” I said, for Bruno had twisted up the last word into a sort of question, and was looking at me for an answer. One word was quite enough for the little fellow, and he went on merrily. “Well, and so he didn’t want the other caterpillar to see the moth’s wing, oo know—so what must he 205 do but try to carry it with all his left legs, and he tried to walk on the other set. Of course he toppled over after that.” “After what?” I said, catching at the last word, for, to tell the truth, I hadn’t been attending much. “He toppled over,” Bruno repeated, very gravely, “and if oo ever saw a caterpillar topple over, oo’d know it’s a welly serious thing, and not sit grinning like that—and I sha’n’t tell oo no more!” “Indeed and indeed, Bruno, I didn’t mean to grin. See, I’m quite grave again now.” But Bruno only folded his arms, and said “Don’t tell me. I see a little twinkle in one of oor eyes—just like the moon.” “Why do you think I’m like the moon, Bruno?” I asked. “Oor face is large and round like the moon,” Bruno answered, looking at me thoughtfully. “It doosn’t shine quite so bright—but it’s more cleaner.” I couldn’t help smiling at this. “You know I sometimes wash my face, Bruno. The moon never does that.” 206 “Oh, doosn’t she though!” cried Bruno; and he leant forwards and added in a solemn whisper, “The moon’s face gets dirtier and dirtier every night, till it’s black all across. And then, when it’s dirty all over—so—” (he passed his hand across his own rosy cheeks as he spoke) “then she washes it.” “Then it’s all clean again, isn’t it?” “Not all in a moment,” said Bruno. “What a deal of teaching oo wants! She washes it little by little—only she begins at the other edge, oo know.” By this time he was sitting quietly on the dead mouse with his arms folded, and the weeding wasn’t getting on a bit: so I had to say “Work first, pleasure afterwards: no more talking till that bed’s finished.” 207 CHAPTER XV. BRUNO’S REVENGE. After that we had a few minutes of silence, while I sorted out the pebbles, and amused myself with watching Bruno’s plan of gardening. It was quite a new plan to me: he always measured each bed before he weeded it, as if he was afraid the weeding would make it shrink; and once, when it came out longer than he wished, he set to work to thump the mouse with his little fist, crying out “There now! It’s all gone wrong again! Why don’t oo keep oor tail straight when I tell oo!” 208 “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Bruno said in a half-whisper, as we worked. “Oo like Fairies, don’t oo?” “Yes,” I said: “of course I do, or I shouldn’t have come here. I should have gone to some place where there are no Fairies.” Bruno laughed contemptuously. “Why, oo might as well say oo’d go to some place where there wasn’t any air—supposing oo didn’t like air!” This was a rather difficult idea to grasp. I tried a change of subject. “You’re nearly the first Fairy I ever saw. Have you ever seen any people besides me?” “Plenty!” said Bruno. “We see ’em when we walk in the road.” “But they ca’n’t see you. How is it they never tread on you?” “Ca’n’t tread on us,” said Bruno, looking amused at my ignorance. “Why, suppose oo’re walking, here—so—” (making little marks on the ground) “and suppose there’s a Fairy—that’s me—walking here. Very well then, oo put one foot here, and one foot here, so oo doosn’t tread on the Fairy.” 209 This was all very well as an explanation, but it didn’t convince me. “Why shouldn’t I put one foot on the Fairy?” I asked. “I don’t know why,” the little fellow said in a thoughtful tone. “But I know oo wouldn’t. Nobody never walked on the top of a Fairy. Now I’ll tell oo what I’ll do, as oo’re so fond of Fairies. I’ll get oo an invitation to the Fairy-King’s dinner-party. I know one of the head-waiters.” I couldn’t help laughing at this idea. “Do the waiters invite the guests?” I asked. “Oh, not to sit down!” Bruno said. “But to wait at table. Oo’d like that, wouldn’t oo? To hand about plates, and so on.” “Well, but that’s not so nice as sitting at the table, is it?” “Of course it isn’t,” Bruno said, in a tone as if he rather pitied my ignorance; “but if oo’re not even Sir Anything, oo ca’n’t expect to be allowed to sit at the table, oo know.” I said, as meekly as I could, that I didn’t expect it, but it was the only way of going to a dinner-party that I really enjoyed. And Bruno tossed his head, and said, in a rather offended 210 tone, that I might do as I pleased—there were many he knew that would give their ears to go. “Have you ever been yourself, Bruno?” “They invited me once, last week,” Bruno said, very gravely. “It was to wash up the soup-plates—no, the cheese-plates I mean—that was grand enough. And I waited at table. And I didn’t hardly make only one mistake.” “What was it?” I said. “You needn’t mind telling me.” “Only bringing scissors to cut the beef with,” Bruno said carelessly. “But the grandest thing of all was, I fetched the King a glass of cider!” “That was grand!” I said, biting my lip to keep myself from laughing. “Wasn’t it?” said Bruno, very earnestly. “Oo know it isn’t every one that’s had such an honour as that!” This set me thinking of the various queer things we call “an honour” in this world, but which, after all, haven’t a bit more honour in them than what Bruno enjoyed, when he took the King a glass of cider. I don’t know how long I might not have dreamed on in this way, if Bruno hadn’t suddenly 211 roused me. “Oh, come here quick!” he cried, in a state of the wildest excitement. “Catch hold of his other horn! I ca’n’t hold him more than a minute!” He was struggling desperately with a great snail, clinging to one of its horns, and nearly breaking his poor little back in his efforts to drag it over a blade of grass. I saw we should have no more gardening if I let this sort of thing go on, so I quietly took the snail away, and put it on a bank where he couldn’t reach it. “We’ll hunt it afterwards, Bruno,” I said, “if you really want to catch it. But what’s the use of it when you’ve got it?” “What’s the use of a fox when oo’ve got it?” said Bruno. “I know oo big things hunt foxes.” I tried to think of some good reason why “big things” should hunt foxes, and he should not hunt snails, but none came into my head: so I said at last, “Well, I suppose one’s as good as the other. I’ll go snail-hunting myself some day.” “I should think oo wouldn’t be so silly,” said Bruno, “as to go snail-hunting by oorself. 212 Why, oo’d never get the snail along, if oo hadn’t somebody to hold on to his other horn!” “Of course I sha’n’t go alone,” I said, quite gravely. “By the way, is that the best kind to hunt, or do you recommend the ones without shells?” “Oh, no, we never hunt the ones without shells,” Bruno said, with a little shudder at the thought of it. “They’re always so cross about it; and then, if oo tumbles over them, they’re ever so sticky!” By this time we had nearly finished the garden. I had fetched some violets, and Bruno was just helping me to put in the last, when he suddenly stopped and said “I’m tired.” “Rest then,” I said: “I can go on without you, quite well.” Bruno needed no second invitation: he at once began arranging the dead mouse as a kind of sofa. “And I’ll sing oo a little song,” he said, as he rolled it about. “Do,” said I: “I like songs very much.” “Which song will oo choose?” Bruno said, as he dragged the mouse into a place where he 213 could get a good view of me. “‘Ting, ting, ting’ is the nicest.” There was no resisting such a strong hint as this: however, I pretended to think about it for a moment, and then said “Well, I like ‘Ting, ting, ting,’ best of all.” BRUNO’S REVENGE BRUNO’S REVENGE “That shows oo’re a good judge of music,” Bruno said, with a pleased look. “How many hare-bells would oo like?” And he put his thumb into his mouth to help me to consider. As there was only one cluster of hare-bells within easy reach, I said very gravely that I thought one would do this time, and I picked 214 it and gave it to him. Bruno ran his hand once or twice up and down the flowers, like a musician trying an instrument, producing a most delicious delicate tinkling as he did so. I had never heard flower-music before—I don’t think one can, unless one’s in the ‘eerie’ state—and I don’t know quite how to give you an idea of what it was like, except by saying that it sounded like a peal of bells a thousand miles off. When he had satisfied himself that the flowers were in tune, he seated himself on the dead mouse (he never seemed really comfortable anywhere else), and, looking up at me with a merry twinkle in his eyes, he began. By the way, the tune was rather a curious one, and you might like to try it for yourself, so here are the notes. “TING, TING, TING” [PLAY “TING, TING, TING”] 215 “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.” He sang the first four lines briskly and merrily, making the hare-bells chime in time with the music; but the last two he sang quite slowly and gently, and merely waved the flowers backwards and forwards. Then he left off to explain. “The Fairy-King is Oberon, and he lives across the lake—and sometimes he comes in a little boat—and we go and meet him—and then we sing this song, you know.” “And then you go and dine with him?” I said, mischievously. “Oo shouldn’t talk,” Bruno hastily said: “it interrupts the song so.” I said I wouldn’t do it again. “I never talk myself when I’m singing,” he went on very gravely: “so oo shouldn’t either.” Then he tuned the hare-bells once more, and sang:— 216 “Hear, oh, hear! From far and near The music stealing, ting, ting, ting! Fairy bells adown 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——” “Hush, Bruno!” I interrupted in a warning whisper. “She’s coming!” Bruno checked his song, and, as she slowly made her way through the long grass, he suddenly rushed out headlong at her like a little bull, shouting “Look the other way! Look the other way!” 217 “Which way?” Sylvie asked, in rather a frightened tone, as she looked round in all directions to see where the danger could be. “That way!” said Bruno, carefully turning her round with her face to the wood. “Now, walk backwards—walk gently—don’t be frightened: oo sha’n’t trip!” But Sylvie did trip notwithstanding: in fact he led her, in his hurry, across so many little sticks and stones, that it was really a wonder the poor child could keep on her feet at all. But he was far too much excited to think of what he was doing. I silently pointed out to Bruno the best place to lead her to, so as to get a view of the whole garden at once: it was a little rising ground, about the height of a potato; and, when they had mounted it, I drew back into the shade, that Sylvie mightn’t see me. I heard Bruno cry out triumphantly “Now oo may look!” and then followed a clapping of hands, but it was all done by Bruno himself. Sylvie was silent—she only stood and gazed with her hands clasped together, and I was half afraid she didn’t like it after all. 218 Bruno too was watching her anxiously, and when she jumped down off the mound, and began wandering up and down the little walks, he cautiously followed her about, evidently anxious that she should form her own opinion of it all, without any hint from him. And when at last she drew a long breath, and gave her verdict—in a hurried whisper, and without the slightest regard to grammar—“It’s the loveliest thing as I never saw in all my life before!” the little fellow looked as well pleased as if it had been given by all the judges and juries in England put together. “And did you really do it all by yourself, Bruno?” said Sylvie. “And all for me?” “I was helped a bit,” Bruno began, with a merry little laugh at her surprise. “We’ve been at it all the afternoon—I thought oo’d like—” and here the poor little fellow’s lip began to quiver, and all in a moment he burst out crying, and running up to Sylvie he flung his arms passionately round her neck, and hid his face on her shoulder. There was a little quiver in Sylvie’s voice too, as she whispered “Why, what’s the 219 matter, darling?” and tried to lift up his head and kiss him. But Bruno only clung to her, sobbing, and wouldn’t be comforted till he had confessed. “I tried—to spoil oor garden—first—but I’ll never—never—” and then came another burst of tears, which drowned the rest of the sentence. At last he got out the words “I liked—putting in the flowers—for oo, Sylvie—and I never was so happy before.” And the rosy little face came up at last to be kissed, all wet with tears as it was. Sylvie was crying too by this time, and she said nothing but “Bruno, dear!” and “I never was so happy before,” though why these two children who had never been so happy before should both be crying was a mystery to me. I felt very happy too, but of course I didn’t cry: “big things” never do, you know—we leave all that to the Fairies. Only I think it must have been raining a little just then, for I found a drop or two on my cheeks. After that they went through the whole garden again, flower by flower, as if it were a long sentence they were spelling out, with kisses for 220 commas, and a great hug by way of a full-stop when they got to the end. “Doos oo know, that was my river-edge, Sylvie?” Bruno solemnly began. Sylvie laughed merrily. “What do you mean?” she said. And she pushed back her heavy brown hair with both hands, and looked at him with dancing eyes in which the big tear-drops were still glittering. Bruno drew in a long breath, and made up his mouth for a great effort. “I mean re-venge,” he said: “now oo under’tand.” And he looked so happy and proud at having said the word right at last, that I quite envied him. I rather think Sylvie didn’t “under’tand” at all; but she gave him a little kiss on each cheek, which seemed to do just as well. So they wandered off lovingly together, in among the buttercups, each with an arm twined round the other, whispering and laughing as they went, and never so much as once looked back at poor me. Yes, once, just before I quite lost sight of them, Bruno half turned his head, and nodded me a saucy little good-bye over one shoulder. And that was all the thanks I 221 got for my trouble. The very last thing I saw of them was this—Sylvie was stooping down with her arms round Bruno’s neck, and saying coaxingly in his ear, “Do you know, Bruno, I’ve quite forgotten that hard word. Do say it once more. Come! Only this once, dear!” But Bruno wouldn’t try it again. 222 CHAPTER XVI. A CHANGED CROCODILE. The Marvellous—the Mysterious—had quite passed out of my life for the moment: and the Common-place reigned supreme. I turned in the direction of the Earl’s house, as it was now ‘the witching hour’ of five, and I knew I should find them ready for a cup of tea and a quiet chat. Lady Muriel and her father gave me a delightfully warm welcome. They were not of the folk we meet in fashionable drawing-rooms—who conceal all such feelings as they may chance to possess beneath the impenetrable 223 mask of a conventional placidity. ‘The Man with the Iron Mask’ was, no doubt, a rarity and a marvel in his own age: in modern London no one would turn his head to give him a second look! No, these were real people. When they looked pleased, it meant that they were pleased: and when Lady Muriel said, with a bright smile, “I’m very glad to see you again!”, I knew that it was true. Still I did not venture to disobey the injunctions—crazy as I felt them to be—of the love-sick young Doctor, by so much as alluding to his existence: and it was only after they had given me full details of a projected picnic, to which they invited me, that Lady Muriel exclaimed, almost as an after-thought, “and do, if you can, bring Doctor Forester with you! I’m sure a day in the country would do him good. I’m afraid he studies too much——” It was ‘on the tip of my tongue’ to quote the words “His only books are woman’s looks!” but I checked myself just in time—with something of the feeling of one who has crossed a street, and has been all but run over by a passing ‘Hansom.’ 224 “—and I think he has too lonely a life,” she went on, with a gentle earnestness that left no room whatever to suspect a double meaning. “Do get him to come! And don’t forget the day, Tuesday week. We can drive you over. It would be a pity to go by rail—there is so much pretty scenery on the road. And our open carriage just holds four.” “Oh, I’ll persuade him to come!” I said with confidence—thinking “it would take all my powers of persuasion to keep him away!” The picnic was to take place in ten days: and though Arthur readily accepted the invitation I brought him, nothing that I could say would induce him to call—either with me or without me—on the Earl and his daughter in the meanwhile. No: he feared to “wear out his welcome,” he said: they had “seen enough of him for one while”: and, when at last the day for the expedition arrived, he was so childishly nervous and uneasy that I thought it best so to arrange our plans that we should go separately to the house—my intention being to arrive some time after him, so as to give him time to get over a meeting. 225 With this object I purposely made a considerable circuit on my way to the Hall (as we called the Earl’s house): “and if I could only manage to lose my way a bit,” I thought to myself, “that would suit me capitally!” In this I succeeded better, and sooner, than I had ventured to hope for. The path through the wood had been made familiar to me, by many a solitary stroll, in my former visit to Elveston; and how I could have so suddenly and so entirely lost it—even though I was so engrossed in thinking of Arthur and his lady-love that I heeded little else—was a mystery to me. “And this open place,” I said to myself, “seems to have some memory about it I cannot distinctly recall—surely it is the very spot where I saw those Fairy-Children! But I hope there are no snakes about!” I mused aloud, taking my seat on a fallen tree. “I certainly do not like snakes—and I don’t suppose Bruno likes them, either!” “No, he doesn’t like them!” said a demure little voice at my side. “He’s not afraid of them, you know. But he doesn’t like them. He says they’re too waggly!” 226 Words fail me to describe the beauty of the little group—couched on a patch of moss, on the trunk of the fallen tree, that met my eager gaze: Sylvie reclining with her elbow buried in the moss, and her rosy cheek resting in the palm of her hand, and Bruno stretched at her feet with his head in her lap. FAIRIES RESTING FAIRIES RESTING “Too waggly?” was all I could say in so sudden an emergency. “I’m not praticular,” Bruno said, carelessly: “but I do like straight animals best——” “But you like a dog when it wags its tail,” Sylvie interrupted. “You know you do, Bruno!” 227 “But there’s more of a dog, isn’t there, Mister Sir?” Bruno appealed to me. “You wouldn’t like to have a dog if it hadn’t got nuffin but a head and a tail?” I admitted that a dog of that kind would be uninteresting. “There isn’t such a dog as that,” Sylvie thoughtfully remarked. “But there would be,” cried Bruno, “if the Professor shortened it up for us!” “Shortened it up?” I said. “That’s something new. How does he do it?” “He’s got a curious machine——” Sylvie was beginning to explain. “A welly curious machine,” Bruno broke in, not at all willing to have the story thus taken out of his mouth, “and if oo puts in—somefinoruvver—at one end, oo know—and he turns the handle—and it comes out at the uvver end, oh, ever so short!” “As short as short!” Sylvie echoed. “And one day—when we was in Outland, oo know—before we came to Fairyland—me and Sylvie took him a big Crocodile. And he shortened it up for us. And it did look so 228 funny! And it kept looking round, and saying ‘wherever is the rest of me got to?’ And then its eyes looked unhappy——” “Not both its eyes,” Sylvie interrupted. “Course not!” said the little fellow. “Only the eye that couldn’t see wherever the rest of it had got to. But the eye that could see wherever——” “How short was the crocodile?” I asked, as the story was getting a little complicated. “Half as short again as when we caught it—so long,” said Bruno, spreading out his arms to their full stretch. I tried to calculate what this would come to, but it was too hard for me. Please make it out for me, dear Child who reads this! “But you didn’t leave the poor thing so short as that, did you?” “Well, no. Sylvie and me took it back again and we got it stretched to—to—how much was it, Sylvie?” “Two times and a half, and a little bit more,” said Sylvie. “It wouldn’t like that better than the other way, I’m afraid?” 229 “Oh, but it did though!” Bruno put in eagerly. “It were proud of its new tail! Oo never saw a Crocodile so proud! Why, it could go round and walk on the top of its tail, and along its back, all the way to its head!” A CHANGED CROCODILE A CHANGED CROCODILE “Not quite all the way,” said Sylvie. “It couldn’t, you know.” “Ah, but it did, once!” Bruno cried triumphantly. “Oo weren’t looking—but I watched it. And it walked on tipplety-toe, so as it wouldn’t wake itself, ’cause it thought it were asleep. And it got both its paws on its tail. And it walked and it walked all the way along its back. And it walked and it walked on its forehead. And it walked a tiny little way down its nose! There now!” This was a good deal worse than the last puzzle. Please, dear Child, help again! 230 “I don’t believe no Crocodile never walked along its own forehead!” Sylvie cried, too much excited by the controversy to limit the number of her negatives. “Oo don’t know the reason why it did it!” Bruno scornfully retorted. “It had a welly good reason. I heerd it say ‘Why shouldn’t I walk on my own forehead?’ So a course it did, oo know!” “If that’s a good reason, Bruno,” I said, “why shouldn’t you get up that tree?” “Shall, in a minute,” said Bruno: “soon as we’ve done talking. Only two peoples ca’n’t talk comfably togevver, when one’s getting up a tree, and the other isn’t!” It appeared to me that a conversation would scarcely be ‘comfable’ while trees were being climbed, even if both the ‘peoples’ were doing it: but it was evidently dangerous to oppose any theory of Bruno’s; so I thought it best to let the question drop, and to ask for an account of the machine that made things longer. This time Bruno was at a loss, and left it to Sylvie. “It’s like a mangle,” she said: “if things are put in, they get squoze——” 231 “Squeezeled!” Bruno interrupted. “Yes.” Sylvie accepted the correction, but did not attempt to pronounce the word, which was evidently new to her. “They get—like that—and they come out, oh, ever so long!” “Once,” Bruno began again, “Sylvie and me writed——” “Wrote!” Sylvie whispered. “Well, we wroted a Nursery-Song, and the Professor mangled it longer for us. It were ‘There was a little Man, And he had a little gun, And the bullets——’” “I know the rest,” I interrupted. “But would you say it long—I mean the way that it came out of the mangle?” “We’ll get the Professor to sing it for you,” said Sylvie. “It would spoil it to say it.” “I would like to meet the Professor,” I said. “And I would like to take you all with me, to see some friends of mine, that live near here. Would you like to come?” “I don’t think the Professor would like to come,” said Sylvie. “He’s very shy. But we’d like it very much. Only we’d better not come this size, you know.” 232 The difficulty had occurred to me already: and I had felt that perhaps there would be a slight awkwardness in introducing two such tiny friends into Society. “What size will you be?” I enquired. “We’d better come as—common children,” Sylvie thoughtfully replied. “That’s the easiest size to manage.” “Could you come to-day?” I said, thinking “then we could have you at the picnic!” Sylvie considered a little. “Not to-day,” she replied. “We haven’t got the things ready. We’ll come on—Tuesday next, if you like. And now, really, Bruno, you must come and do your lessons.” “I wiss oo wouldn’t say ‘really Bruno!’” the little fellow pleaded, with pouting lips that made him look prettier than ever. “It always shows there’s something horrid coming! And I won’t kiss you, if you’re so unkind.” “Ah, but you have kissed me!” Sylvie exclaimed in merry triumph. “Well then, I’ll unkiss you!” And he threw his arms round her neck for this novel, but apparently not very painful, operation. 233 “It’s very like kissing!” Sylvie remarked, as soon as her lips were again free for speech. “Oo don’t know nuffin about it! It were just the conkery!” Bruno replied with much severity, as he marched away. Sylvie turned her laughing face to me. “Shall we come on Tuesday?” she said. “Very well,” I said: “let it be Tuesday next. But where is the Professor? Did he come with you to Fairyland?” “No,” said Sylvie. “But he promised he’d come and see us, some day. He’s getting his Lecture ready. So he has to stay at home.” “At home?” I said dreamily, not feeling quite sure what she had said. “Yes, Sir. His Lordship and Lady Muriel are at home. Please to walk this way.” 234 CHAPTER XVII. THE THREE BADGERS. Still more dreamily I found myself following this imperious voice into a room where the Earl, his daughter, and Arthur, were seated. “So you’re come at last!” said Lady Muriel, in a tone of playful reproach. “I was delayed,” I stammered. Though what it was that had delayed me I should have been puzzled to explain! Luckily no questions were asked. The carriage was ordered round, the hamper, containing our contribution to the Picnic, was duly stowed away, and we set forth. 235 There was no need for me to maintain the conversation. Lady Muriel and Arthur were evidently on those most delightful of terms, where one has no need to check thought after thought, as it rises to the lips, with the fear ‘this will not be appreciated—this will give offence—this will sound too serious—this will sound flippant’: like very old friends, in fullest sympathy, their talk rippled on. “Why shouldn’t we desert the Picnic and go in some other direction?” she suddenly suggested. “A party of four is surely self-sufficing? And as for food, our hamper——” “Why shouldn’t we? What a genuine lady’s argument!” laughed Arthur. “A lady never knows on which side the onus probandi—the burden of proving—lies!” “Do men always know?” she asked with a pretty assumption of meek docility. “With one exception—the only one I can think of—Dr. Watts, who has asked the senseless question ‘Why should I deprive my neighbour Of his goods against his will?’ 236 Fancy that as an argument for Honesty! His position seems to be ‘I’m only honest because I see no reason to steal.’ And the thief’s answer is of course complete and crushing. ‘I deprive my neighbour of his goods because I want them myself. And I do it against his will because there’s no chance of getting him to consent to it!’” “I can give you one other exception,” I said: “an argument I heard only to-day—and not by a lady. ‘Why shouldn’t I walk on my own forehead?’” “What a curious subject for speculation!” said Lady Muriel, turning to me, with eyes brimming over with laughter. “May we know who propounded the question? And did he walk on his own forehead?” “I ca’n’t remember who it was that said it!” I faltered. “Nor where I heard it!” “Whoever it was, I hope we shall meet him at the Picnic!” said Lady Muriel. “It’s a far more interesting question than ‘Isn’t this a picturesque ruin?’ ‘Aren’t those autumn-tints lovely?’ I shall have to answer those two questions ten times, at least, this afternoon!” 237 “That’s one of the miseries of Society!” said Arthur. “Why ca’n’t people let one enjoy the beauties of Nature without having to say so every minute? Why should Life be one long Catechism?” “It’s just as bad at a picture-gallery,” the Earl remarked. “I went to the R.A. last May, with a conceited young artist: and he did torment me! I wouldn’t have minded his criticizing the pictures himself: but I had to agree with him—or else to argue the point, which would have been worse!” “It was depreciatory criticism, of course?” said Arthur. “I don’t see the ‘of course’ at all.” “Why, did you ever know a conceited man dare to praise a picture? The one thing he dreads (next to not being noticed) is to be proved fallible! If you once praise a picture, your character for infallibility hangs by a thread. Suppose it’s a figure-picture, and you venture to say ‘draws well.’ Somebody measures it, and finds one of the proportions an eighth of an inch wrong. You are disposed of as a critic! ‘Did you say he draws well?’ 238 your friends enquire sarcastically, while you hang your head and blush. No. The only safe course, if any one says ‘draws well,’ is to shrug your shoulders. ‘Draws well?’ you repeat thoughtfully. ‘Draws well? Humph!’ That’s the way to become a great critic!” Thus airily chatting, after a pleasant drive through a few miles of beautiful scenery, we reached the rendezvous—a ruined castle—where the rest of the picnic-party were already assembled. We spent an hour or two in sauntering about the ruins: gathering at last, by common consent, into a few random groups, seated on the side of a mound, which commanded a good view of the old castle and its surroundings. The momentary silence, that ensued, was promptly taken possession of—or, more correctly, taken into custody—by a Voice; a voice so smooth, so monotonous, so sonorous, that one felt, with a shudder, that any other conversation was precluded, and that, unless some desperate remedy were adopted, we were fated to listen to a Lecture, of which no man could foresee the end! 239 The speaker was a broadly-built man, whose large, flat, pale face was bounded on the North by a fringe of hair, on the East and West by a fringe of whisker, and on the South by a fringe of beard—the whole constituting a uniform halo of stubbly whitey-brown bristles. His features were so entirely destitute of expression that I could not help saying to myself—helplessly, as if in the clutches of a night-mare—“they are only penciled in: no final touches as yet!” And he had a way of ending every sentence with a sudden smile, which spread like a ripple over that vast blank surface, and was gone in a moment, leaving behind it such absolute solemnity that I felt impelled to murmur “it was not he: it was somebody else that smiled!” “Do you observe?” (such was the phrase with which the wretch began each sentence) “Do you observe the way in which that broken arch, at the very top of the ruin, stands out against the clear sky? It is placed exactly right: and there is exactly enough of it. A little more, or a little less, and all would be utterly spoiled!” 240 A LECTURE ON ART A LECTURE ON ART “Oh gifted architect!” murmured Arthur, inaudibly to all but Lady Muriel and myself. “Foreseeing the exact effect his work would have, when in ruins, centuries after his death!” “And do you observe, where those trees slope down the hill,” (indicating them with a sweep of the hand, and with all the patronising air of the man who has himself arranged the 241 landscape), “how the mists rising from the river fill up exactly those intervals where we need indistinctness, for artistic effect? Here, in the foreground, a few clear touches are not amiss: but a back-ground without mist, you know! It is simply barbarous! Yes, we need indistinctness!” The orator looked so pointedly at me as he uttered these words, that I felt bound to reply, by murmuring something to the effect that I hardly felt the need myself—and that I enjoyed looking at a thing, better, when I could see it. “Quite so!” the great man sharply took me up. “From your point of view, that is correctly put. But for any one who has a soul for Art, such a view is preposterous. Nature is one thing. Art is another. Nature shows us the world as it is. But Art—as a Latin author tells us—Art, you know—the words have escaped my memory——” “Ars est celare Naturam,” Arthur interposed with a delightful promptitude. “Quite so!” the orator replied with an air of relief. “I thank you! Ars est celare 242 Naturam—but that isn’t it.” And, for a few peaceful moments, the orator brooded, frowningly, over the quotation. The welcome opportunity was seized, and another voice struck into the silence. “What a lovely old ruin it is!” cried a young lady in spectacles, the very embodiment of the March of Mind, looking at Lady Muriel, as the proper recipient of all really original remarks. “And don’t you admire those autumn-tints on the trees? I do, intensely!” Lady Muriel shot a meaning glance at me; but replied with admirable gravity. “Oh yes indeed, indeed! So true!” “And isn’t it strange,” said the young lady, passing with startling suddenness from Sentiment to Science, “that the mere impact of certain coloured rays upon the Retina should give us such exquisite pleasure?” “You have studied Physiology, then?” a certain young Doctor courteously enquired. “Oh, yes! Isn’t it a sweet Science?” Arthur slightly smiled. “It seems a paradox, does it not,” he went on, “that the image formed on the Retina should be inverted?” 243 “It is puzzling,” she candidly admitted. “Why is it we do not see things upside-down?” “You have never heard the Theory, then, that the Brain also is inverted?” “No indeed! What a beautiful fact! But how is it proved?” “Thus,” replied Arthur, with all the gravity of ten Professors rolled into one. “What we call the vertex of the Brain is really its base: and what we call its base is really its vertex: it is simply a question of nomenclature.” This last polysyllable settled the matter. “How truly delightful!” the fair Scientist exclaimed with enthusiasm. “I shall ask our Physiological Lecturer why he never gave us that exquisite Theory!” “I’d give something to be present when the question is asked!” Arthur whispered to me, as, at a signal from Lady Muriel, we moved on to where the hampers had been collected, and devoted ourselves to the more substantial business of the day. We ‘waited’ on ourselves, as the modern barbarism (combining two good things in such a way as to secure the discomforts of both and 244 the advantages of neither) of having a picnic with servants to wait upon you, had not yet reached this out-of-the-way region—and of course the gentlemen did not even take their places until the ladies had been duly provided with all imaginable creature-comforts. Then I supplied myself with a plate of something solid and a glass of something fluid, and found a place next to Lady Muriel. It had been left vacant—apparently for Arthur, as a distinguished stranger: but he had turned shy, and had placed himself next to the young lady in spectacles, whose high rasping voice had already cast loose upon Society such ominous phrases as “Man is a bundle of Qualities!”, “the Objective is only attainable through the Subjective!”. Arthur was bearing it bravely: but several faces wore a look of alarm, and I thought it high time to start some less metaphysical topic. “In my nursery days,” I began, “when the weather didn’t suit for an out-of-doors picnic, we were allowed to have a peculiar kind, that we enjoyed hugely. The table cloth was laid under the table, instead of upon it: we sat 245 round it on the floor: and I believe we really enjoyed that extremely uncomfortable kind of dinner more than we ever did the orthodox arrangement!” “I’ve no doubt of it,” Lady Muriel replied. “There’s nothing a well-regulated child hates so much as regularity. I believe a really healthy boy would thoroughly enjoy Greek Grammar—if only he might stand on his head to learn it! And your carpet-dinner certainly spared you one feature of a picnic, which is to me its chief drawback.” “The chance of a shower?” I suggested. “No, the chance—or rather the certainty—of live things occurring in combination with one’s food! Spiders are my bugbear. Now my father has no sympathy with that sentiment—have you, dear?” For the Earl had caught the word and turned to listen. “To each his sufferings, all are men,” he replied in the sweet sad tones that seemed natural to him: “each has his pet aversion.” “But you’ll never guess his!” Lady Muriel said, with that delicate silvery laugh that was music to my ears. 246 I declined to attempt the impossible. “He doesn’t like snakes!” she said, in a stage whisper. “Now, isn’t that an unreasonable aversion? Fancy not liking such a dear, coaxingly, clingingly affectionate creature as a snake!” “Not like snakes!” I exclaimed. “Is such a thing possible?” “No, he doesn’t like them,” she repeated with a pretty mock-gravity. “He’s not afraid of them, you know. But he doesn’t like them. He says they’re too waggly!” I was more startled than I liked to show. There was something so uncanny in this echo of the very words I had so lately heard from that little forest-sprite, that it was only by a great effort I succeeded in saying, carelessly, “Let us banish so unpleasant a topic. Won’t you sing us something, Lady Muriel? I know you do sing without music.” “The only songs I know—without music—are desperately sentimental, I’m afraid! Are your tears all ready?” “Quite ready! Quite ready!” came from all sides, and Lady Muriel—not being one of 247 those lady-singers who think it de rigueur to decline to sing till they have been petitioned three or four times, and have pleaded failure of memory, loss of voice, and other conclusive reasons for silence—began at once:— ‘THREE BADGERS ON A MOSSY STONE’ ‘THREE BADGERS ON A MOSSY STONE’ “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. 248 “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.” Here Bruno broke off suddenly. “The Herrings’ Song wants anuvver tune, Sylvie,” he said. “And I ca’n’t sing it—not wizout oo plays it for me!” 249 ‘THE FATHER-BADGER, WRITHING IN A CAVE’ ‘THE FATHER-BADGER, WRITHING IN A CAVE’ Instantly Sylvie seated herself upon a tiny mushroom, that happened to grow in front of a daisy, as if it were the most ordinary musical instrument in the world, and played on the petals as if they were the notes of an organ. And such delicious tiny music it was! Such teeny-tiny music! Bruno held his head on one side, and listened very gravely for a few moments until he had caught the melody. Then the sweet childish voice rang out once more:— 250 “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!” “Oo may leave off playing now, Sylvie. I can do the uvver tune much better wizout a compliment.” “He means ‘without accompaniment,’” Sylvie whispered, smiling at my puzzled look: and she pretended to shut up the stops of the organ. 251 “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!’” I ought to mention that he marked the parenthesis, in the air, with his finger. It seemed to me a very good plan. You know there’s no sound to represent it—any more than there is for a question. Suppose you have said to your friend, “You are better to-day,” and that you want him to understand that you are asking him a question, what can be simpler than just to make a ‘?’ in the air with your finger? He would understand you in a moment! “‘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!’ 252 ‘THOSE AGED ONES WAXED GAY’ ‘THOSE AGED ONES WAXED GAY’ 253 “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!’” “So they all got safe home again,” Bruno said, after waiting a minute to see if I had anything to say: he evidently felt that some remark ought to be made. And I couldn’t help wishing there were some such rule in Society, at the conclusion of a song—that the singer herself should say the right thing, and not leave it to the audience. Suppose a young lady has just been warbling (‘with a grating and uncertain sound’) Shelley’s exquisite lyric ‘I arise from dreams of thee’: how much nicer it would be, instead of your having to say “Oh, thank you, thank you!” for the young lady herself to remark, as she draws on her gloves, while the impassioned words ‘Oh, press it to thine own, or it will break at last!’ are still ringing in your ears, “—but she wouldn’t do it, you know. So it did break at last.” 254 “And I knew it would!” she added quietly, as I started at the sudden crash of broken glass. “You’ve been holding it sideways for the last minute, and letting all the champagne run out! Were you asleep, I wonder? I’m so sorry my singing has such a narcotic effect!” 255 CHAPTER XVIII. QUEER STREET, NUMBER FORTY. Lady Muriel was the speaker. And, for the moment, that was the only fact I could clearly realise. But how she came to be there—and how I came to be there—and how the glass of champagne came to be there—all these were questions which I felt it better to think out in silence, and not commit myself to any statement till I understood things a little more clearly. ‘First accumulate a mass of Facts: and then construct a Theory.’ That, I believe, is the true Scientific Method. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and began to accumulate Facts. 256 A smooth grassy slope, bounded, at the upper end, by venerable ruins half buried in ivy, at the lower, by a stream seen through arching trees—a dozen gaily-dressed people, seated in little groups, here and there—some open hampers—the débris of a picnic—such were the Facts accumulated by the Scientific Researcher. And now, what deep, far-reaching Theory was he to construct from them? The Researcher found himself at fault. Yet stay! One Fact had escaped his notice. While all the rest were grouped in twos and in threes, Arthur was alone: while all tongues were talking, his was silent: while all faces were gay, his was gloomy and despondent. Here was a Fact indeed! The Researcher felt that a Theory must be constructed without delay. Lady Muriel had just risen and left the party. Could that be the cause of his despondency? The Theory hardly rose to the dignity of a Working Hypothesis. Clearly more Facts were needed. The Researcher looked round him once more: and now the Facts accumulated in such bewildering profusion, that the Theory 257 was lost among them. For Lady Muriel had gone to meet a strange gentleman, just visible in the distance: and now she was returning with him, both of them talking eagerly and joyfully, like old friends who have been long parted: and now she was moving from group to group, introducing the new hero of the hour: and he, young, tall, and handsome, moved gracefully at her side, with the erect bearing and firm tread of a soldier. Verily, the Theory looked gloomy for Arthur! His eye caught mine, and he crossed to me. “He is very handsome,” I said. “Abominably handsome!” muttered Arthur: then smiled at his own bitter words. “Lucky no one heard me but you!” “Doctor Forester,” said Lady Muriel, who had just joined us, “let me introduce to you my cousin Eric Lindon—Captain Lindon, I should say.” Arthur shook off his ill-temper instantly and completely, as he rose and gave the young soldier his hand. “I have heard of you,” he said. “I’m very glad to make the acquaintance of Lady Muriel’s cousin.” 258 “Yes, that’s all I’m distinguished for, as yet!” said Eric (so we soon got to call him) with a winning smile. “And I doubt,” glancing at Lady Muriel, “if it even amounts to a good-conduct-badge! But it’s something to begin with.” “You must come to my father, Eric,” said Lady Muriel. “I think he’s wandering among the ruins.” And the pair moved on. The gloomy look returned to Arthur’s face: and I could see it was only to distract his thoughts that he took his place at the side of the metaphysical young lady, and resumed their interrupted discussion. “Talking of Herbert Spencer,” he began, “do you really find no logical difficulty in regarding Nature as a process of involution, passing from definite coherent homogeneity to indefinite incoherent heterogeneity?” Amused as I was at the ingenious jumble he had made of Spencer’s words, I kept as grave a face as I could. “No physical difficulty,” she confidently replied: “but I haven’t studied Logic much. Would you state the difficulty?” 259 “Well,” said Arthur, “do you accept it as self-evident? Is it as obvious, for instance, as that ‘things that are greater than the same are greater than one another’?” “To my mind,” she modestly replied, “it seems quite as obvious. I grasp both truths by intuition. But other minds may need some logical—I forget the technical terms.” “For a complete logical argument,” Arthur began with admirable solemnity, “we need two prim Misses——” “Of course!” she interrupted. “I remember that word now. And they produce——?” “A Delusion,” said Arthur. “Ye—es?” she said dubiously. “I don’t seem to remember that so well. But what is the whole argument called?” “A Sillygism.” “Ah, yes! I remember now. But I don’t need a Sillygism, you know, to prove that mathematical axiom you mentioned.” “Nor to prove that ‘all angles are equal’, I suppose?” “Why, of course not! One takes such a simple truth as that for granted!” 260 Here I ventured to interpose, and to offer her a plate of strawberries and cream. I felt really uneasy at the thought that she might detect the trick: and I contrived, unperceived by her, to shake my head reprovingly at the pseudo-philosopher. Equally unperceived by her, Arthur slightly raised his shoulders, and spread his hands abroad, as who should say “What else can I say to her?” and moved away, leaving her to discuss her strawberries by ‘involution,’ or any other way she preferred. By this time the carriages, that were to convey the revelers to their respective homes, had begun to assemble outside the Castle-grounds: and it became evident—now that Lady Muriel’s cousin had joined our party—that the problem, how to convey five people to Elveston, with a carriage that would only hold four, must somehow be solved. The Honorable Eric Lindon, who was at this moment walking up and down with Lady Muriel, might have solved it at once, no doubt, by announcing his intention of returning on foot. Of this solution there did not seem to be the very smallest probability. 261 The next best solution, it seemed to me, was that I should walk home: and this I at once proposed. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” said the Earl. “I’m afraid the carriage won’t take us all, and I don’t like to suggest to Eric to desert his cousin so soon.” “So far from minding it,” I said, “I should prefer it. It will give me time to sketch this beautiful old ruin.” “I’ll keep you company,” Arthur suddenly said. And, in answer to what I suppose was a look of surprise on my face, he said in a low voice, “I really would rather. I shall be quite de trop in the carriage!” “I think I’ll walk too,” said the Earl. “You’ll have to be content with Eric as your escort,” he added, to Lady Muriel, who had joined us while he was speaking. “You must be as entertaining as Cerberus—‘three gentlemen rolled into one’—” Lady Muriel said to her companion. “It will be a grand military exploit!” “A sort of Forlorn Hope?” the Captain modestly suggested. 262 “You do pay pretty compliments!” laughed his fair cousin. “Good day to you, gentlemen three—or rather deserters three!” And the two young folk entered the carriage and were driven away. “How long will your sketch take?” said Arthur. “Well,” I said, “I should like an hour for it. Don’t you think you had better go without me? I’ll return by train. I know there’s one in about an hour’s time.” “Perhaps that would be best,” said the Earl. “The Station is quite close.” So I was left to my own devices, and soon found a comfortable seat, at the foot of a tree, from which I had a good view of the ruins. “It is a very drowsy day,” I said to myself, idly turning over the leaves of the sketch-book to find a blank page. “Why, I thought you were a mile off by this time!” For, to my surprise, the two walkers were back again. “I came back to remind you,” Arthur said, “that the trains go every ten minutes——” “Nonsense!” I said. “It isn’t the Metropolitan Railway!” 263 “It is the Metropolitan Railway,” the Earl insisted. “This is a part of Kensington.” “Why do you talk with your eyes shut?” said Arthur. “Wake up!” “I think it’s the heat makes me so drowsy,” I said, hoping, but not feeling quite sure, that I was talking sense. “Am I awake now?” “I think not,” the Earl judicially pronounced. “What do you think, Doctor? He’s only got one eye open!” “And he’s snoring like anything!” cried Bruno. “Do wake up, you dear old thing!” And he and Sylvie set to work, rolling the heavy head from side to side, as if its connection with the shoulders was a matter of no sort of importance. And at last the Professor opened his eyes, and sat up, blinking at us with eyes of utter bewilderment. “Would you have the kindness to mention,” he said, addressing me with his usual old-fashioned courtesy, “whereabouts we are just now—and who we are, beginning with me?” I thought it best to begin with the children. “This is Sylvie, Sir; and this is Bruno.” 264 “Ah, yes! I know them well enough!” the old man murmured. “It’s myself I’m most anxious about. And perhaps you’ll be good enough to mention, at the same time, how I got here?” “A harder problem occurs to me,” I ventured to say: “and that is, how you’re to get back again.” “True, true!” the Professor replied. “That’s the Problem, no doubt. Viewed as a Problem, outside of oneself, it is a most interesting one. Viewed as a portion of one’s own biography, it is, I must admit, very distressing!” He groaned, but instantly added, with a chuckle, “As to myself, I think you mentioned that I am——” “Oo’re the Professor!” Bruno shouted in his ear. “Didn’t oo know that? Oo’ve come from Outland! And it’s ever so far away from here!” The Professor leapt to his feet with the agility of a boy. “Then there’s no time to lose!” he exclaimed anxiously. “I’ll just ask this guileless peasant, with his brace of buckets that contain (apparently) water, if he’ll be so 265 kind as to direct us. Guileless peasant!” he proceeded in a louder voice. “Would you tell us the way to Outland?” The guileless peasant turned with a sheepish grin. “Hey?” was all he said. “The—way—to—Outland!” the Professor repeated. The guileless peasant set down his buckets and considered. “Ah dunnot——” “I ought to mention,” the Professor hastily put in, “that whatever you say will be used in evidence against you.” The guileless peasant instantly resumed his buckets. “Then ah says nowt!” he answered briskly, and walked away at a great pace. The children gazed sadly at the rapidly vanishing figure. “He goes very quick!” the Professor said with a sigh. “But I know that was the right thing to say. I’ve studied your English Laws. However, let’s ask this next man that’s coming. He is not guileless, and he is not a peasant—but I don’t know that either point is of vital importance.” It was, in fact, the Honourable Eric Lindon, who had apparently fulfilled his task of escorting 266 Lady Muriel home, and was now strolling leisurely up and down the road outside the house, enjoying a solitary cigar. “Might I trouble you, Sir, to tell us the nearest way to Outland!” Oddity as he was, in outward appearance, the Professor was, in that essential nature which no outward disguise could conceal, a thorough gentleman. And, as such, Eric Lindon accepted him instantly. He took the cigar from his mouth, and delicately shook off the ash, while he considered. “The name sounds strange to me,” he said. “I doubt if I can help you.” “It is not very far from Fairyland,” the Professor suggested. Eric Lindon’s eye-brows were slightly raised at these words, and an amused smile, which he courteously tried to repress, flitted across his handsome face. “A trifle cracked!” he muttered to himself. “But what a jolly old patriarch it is!” Then he turned to the children. “And ca’n’t you help him, little folk?” he said, with a gentleness of tone that seemed to win their hearts at once. “Surely you know all about it? 267 ‘How many miles to Babylon? Three-score miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again!’” To my surprise, Bruno ran forwards to him, as if he were some old friend of theirs, seized the disengaged hand and hung on to it with both of his own: and there stood this tall dignified officer in the middle of the road, gravely swinging a little boy to and fro, while Sylvie stood ready to push him, exactly as if a real swing had suddenly been provided for their pastime. “We don’t want to get to Babylon, oo know!” Bruno explained as he swung. “And it isn’t candlelight: it’s daylight!” Sylvie added, giving the swing a push of extra vigour, which nearly took the whole machine off its balance. By this time it was clear to me that Eric Lindon was quite unconscious of my presence. Even the Professor and the children seemed to have lost sight of me: and I stood in the midst of the group, as unconcernedly as a ghost, seeing but unseen. 268 “How perfectly isochronous!” the Professor exclaimed with enthusiasm. He had his watch in his hand, and was carefully counting Bruno’s oscillations. “He measures time quite as accurately as a pendulum!” ‘HOW PERFECTLY ISOCHRONOUS!’ ‘HOW PERFECTLY ISOCHRONOUS!’ “Yet even pendulums,” the good-natured young soldier observed, as he carefully released his hand from Bruno’s grasp, “are not a joy for ever! Come, that’s enough for one bout, little man! Next time we meet, you shall have 269 another. Meanwhile you’d better take this old gentleman to Queer Street, Number——” “We’ll find it!” cried Bruno eagerly, as they dragged the Professor away. “We are much indebted to you!” the Professor said, looking over his shoulder. “Don’t mention it!” replied the officer, raising his hat as a parting salute. “What number did you say!” the Professor called from the distance. The officer made a trumpet of his two hands. “Forty!” he shouted in stentorian tones. “And not piano, by any means!” he added to himself. “It’s a mad world, my masters, a mad world!” He lit another cigar, and strolled on towards his hotel. “What a lovely evening!” I said, joining him as he passed me. “Lovely indeed,” he said. “Where did you come from? Dropped from the clouds?” “I’m strolling your way,” I said; and no further explanation seemed necessary. “Have a cigar?” “Thanks: I’m not a smoker.” “Is there a Lunatic Asylum near here?” 270 “Not that I know of.” “Thought there might be. Met a lunatic just now. Queer old fish as ever I saw!” And so, in friendly chat, we took our homeward ways, and wished each other ‘good-night’ at the door of his hotel. Left to myself, I felt the ‘eerie’ feeling rush over me again, and saw, standing at the door of Number Forty, the three figures I knew so well. “Then it’s the wrong house?” Bruno was saying. “No, no! It’s the right house,” the Professor cheerfully replied: “but it’s the wrong street. That’s where we’ve made our mistake! Our best plan, now, will be to——” It was over. The street was empty. Commonplace life was around me, and the ‘eerie’ feeling had fled. 271 CHAPTER XIX. HOW TO MAKE A PHLIZZ. The week passed without any further communication with the ‘Hall,’ as Arthur was evidently fearful that we might ‘wear out our welcome’; but when, on Sunday morning, we were setting out for church, I gladly agreed to his proposal to go round and enquire after the Earl, who was said to be unwell. Eric, who was strolling in the garden, gave us a good report of the invalid, who was still in bed, with Lady Muriel in attendance. “Are you coming with us to church?” I enquired. 272 “Thanks, no,” he courteously replied. “It’s not—exactly—in my line, you know. It’s an excellent institution—for the poor. When I’m with my own folk, I go, just to set them an example. But I’m not known here: so I think I’ll excuse myself sitting out a sermon. Country-preachers are always so dull!” Arthur was silent till we were out of hearing. Then he said to himself, almost inaudibly, “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” “Yes,” I assented: “no doubt that is the principle on which church-going rests.” “And when he does go,” he continued (our thoughts ran so much together, that our conversation was often slightly elliptical), “I suppose he repeats the words ‘I believe in the Communion of Saints’?” But by this time we had reached the little church, into which a goodly stream of worshipers, consisting mainly of fishermen and their families, was flowing. The service would have been pronounced by any modern æsthetic religionist—or religious æsthete, which is it?—to be crude and cold: 273 to me, coming fresh from the ever-advancing developments of a London church under a soi-disant ‘Catholic’ Rector, it was unspeakably refreshing. There was no theatrical procession of demure little choristers, trying their best not to simper under the admiring gaze of the congregation: the people’s share in the service was taken by the people themselves, unaided, except that a few good voices, judiciously posted here and there among them, kept the singing from going too far astray. There was no murdering of the noble music, contained in the Bible and the Liturgy, by its recital in a dead monotone, with no more expression than a mechanical talking-doll. No, the prayers were prayed, the lessons were read, and—best of all—the sermon was talked; and I found myself repeating, as we left the church, the words of Jacob, when he ‘awaked out of his sleep.’ “‘Surely the Lord is in this place! This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.’” “Yes,” said Arthur, apparently in answer to my thoughts, “those ‘high’ services are fast 274 becoming pure Formalism. More and more the people are beginning to regard them as ‘performances,’ in which they only ‘assist’ in the French sense. And it is specially bad for the little boys. They’d be much less self-conscious as pantomime-fairies. With all that dressing-up, and stage-entrances and exits, and being always en evidence, no wonder if they’re eaten up with vanity, the blatant little coxcombs!” When we passed the Hall on our return, we found the Earl and Lady Muriel sitting out in the garden. Eric had gone for a stroll. We joined them, and the conversation soon turned on the sermon we had just heard, the subject of which was ‘selfishness.’ “What a change has come over our pulpits,” Arthur remarked, “since the time when Paley gave that utterly selfish definition of virtue, ‘the doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will of God, and for the sake of everlasting happiness’!” Lady Muriel looked at him enquiringly, but she seemed to have learned by intuition, what years of experience had taught me, that the way to elicit Arthur’s deepest thoughts was neither to assent nor dissent, but simply to listen. 275 “At that time,” he went on, “a great tidal wave of selfishness was sweeping over human thought. Right and Wrong had somehow been transformed into Gain and Loss, and Religion had become a sort of commercial transaction. We may be thankful that our preachers are beginning to take a nobler view of life.” “But is it not taught again and again in the Bible?” I ventured to ask. “Not in the Bible as a whole,” said Arthur. “In the Old Testament, no doubt, rewards and punishments are constantly appealed to as motives for action. That teaching is best for children, and the Israelites seem to have been, mentally, utter children. We guide our children thus, at first: but we appeal, as soon as possible, to their innate sense of Right and Wrong: and, when that stage is safely past, we appeal to the highest motive of all, the desire for likeness to, and union with, the Supreme Good. I think you will find that to be the teaching of the Bible, as a whole, beginning with ‘that thy days may be long in the land,’ and ending with ‘be ye perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.’” 276 We were silent for awhile, and then Arthur went off on another tack. “Look at the literature of Hymns, now. How cankered it is, through and through, with selfishness! There are few human compositions more utterly degraded than some modern Hymns!” I quoted the stanza “Whatever, Lord, we lend to Thee, Repaid a thousandfold shall be, Then gladly will we give to Thee, Giver of all!” “Yes,” he said grimly: “that is the typical stanza. And the very last charity-sermon I heard was infected with it. After giving many good reasons for charity, the preacher wound up with ‘and, for all you give, you will be repaid a thousandfold!’ Oh the utter meanness of such a motive, to be put before men who do know what self-sacrifice is, who can appreciate generosity and heroism! Talk of Original Sin!” he went on with increasing bitterness. “Can you have a stronger proof of the Original Goodness there must be in this nation, than the fact that Religion has been 277 preached to us, as a commercial speculation, for a century, and that we still believe in a God?” “It couldn’t have gone on so long,” Lady Muriel musingly remarked, “if the Opposition hadn’t been practically silenced—put under what the French call la clôture. Surely in any lecture-hall, or in private society, such teaching would soon have been hooted down?” “I trust so,” said Arthur: “and, though I don’t want to see ‘brawling in church’ legalised, I must say that our preachers enjoy an enormous privilege—which they ill deserve, and which they misuse terribly. We put our man into a pulpit, and we virtually tell him ‘Now, you may stand there and talk to us for half-an-hour. We won’t interrupt you by so much as a word! You shall have it all your own way!’ And what does he give us in return? Shallow twaddle, that, if it were addressed to you over a dinner-table, you would think ‘Does the man take me for a fool?’” The return of Eric from his walk checked the tide of Arthur’s eloquence, and, after a few minutes’ talk on more conventional topics, we took our leave. Lady Muriel walked with 278 us to the gate. “You have given me much to think about,” she said earnestly, as she gave Arthur her hand. “I’m so glad you came in!” And her words brought a real glow of pleasure into that pale worn face of his. On the Tuesday, as Arthur did not seem equal to more walking, I took a long stroll by myself, having stipulated that he was not to give the whole day to his books, but was to meet me at the Hall at about tea-time. On my way back, I passed the Station just as the afternoon-train came in sight, and sauntered down the stairs to see it come in. But there was little to gratify my idle curiosity: and, when the train was empty, and the platform clear, I found it was about time to be moving on, if I meant to reach the Hall by five. As I approached the end of the platform, from which a steep irregular wooden staircase conducted to the upper world, I noticed two passengers, who had evidently arrived by the train, but who, oddly enough, had entirely escaped my notice, though the arrivals had been so few. They were a young woman and a little girl: the former, so far as one could 279 judge by appearances, was a nursemaid, or possibly a nursery-governess, in attendance on the child, whose refined face, even more than her dress, distinguished her as of a higher class than her companion. The child’s face was refined, but it was also a worn and sad one, and told a tale (or so I seemed to read it) of much illness and suffering, sweetly and patiently borne. She had a little crutch to help herself along with: and she was now standing, looking wistfully up the long staircase, and apparently waiting till she could muster courage to begin the toilsome ascent. There are some things one says in life—as well as things one does—which come automatically, by reflex action, as the physiologists say (meaning, no doubt, action without reflection, just as lucus is said to be derived ‘a non lucendo’). Closing one’s eyelids, when something seems to be flying into the eye, is one of those actions, and saying “May I carry the little girl up the stairs?” was another. It wasn’t that any thought of offering help occurred to me, and that then I spoke: the 280 first intimation I had, of being likely to make that offer, was the sound of my own voice, and the discovery that the offer had been made. The servant paused, doubtfully glancing from her charge to me, and then back again to the child. “Would you like it, dear?” she asked her. But no such doubt appeared to cross the child’s mind: she lifted her arms eagerly to be taken up. “Please!” was all she said, while a faint smile flickered on the weary little face. I took her up with scrupulous care, and her little arm was at once clasped trustfully round my neck. THE LAME CHILD THE LAME CHILD She was a very light weight—so light, in fact, that the ridiculous idea crossed my mind that it was rather easier going up, with 281 her in my arms, than it would have been without her: and, when we reached the road above, with its cart-ruts and loose stones—all formidable obstacles for a lame child—I found that I had said “I’d better carry her over this rough place,” before I had formed any mental connection between its roughness and my gentle little burden. “Indeed it’s troubling you too much, Sir!” the maid exclaimed. “She can walk very well on the flat.” But the arm, that was twined about my neck, clung just an atom more closely at the suggestion, and decided me to say “She’s no weight, really. I’ll carry her a little further. I’m going your way.” The nurse raised no further objection: and the next speaker was a ragged little boy, with bare feet, and a broom over his shoulder, who ran across the road, and pretended to sweep the perfectly dry road in front of us. “Give us a ‘ap’ny!” the little urchin pleaded, with a broad grin on his dirty face. “Don’t give him a ‘ap’ny!” said the little lady in my arms. The words sounded harsh: but the tone was gentleness itself. “He’s an idle little boy!” And she laughed a laugh of 282 such silvery sweetness as I had never yet heard from any lips but Sylvie’s. To my astonishment, the boy actually joined in the laugh, as if there were some subtle sympathy between them, as he ran away down the road and vanished through a gap in the hedge. But he was back in a few moments, having discarded his broom and provided himself, from some mysterious source, with an exquisite bouquet of flowers. “Buy a posy, buy a posy! Only a ‘ap’ny!” he chanted, with the melancholy drawl of a professional beggar. “Don’t buy it!” was Her Majesty’s edict, as she looked down, with a lofty scorn that seemed curiously mixed with tender interest, on the ragged creature at her feet. But this time I turned rebel, and ignored the royal commands. Such lovely flowers, and of forms so entirely new to me, were not to be abandoned at the bidding of any little maid, however imperious. I bought the bouquet: and the little boy, after popping the halfpenny into his mouth, turned head-over-heels, as if to ascertain whether the human mouth is really adapted to serve as a money-box. 283 With wonder, that increased every moment, I turned over the flowers, and examined them one by one: there was not a single one among them that I could remember having ever seen before. At last I turned to the nursemaid. “Do these flowers grow wild about here? I never saw——” but the speech died away on my lips. The nursemaid had vanished! “You can put me down, now, if you like,” Sylvie quietly remarked. I obeyed in silence, and could only ask myself “Is this a dream?”, on finding Sylvie and Bruno walking one on either side of me, and clinging to my hands with the ready confidence of childhood. “You’re larger than when I saw you last!” I began. “Really I think we ought to be introduced again! There’s so much of you that I never met before, you know.” “Very well!” Sylvie merrily replied. “This is Bruno. It doesn’t take long. He’s only got one name!” “There’s another name to me!” Bruno protested, with a reproachful look at the Mistress of the Ceremonies. “And it’s—‘Esquire’!” 284 “Oh, of course. I forgot,” said Sylvie. “Bruno—Esquire!” “And did you come here to meet me, my children?” I enquired. “You know I said we’d come on Tuesday,” Sylvie explained. “Are we the proper size for common children?” “Quite the right size for children,” I replied, (adding mentally “though not common children, by any means!”) “But what became of the nursemaid?” “It are gone!” Bruno solemnly replied. “Then it wasn’t solid, like Sylvie and you?” “No. Oo couldn’t touch it, oo know. If oo walked at it, oo’d go right froo!” “I quite expected you’d find it out, once,” said Sylvie. “Bruno ran it against a telegraph post, by accident. And it went in two halves. But you were looking the other way.” I felt that I had indeed missed an opportunity: to witness such an event as a nursemaid going ‘in two halves’ does not occur twice in a life-time! “When did oo guess it were Sylvie?” Bruno enquired. 285 ‘IT WENT IN TWO HALVES’ ‘IT WENT IN TWO HALVES’ “I didn’t guess it, till it was Sylvie,” I said. “But how did you manage the nursemaid?” “Bruno managed it,” said Sylvie. “It’s called a Phlizz.” “And how do you make a Phlizz, Bruno?” “The Professor teached me how,” said Bruno. “First oo takes a lot of air——” 286 “Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie interposed. “The Professor said you weren’t to tell!” “But who did her voice?” I asked. “Indeed it’s troubling you too much, Sir! She can walk very well on the flat.” Bruno laughed merrily as I turned hastily from side to side, looking in all directions for the speaker. “That were me!” he gleefully proclaimed, in his own voice. “She can indeed walk very well on the flat,” I said. “And I think I was the Flat.” By this time we were near the Hall. “This is where my friends live,” I said. “Will you come in and have some tea with them?” Bruno gave a little jump of joy: and Sylvie said “Yes, please. You’d like some tea, Bruno, wouldn’t you? He hasn’t tasted tea,” she explained to me, “since we left Outland.” “And that weren’t good tea!” said Bruno. “It were so welly weak!” 287 CHAPTER XX. LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO. Lady Muriel’s smile of welcome could not quite conceal the look of surprise with which she regarded my new companions. I presented them in due form. “This is Sylvie, Lady Muriel. And this is Bruno.” “Any surname?” she enquired, her eyes twinkling with fun. “No,” I said gravely. “No surname.” She laughed, evidently thinking I said it in fun; and stooped to kiss the children—a salute to which Bruno submitted with reluctance: Sylvie returned it with interest. 288 While she and Arthur (who had arrived before me) supplied the children with tea and cake, I tried to engage the Earl in conversation: but he was restless and distrait, and we made little progress. At last, by a sudden question, he betrayed the cause of his disquiet. “Would you let me look at those flowers you have in your hand?” “Willingly!” I said, handing him the bouquet. Botany was, I knew, a favourite study of his: and these flowers were to me so entirely new and mysterious, that I was really curious to see what a botanist would say of them. They did not diminish his disquiet. On the contrary, he became every moment more excited as he turned them over. “These are all from Central India!” he said, laying aside part of the bouquet. “They are rare, even there: and I have never seen them in any other part of the world. These two are Mexican—This one—” (He rose hastily, and carried it to the window, to examine it in a better light, the flush of excitement mounting to his very forehead) “—is, I am nearly sure—but I have a book of Indian Botany here—” He took a 289 volume from the book-shelves, and turned the leaves with trembling fingers. “Yes! Compare it with this picture! It is the exact duplicate! This is the flower of the Upas-tree, which usually grows only in the depths of forests; and the flower fades so quickly after being plucked, that it is scarcely possible to keep its form or colour even so far as the outskirts of the forest! Yet this is in full bloom! Where did you get these flowers?” he added with breathless eagerness. I glanced at Sylvie, who, gravely and silently, laid her finger on her lips, then beckoned to Bruno to follow her, and ran out into the garden; and I found myself in the position of a defendant whose two most important witnesses have been suddenly taken away. “Let me give you the flowers!” I stammered out at last, quite ‘at my wit’s end’ as to how to get out of the difficulty. “You know much more about them than I do!” “I accept them most gratefully! But you have not yet told me—” the Earl was beginning, when we were interrupted, to my great relief, by the arrival of Eric Lindon. 290 To Arthur, however, the new-comer was, I saw clearly, anything but welcome. His face clouded over: he drew a little back from the circle, and took no further part in the conversation, which was wholly maintained, for some minutes, by Lady Muriel and her lively cousin, who were discussing some new music that had just arrived from London. “Do just try this one!” he pleaded. “The music looks easy to sing at sight, and the song’s quite appropriate to the occasion.” “Then I suppose it’s ‘Five o’clock tea! Ever to thee Faithful I’ll be, Five o’clock tea!’” laughed Lady Muriel, as she sat down to the piano, and lightly struck a few random chords. “Not quite: and yet it is a kind of ‘ever to thee faithful I’ll be!’ It’s a pair of hapless lovers: he crosses the briny deep: and she is left lamenting.” “That is indeed appropriate!” she replied mockingly, as he placed the song before her. 291 “And am I to do the lamenting? And who for, if you please?” She played the air once or twice through, first in quick, and finally in slow, time; and then gave us the whole song with as much graceful ease as if she had been familiar with it all her life:— “He stept so lightly to the land, All in his manly pride: He kissed her cheek, he pressed her hand, Yet still she glanced aside. ‘Too gay he seems,’ she darkly dreams, ‘Too gallant and too gay To think of me—poor simple me— When he is far away!’ ‘I bring my Love this goodly pearl Across the seas,’ he said: ‘A gem to deck the dearest girl That ever sailor wed!’ She clasps it tight: her eyes are bright: Her throbbing heart would say ‘He thought of me—he thought of me— When he was far away!’ 292 The ship has sailed into the West: Her ocean-bird is flown: A dull dead pain is in her breast, And she is weak and lone; Yet there’s a smile upon her face, A smile that seems to say ‘He’ll think of me—he’ll think of me— When he is far away! ‘Though waters wide between us glide, Our lives are warm and near: No distance parts two faithful hearts— Two hearts that love so dear: And I will trust my sailor-lad, For ever and a day, To think of me—to think of me— When he is far away!’” The look of displeasure, which had begun to come over Arthur’s face when the young Captain spoke of Love so lightly, faded away as the song proceeded, and he listened with evident delight. But his face darkened again when Eric demurely remarked “Don’t you think ‘my soldier-lad’ would have fitted the tune just as well!” 293 “Why, so it would!” Lady Muriel gaily retorted. “Soldiers, sailors, tinkers, tailors, what a lot of words would fit in! I think ‘my tinker-lad’ sounds best. Don’t you?” To spare my friend further pain, I rose to go, just as the Earl was beginning to repeat his particularly embarrassing question about the flowers. “You have not yet——” “Yes, I’ve had some tea, thank you!” I hastily interrupted him. “And now we really must be going. Good evening, Lady Muriel!” And we made our adieux, and escaped, while the Earl was still absorbed in examining the mysterious bouquet. Lady Muriel accompanied us to the door. “You couldn’t have given my father a more acceptable present!” she said, warmly. “He is so passionately fond of Botany. I’m afraid I know nothing of the theory of it, but I keep his Hortus Siccus in order. I must get some sheets of blotting-paper, and dry these new treasures for him before they fade.” “That won’t be no good at all!” said Bruno, who was waiting for us in the garden. 294 “Why won’t it?” said I. “You know I had to give the flowers, to stop questions.” “Yes, it ca’n’t be helped,” said Sylvie: “but they will be sorry when they find them gone!” “But how will they go?” “Well, I don’t know how. But they will go. The nosegay was only a Phlizz, you know. Bruno made it up.” These last words were in a whisper, as she evidently did not wish Arthur to hear. But of this there seemed to be little risk: he hardly seemed to notice the children, but paced on, silent and abstracted; and when, at the entrance to the wood, they bid us a hasty farewell and ran off, he seemed to wake out of a day-dream. The bouquet vanished, as Sylvie had predicted; and when, a day or two afterwards, Arthur and I once more visited the Hall, we found the Earl and his daughter, with the old housekeeper, out in the garden, examining the fastenings of the drawing-room window. “We are holding an Inquest,” Lady Muriel said, advancing to meet us: “and we admit you, as Accessories before the Fact, to tell us all you know about those flowers.” 295 “The Accessories before the Fact decline to answer any questions,” I gravely replied. “And they reserve their defence.” “Well then, turn Queen’s Evidence, please! The flowers have disappeared in the night,” she went on, turning to Arthur, “and we are quite sure no one in the house has meddled with them. Somebody must have entered by the window——” “But the fastenings have not been tampered with,” said the Earl. “It must have been while you were dining, my Lady,” said the housekeeper. “That was it,” said the Earl. “The thief must have seen you bring the flowers,” turning to me, “and have noticed that you did not take them away. And he must have known their great value—they are simply priceless!” he exclaimed, in sudden excitement. “And you never told us how you got them!” said Lady Muriel. “Some day,” I stammered, “I may be free to tell you. Just now, would you excuse me?” The Earl looked disappointed, but kindly said “Very well, we will ask no questions.” 296 FIVE O’CLOCK TEA FIVE O’CLOCK TEA 297 “But we consider you a very bad Queen’s Evidence,” Lady Muriel added playfully, as we entered the arbour. “We pronounce you to be an accomplice: and we sentence you to solitary confinement, and to be fed on bread and—butter. Do you take sugar?” “It is disquieting, certainly,” she resumed, when all ‘creature-comforts’ had been duly supplied, “to find that the house has been entered by a thief—in this out-of-the-way place. If only the flowers had been eatables, one might have suspected a thief of quite another shape——” “You mean that universal explanation for all mysterious disappearances, ‘the cat did it’?” said Arthur. “Yes,” she replied. “What a convenient thing it would be if all thieves had the same shape! It’s so confusing to have some of them quadrupeds and others bipeds!” “It has occurred to me,” said Arthur, “as a curious problem in Teleology—the Science of Final Causes,” he added, in answer to an enquiring look from Lady Muriel. “And a Final Cause is——?” 298 “Well, suppose we say—the last of a series of connected events—each of the series being the cause of the next—for whose sake the first event takes place.” “But the last event is practically an effect of the first, isn’t it? And yet you call it a cause of it!” Arthur pondered a moment. “The words are rather confusing, I grant you,” he said. “Will this do? The last event is an effect of the first: but the necessity for that event is a cause of the necessity for the first.” “That seems clear enough,” said Lady Muriel. “Now let us have the problem.” “It’s merely this. What object can we imagine in the arrangement by which each different size (roughly speaking) of living creatures has its special shape? For instance, the human race has one kind of shape—bipeds. Another set, ranging from the lion to the mouse, are quadrupeds. Go down a step or two further, and you come to insects with six legs—hexapods—a beautiful name, is it not? But beauty, in our sense of the word, seems to diminish as we go down: the creature becomes 299 more—I won’t say ‘ugly’ of any of God’s creatures—more uncouth. And, when we take the microscope, and go a few steps lower still, we come upon animalculæ, terribly uncouth, and with a terrible number of legs!” “The other alternative,” said the Earl, “would be a diminuendo series of repetitions of the same type. Never mind the monotony of it: let’s see how it would work in other ways. Begin with the race of men, and the creatures they require: let us say horses, cattle, sheep, and dogs—we don’t exactly require frogs and spiders, do we, Muriel?” Lady Muriel shuddered perceptibly: it was evidently a painful subject. “We can dispense with them,” she said gravely. “Well, then we’ll have a second race of men, half-a-yard high——” “—who would have one source of exquisite enjoyment, not possessed by ordinary men!” Arthur interrupted. “What source?” said the Earl. “Why, the grandeur of scenery! Surely the grandeur of a mountain, to me, depends on its size, relative to me? Double the height 300 of the mountain, and of course it’s twice as grand. Halve my height, and you produce the same effect.” “Happy, happy, happy Small!” Lady Muriel murmured rapturously. “None but the Short, none but the Short, none but the Short enjoy the Tall!” “But let me go on,” said the Earl. “We’ll have a third race of men, five inches high; a fourth race, an inch high——” “They couldn’t eat common beef and mutton, I’m sure!” Lady Muriel interrupted. “True, my child, I was forgetting. Each set must have its own cattle and sheep.” “And its own vegetation,” I added. “What could a cow, an inch high, do with grass that waved far above its head?” “That is true. We must have a pasture within a pasture, so to speak. The common grass would serve our inch-high cows as a green forest of palms, while round the root of each tall stem would stretch a tiny carpet of microscopic grass. Yes, I think our scheme will work fairly well. And it would be very interesting, coming into contact with the races 301 below us. What sweet little things the inch-high bull-dogs would be! I doubt if even Muriel would run away from one of them!” “Don’t you think we ought to have a crescendo series, as well?” said Lady Muriel. “Only fancy being a hundred yards high! One could use an elephant as a paper-weight, and a crocodile as a pair of scissors!” “And would you have races of different sizes communicate with one another?” I enquired. “Would they make war on one another, for instance, or enter into treaties?” “War we must exclude, I think. When you could crush a whole nation with one blow of your fist, you couldn’t conduct war on equal terms. But anything, involving a collision of minds only, would be possible in our ideal world—for of course we must allow mental powers to all, irrespective of size. Perhaps the fairest rule would be that, the smaller the race, the greater should be its intellectual development!” “Do you mean to say,” said Lady Muriel, “that these manikins of an inch high are to argue with me?” 302 “Surely, surely!” said the Earl. “An argument doesn’t depend for its logical force on the size of the creature that utters it!” She tossed her head indignantly. “I would not argue with any man less than six inches high!” she cried. “I’d make him work!” “What at?” said Arthur, listening to all this nonsense with an amused smile. “Embroidery!” she readily replied. “What lovely embroidery they would do!” “Yet, if they did it wrong,” I said, “you couldn’t argue the question. I don’t know why: but I agree that it couldn’t be done.” “The reason is,” said Lady Muriel, “one couldn’t sacrifice one’s dignity so far.” “Of course one couldn’t!” echoed Arthur. “Any more than one could argue with a potato. It would be altogether—excuse the ancient pun—infra dig.!” “I doubt it,” said I. “Even a pun doesn’t quite convince me.” “Well, if that is not the reason,” said Lady Muriel, “what reason would you give?” I tried hard to understand the meaning of this question: but the persistent humming of 303 the bees confused me, and there was a drowsiness in the air that made every thought stop and go to sleep before it had got well thought out: so all I could say was “That must depend on the weight of the potato.” I felt the remark was not so sensible as I should have liked it to be. But Lady Muriel seemed to take it quite as a matter of course. “In that case——” she began, but suddenly started, and turned away to listen. “Don’t you hear him?” she said. “He’s crying. We must go to him, somehow.” And I said to myself “That’s very strange! I quite thought it was Lady Muriel talking to me. Why, it’s Sylvie all the while!” And I made another great effort to say something that should have some meaning in it. “Is it about the potato?” 304 CHAPTER XXI. THROUGH THE IVORY DOOR. “I don’t know,” said Sylvie. “Hush! I must think. I could go to him, by myself, well enough. But I want you to come too.” “Let me go with you,” I pleaded. “I can walk as fast as you can, I’m sure.” Sylvie laughed merrily. “What nonsense!” she cried. “Why, you ca’n’t walk a bit! You’re lying quite flat on your back! You don’t understand these things.” “I can walk as well as you can,” I repeated. And I tried my best to walk a few steps: but the ground slipped away backwards, quite as 305 fast as I could walk, so that I made no progress at all. Sylvie laughed again. “There, I told you so! You’ve no idea how funny you look, moving your feet about in the air, as if you were walking! Wait a bit. I’ll ask the Professor what we’d better do.” And she knocked at his study-door. The door opened, and the Professor looked out. “What’s that crying I heard just now?” he asked. “Is it a human animal?” “It’s a boy,” Sylvie said. “I’m afraid you’ve been teasing him?” “No, indeed I haven’t!” Sylvie said, very earnestly. “I never tease him!” “Well, I must ask the Other Professor about it.” He went back into the study, and we heard him whispering “small human animal—says she hasn’t been teasing him—the kind that’s called Boy——” “Ask her which Boy,” said a new voice. The Professor came out again. “Which Boy is it that you haven’t been teasing?” Sylvie looked at me with twinkling eyes. “You dear old thing!” she exclaimed, standing 306 on tiptoe to kiss him, while he gravely stooped to receive the salute. “How you do puzzle me! Why, there are several boys I haven’t been teasing!” The Professor returned to his friend: and this time the voice said “Tell her to bring them here—all of them!” “I ca’n’t, and I won’t!” Sylvie exclaimed, the moment he reappeared. “It’s Bruno that’s crying: and he’s my brother: and, please, we both want to go: he ca’n’t walk, you know: he’s—he’s dreaming, you know” (this in a whisper, for fear of hurting my feelings). “Do let’s go through the Ivory Door!” “I’ll ask him,” said the Professor, disappearing again. He returned directly. “He says you may. Follow me, and walk on tip-toe.” The difficulty with me would have been, just then, not to walk on tip-toe. It seemed very hard to reach down far enough to just touch the floor, as Sylvie led me through the study. The Professor went before us to unlock the Ivory Door. I had just time to glance at the Other Professor, who was sitting reading, with his back to us, before the Professor showed us 307 out through the door, and locked it behind us. Bruno was standing with his hands over his face, crying bitterly. ‘WHAT’S THE MATTER, DARLING?’ ‘WHAT’S THE MATTER, DARLING?’ “What’s the matter, darling?” said Sylvie, with her arms round his neck. “Hurted mine self welly much!” sobbed the poor little fellow. 308 “I’m so sorry, darling! How ever did you manage to hurt yourself so?” “Course I managed it!” said Bruno, laughing through his tears. “Doos oo think nobody else but oo ca’n’t manage things?” Matters were looking distinctly brighter, now Bruno had begun to argue. “Come, let’s hear all about it!” I said. “My foot took it into its head to slip——” Bruno began. “A foot hasn’t got a head!” Sylvie put in, but all in vain. “I slipted down the bank. And I tripted over a stone. And the stone hurted my foot! And I trod on a Bee. And the Bee stinged my finger!” Poor Bruno sobbed again. The complete list of woes was too much for his feelings. “And it knewed I didn’t mean to trod on it!” he added, as the climax. “That Bee should be ashamed of itself!” I said severely, and Sylvie hugged and kissed the wounded hero till all tears were dried. “My finger’s quite unstung now!” said Bruno. “Why doos there be stones? Mister Sir, doos oo know?” 309 “They’re good for something,” I said: “even if we don’t know what. What’s the good of dandelions, now?” “Dindledums?” said Bruno. “Oh, they’re ever so pretty! And stones aren’t pretty, one bit. Would oo like some dindledums, Mister Sir?” “Bruno!” Sylvie murmured reproachfully. “You mustn’t say ‘Mister’ and ‘Sir,’ both at once! Remember what I told you!” “You telled me I were to say ‘Mister’ when I spoked about him, and I were to say ‘Sir’ when I spoked to him!” “Well, you’re not doing both, you know.” “Ah, but I is doing bofe, Miss Praticular!” Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. “I wishted to speak about the Gemplun—and I wishted to speak to the Gemplun. So a course I said ‘Mister Sir’!” “That’s all right, Bruno,” I said. “Course it’s all right!” said Bruno. “Sylvie just knows nuffin at all!” “There never was an impertinenter boy!” said Sylvie, frowning till her bright eyes were nearly invisible. 310 “And there never was an ignoranter girl!” retorted Bruno. “Come along and pick some dindledums. That’s all she’s fit for!” he added in a very loud whisper to me. “But why do you say ‘Dindledums,’ Bruno? Dandelions is the right word.” “It’s because he jumps about so,” Sylvie said, laughing. “Yes, that’s it,” Bruno assented. “Sylvie tells me the words, and then, when I jump about, they get shooken up in my head—till they’re all froth!” I expressed myself as perfectly satisfied with this explanation. “But aren’t you going to pick me any dindledums, after all?” “Course we will!” cried Bruno. “Come along, Sylvie!” And the happy children raced away, bounding over the turf with the fleetness and grace of young antelopes. “Then you didn’t find your way back to Outland?” I said to the Professor. “Oh yes, I did!” he replied, “We never got to Queer Street; but I found another way. I’ve been backwards and forwards several times since then. I had to be present at the Election, 311 you know, as the author of the new Money-Act. The Emperor was so kind as to wish that I should have the credit of it. ‘Let come what come may,’ (I remember the very words of the Imperial Speech) ‘if it should turn out that the Warden is alive, you will bear witness that the change in the coinage is the Professor’s doing, not mine!’ I never was so glorified in my life, before!” Tears trickled down his cheeks at the recollection, which apparently was not wholly a pleasant one. “Is the Warden supposed to be dead?” “Well, it’s supposed so: but, mind you, I don’t believe it! The evidence is very weak—mere hear-say. A wandering Jester, with a Dancing-Bear (they found their way into the Palace, one day) has been telling people he comes from Fairyland, and that the Warden died there. I wanted the Vice-Warden to question him, but, most unluckily, he and my Lady were always out walking when the Jester came round. Yes, the Warden’s supposed to be dead!” And more tears trickled down the old man’s cheeks. “But what is the new Money-Act?” 312 The Professor brightened up again. “The Emperor started the thing,” he said. “He wanted to make everybody in Outland twice as rich as he was before—just to make the new Government popular. Only there wasn’t nearly enough money in the Treasury to do it. So I suggested that he might do it by doubling the value of every coin and bank-note in Outland. It’s the simplest thing possible. I wonder nobody ever thought of it before! And you never saw such universal joy. The shops are full from morning to night. Everybody’s buying everything!” “And how was the glorifying done?” A sudden gloom overcast the Professor’s jolly face. “They did it as I went home after the Election,” he mournfully replied. “It was kindly meant—but I didn’t like it! They waved flags all round me till I was nearly blind: and they rang bells till I was nearly deaf: and they strewed the road so thick with flowers that I lost my way!” And the poor old man sighed deeply. “How far is it to Outland?” I asked, to change the subject. 313 “About five days’ march. But one must go back—occasionally. You see, as Court-Professor, I have to be always in attendance on Prince Uggug. The Empress would be very angry if I left him, even for an hour.” “But surely, every time you come here, you are absent ten days, at least?” “Oh, more than that!” the Professor exclaimed. “A fortnight, sometimes. But of course I keep a memorandum of the exact time when I started, so that I can put the Court-time back to the very moment!” “Excuse me,” I said. “I don’t understand.” Silently the Professor drew from his pocket a square gold watch, with six or eight hands, and held it out for my inspection. “This,” he began, “is an Outlandish Watch——” “So I should have thought.” “—which has the peculiar property that, instead of its going with the time, the time goes with it. I trust you understand me now?” “Hardly,” I said. “Permit me to explain. So long as it is let alone, it takes its own course. Time has no effect upon it.” 314 “I have known such watches,” I remarked. “It goes, of course, at the usual rate. Only the time has to go with it. Hence, if I move the hands, I change the time. To move them forwards, in advance of the true time, is impossible: but I can move them as much as a month backwards—that is the limit. And then you have the events all over again—with any alterations experience may suggest.” “What a blessing such a watch would be,” I thought, “in real life! To be able to unsay some heedless word—to undo some reckless deed! Might I see the thing done?” “With pleasure!” said the good natured Professor. “When I move this hand back to here,” pointing out the place, “History goes back fifteen minutes!” Trembling with excitement, I watched him push the hand round as he described. “Hurted mine self welly much!” Shrilly and suddenly the words rang in my ears, and, more startled than I cared to show, I turned to look for the speaker. Yes! There was Bruno, standing with the tears running down his cheeks, just as I had 315 seen him a quarter of an hour ago; and there was Sylvie with her arms round his neck! I had not the heart to make the dear little fellow go through his troubles a second time, so hastily begged the Professor to push the hands round into their former position. In a moment Sylvie and Bruno were gone again, and I could just see them in the far distance, picking ‘dindledums.’ “Wonderful, indeed!” I exclaimed. “It has another property, yet more wonderful,” said the Professor. “You see this little peg? That is called the ‘Reversal Peg.’ If you push it in, the events of the next hour happen in the reverse order. Do not try it now. I will lend you the Watch for a few days, and you can amuse yourself with experiments.” “Thank you very much!” I said as he gave me the Watch. “I’ll take the greatest care of it—why, here are the children again!” “We could only but find six dindledums,” said Bruno, putting them into my hands, “’cause Sylvie said it were time to go back. And here’s a big blackberry for ooself! We couldn’t only find but two!” 316 “Thank you: it’s very nice,” I said. “And I suppose you ate the other, Bruno?” “No, I didn’t,” Bruno said, carelessly. “Aren’t they pretty dindledums, Mister Sir?” “Yes, very: but what makes you limp so, my child?” “Mine foot’s come hurted again!” Bruno mournfully replied. And he sat down on the ground, and began nursing it. The Professor held his head between his hands—an attitude that I knew indicated distraction of mind. “Better rest a minute,” he said. “It may be better then—or it may be worse. If only I had some of my medicines here! I’m Court-Physician, you know,” he added, aside to me. “Shall I go and get you some blackberries, darling?” Sylvie whispered, with her arms round his neck; and she kissed away a tear that was trickling down his cheek. Bruno brightened up in a moment. “That are a good plan!” he exclaimed. “I thinks my foot would come quite unhurted, if I eated a blackberry—two or three blackberries—six or seven blackberries—” 317 Sylvie got up hastily. “I’d better go,” she said, aside to me, “before he gets into the double figures!” “Let me come and help you,” I said. “I can reach higher up than you can.” “Yes, please,” said Sylvie, putting her hand into mine: and we walked off together. “Bruno loves blackberries,” she said, as we paced slowly along by a tall hedge, that looked a promising place for them, “and it was so sweet of him to make me eat the only one!” “Oh, it was you that ate it, then? Bruno didn’t seem to like to tell me about it.” “No; I saw that,” said Sylvie. “He’s always afraid of being praised. But he made me eat it, really! I would much rather he—oh, what’s that?” And she clung to my hand, half-frightened, as we came in sight of a hare, lying on its side with legs stretched out, just in the entrance to the wood. “It’s a hare, my child. Perhaps it’s asleep.” “No, it isn’t asleep,” Sylvie said, timidly going nearer to look at it: “it’s eyes are open. Is it—is it—” her voice dropped to an awestruck whisper, “is it dead, do you think?” 318 “Yes, it’s quite dead,” I said, after stooping to examine it. “Poor thing! I think it’s been hunted to death. I know the harriers were out yesterday. But they haven’t touched it. Perhaps they caught sight of another, and left it to die of fright and exhaustion.” “Hunted to death?” Sylvie repeated to herself, very slowly and sadly. “I thought hunting was a thing they played at—like a game. Bruno and I hunt snails: but we never hurt them when we catch them!” “Sweet angel!” I thought. “How am I to get the idea of Sport into your innocent mind?” And as we stood, hand-in-hand, looking down at the dead hare, I tried to put the thing into such words as she could understand. “You know what fierce wild-beasts lions and tigers are?” Sylvie nodded. “Well, in some countries men have to kill them, to save their own lives, you know.” “Yes,” said Sylvie: “if one tried to kill me, Bruno would kill it—if he could.” “Well, and so the men—the hunters—get to enjoy it, you know: the running, and the fighting, and the shouting, and the danger.” 319 “Yes,” said Sylvie. “Bruno likes danger.” “Well, but, in this country, there aren’t any lions and tigers, loose: so they hunt other creatures, you see.” I hoped, but in vain, that this would satisfy her, and that she would ask no more questions. “They hunt foxes,” Sylvie said, thoughtfully. “And I think they kill them, too. Foxes are very fierce. I daresay men don’t love them. Are hares fierce?” “No,” I said. “A hare is a sweet, gentle, timid animal—almost as gentle as a lamb.” “But, if men love hares, why—why—” her voice quivered, and her sweet eyes were brimming over with tears. “I’m afraid they don’t love them, dear child.” “All children love them,” Sylvie said. “All ladies love them.” “I’m afraid even ladies go to hunt them, sometimes.” Sylvie shuddered. “Oh, no, not ladies!” she earnestly pleaded. “Not Lady Muriel!” “No, she never does, I’m sure—but this is too sad a sight for you, dear. Let’s try and find some—” 320 But Sylvie was not satisfied yet. In a hushed, solemn tone, with bowed head and clasped hands, she put her final question. “Does God love hares?” “Yes!” I said. “I’m sure He does! He loves every living thing. Even sinful men. How much more the animals, that cannot sin!” “I don’t know what ‘sin’ means,” said Sylvie. And I didn’t try to explain it. “Come, my child,” I said, trying to lead her away. “Wish good-bye to the poor hare, and come and look for blackberries.” “Good-bye, poor hare!” Sylvie obediently repeated, looking over her shoulder at it as we turned away. And then, all in a moment, her self-command gave way. Pulling her hand out of mine, she ran back to where the dead hare was lying, and flung herself down at its side in such an agony of grief as I could hardly have believed possible in so young a child. “Oh, my darling, my darling!” she moaned, over and over again. “And God meant your life to be so beautiful!” Sometimes, but always keeping her face hidden on the ground, she would reach out one 321 little hand, to stroke the poor dead thing, and then once more bury her face in her hands, and sob as if her heart would break. THE DEAD HARE THE DEAD HARE I was afraid she would really make herself ill: still I thought it best to let her weep away the first sharp agony of grief: and, after a few minutes, the sobbing gradually ceased, and Sylvie rose to her feet, and looked calmly at me, though tears were still streaming down her cheeks. I did not dare to speak again, just yet; but simply held out my hand to her, that we might quit the melancholy spot. 322 “Yes, I’ll come now,” she said. Very reverently she kneeled down, and kissed the dead hare; then rose and gave me her hand, and we moved on in silence. A child’s sorrow is violent, but short; and it was almost in her usual voice that she said, after a minute, “Oh stop, stop! Here are some lovely blackberries!” We filled our hands with fruit, and returned in all haste to where the Professor and Bruno were seated on a bank, awaiting our return. Just before we came within hearing-distance, Sylvie checked me. “Please don’t tell Bruno about the hare!” she said. “Very well, my child. But why not?” Tears again glittered in those sweet eyes, and she turned her head away, so that I could scarcely hear her reply. “He’s—he’s very fond of gentle creatures, you know. And he’d—he’d be so sorry! I don’t want him to be made sorry.” “And your agony of sorrow is to count for nothing, then, sweet unselfish child!” I thought to myself. But no more was said till we had reached our friends; and Bruno was far too 323 much engrossed, in the feast we had brought him, to take any notice of Sylvie’s unusually grave manner. “I’m afraid it’s getting rather late, Professor?” I said. “Yes, indeed,” said the Professor. “I must take you all through the Ivory Door again. You’ve stayed your full time.” “Mightn’t we stay a little longer!” pleaded Sylvie. “Just one minute!” added Bruno. But the Professor was unyielding. “It’s a great privilege, coming through at all,” he said. “We must go now.” And we followed him obediently to the Ivory Door, which he threw open, and signed to me to go through first. “You’re coming too, aren’t you?” I said to Sylvie. “Yes,” she said: “but you won’t see us after you’ve gone through.” “But suppose I wait for you outside?” I asked, as I stepped through the doorway. “In that case,” said Sylvie, “I think the potato would be quite justified in asking your weight. I can quite imagine a really superior 324 kidney-potato declining to argue with any one under fifteen stone!” With a great effort I recovered the thread of my thoughts. “We lapse very quickly into nonsense!” I said. 325 CHAPTER XXII. CROSSING THE LINE. “Let us lapse back again,” said Lady Muriel. “Take another cup of tea? I hope that’s sound common sense?” “And all that strange adventure,” I thought, “has occupied the space of a single comma in Lady Muriel’s speech! A single comma, for which grammarians tell us to ‘count one’!” (I felt no doubt that the Professor had kindly put back the time for me, to the exact point at which I had gone to sleep.) When, a few minutes afterwards, we left the house, Arthur’s first remark was certainly a 326 strange one. “We’ve been there just twenty minutes,” he said, “and I’ve done nothing but listen to you and Lady Muriel talking: and yet, somehow, I feel exactly as if I had been talking with her for an hour at least!” And so he had been, I felt no doubt: only, as the time had been put back to the beginning of the tête-à-tête he referred to, the whole of it had passed into oblivion, if not into nothingness! But I valued my own reputation for sanity too highly to venture on explaining to him what had happened. For some cause, which I could not at the moment divine, Arthur was unusually grave and silent during our walk home. It could not be connected with Eric Lindon, I thought, as he had for some days been away in London: so that, having Lady Muriel almost ‘all to himself’—for I was only too glad to hear those two conversing, to have any wish to intrude any remarks of my own—he ought, theoretically, to have been specially radiant and contented with life. “Can he have heard any bad news?” I said to myself. And, almost as if he had read my thoughts, he spoke. 327 “He will be here by the last train,” he said, in the tone of one who is continuing a conversation rather than beginning one. “Captain Lindon, do you mean?” “Yes—Captain Lindon,” said Arthur: “I said ‘he,’ because I fancied we were talking about him. The Earl told me he comes to-night, though to-morrow is the day when he will know about the Commission that he’s hoping for. I wonder he doesn’t stay another day to hear the result, if he’s really so anxious about it as the Earl believes he is.” “He can have a telegram sent after him,” I said: “but it’s not very soldier-like, running away from possible bad news!” “He’s a very good fellow,” said Arthur: “but I confess it would be good news for me, if he got his Commission, and his Marching Orders, all at once! I wish him all happiness—with one exception. Good night!” (We had reached home by this time.) “I’m not good company to-night—better be alone.” It was much the same, next day. Arthur declared he wasn’t fit for Society, and I had to set forth alone for an afternoon-stroll. I 328 took the road to the Station, and, at the point where the road from the ‘Hall’ joined it, I paused, seeing my friends in the distance, seemingly bound for the same goal. “Will you join us?” the Earl said, after I had exchanged greetings with him, and Lady Muriel, and Captain Lindon. “This restless young man is expecting a telegram, and we are going to the Station to meet it.” “There is also a restless young woman in the case,” Lady Muriel added. “That goes without saying, my child,” said her father. “Women are always restless!” “For generous appreciation of all one’s best qualities,” his daughter impressively remarked, “there’s nothing to compare with a father, is there, Eric?” “Cousins are not ‘in it,’” said Eric: and then somehow the conversation lapsed into two duologues, the younger folk taking the lead, and the two old men following with less eager steps. “And when are we to see your little friends again?” said the Earl. “They are singularly attractive children.” 329 “I shall be delighted to bring them, when I can,” I said. “But I don’t know, myself, when I am likely to see them again.” “I’m not going to question you,” said the Earl: “but there’s no harm in mentioning that Muriel is simply tormented with curiosity! We know most of the people about here, and she has been vainly trying to guess what house they can possibly be staying at.” “Some day I may be able to enlighten her: but just at present——” “Thanks. She must bear it as best she can. I tell her it’s a grand opportunity for practising patience. But she hardly sees it from that point of view. Why, there are the children!” So indeed they were: waiting (for us, apparently) at a stile, which they could not have climbed over more than a few moments, as Lady Muriel and her cousin had passed it without seeing them. On catching sight of us, Bruno ran to meet us, and to exhibit to us, with much pride, the handle of a clasp-knife—the blade having been broken off—which he had picked up in the road. 330 “And what shall you use it for, Bruno?” I said. “Don’t know,” Bruno carelessly replied: “must think.” “A child’s first view of life,” the Earl remarked, with that sweet sad smile of his, “is that it is a period to be spent in accumulating portable property. That view gets modified as the years glide away.” And he held out his hand to Sylvie, who had placed herself by me, looking a little shy of him. But the gentle old man was not one with whom any child, human or fairy, could be shy for long; and she had very soon deserted my hand for his—Bruno alone remaining faithful to his first friend. We overtook the other couple just as they reached the Station, and both Lady Muriel and Eric greeted the children as old friends—the latter with the words “So you got to Babylon by candlelight, after all?” “Yes, and back again!” cried Bruno. Lady Muriel looked from one to the other in blank astonishment. “What, you know them, Eric?” she exclaimed. “This mystery grows deeper every day!” 331 “Then we must be somewhere in the Third Act,” said Eric. “You don’t expect the mystery to be cleared up till the Fifth Act, do you?” “But it’s such a long drama!” was the plaintive reply. “We must have got to the Fifth Act by this time!” “Third Act, I assure you,” said the young soldier mercilessly. “Scene, a railway-platform. Lights down. Enter Prince (in disguise, of course) and faithful Attendant. This is the Prince—” (taking Bruno’s hand) “and here stands his humble Servant! What is your Royal Highness’s next command?” And he made a most courtier-like low bow to his puzzled little friend. “Oo’re not a Servant!” Bruno scornfully exclaimed. “Oo’re a Gemplun!” “Servant, I assure your Royal Highness!” Eric respectfully insisted. “Allow me to mention to your Royal Highness my various situations—past, present, and future.” “What did oo begin wiz?” Bruno asked, beginning to enter into the jest. “Was oo a shoe-black?” 332 “Lower than that, your Royal Highness! Years ago, I offered myself as a Slave—as a ‘Confidential Slave,’ I think it’s called?” he asked, turning to Lady Muriel. But Lady Muriel heard him not: something had gone wrong with her glove, which entirely engrossed her attention. “Did oo get the place?” said Bruno. “Sad to say, Your Royal Highness, I did not! So I had to take a situation as—as Waiter, which I have now held for some years—haven’t I?” He again glanced at Lady Muriel. “Sylvie dear, do help me to button this glove!” Lady Muriel whispered, hastily stooping down, and failing to hear the question. “And what will oo be next?” said Bruno. “My next place will, I hope, be that of Groom. And after that——” “Don’t puzzle the child so!” Lady Muriel interrupted. “What nonsense you talk!” “—after that,” Eric persisted, “I hope to obtain the situation of Housekeeper, which—Fourth Act!” he proclaimed, with a sudden change of tone. “Lights turned up. Red 333 lights. Green lights. Distant rumble heard. Enter a passenger-train!” And in another minute the train drew up alongside of the platform, and a stream of passengers began to flow out from the booking office and waiting-rooms. “Did you ever make real life into a drama?” said the Earl. “Now just try. I’ve often amused myself that way. Consider this platform as our stage. Good entrances and exits on both sides, you see. Capital background scene: real engine moving up and down. All this bustle, and people passing to and fro, must have been most carefully rehearsed! How naturally they do it! With never a glance at the audience! And every grouping is quite fresh, you see. No repetition!” It really was admirable, as soon as I began to enter into it from this point of view. Even a porter passing, with a barrow piled with luggage, seemed so realistic that one was tempted to applaud. He was followed by an angry mother, with hot red face, dragging along two screaming children, and calling, to some one behind, “John! Come on!” Enter John, 334 very meek, very silent, and loaded with parcels. And he was followed, in his turn, by a frightened little nursemaid, carrying a fat baby, also screaming. All the children screamed. “Capital byplay!” said the old man aside. “Did you notice the nursemaid’s look of terror? It was simply perfect!” “You have struck quite a new vein,” I said. “To most of us Life and its pleasures seem like a mine that is nearly worked out.” “Worked out!” exclaimed the Earl. “For any one with true dramatic instincts, it is only the Overture that is ended! The real treat has yet to begin. You go to a theatre, and pay your ten shillings for a stall, and what do you get for your money? Perhaps it’s a dialogue between a couple of farmers—unnatural in their overdone caricature of farmers’ dress—more unnatural in their constrained attitudes and gestures—most unnatural in their attempts at ease and geniality in their talk. Go instead and take a seat in a third-class railway-carriage, and you’ll get the same dialogue done to the life! Front-seats—no orchestra to block the view—and nothing to pay!” 335 “Which reminds me,” said Eric. “There is nothing to pay on receiving a telegram! Shall we enquire for one?” And he and Lady Muriel strolled off in the direction of the Telegraph-Office. “I wonder if Shakespeare had that thought in his mind,” I said, “when he wrote ‘All the world’s a stage’?” The old man sighed. “And so it is,” he said, “look at it as you will. Life is indeed a drama; a drama with but few encores—and no bouquets!” he added dreamily. “We spend one half of it in regretting the things we did in the other half!” “And the secret of enjoying it,” he continued, resuming his cheerful tone, “is intensity!” “But not in the modern æsthetic sense, I presume? Like the young lady, in Punch, who begins a conversation with ‘Are you intense?’” “By no means!” replied the Earl. “What I mean is intensity of thought—a concentrated attention. We lose half the pleasure we might have in Life, by not really attending. Take any instance you like: it doesn’t matter how trivial the pleasure may be—the principle is 336 the same. Suppose A and B are reading the same second-rate circulating-library novel. A never troubles himself to master the relationships of the characters, on which perhaps all the interest of the story depends: he ‘skips’ over all the descriptions of scenery, and every passage that looks rather dull: he doesn’t half attend to the passages he does read: he goes on reading—merely from want of resolution to find another occupation—for hours after he ought to have put the book aside: and reaches the ‘FINIS’ in a state of utter weariness and depression! B puts his whole soul into the thing—on the principle that ‘whatever is worth doing is worth doing well’: he masters the genealogies: he calls up pictures before his ‘mind’s eye’ as he reads about the scenery: best of all, he resolutely shuts the book at the end of some chapter, while his interest is yet at its keenest, and turns to other subjects; so that, when next he allows himself an hour at it, it is like a hungry man sitting down to dinner: and, when the book is finished, he returns to the work of his daily life like ‘a giant refreshed’!” 337 “But suppose the book were really rubbish—nothing to repay attention?” “Well, suppose it,” said the Earl. “My theory meets that case, I assure you! A never finds out that it is rubbish, but maunders on to the end, trying to believe he’s enjoying himself. B quietly shuts the book, when he’s read a dozen pages, walks off to the Library, and changes it for a better! I have yet another theory for adding to the enjoyment of Life—that is, if I have not exhausted your patience? I’m afraid you find me a very garrulous old man.” “No indeed!” I exclaimed earnestly. And indeed I felt as if one could not easily tire of the sweet sadness of that gentle voice. “It is, that we should learn to take our pleasures quickly, and our pains slowly.” “But why? I should have put it the other way, myself.” “By taking artificial pain—which can be as trivial as you please—slowly, the result is that, when real pain comes, however severe, all you need do is to let it go at its ordinary pace, and it’s over in a moment!” 338 “Very true,” I said, “but how about the pleasure?” “Why, by taking it quick, you can get so much more into life. It takes you three hours and a half to hear and enjoy an opera. Suppose I can take it in, and enjoy it, in half-an-hour. Why, I can enjoy seven operas, while you are listening to one!” “Always supposing you have an orchestra capable of playing them,” I said. “And that orchestra has yet to be found!” The old man smiled. “I have heard an air played,” he said, “and by no means a short one—played right through, variations and all, in three seconds!” “When? And how?” I asked eagerly, with a half-notion that I was dreaming again. “It was done by a little musical-box,” he quietly replied. “After it had been wound up, the regulator, or something, broke, and it ran down, as I said, in about three seconds. But it must have played all the notes, you know!” “Did you enjoy it?” I asked, with all the severity of a cross-examining barrister. 339 “No, I didn’t!” he candidly confessed. “But then, you know, I hadn’t been trained to that kind of music!” “I should much like to try your plan,” I said, and, as Sylvie and Bruno happened to run up to us at the moment, I left them to keep the Earl company, and strolled along the platform, making each person and event play its part in an extempore drama for my especial benefit. “What, is the Earl tired of you already?” I said, as the children ran past me. “No!” Sylvie replied with great emphasis. “He wants the evening-paper. So Bruno’s going to be a little news-boy!” “Mind you charge a good price for it!” I called after them. Returning up the platform, I came upon Sylvie alone. “Well, child,” I said, “where’s your little news-boy? Couldn’t he get you an evening-paper?” “He went to get one at the book-stall at the other side,” said Sylvie; “and he’s coming across the line with it—oh, Bruno, you ought to cross by the bridge!” for the distant thud, thud, of the Express was already audible. 340 Suddenly a look of horror came over her face. “Oh, he’s fallen down on the rails!” she cried, and darted past me at a speed that quite defied the hasty effort I made to stop her. But the wheezy old Station-Master happened to be close behind me: he wasn’t good for much, poor old man, but he was good for this; and, before I could turn round, he had the child clasped in his arms, saved from the certain death she was rushing to. So intent was I in watching this scene, that I hardly saw a flying figure in a light grey suit, who shot across from the back of the platform, and was on the line in another second. So far as one could take note of time in such a moment of horror he had about ten clear seconds, before the Express would be upon him, in which to cross the rails and to pick up Bruno. Whether he did so or not it was quite impossible to guess: the next thing one knew was that the Express had passed, and that, whether for life or death, all was over. When the cloud of dust had cleared away, and the line was once more visible, we saw with thankful hearts that the child and his deliverer were safe. 341 “All right!” Eric called to us cheerfully, as he recrossed the line. “He’s more frightened than hurt!” CROSSING THE LINE CROSSING THE LINE He lifted the little fellow up into Lady Muriel’s arms, and mounted the platform as gaily as if nothing had happened: but he was as pale as death, and leaned heavily on the arm I hastily offered him, fearing he was about to faint. “I’ll just—sit down a moment—” he said dreamily: “—where’s Sylvie?” 342 Sylvie ran to him, and flung her arms round his neck, sobbing as if her heart would break. “Don’t do that, my darling!” Eric murmured, with a strange look in his eyes. “Nothing to cry about now, you know. But you very nearly got yourself killed for nothing!” “For Bruno!” the little maiden sobbed. “And he would have done it for me. Wouldn’t you, Bruno?” “Course I would!” Bruno said, looking round with a bewildered air. Lady Muriel kissed him in silence as she put him down out of her arms. Then she beckoned Sylvie to come and take his hand, and signed to the children to go back to where the Earl was seated. “Tell him,” she whispered with quivering lips, “tell him—all is well!” Then she turned to the hero of the day. “I thought it was death,” she said. “Thank God, you are safe! Did you see how near it was?” “I saw there was just time,” Eric said lightly. “A soldier must learn to carry his life in his hand, you know. I’m all right now. Shall we go to the telegraph-office again? I daresay it’s come by this time.” 343 I went to join the Earl and the children, and we waited—almost in silence, for no one seemed inclined to talk, and Bruno was half-asleep on Sylvie’s lap—till the others joined us. No telegram had come. “I’ll take a stroll with the children,” I said, feeling that we were a little de trop, “and I’ll look in, in the course of the evening.” “We must go back into the wood, now,” Sylvie said, as soon as we were out of hearing. “We ca’n’t stay this size any longer.” “Then you will be quite tiny Fairies again, next time we meet?” “Yes,” said Sylvie: “but we’ll be children again some day—if you’ll let us. Bruno’s very anxious to see Lady Muriel again.” “She are welly nice,” said Bruno. “I shall be very glad to take you to see her again,” I said. “Hadn’t I better give you back the Professor’s Watch? It’ll be too large for you to carry when you’re Fairies, you know.” Bruno laughed merrily. I was glad to see he had quite recovered from the terrible scene he had gone through. “Oh no, it won’t!” he said. “When we go small, it’ll go small!” 344 “And then it’ll go straight to the Professor,” Sylvie added, “and you won’t be able to use it any more: so you’d better use it all you can, now. We must go small when the sun sets. Good-bye!” “Good-bye!” cried Bruno. But their voices sounded very far away, and, when I looked round, both children had disappeared. “And it wants only two hours to sunset!” I said as I strolled on. “I must make the best of my time!” 345 CHAPTER XXIII. AN OUTLANDISH WATCH. As I entered the little town, I came upon two of the fishermen’s wives interchanging that last word “which never was the last”: and it occurred to me, as an experiment with the Magic Watch, to wait till the little scene was over, and then to ‘encore’ it. “Well, good night t’ye! And ye winna forget to send us word when your Martha writes?” “Nay, ah winna forget. An’ if she isn’t suited, she can but coom back. Good night t’ye!” 346 A casual observer might have thought “and there ends the dialogue!” That casual observer would have been mistaken. “Ah, she’ll like ’em, I war’n’ ye! They’ll not treat her bad, yer may depend. They’re varry canny fowk. Good night!” “Ay, they are that! Good night!” “Good night! And ye’ll send us word if she writes?” “Aye, ah will, yer may depend! Good night t’ye!” And at last they parted. I waited till they were some twenty yards apart, and then put the Watch a minute back. The instantaneous change was startling: the two figures seemed to flash back into their former places. “—isn’t suited, she can but coom back. Good night t’ye!” one of them was saying: and so the whole dialogue was repeated, and, when they had parted for the second time, I let them go their several ways, and strolled on through the town. “But the real usefulness of this magic power,” I thought, “would be to undo some harm, some painful event, some accident——” 347 I had not long to wait for an opportunity of testing this property also of the Magic Watch, for, even as the thought passed through my mind, the accident I was imagining occurred. A light cart was standing at the door of the ‘Great Millinery Depôt’ of Elveston, laden with card-board packing-cases, which the driver was carrying into the shop, one by one. One of the cases had fallen into the street, but it scarcely seemed worth while to step forward and pick it up, as the man would be back again in a moment. Yet, in that moment, a young man riding a bicycle came sharp round the corner of the street and, in trying to avoid running over the box, upset his machine, and was thrown headlong against the wheel of the spring-cart. The driver ran out to his assistance, and he and I together raised the unfortunate cyclist and carried him into the shop. His head was cut and bleeding; and one knee seemed to be badly injured; and it was speedily settled that he had better be conveyed at once to the only Surgery in the place. I helped them in emptying the cart, and placing in it some pillows for the wounded man to rest on; 348 and it was only when the driver had mounted to his place, and was starting for the Surgery, that I bethought me of the strange power I possessed of undoing all this harm. “Now is my time!” I said to myself, as I moved back the hand of the Watch, and saw, almost without surprise this time, all things restored to the places they had occupied at the critical moment when I had first noticed the fallen packing-case. Instantly I stepped out into the street, picked up the box, and replaced it in the cart: in the next moment the bicycle had spun round the corner, passed the cart without let or hindrance, and soon vanished in the distance, in a cloud of dust. “Delightful power of magic!” I thought. “How much of human suffering I have—not only relieved, but actually annihilated!” And, in a glow of conscious virtue, I stood watching the unloading of the cart, still holding the Magic Watch open in my hand, as I was curious to see what would happen when we again reached the exact time at which I had put back the hand. 349 The result was one that, if only I had considered the thing carefully, I might have foreseen: as the hand of the Watch touched the mark, the spring-cart—which had driven off, and was by this time half-way down the street, was back again at the door, and in the act of starting, while—oh woe for the golden dream of world-wide benevolence that had dazzled my dreaming fancy!—the wounded youth was once more reclining on the heap of pillows, his pale face set rigidly in the hard lines that told of pain resolutely endured. “Oh mocking Magic Watch!” I said to myself, as I passed out of the little town, and took the seaward road that led to my lodgings. “The good I fancied I could do is vanished like a dream: the evil of this troublesome world is the only abiding reality!” And now I must record an experience so strange, that I think it only fair, before beginning to relate it, to release my much-enduring reader from any obligation he may feel to believe this part of my story. I would not have believed it, I freely confess, if I had not seen it with my own eyes: then why should I expect 350 it of my reader, who, quite possibly, has never seen anything of the sort? I was passing a pretty little villa, which stood rather back from the road, in its own grounds, with bright flower-beds in front—creepers wandering over the walls and hanging in festoons about the bow-windows—an easy-chair forgotten on the lawn, with a newspaper lying near it—a small pug-dog “couchant” before it, resolved to guard the treasure even at the sacrifice of life—and a front-door standing invitingly half-open. “Here is my chance,” I thought, “for testing the reverse action of the Magic Watch!” I pressed the ‘reversal-peg’ and walked in. In another house, the entrance of a stranger might cause surprise—perhaps anger, even going so far as to expel the said stranger with violence: but here, I knew, nothing of the sort could happen. The ordinary course of events—first, to think nothing about me; then, hearing my footsteps to look up and see me; and then to wonder what business I had there—would be reversed by the action of my Watch. They would first wonder who I was, then see me, 351 then look down, and think no more about me. And as to being expelled with violence, that event would necessarily come first in this case. “So, if I can once get in,” I said to myself, “all risk of expulsion will be over!” ‘THE PUG-DOG SAT UP’ ‘THE PUG-DOG SAT UP’ The pug-dog sat up, as a precautionary measure, as I passed; but, as I took no notice of the treasure he was guarding, he let me go by without even one remonstrant bark. “He that takes my life,” he seemed to be saying, wheezily, to himself, “takes trash: But he that takes the Daily Telegraph——!” But this awful contingency I did not face. 352 The party in the drawing-room—I had walked straight in, you understand, without ringing the bell, or giving any notice of my approach—consisted of four laughing rosy children, of ages from about fourteen down to ten, who were, apparently, all coming towards the door (I found they were really walking backwards), while their mother, seated by the fire with some needlework on her lap, was saying, just as I entered the room, “Now, girls, you may get your things on for a walk.” To my utter astonishment—for I was not yet accustomed to the action of the Watch—“all smiles ceased” (as Browning says) on the four pretty faces, and they all got out pieces of needle-work, and sat down. No one noticed me in the least, as I quietly took a chair and sat down to watch them. When the needle-work had been unfolded, and they were all ready to begin, their mother said “Come, that’s done, at last! You may fold up your work, girls.” But the children took no notice whatever of the remark; on the contrary, they set to work at once sewing—if that is the proper word to describe an operation 353 such as I had never before witnessed. Each of them threaded her needle with a short end of thread attached to the work, which was instantly pulled by an invisible force through the stuff, dragging the needle after it: the nimble fingers of the little sempstress caught it at the other side, but only to lose it again the next moment. And so the work went on, steadily undoing itself, and the neatly-stitched little dresses, or whatever they were, steadily falling to pieces. Now and then one of the children would pause, as the recovered thread became inconveniently long, wind it on a bobbin, and start again with another short end. At last all the work was picked to pieces and put away, and the lady led the way into the next room, walking backwards, and making the insane remark “Not yet, dear: we must get the sewing done first.” After which, I was not surprised to see the children skipping backwards after her, exclaiming “Oh, mother, it is such a lovely day for a walk!” In the dining-room, the table had only dirty plates and empty dishes on it. However the party—with the addition of a gentleman, as 354 good-natured, and as rosy, as the children—seated themselves at it very contentedly. You have seen people eating cherry-tart, and every now and then cautiously conveying a cherry-stone from their lips to their plates? Well, something like that went on all through this ghastly—or shall we say ‘ghostly’?—banquet. An empty fork is raised to the lips: there it receives a neatly-cut piece of mutton, and swiftly conveys it to the plate, where it instantly attaches itself to the mutton already there. Soon one of the plates, furnished with a complete slice of mutton and two potatoes, was handed up to the presiding gentleman, who quietly replaced the slice on the joint, and the potatoes in the dish. Their conversation was, if possible, more bewildering than their mode of dining. It began by the youngest girl suddenly, and without provocation, addressing her eldest sister. “Oh, you wicked story-teller!” she said. I expected a sharp reply from the sister; but, instead of this, she turned laughingly to her father, and said, in a very loud stage-whisper, “To be a bride!” 355 The father, in order to do his part in a conversation that seemed only fit for lunatics, replied “Whisper it to me, dear.” But she didn’t whisper (these children never did anything they were told): she said, quite loud, “Of course not! Everybody knows what Dolly wants!” And little Dolly shrugged her shoulders, and said, with a pretty pettishness, “Now, Father, you’re not to tease! You know I don’t want to be bride’s-maid to anybody!” “And Dolly’s to be the fourth,” was her father’s idiotic reply. Here Number Three put in her oar. “Oh, it is settled, Mother dear, really and truly! Mary told us all about it. It’s to be next Tuesday four weeks—and three of her cousins are coming to be bride’s-maids—and——” “She doesn’t forget it, Minnie!” the Mother laughingly replied. “I do wish they’d get it settled! I don’t like long engagements.” And Minnie wound up the conversation—if so chaotic a series of remarks deserves the name—with “Only think! We passed the Cedars this morning, just exactly as Mary 356 Davenant was standing at the gate, wishing good-bye to Mister—I forget his name. Of course we looked the other way.” By this time I was so hopelessly confused that I gave up listening, and followed the dinner down into the kitchen. But to you, O hypercritical reader, resolute to believe no item of this weird adventure, what need to tell how the mutton was placed on the spit, and slowly unroasted—how the potatoes were wrapped in their skins, and handed over to the gardener to be buried—how, when the mutton had at length attained to rawness, the fire, which had gradually changed from red-heat to a mere blaze, died down so suddenly that the cook had only just time to catch its last flicker on the end of a match—or how the maid, having taken the mutton off the spit, carried it (backwards, of course) out of the house, to meet the butcher, who was coming (also backwards) down the road? The longer I thought over this strange adventure, the more hopelessly tangled the mystery became: and it was a real relief to meet Arthur in the road, and get him to go 357 with me up to the Hall, to learn what news the telegraph had brought. I told him, as we went, what had happened at the Station, but as to my further adventures I thought it best, for the present, to say nothing. The Earl was sitting alone when we entered. “I am glad you are come in to keep me company,” he said. “Muriel is gone to bed—the excitement of that terrible scene was too much for her—and Eric has gone to the hotel to pack his things, to start for London by the early train.” “Then the telegram has come?” I said. “Did you not hear? Oh, I had forgotten: it came in after you left the Station. Yes, it’s all right: Eric has got his commission; and, now that he has arranged matters with Muriel, he has business in town that must be seen to at once.” “What arrangement do you mean?” I asked with a sinking heart, as the thought of Arthur’s crushed hopes came to my mind. “Do you mean that they are engaged?” “They have been engaged—in a sense—for two years,” the old man gently replied: 358 “that is, he has had my promise to consent to it, so soon as he could secure a permanent and settled line in life. I could never be happy with my child married to a man without an object to live for—without even an object to die for!” “I hope they will be happy,” a strange voice said. The speaker was evidently in the room, but I had not heard the door open, and I looked round in some astonishment. The Earl seemed to share my surprise. “Who spoke?” he exclaimed. “It was I,” said Arthur, looking at us with a worn, haggard face, and eyes from which the light of life seemed suddenly to have faded. “And let me wish you joy also, dear friend,” he added, looking sadly at the Earl, and speaking in the same hollow tones that had startled us so much. “Thank you,” the old man said, simply and heartily. A silence followed: then I rose, feeling sure that Arthur would wish to be alone, and bade our gentle host ‘Good night’: Arthur took his hand, but said nothing: nor did he speak again, 359 as we went home, till we were in the house and had lit our bed-room candles. Then he said, more to himself than to me, “The heart knoweth its own bitterness. I never understood those words till now.” The next few days passed wearily enough. I felt no inclination to call again, by myself, at the Hall; still less to propose that Arthur should go with me: it seemed better to wait till Time—that gentle healer of our bitterest sorrows—should have helped him to recover from the first shock of the disappointment that had blighted his life. Business, however, soon demanded my presence in town; and I had to announce to Arthur that I must leave him for a while. “But I hope to run down again in a month,” I added. “I would stay now, if I could. I don’t think it’s good for you to be alone.” “No, I ca’n’t face solitude, here, for long,” said Arthur. “But don’t think about me. I have made up my mind to accept a post in India, that has been offered me. Out there, I suppose I shall find something to live for; I can’t see anything at present. ‘This life of 360 mine I guard, as God’s high gift, from scathe and wrong, Not greatly care to lose!’” “Yes,” I said: “your name-sake bore as heavy a blow, and lived through it.” “A far heavier one than mine,” said Arthur. “The woman he loved proved false. There is no such cloud as that on my memory of—of——” He left the name unuttered, and went on hurriedly. “But you will return, will you not?” “Yes, I shall come back for a short time.” “Do,” said Arthur: “and you shall write and tell me of our friends. I’ll send you my address when I’m settled down.” 361 CHAPTER XXIV. THE FROGS’ BIRTHDAY-TREAT. And so it came to pass that, just a week after the day when my Fairy-friends first appeared as Children, I found myself taking a farewell-stroll through the wood, in the hope of meeting them once more. I had but to stretch myself on the smooth turf, and the ‘eerie’ feeling was on me in a moment. “Put oor ear welly low down,” said Bruno, “and I’ll tell oo a secret! It’s the Frogs’ Birthday-Treat—and we’ve lost the Baby!” “What Baby?” I said, quite bewildered by this complicated piece of news. 362 “The Queen’s Baby, a course!” said Bruno. “Titania’s Baby. And we’s welly sorry. Sylvie, she’s—oh so sorry!” “How sorry is she?” I asked, mischievously. “Three-quarters of a yard,” Bruno replied with perfect solemnity. “And I’m a little sorry too,” he added, shutting his eyes so as not to see that he was smiling. “And what are you doing about the Baby?” “Well, the soldiers are all looking for it—up and down—everywhere.” “The soldiers?” I exclaimed. “Yes, a course!” said Bruno. “When there’s no fighting to be done, the soldiers doos any little odd jobs, oo know.” I was amused at the idea of its being a ‘little odd job’ to find the Royal Baby. “But how did you come to lose it?” I asked. “We put it in a flower,” Sylvie, who had just joined us, explained with her eyes full of tears. “Only we ca’n’t remember which!” “She says us put it in a flower,” Bruno interrupted, “’cause she doosn’t want I to get punished. But it were really me what put it there. Sylvie were picking Dindledums.” 363 THE QUEEN’S BABY THE QUEEN’S BABY “You shouldn’t say ‘us put it in a flower’,” Sylvie very gravely remarked. “Well, hus, then,” said Bruno. “I never can remember those horrid H’s!” “Let me help you to look for it,” I said. So Sylvie and I made a ‘voyage of discovery’ among all the flowers; but there was no Baby to be seen. “What’s become of Bruno?” I said, when we had completed our tour. “He’s down in the ditch there,” said Sylvie, “amusing a young Frog.” 364 I went down on my hands and knees to look for him, for I felt very curious to know how young Frogs ought to be amused. After a minute’s search, I found him sitting at the edge of the ditch, by the side of the little Frog, and looking rather disconsolate. “How are you getting on, Bruno?” I said, nodding to him as he looked up. “Ca’n’t amuse it no more,” Bruno answered, very dolefully, “’cause it won’t say what it would like to do next! I’ve showed it all the duck-weeds—and a live caddis-worm—but it won’t say nuffin! What—would oo—like?” he shouted into the ear of the Frog: but the little creature sat quite still, and took no notice of him. “It’s deaf, I think!” Bruno said, turning away with a sigh. “And it’s time to get the Theatre ready.” “Who are the audience to be?” “Only but Frogs,” said Bruno. “But they haven’t comed yet. They wants to be drove up, like sheep.” “Would it save time,” I suggested, “if I were to walk round with Sylvie, to drive up the Frogs, while you get the Theatre ready?” 365 “That are a good plan!” cried Bruno. “But where are Sylvie?” “I’m here!” said Sylvie, peeping over the edge of the bank. “I was just watching two Frogs that were having a race.” “Which won it?” Bruno eagerly inquired. Sylvie was puzzled. “He does ask such hard questions!” she confided to me. “And what’s to happen in the Theatre?” I asked. “First they have their Birthday-Feast,” Sylvie said: “then Bruno does some Bits of Shakespeare; then he tells them a Story.” “I should think the Frogs like the Feast best. Don’t they?” “Well, there’s generally very few of them that get any. They will keep their mouths shut so tight! And it’s just as well they do,” she added, “because Bruno likes to cook it himself: and he cooks very queerly. Now they’re all in. Would you just help me to put them with their heads the right way?” We soon managed this part of the business, though the Frogs kept up a most discontented croaking all the time. 366 “What are they saying?” I asked Sylvie. “They’re saying ‘Fork! Fork!’ It’s very silly of them! You’re not going to have forks!” she announced with some severity. “Those that want any Feast have just got to open their mouths, and Bruno’ll put some of it in!” At this moment Bruno appeared, wearing a little white apron to show that he was a Cook, and carrying a tureen full of very queer-looking soup. I watched very carefully as he moved about among the Frogs; but I could not see that any of them opened their mouths to be fed—except one very young one, and I’m nearly sure it did it accidentally, in yawning. However Bruno instantly put a large spoonful of soup into its mouth, and the poor little thing coughed violently for some time. So Sylvie and I had to share the soup between us, and to pretend to enjoy it, for it certainly was very queerly cooked. I only ventured to take one spoonful of it (“Sylvie’s Summer-Soup,” Bruno said it was), and must candidly confess that it was not at all nice; and I could not feel surprised that 367 so many of the guests had kept their mouths shut up tight. “What’s the soup made of, Bruno?” said Sylvie, who had put a spoonful of it to her lips, and was making a wry face over it. And Bruno’s answer was anything but encouraging. “Bits of things!” The entertainment was to conclude with “Bits of Shakespeare,” as Sylvie expressed it, which were all to be done by Bruno, Sylvie being fully engaged in making the Frogs keep their heads towards the stage: after which Bruno was to appear in his real character, and tell them a Story of his own invention. “Will the Story have a Moral to it?” I asked Sylvie, while Bruno was away behind the hedge, dressing for the first ‘Bit.’ “I think so,” Sylvie replied doubtfully. “There generally is a Moral, only he puts it in too soon.” “And will he say all the Bits of Shakespeare?” “No, he’ll only act them,” said Sylvie. “He knows hardly any of the words. When I see what he’s dressed like, I’ve to tell the Frogs 368 what character it is. They’re always in such a hurry to guess! Don’t you hear them all saying ‘What? What?’” And so indeed they were: it had only sounded like croaking, till Sylvie explained it, but I could now make out the “Wawt? Wawt?” quite distinctly. “But why do they try to guess it before they see it?” “I don’t know,” Sylvie said: “but they always do. Sometimes they begin guessing weeks and weeks before the day!” (So now, when you hear the Frogs croaking in a particularly melancholy way, you may be sure they’re trying to guess Bruno’s next Shakespeare ‘Bit’. Isn’t that interesting?) However, the chorus of guessing was cut short by Bruno, who suddenly rushed on from behind the scenes, and took a flying leap down among the Frogs, to re-arrange them. For the oldest and fattest Frog—who had never been properly arranged so that he could see the stage, and so had no idea what was going on—was getting restless, and had upset several of the Frogs, and turned others round with their heads the wrong way. And it was 369 no good at all, Bruno said, to do a ‘Bit’ of Shakespeare when there was nobody to look at it (you see he didn’t count me as anybody). So he set to work with a stick, stirring them up, very much as you would stir up tea in a cup, till most of them had at least one great stupid eye gazing at the stage. “Oo must come and sit among them, Sylvie,” he said in despair, “I’ve put these two side-by-side, with their noses the same way, ever so many times, but they do squarrel so!” So Sylvie took her place as ‘Mistress of the Ceremonies,’ and Bruno vanished again behind the scenes, to dress for the first ‘Bit.’ “Hamlet!” was suddenly proclaimed, in the clear sweet tones I knew so well. The croaking all ceased in a moment, and I turned to the stage, in some curiosity to see what Bruno’s ideas were as to the behaviour of Shakespeare’s greatest Character. According to this eminent interpreter of the Drama, Hamlet wore a short black cloak (which he chiefly used for muffling up his face, as if he suffered a good deal from toothache), and turned out his toes very much as he 370 walked. “To be or not to be!” Hamlet remarked in a cheerful tone, and then turned head-over-heels several times, his cloak dropping off in the performance. I felt a little disappointed: Bruno’s conception of the part seemed so wanting in dignity. “Won’t he say any more of the speech?” I whispered to Sylvie. “I think not,” Sylvie whispered in reply. “He generally turns head-over-heels when he doesn’t know any more words.” Bruno had meanwhile settled the question by disappearing from the stage; and the Frogs instantly began inquiring the name of the next Character. “You’ll know directly!” cried Sylvie, as she adjusted two or three young Frogs that had struggled round with their backs to the stage. “Macbeth!” she added, as Bruno re-appeared. Macbeth had something twisted round him, that went over one shoulder and under the other arm, and was meant, I believe, for a Scotch plaid. He had a thorn in his hand, which he held out at arm’s length, as if he 371 were a little afraid of it. “Is this a dagger?” Macbeth inquired, in a puzzled sort of tone: and instantly a chorus of “Thorn! Thorn!” arose from the Frogs (I had quite learned to understand their croaking by this time). “It’s a dagger!” Sylvie proclaimed in a peremptory tone. “Hold your tongues!” And the croaking ceased at once. Shakespeare has not told us, so far as I know, that Macbeth had any such eccentric habit as turning head-over-heels in private life: but Bruno evidently considered it quite an essential part of the character, and left the stage in a series of somersaults. However, he was back again in a few moments, having tucked under his chin the end of a tuft of wool (probably left on the thorn by a wandering sheep), which made a magnificent beard, that reached nearly down to his feet. “Shylock!” Sylvie proclaimed. “No, I beg your pardon!” she hastily corrected herself, “King Lear! I hadn’t noticed the crown.” (Bruno had very cleverly provided one, which fitted him exactly, by cutting out the centre of a dandelion to make room for his head.) 372 King Lear folded his arms (to the imminent peril of his beard) and said, in a mild explanatory tone, “Ay, every inch a king!” and then paused, as if to consider how this could best be proved. And here, with all possible deference to Bruno as a Shakespearian critic, I must express my opinion that the poet did not mean his three great tragic heroes to be so strangely alike in their personal habits; nor do I believe that he would have accepted the faculty of turning head-over-heels as any proof at all of royal descent. Yet it appeared that King Lear, after deep meditation, could think of no other argument by which to prove his kingship: and, as this was the last of the ‘Bits’ of Shakespeare (“We never do more than three,” Sylvie explained in a whisper), Bruno gave the audience quite a long series of somersaults before he finally retired, leaving the enraptured Frogs all crying out “More! More!” which I suppose was their way of encoring a performance. But Bruno wouldn’t appear again, till the proper time came for telling the Story. 373 THE FROGS’ BIRTHDAY-TREAT THE FROGS’ BIRTHDAY-TREAT 374 When he appeared at last in his real character, I noticed a remarkable change in his behaviour. He tried no more somersaults. It was clearly his opinion that, however suitable the habit of turning head-over-heels might be to such petty individuals as Hamlet and King Lear, it would never do for Bruno to sacrifice his dignity to such an extent. But it was equally clear that he did not feel entirely at his ease, standing all alone on the stage, with no costume to disguise him: and though he began, several times, “There were a Mouse—,” he kept glancing up and down, and on all sides, as if in search of more comfortable quarters from which to tell the Story. Standing on one side of the stage, and partly overshadowing it, was a tall fox-glove, which seemed, as the evening breeze gently swayed it hither and thither, to offer exactly the sort of accommodation that the orator desired. Having once decided on his quarters, it needed only a second or two for him to run up the stem like a tiny squirrel, and to seat himself astride on the topmost bend, where the fairy-bells clustered most closely, and from whence he could look down on his audience from such a height that all shyness vanished, and he began his Story merrily. 375 “Once there were a Mouse and a Crocodile and a Man and a Goat and a Lion.” I had never heard the ‘dramatis personæ’ tumbled into a story with such profusion and in such reckless haste; and it fairly took my breath away. Even Sylvie gave a little gasp, and allowed three of the Frogs, who seemed to be getting tired of the entertainment, to hop away into the ditch, without attempting to stop them. “And the Mouse found a Shoe, and it thought it were a Mouse-trap. So it got right in, and it stayed in ever so long.” “Why did it stay in?” said Sylvie. Her function seemed to be much the same as that of the Chorus in a Greek Play: she had to encourage the orator, and draw him out, by a series of intelligent questions. “’Cause it thought it couldn’t get out again,” Bruno explained. “It were a clever mouse. It knew it couldn’t get out of traps!” “But why did it go in at all?” said Sylvie. “—and it jamp, and it jamp,” Bruno proceeded, ignoring this question, “and at last it got right out again. And it looked at the mark 376 in the Shoe. And the Man’s name were in it. So it knew it wasn’t its own Shoe.” “Had it thought it was?” said Sylvie. “Why, didn’t I tell oo it thought it were a Mouse-trap?” the indignant orator replied. “Please, Mister Sir, will oo make Sylvie attend?” Sylvie was silenced, and was all attention: in fact, she and I were most of the audience now, as the Frogs kept hopping away, and there were very few of them left. “So the Mouse gave the Man his Shoe. And the Man were welly glad, ’cause he hadn’t got but one Shoe, and he were hopping to get the other.” Here I ventured on a question. “Do you mean ‘hopping,’ or ‘hoping’?” “Bofe,” said Bruno. “And the Man took the Goat out of the Sack.” (“We haven’t heard of the sack before,” I said. “Nor you won’t hear of it again,” said Bruno). “And he said to the Goat, ‘Oo will walk about here till I comes back.’ And he went and he tumbled into a deep hole. And the Goat walked round and round. And it walked under the Tree. And it wug its tail. And it looked up in the 377 Tree. And it sang a sad little Song. Oo never heard such a sad little Song!” “Can you sing it, Bruno?” I asked. “Iss, I can,” Bruno readily replied. “And I sa’n’t. It would make Sylvie cry——” “It wouldn’t!” Sylvie interrupted in great indignation. “And I don’t believe the Goat sang it at all!” “It did, though!” said Bruno. “It singed it right froo. I sawed it singing with its long beard——” “It couldn’t sing with its beard,” I said, hoping to puzzle the little fellow: “a beard isn’t a voice.” “Well then, oo couldn’t walk with Sylvie!” Bruno cried triumphantly. “Sylvie isn’t a foot!” I thought I had better follow Sylvie’s example, and be silent for a while. Bruno was too sharp for us. “And when it had singed all the Song, it ran away—for to get along to look for the Man, oo know. And the Crocodile got along after it—for to bite it, oo know. And the Mouse got along after the Crocodile.” 378 “Wasn’t the Crocodile running?” Sylvie enquired. She appealed to me. “Crocodiles do run, don’t they?” I suggested “crawling” as the proper word. “He wasn’t running,” said Bruno, “and he wasn’t crawling. He went struggling along like a portmanteau. And he held his chin ever so high in the air——” “What did he do that for?” said Sylvie. “’Cause he hadn’t got a toofache!” said Bruno. “Ca’n’t oo make out nuffin wizout I ’splain it? Why, if he’d had a toofache, a course he’d have held his head down—like this—and he’d have put a lot of warm blankets round it!” “If he’d had any blankets,” Sylvie argued. “Course he had blankets!” retorted her brother. “Doos oo think Crocodiles goes walks wizout blankets? And he frowned with his eyebrows. And the Goat was welly flightened at his eyebrows!” “I’d never be afraid of eyebrows!” exclaimed Sylvie. “I should think oo would, though, if they’d got a Crocodile fastened to them, like these 379 had! And so the Man jamp, and he jamp, and at last he got right out of the hole.” Sylvie gave another little gasp: this rapid dodging about among the characters of the Story had taken away her breath. “And he runned away—for to look for the Goat, oo know. And he heard the Lion grunting——” “Lions don’t grunt,” said Sylvie. “This one did,” said Bruno. “And its mouth were like a large cupboard. And it had plenty of room in its mouth. And the Lion runned after the Man—for to eat him, oo know. And the Mouse runned after the Lion.” “But the Mouse was running after the Crocodile,” I said: “he couldn’t run after both!” Bruno sighed over the density of his audience, but explained very patiently. “He did runned after bofe: ’cause they went the same way! And first he caught the Crocodile, and then he didn’t catch the Lion. And when he’d caught the Crocodile, what doos oo think he did—’cause he’d got pincers in his pocket?” “I ca’n’t guess,” said Sylvie. 380 ‘HE WRENCHED OUT THAT CROCODILE’S TOOF!’ ‘HE WRENCHED OUT THAT CROCODILE’S TOOF!’ “Nobody couldn’t guess it!” Bruno cried in high glee. “Why, he wrenched out that Crocodile’s toof!” “Which tooth?” I ventured to ask. But Bruno was not to be puzzled. “The toof he were going to bite the Goat with, a course!” “He couldn’t be sure about that,” I argued, “unless he wrenched out all its teeth.” 381 Bruno laughed merrily, and half sang, as he swung himself backwards and forwards, “He did—wrenched—out—all its teef!” “Why did the Crocodile wait to have them wrenched out?” said Sylvie. “It had to wait,” said Bruno. I ventured on another question. “But what became of the Man who said ‘You may wait here till I come back’?” “He didn’t say ‘Oo may,’” Bruno explained. “He said, ‘Oo will.’ Just like Sylvie says to me ‘Oo will do oor lessons till twelve o’clock.’ Oh, I wiss,” he added with a little sigh, “I wiss Sylvie would say ‘Oo may do oor lessons’!” This was a dangerous subject for discussion, Sylvie seemed to think. She returned to the Story. “But what became of the Man?” “Well, the Lion springed at him. But it came so slow, it were three weeks in the air——” “Did the Man wait for it all that time?” I said. “Course he didn’t!” Bruno replied, gliding head-first down the stem of the fox-glove, for 382 the Story was evidently close to its end. “He sold his house, and he packed up his things, while the Lion were coming. And he went and he lived in another town. So the Lion ate the wrong man.” This was evidently the Moral: so Sylvie made her final proclamation to the Frogs. “The Story’s finished! And whatever is to be learned from it,” she added, aside to me, “I’m sure I don’t know!” I did not feel quite clear about it myself, so made no suggestion: but the Frogs seemed quite content, Moral or no Moral, and merely raised a husky chorus of “Off! Off!” as they hopped away. 383 CHAPTER XXV. LOOKING EASTWARD. “It’s just a week,” I said, three days later, to Arthur, “since we heard of Lady Muriel’s engagement. I think I ought to call, at any rate, and offer my congratulations. Won’t you come with me?” A pained expression passed over his face. “When must you leave us?” he asked. “By the first train on Monday.” “Well—yes, I will come with you. It would seem strange and unfriendly if I didn’t. But this is only Friday. Give me till Sunday afternoon. I shall be stronger then.” 384 Shading his eyes with one hand, as if half-ashamed of the tears that were coursing down his cheeks, he held the other out to me. It trembled as I clasped it. I tried to frame some words of sympathy; but they seemed poor and cold, and I left them unspoken. “Good night!” was all I said. “Good night, dear friend!” he replied. There was a manly vigour in his tone that convinced me he was wrestling with, and triumphing over, the great sorrow that had so nearly wrecked his life—and that, on the stepping-stone of his dead self, he would surely rise to higher things! There was no chance, I was glad to think, as we set out on Sunday afternoon, of meeting Eric at the Hall, as he had returned to town the day after his engagement was announced. His presence might have disturbed the calm—the almost unnatural calm—with which Arthur met the woman who had won his heart, and murmured the few graceful words of sympathy that the occasion demanded. Lady Muriel was perfectly radiant with happiness: sadness could not live in the light 385 of such a smile: and even Arthur brightened under it, and, when she remarked “You see I’m watering my flowers, though it is the Sabbath-Day,” his voice had almost its old ring of cheerfulness as he replied “Even on the Sabbath-Day works of mercy are allowed. But this isn’t the Sabbath-Day. The Sabbath-Day has ceased to exist.” “I know it’s not Saturday,” Lady Muriel replied: “but isn’t Sunday often called ‘the Christian Sabbath’?” “It is so called, I think, in recognition of the spirit of the Jewish institution, that one day in seven should be a day of rest. But I hold that Christians are freed from the literal observance of the Fourth Commandment.” “Then where is our authority for Sunday observance?” “We have, first, the fact that the seventh day was ‘sanctified’, when God rested from the work of Creation. That is binding on us as Theists. Secondly, we have the fact that ‘the Lord’s Day’ is a Christian institution. That is binding on us as Christians.” “And your practical rules would be——?” 386 “First, as Theists, to keep it holy in some special way, and to make it, so far as is reasonably possible, a day of rest. Secondly, as Christians, to attend public worship.” “And what of amusements?” “I would say of them, as of all kinds of work, whatever is innocent on a week-day, is innocent on Sunday, provided it does not interfere with the duties of the day.” “Then you would allow children to play on Sunday?” “Certainly I should. Why make the day irksome to their restless natures?” “I have a letter somewhere,” said Lady Muriel, “from an old friend, describing the way in which Sunday was kept in her younger days. I will fetch it for you.” “I had a similar description, vivâ voce, years ago,” Arthur said when she had left us, “from a little girl. It was really touching to hear the melancholy tone in which she said ‘On Sunday I mustn’t play with my doll! On Sunday I mustn’t run on the sands! On Sunday I mustn’t dig in the garden!’ Poor child! She had indeed abundant cause for hating Sunday!” 387 “Here is the letter,” said Lady Muriel, returning. “Let me read you a piece of it.” “When, as a child, I first opened my eyes on a Sunday-morning, a feeling of dismal anticipation, which began at least on the Friday, culminated. I knew what was before me, and my wish, if not my word, was ‘Would God it were evening!’ It was no day of rest, but a day of texts, of catechisms (Watts’), of tracts about converted swearers, godly char-women, and edifying deaths of sinners saved. “Up with the lark, hymns and portions of Scripture had to be learned by heart till 8 o’clock, when there were family-prayers, then breakfast, which I was never able to enjoy, partly from the fast already undergone, and partly from the outlook I dreaded. “At 9 came Sunday-School; and it made me indignant to be put into the class with the village-children, as well as alarmed lest, by some mistake of mine, I should be put below them. “The Church-Service was a veritable Wilderness of Zin. I wandered in it, pitching the tabernacle of my thoughts on the lining of the 388 square family-pew, the fidgets of my small brothers, and the horror of knowing that, on the Monday, I should have to write out, from memory, jottings of the rambling disconnected extempore sermon, which might have had any text but its own, and to stand or fall by the result. “This was followed by a cold dinner at 1 (servants to have no work), Sunday-School again from 2 to 4, and Evening-Service at 6. The intervals were perhaps the greatest trial of all, from the efforts I had to make, to be less than usually sinful, by reading books and sermons as barren as the Dead Sea. There was but one rosy spot, in the distance, all that day: that was ‘bed-time,’ which never could come too early!” “Such teaching was well meant, no doubt,” said Arthur; “but it must have driven many of its victims into deserting the Church-Services altogether.” “I’m afraid I was a deserter this morning,” she gravely said. “I had to write to Eric. Would you—would you mind my telling you 389 something he said about prayer? It had never struck me in that light before.” “In what light?” said Arthur. “Why, that all Nature goes by fixed, regular laws—Science has proved that. So that asking God to do anything (except of course praying for spiritual blessings) is to expect a miracle: and we’ve no right to do that. I’ve not put it as well as he did: but that was the outcome of it, and it has confused me. Please tell me what you can say in answer to it.” “I don’t propose to discuss Captain Lindon’s difficulties,” Arthur gravely replied; “specially as he is not present. But, if it is your difficulty,” (his voice unconsciously took a tenderer tone) “then I will speak.” “It is my difficulty,” she said anxiously. “Then I will begin by asking ‘Why did you except spiritual blessings?’ Is not your mind a part of Nature?” “Yes, but Free-Will comes in there—I can choose this or that; and God can influence my choice.” “Then you are not a Fatalist?” “Oh, no!” she earnestly exclaimed. 390 “Thank God!” Arthur said to himself, but in so low a whisper that only I heard it. “You grant then that I can, by an act of free choice, move this cup,” suiting the action to the word, “this way or that way?” “Yes, I grant it.” “Well, let us see how far the result is produced by fixed laws. The cup moves because certain mechanical forces are impressed on it by my hand. My hand moves because certain forces—electric, magnetic, or whatever ‘nerve-force’ may prove to be—are impressed on it by my brain. This nerve-force, stored in the brain, would probably be traceable, if Science were complete, to chemical forces supplied to the brain by the blood, and ultimately derived from the food I eat and the air I breathe.” “But would not that be Fatalism? Where would Free-Will come in?” “In choice of nerves,” replied Arthur. “The nerve-force in the brain may flow just as naturally down one nerve as down another. We need something more than a fixed Law of Nature to settle which nerve shall carry it. That ‘something’ is Free-Will.” 391 Her eyes sparkled. “I see what you mean!” she exclaimed. “Human Free-Will is an exception to the system of fixed Law. Eric said something like that. And then I think he pointed out that God can only influence Nature by influencing Human Wills. So that we might reasonably pray ‘give us this day our daily bread,’ because many of the causes that produce bread are under Man’s control. But to pray for rain, or fine weather, would be as unreasonable as—” she checked herself, as if fearful of saying something irreverent. In a hushed, low tone, that trembled with emotion, and with the solemnity of one in the presence of death, Arthur slowly replied “Shall he that contendeth with the Almighty instruct him? Shall we, ‘the swarm that in the noontide beam were born,’ feeling in ourselves the power to direct, this way or that, the forces of Nature—of Nature, of which we form so trivial a part—shall we, in our boundless arrogance, in our pitiful conceit, deny that power to the Ancient of Days? Saying, to our Creator, ‘Thus far and no further. Thou madest, but thou canst not rule!’?” 392 Lady Muriel had covered her face in her hands, and did not look up. She only murmured “Thanks, thanks!” again and again. We rose to go. Arthur said, with evident effort, “One word more. If you would know the power of Prayer—in anything and everything that Man can need—try it. Ask, and it shall be given you. I—have tried it. I know that God answers prayer!” Our walk home was a silent one, till we had nearly reached the lodgings: then Arthur murmured—and it was almost an echo of my own thoughts—“What knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?” The subject was not touched on again. We sat on, talking, while hour after hour, of this our last night together, glided away unnoticed. He had much to tell me about India, and the new life he was going to, and the work he hoped to do. And his great generous soul seemed so filled with noble ambition as to have no space left for any vain regret or selfish repining. “Come, it is nearly morning!” Arthur said at last, rising and leading the way upstairs. 393 “The sun will be rising in a few minutes: and, though I have basely defrauded you of your last chance of a night’s rest here, I’m sure you’ll forgive me: for I really couldn’t bring myself to say ‘Good night’ sooner. And God knows whether you’ll ever see me again, or hear of me!” “Hear of you I am certain I shall!” I warmly responded, and quoted the concluding lines of that strange poem ‘Waring’:— “Oh, never star Was lost here, but it rose afar! Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar?” “Aye, look Eastward!” Arthur eagerly replied, pausing at the stair-case window, which commanded a fine view of the sea and the eastward horizon. “The West is the fitting tomb for all the sorrow and the sighing, all the errors and the follies of the Past: for all its withered Hopes and all its buried Loves! From the East comes new strength, new ambition, new Hope, new Life, new Love! Look Eastward! Aye, look Eastward!” 394 His last words were still ringing in my ears as I entered my room, and undrew the window-curtains, just in time to see the sun burst in glory from his ocean-prison, and clothe the world in the light of a new day. “So may it be for him, and me, and all of us!” I mused. “All that is evil, and dead, and hopeless, fading with the Night that is past! All that is good, and living, and hopeful, rising with the dawn of Day! “Fading, with the Night, the chilly mists, and the noxious vapours, and the heavy shadows, and the wailing gusts, and the owl’s melancholy hootings: rising, with the Day, the darting shafts of light, and the wholesome morning breeze, and the warmth of a dawning life, and the mad music of the lark! Look Eastward! “Fading, with the Night, the clouds of ignorance, and the deadly blight of sin, and the silent tears of sorrow: and ever rising, higher, higher, with the Day, the radiant dawn of knowledge, and the sweet breath of purity, and the throb of a world’s ecstasy! Look Eastward! 395 ‘LOOK EASTWARD!’ ‘LOOK EASTWARD!’ “Fading, with the Night, the memory of a dead love, and the withered leaves of a blighted hope, and the sickly repinings and moody regrets that numb the best energies of the soul: and rising, broadening, rolling upward like a living flood, the manly resolve, and the dauntless will, and the heavenward gaze of faith—the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen! “Look Eastward! Aye, look Eastward!” THE END. FOOTNOTES [1]At the moment, when I had written these words, there was a knock at the door, and a telegram was brought me, announcing the sudden death of a dear friend. 396 INDEX. A Artistic effect dependent on indistinctness (!); 241 B Barometer, sideways motion of; 13 Bath, portable, for Tourists; 25 Books or minds. Which contain most Science? 21 Boots for horizontal weather; 14 Brain, inverted position of; 243 Bread-sauce. What appropriate for? 58 C Carrying one’s-self. Why not fatiguing? 169 Child’s view of purpose of Life; 330 Choristers’ life, danger of; 274 Church-going, principle of; 272 Conceited people always depreciate others; 237 Content, opportunity for cultivating; 152 Conversation, how to indicate parentheses in; 251 ” ” ” questions in; 251 ‘Convenient’ and ‘Inconvenient,’ different meanings; 140 Critic, conceited, always depreciates; 237 ” how to gain reputation of; 238 Crocodiles, logic of; 230 D Darwinism reversed; 64 Day, shortness of, and length of, compared; 159 ” true length of; 159 Debt, how to avoid payment of; 131 Dreaminess, certain cure for; 136 397 E Electricity, influence of, on Literature; 64 Enjoyment of life, secret of; 335 Events in reversed order; 350 Extreme sobriety, inconvenience of; 140 Eye, images inverted by; 242 F Fairies, how to improve character of; 190 ” ” recognise presence of; 191 Falling house, life in a; 100 Final Causes, problem in; 297 Free-will and nerve-force; 390 Frog, young, how to amuse; 364 G Gardener’s Song; Elephant; 65. Buffalo; 78. Rattlesnake; 83. Banker’s Clerk; 90. Kangaroo; 106. Coach-and-Four; 116. Albatross; 164. Garden-Door; 168 Ghosts, treatment of, by Shakespeare; 60 ” ” in Railway-Literature; 58 ” weltering, appropriate fluid for; 58 Graduated races of men; 299 H Happiness, excessive, how to moderate; 159 Honesty, Dr. Watts’ argument for; 235 Horizontal rain, boots for; 14 House falling through Space, life in a; 100 Hymns appealing to selfishness; 276 I ‘Inconvenient’ and ‘Convenient’, different meanings; 140 Indistinctness necessary for artistic effect (!); 241 Inversion of Brain; 243 ” images on Retina; 242 398 L Ladies, logic of; 235 Least Common Multiple, rule of, applied to Literature; 22 Life, how to enjoy; 335 ” in falling house; 100 ” in reversed order; 350 ” purpose of, as viewed by Child; 330 ” regarded as a Drama; 333 Literature, development of, due to Steam; 64 ” ” ” Electricity; 64 ” for Railway; 58 ” treated by Rule of Least Common Multiple; 22 Little man, privilege of being a; 299 Liturgy, chanted, effect of; 273 Logic of Crocodiles; 230 ” Dr. Watts; 235 ” ladies; 235 ” requisites for complete argument in; 259 Loving or being loved. Which is best? 77 M Men, graduated races of; 299 ” little, privileges of; 299 Minds or books. Which contain most Science? 21 Money, effect of doubling value of; 312 Music, how to get the largest amount of; 338 N Nerve-force and free-will; 390 Nerves, curiously slow action of; 158 Novel-reading, how to enjoy; 336 O Onus probandi misplaced by Crocodiles; 230 ” ” Dr. Watts; 235 ” ” ladies; 235 Order of events reversed; 250 399 P Pain, how to minimise; 337 Paley’s definition of Virtue; 274 Parentheses in conversation, how to indicate; 251 ‘Phlizz’, a visionary flower; 282 ” ” fruit; 75 ” ” nurse-maid; 283 Pictures, how to criticize; 238 Pleasure, how to maximise; 335 Plunge-bath, portable; 25 Poor people, simple method for enriching; 312 Portable bath for tourists; 25 Poverty, the blessings of; 152 Prayer for temporal blessings, effect of; 391 Preachers, exceptional privileges of; 277 ” appealing to selfishness; 276 Proof, burden of, misplaced by Crocodiles; 230 ” ” ” Dr. Watts; 235 ” ” ” ladies; 235 Q Questions in conversation, how to indicate; 251 R Railway-literature; 58 ” scenes regarded as dramatic; 333 Rain, horizontal, boots for; 14 Retina, images inverted on; 242 Reversed order of events; 350 S Scenery, enjoyment of, by little men; 299 Science. Do books, or minds, contain most? 21 Selfishness appealed to in hymns; 276 ” ” religious teaching; 275 ” ” sermons; 276 Sermons appealing to selfishness; 276 400 Shakespeare, passages treated of:— ‘All the world’s a stage’; 335 ‘Aye, every inch a king!’; 373 ‘Is this a dagger that I see before me?’; 371 ‘Rest, rest, perturbed Spirit!’; 60 ‘To be, or not to be’; 370 Shakespeare’s treatment of ghosts; 60 Short man, privilege of being a; 299 Sillygism, requisites for a; 259 Sobriety, extreme, inconvenience of; 140 Spencer, Herbert, difficulties in; 258 Sport, false and true; 318 Steam, influence of, on Literature; 64 Sunday, as spent by children of last generation; 387 ” observance of; 385 T Time, how to put back; 314, 347 ” ” reverse; 350 Tourists’ portable bath; 25 V Virtue, Paley’s definition of; 274 W Watts, Dr., weak logic of; 235 Weather, horizontal, boots for; 14 Weight, relative, conceivably non-existent; 100 Weltering, appropriate fluids for; 58 401 WORKS OF LEWIS CARROLL. Published by Macmillan & Co. ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With 42 Illustrations by Tenniel. 12mo, cloth, gilt, $1.00. Lewis Carroll’s immortal story.—Academy. An excellent piece of nonsense.—Times. That most delightful of children’s stories.—Saturday Review. Elegant and delicious nonsense.—Guardian. THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With 50 Illustrations by Tenniel. 12mo, cloth, gilt, $1.00. Will fairly rank with the tale of her previous experience.—Daily Telegraph. Many of Mr. Tenniel’s designs are masterpieces of wise absurdity.—Athenæum. Whether as regarding author or illustrator, this book is a jewel rarely to be found nowadays.—Echo. Not a whit inferior to its predecessor in grand extravagance of imagination, and delicious allegorical nonsense.—Quarterly Review. ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, and THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. Printed in one volume, with all the Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, plain, $1.25. 402 SYLVIE AND BRUNO. With 46 Illustrations by Harry Furniss. 12mo, cloth, gilt, $1.50. RHYME? AND REASON? With 65 Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and 9 by Henry Holiday. 12mo, cloth, gilt, $1.50. This book is a reprint, with additions, of the comic portions of “Phantasmagoria, and other Poems,” and of the “Hunting of the Snark.” A TANGLED TALE. Reprinted from the Monthly Packet, with Illustrations. $1.50. ALICE’S ADVENTURES UNDERGROUND. Being a fac-simile of the original MS. Book, afterward developed into “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” With 37 Illustrations by the author. 12mo, cloth, gilt, $1.50. THE GAME OF LOGIC. With envelope containing card and counters. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 403 MRS. MOLESWORTH’S Story Books for Children. Published by Macmillan & Co. THE RECTORY CHILDREN. With Illustrations by Walter Crane. 16mo, cloth, extra, $1.25. It is a book written for children in just the way that is best adapted to please them.—Morning Post. Mrs. Molesworth has written, in “The Rectory Children,” one of those delightful volumes which we always look for at Christmas time.—Athenæum. A delightful Christmas book for children; a racy, charming home story full of good impulses and bright suggestions.—Boston Traveller. Quiet, sunny, interesting, and thoroughly winning and wholesome.—Boston Journal. NEW EDITION OF MRS. MOLESWORTH’S WORKS. With Illustrations by Walter Crane. 16mo, cloth, extra, $1.00 each. FOUR WINDS FARM. “US.” An Old-Fashioned Story. CHRISTMAS TREE LAND. TWO LITTLE WAIFS. THE TAPESTRY ROOM. A CHRISTMAS CHILD. GRANDMOTHER DEAR. “CARROTS.” THE CUCKOO CLOCK. TELL ME A STORY. THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY ROSY. LITTLE MISS PEGGY. A CHRISTMAS POSY. There is no more acceptable writer for children than Mrs. Molesworth.—Literary World. No English writer of stories for children has a better reputation than Mrs. Molesworth, and none whose stories we are familiar with deserves it better.—New York Mail and Express. Mistress of the art of writing for children.—Spectator. MACMILLAN & CO., 112 Fourth Avenue, New York. Book back cover. Transcriber’s Notes This is part of an illustrated set also including "Sylvie and Bruno Concluded", also available at Project Gutenberg with numerous hyperlinked references to this volume. Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication. Corrected a typo based on the note in the companion volume: ‘(N.B. “stagy-entrances” is a misprint for “stage-entrances”)’. Silently corrected a few other palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged. Moved the frontispiece illustration to the corresponding place in the text. Collated the table of illustrations from the companion volume (correcting a few page number), and added its captions to the illustrations. Only in the text versions, delimited italicized text (or non-italicized text within poetry) in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.) End of Project Gutenberg's Sylvie and Bruno (Illustrated), by Lewis Carroll *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIE AND BRUNO (ILLUSTRATED) *** ***** This file should be named 48630-h.htm or 48630-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/8/6/3/48630/ Produced by MWS, Stephen Hutcheson, Carol Spears, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) ... ... ... ===== Sylvie and Bruno II ===== The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sylvie and Bruno Concluded (Illustrated), by Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Sylvie and Bruno Concluded (Illustrated) Author: Lewis Carroll Illustrator: Harry Furniss Release Date: April 26, 2015 [EBook #48795] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIE AND BRUNO CONCLUDED *** Produced by MWS, Stephen Hutcheson, Carol Spears, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Sylvie and Bruno Concluded SYLVIE AND BRUNO CONCLUDED BY LEWIS CARROLL WITH FORTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRY FURNISS New York MACMILLAN AND CO. AND LONDON 1894 The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved Dreams, that elude the Waker’s frenzied grasp— Hands, stark and still, on a dead Mother’s breast, Which nevermore shall render clasp for clasp, Or deftly soothe a weeping Child to rest— In suchlike forms me listeth to portray My Tale, here ended. Thou delicious Fay— The guardian of a Sprite that lives to tease thee— Loving in earnest, chiding but in play The merry mocking Bruno! Who, that sees thee, Can fail to love thee, Darling, even as I?— My sweetest Sylvie, we must say ‘Good-bye!’ ix PREFACE. I must begin with the same announcement as in the previous Volume (which I shall henceforward refer to as “Vol. I.,” calling the present Volume “Vol. II.”), viz. that the Locket, at p. 405, was drawn by ‘Miss Alice Havers.’ And my reason, for not stating this on the title-page—that it seems only due, to the artist of these wonderful pictures, that his name should stand there alone—has, I think, even greater weight in Vol. II. than it had in Vol. I. Let me call especial attention to the three “Little Birds” borders, at pp. 365, 371, 377. The way, in which he has managed to introduce the most minute details of the stanzas to be illustrated, seems to me a triumph of artistic ingenuity. Let me here express my sincere gratitude to the many Reviewers who have noticed, whether favorably or unfavorably, the previous Volume. Their unfavorable remarks were, most probably, well-deserved; the favorable ones less probably so. Both kinds have no doubt served to make the book known, and have helped the reading Public to form their opinions of it. Let me also here assure them that it is not from any want of respect for their criticisms, that I x have carefully forborne from reading any of them. I am strongly of opinion that an author had far better not read any reviews of his books: the unfavorable ones are almost certain to make him cross, and the favorable ones conceited; and neither of these results is desirable. Criticisms have, however, reached me from private sources, to some of which I propose to offer a reply. One such critic complains that Arthur’s strictures, on sermons and on choristers, are too severe. Let me say, in reply, that I do not hold myself responsible for any of the opinions expressed by the characters in my book. They are simply opinions which, it seemed to me, might probably be held by the persons into whose mouths I put them, and which were worth consideration. Other critics have objected to certain innovations in spelling, such as “ca’n’t,” “wo’n’t,” “traveler.” In reply, I can only plead my firm conviction that the popular usage is wrong. As to “ca’n’t,” it will not be disputed that, in all other words ending in “n’t,” these letters are an abbreviation of “not”; and it is surely absurd to suppose that, in this solitary instance, “not” is represented by “’t”! In fact “can’t” is the proper abbreviation for “can it,” just as “is’t” is for “is it.” Again, in “wo’n’t,” the first apostrophe is needed, because the word “would” is here abridged into “wo”: but I hold it proper to spell “don’t” with only one apostrophe, because the word “do” is here complete. As to such words as “traveler,” I hold the correct principle to be, to double the consonant xi when the accent falls on that syllable; otherwise to leave it single. This rule is observed in most cases (e.g. we double the “r” in “preferred,” but leave it single in “offered”), so that I am only extending, to other cases, an existing rule. I admit, however, that I do not spell “parallel,” as the rule would have it; but here we are constrained, by the etymology, to insert the double “l”. In the Preface to Vol. I. were two puzzles, on which my readers might exercise their ingenuity. One was, to detect the 3 lines of “padding,” which I had found it necessary to supply in the passage extending from the top of p. 35 to the middle of p. 38. They are the 14th, 15th, and 16th lines of p. 37. The other puzzle was, to determine which (if any) of the 8 stanzas of the Gardener’s Song (see pp. 65, 78, 83, 90, 106, 116, 164, 168) were adapted to the context, and which (if any) had the context adapted to them. The last of them is the only one that was adapted to the context, the “Garden-Door that opened with a key” having been substituted for some creature (a Cormorant, I think) “that nestled in a tree.” At pp. 78, 106, and 164, the context was adapted to the stanza. At p. 90, neither stanza nor context was altered: the connection between them was simply a piece of good luck. In the Preface to Vol. I., at pp. ix., x., I gave an account of the making-up of the story of “Sylvie and Bruno.” A few more details may perhaps be acceptable to my Readers. xii It was in 1873, as I now believe, that the idea first occurred to me that a little fairy-tale (written, in 1867, for “Aunt Judy’s Magazine,” under the title “Bruno’s Revenge”) might serve as the nucleus of a longer story. This I surmise, from having found the original draft of the last paragraph of Vol. II., dated 1873. So that this paragraph has been waiting 20 years for its chance of emerging into print—more than twice the period so cautiously recommended by Horace for ‘repressing’ one’s literary efforts! It was in February, 1885, that I entered into negotiations, with Mr. Harry Furniss, for illustrating the book. Most of the substance of both Volumes was then in existence in manuscript: and my original intention was to publish the whole story at once. In September, 1885, I received from Mr. Furniss the first set of drawings—the four which illustrate “Peter and Paul” (see I. pp. 144, 147, 150, 154): in November, 1886, I received the second set—the three which illustrate the Professor’s song about the “little man” who had “a little gun” (Vol. II. pp. 265, 266, 267): and in January, 1887, I received the third set—the four which illustrate the “Pig-Tale.” So we went on, illustrating first one bit of the story, and then another, without any idea of sequence. And it was not till March, 1889, that, having calculated the number of pages the story would occupy, I decided on dividing it into two portions, and publishing it half at a time. This necessitated the writing of a sort of conclusion for the first Volume: and most of my Readers, I fancy, regarded this as the actual xiii conclusion, when that Volume appeared in December, 1889. At any rate, among all the letters I received about it, there was only one which expressed any suspicion that it was not a final conclusion. This letter was from a child. She wrote “we were so glad, when we came to the end of the book, to find that there was no ending-up, for that shows us that you are going to write a sequel.” It may interest some of my Readers to know the theory on which this story is constructed. It is an attempt to show what might possibly happen, supposing that Fairies really existed; and that they were sometimes visible to us, and we to them; and that they were sometimes able to assume human form: and supposing, also, that human beings might sometimes become conscious of what goes on in the Fairy-world—by actual transference of their immaterial essence, such as we meet with in ‘Esoteric Buddhism.’ I have supposed a Human being to be capable of various psychical states, with varying degrees of consciousness, as follows:— (a) the ordinary state, with no consciousness of the presence of Fairies; (b) the ‘eerie’ state, in which, while conscious of actual surroundings, he is also conscious of the presence of Fairies; (c) a form of trance, in which, while unconscious of actual surroundings, and apparently asleep, he (i.e. his immaterial essence) migrates to other scenes, in the actual world, or in Fairyland, and is conscious of the presence of Fairies. xiv I have also supposed a Fairy to be capable of migrating from Fairyland into the actual world, and of assuming, at pleasure, a Human form; and also to be capable of various psychical states, viz. (a) the ordinary state, with no consciousness of the presence of Human beings; (b) a sort of ‘eerie’ state, in which he is conscious, if in the actual world, of the presence of actual Human beings; if in Fairyland, of the presence of the immaterial essences of Human beings. I will here tabulate the passages, in both Volumes, where abnormal states occur. Historian’s Locality and State. Other characters. Vol. I. pp. 1-16 In train c Chancellor (b) p. 2. 33-55 do. c 65-79 do. c 83-99 At lodgings c 105-117 On beach c 119-183 At lodgings c S. and B. (b) pp. 158-163. Professor (b) p. 169. 190-221 In wood b Bruno (b) pp. 198-220. 225-233 do. sleep-walking c S. and B. (b). 247-253 Among ruins c do. (b). 262, 263 do. dreaming a 263-269 do. sleep-walking c S. B. and Professor in Human form. 270 In street b 279-294 At station, &c. b S. and B. (b). 304-323 In garden c S. B. and Professor (b). 329-344 On road, &c. a S. and B. in Human form. 345-356 In street, &c. a 361-382 In wood b S. and B. (b). Vol. II. pp. 4-18 In garden b S. and B (b). 47-52 On road b do. (b). 53-78 do. b do. in Human form. 79-92 do b do. (b). 152-211 In drawing-room a do. in Human form. 212-246 do. c do. (b). 262-270 In smoking-room c do. (b). 304-309 In wood b do. (a); Lady Muriel (b). 311-345 At lodgings c 351-399 do. c 407-end. do. b xv In the Preface to Vol. I., at p. x., I gave an account of the origination of some of the ideas embodied in the book. A few more such details may perhaps interest my Readers:— I. p. 203. The very peculiar use, here made of a dead mouse, comes from real life. I once found two very small boys, in a garden, playing a microscopic game of ‘Single-Wicket.’ The bat was, I think, about the size of a table-spoon; and the utmost distance attained by the ball, in its most daring flights, was some 4 or 5 yards. The exact length was of course a matter of supreme importance; and it was always carefully measured out (the batsman and the bowler amicably sharing the toil) with a dead mouse! I. p. 259. The two quasi-mathematical Axioms, quoted by Arthur at p. 259 of Vol. I., (“Things that are greater than the same are greater than one another,” and “All angles are equal”) were actually enunciated, in all seriousness, by undergraduates at a University situated not 100 miles from Ely. II. p. 10. Bruno’s remark (“I can, if I like, &c.”) was actually made by a little boy. II. p. 12. So also was his remark (“I know what it doesn’t spell.”) And his remark (“I just twiddled my eyes, &c.”) I heard from the lips of a little girl, who had just solved a puzzle I had set her. II. p. 57. Bruno’s soliloquy (“For its father, &c.”) was actually spoken by a little girl, looking out of the window of a railway-carriage. II. p. 138. The remark, made by a guest at the dinner-party, when asking for a dish of fruit (“I’ve xvi been wishing for them, &c.”) I heard made by the great Poet-Laureate, whose loss the whole reading-world has so lately had to deplore. II. p. 163. Bruno’s speech, on the subject of the age of ‘Mein Herr,’ embodies the reply of a little girl to the question “Is your grandmother an old lady?” “I don’t know if she’s an old lady,” said this cautious young person; “she’s eighty-three.” II. p. 203. The speech about ‘Obstruction’ is no mere creature of my imagination! It is copied verbatim from the columns of the Standard, and was spoken by Sir William Harcourt, who was, at the time, a member of the ‘Opposition,’ at the ‘National Liberal Club,’ on July the 16th, 1890. II. p. 329. The Professor’s remark, about a dog’s tail, that “it doesn’t bite at that end,” was actually made by a child, when warned of the danger he was incurring by pulling the dog’s tail. II. p. 374. The dialogue between Sylvie and Bruno, which occupies lines 6 to 15, is a verbatim report (merely substituting “cake” for “penny”) of a dialogue overheard between two children. One story in this Volume—‘Bruno’s Picnic’—I can vouch for as suitable for telling to children, having tested it again and again; and, whether my audience has been a dozen little girls in a village-school, or some thirty or forty in a London drawing-room, or a hundred in a High School, I have always found them earnestly attentive, and keenly appreciative of such fun as the story supplied. xvii May I take this opportunity of calling attention to what I flatter myself was a successful piece of name-coining, at p. 42 of Vol. I. Does not the name ‘Sibimet’ fairly embody the character of the Sub-Warden? The gentle Reader has no doubt observed what a singularly useless article in a house a brazen trumpet is, if you simply leave it lying about, and never blow it! Readers of the first Volume, who have amused themselves by trying to solve the two puzzles propounded at pp. xi., xii. of the Preface, may perhaps like to exercise their ingenuity in discovering which (if any) of the following parallelisms were intentional, and which (if any) accidental. “Little Birds.” Events, and Persons. Stanza 1. Banquet. 2. Chancellor. 3. Empress and Spinach (II. 325). 4. Warden’s Return. 5. Professor’s Lecture (II. 339). 6. Other Professor’s song (I. 138). 7. Petting of Uggug. 8. Baron Doppelgeist. 9. Jester and Bear (I. 119). Little Foxes. 10. Bruno’s Dinner-Bell; Little Foxes. I will publish the answer to this puzzle in the Preface to a little book of “Original Games and Puzzles,” now in course of preparation. xviii I have reserved, for the last, one or two rather more serious topics. I had intended, in this Preface, to discuss more fully, than I had done in the previous Volume, the ‘Morality of Sport’, with special reference to letters I have received from lovers of Sport, in which they point out the many great advantages which men get from it, and try to prove that the suffering, which it inflicts on animals, is too trivial to be regarded. But, when I came to think the subject out, and to arrange the whole of the arguments ‘pro’ and ‘con’, I found it much too large for treatment here. Some day, I hope to publish an essay on this subject. At present, I will content myself with stating the net result I have arrived at. It is, that God has given to Man an absolute right to take the lives of other animals, for any reasonable cause, such as the supply of food: but that He has not given to Man the right to inflict pain, unless when necessary: that mere pleasure, or advantage, does not constitute such a necessity: and, consequently, that pain, inflicted for the purposes of Sport, is cruel, and therefore wrong. But I find it a far more complex question than I had supposed; and that the ‘case’, on the side of the Sportsman, is a much stronger one than I had supposed. So, for the present, I say no more about it. Objections have been raised to the severe language I have put into the mouth of ‘Arthur’, at p. 277, on xix the subject of ‘Sermons,’ and at pp. 273, 274, on the subjects of Choral Services and ‘Choristers.’ I have already protested against the assumption that I am ready to endorse the opinions of characters in my story. But, in these two instances, I admit that I am much in sympathy with ‘Arthur.’ In my opinion, far too many sermons are expected from our preachers; and, as a consequence, a great many are preached, which are not worth listening to; and, as a consequence of that, we are very apt not to listen. The reader of this paragraph probably heard a sermon last Sunday morning? Well, let him, if he can, name the text, and state how the preacher treated it! Then, as to ‘Choristers,’ and all the other accessories—of music, vestments, processions, &c.,—which have come, along with them, into fashion—while freely admitting that the ‘Ritual’ movement was sorely needed, and that it has effected a vast improvement in our Church-Services, which had become dead and dry to the last degree, I hold that, like many other desirable movements, it has gone too far in the opposite direction, and has introduced many new dangers. For the Congregation this new movement involves the danger of learning to think that the Services are done for them; and that their bodily presence is all they need contribute. And, for Clergy and Congregation alike, it involves the danger of regarding these elaborate Services as ends in themselves, and of forgetting that they are simply means, and the very hollowest of mockeries, unless they bear fruit in our lives. xx For the Choristers it seems to involve the danger of self-conceit, as described at p. 274, the danger of regarding those parts of the Service, where their help is not required, as not worth attending to, the danger of coming to regard the Service as a mere outward form—a series of postures to be assumed, and of words to be said or sung, while the thoughts are elsewhere—and the danger of ‘familiarity’ breeding ‘contempt’ for sacred things. Let me illustrate these last two forms of danger, from my own experience. Not long ago, I attended a Cathedral-Service, and was placed immediately behind a row of men, members of the Choir; and I could not help noticing that they treated the Lessons as a part of the Service to which they needed not to give any attention, and as affording them a convenient opportunity for arranging music-books, &c., &c. Also I have frequently seen a row of little choristers, after marching in procession to their places, kneel down, as if about to pray, and rise from their knees after a minute spent in looking about them, it being but too evident that the attitude was a mere mockery. Surely it is very dangerous, for these children, to thus accustom them to pretend to pray? As an instance of irreverent treatment of holy things, I will mention a custom, which no doubt many of my readers have noticed in Churches where the Clergy and Choir enter in procession, viz. that, at the end of the private devotions, which are carried on in the vestry, and which are of course inaudible to the Congregation, the final xxi “Amen” is shouted, loud enough to be heard all through the Church. This serves as a signal, to the Congregation, to prepare to rise when the procession appears: and it admits of no dispute that it is for this purpose that it is thus shouted. When we remember to Whom that “Amen” is really addressed, and consider that it is here used for the same purpose as one of the Church-bells, we must surely admit that it is a piece of gross irreverence? To me it is much as if I were to see a Bible used as a footstool. As an instance of the dangers, for the Clergy themselves, introduced by this new movement, let me mention the fact that, according to my experience, Clergymen of this school are specially apt to retail comic anecdotes, in which the most sacred names and words—sometimes actual texts from the Bible—are used as themes for jesting. Many such things are repeated as having been originally said by children, whose utter ignorance of evil must no doubt acquit them, in the sight of God, of all blame; but it must be otherwise for those who consciously use such innocent utterances as material for their unholy mirth. Let me add, however, most earnestly, that I fully believe that this profanity is, in many cases, unconscious: the ‘environment’ (as I have tried to explain at p. 123) makes all the difference between man and man; and I rejoice to think that many of these profane stories—which I find so painful to listen to, and should feel it a sin to repeat—give to their ears no pain, and to their consciences no shock; and that xxii they can utter, not less sincerely than myself, the two prayers, “Hallowed be Thy Name” and “from hardness of heart, and contempt of Thy Word and Commandment, Good Lord, deliver us!” To which I would desire to add, for their sake and for my own, Keble’s beautiful petition, “help us, this and every day, To live more nearly as we pray!” It is, in fact, for its consequences—for the grave dangers, both to speaker and to hearer, which it involves—rather than for what it is in itself, that I mourn over this clerical habit of profanity in social talk. To the believing hearer it brings the danger of loss of reverence for holy things, by the mere act of listening to, and enjoying, such jests; and also the temptation to retail them for the amusement of others. To the unbelieving hearer it brings a welcome confirmation of his theory that religion is a fable, in the spectacle of its accredited champions thus betraying their trust. And to the speaker himself it must surely bring the danger of loss of faith. For surely such jests, if uttered with no consciousness of harm, must necessarily be also uttered with no consciousness, at the moment, of the reality of God, as a living being, who hears all we say. And he, who allows himself the habit of thus uttering holy words, with no thought of their meaning, is but too likely to find that, for him, God has become a myth, and heaven a poetic fancy—that, for him, the light of life is gone, and that he is at heart an atheist, lost in “a darkness that may be felt.” There is, I fear, at the present time, an increasing tendency to irreverent treatment of the name of God xxiii and of subjects connected with religion. Some of our theatres are helping this downward movement by the gross caricatures of clergymen which they put upon the stage: some of our clergy are themselves helping it, by showing that they can lay aside the spirit of reverence, along with their surplices, and can treat as jests, when outside their churches, names and things to which they pay an almost superstitious veneration when inside: the “Salvation Army” has, I fear, with the best intentions, done much to help it, by the coarse familiarity with which they treat holy things: and surely every one, who desires to live in the spirit of the prayer “Hallowed be thy Name,” ought to do what he can, however little that may be, to check it. So I have gladly taken this unique opportunity, however unfit the topic may seem for the Preface to a book of this kind, to express some thoughts which have weighed on my mind for a long time. I did not expect, when I wrote the Preface to Vol. I, that it would be read to any appreciable extent: but I rejoice to believe, from evidence that has reached me, that it has been read by many, and to hope that this Preface will also be so: and I think that, among them, some will be found ready to sympathise with the views I have put forwards, and ready to help, with their prayers and their example, the revival, in Society, of the waning spirit of reverence. Christmas, 1893. xxv CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. BRUNO’S LESSONS 1 II. LOVE’S CURFEW 20 III. STREAKS OF DAWN 36 IV. THE DOG-KING 52 V. MATILDA JANE 67 VI. WILLIE’S WIFE 82 VII. FORTUNATUS’ PURSE 96 VIII. IN A SHADY PLACE 110 IX. THE FAREWELL-PARTY 128 X. JABBERING AND JAM 147 XI. THE MAN IN THE MOON 162 XII. FAIRY-MUSIC 175 XIII. WHAT TOTTLES MEANT 194 XIV. BRUNO’S PICNIC 212 XV. THE LITTLE FOXES 233 XVI. BEYOND THESE VOICES 247 XVII. TO THE RESCUE! 262 XVIII. A NEWSPAPER-CUTTING 282 XIX. A FAIRY-DUET 287 XX. GAMMON AND SPINACH 310 XXI. THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE 329 XXII. THE BANQUET 346 XXIII. THE PIG-TALE 363 XXIV. THE BEGGAR’S RETURN 381 XXV. LIFE OUT OF DEATH 400 General Index 413 List of Works 426 xxvii ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I. PAGE THE MARCH-UP 3 VISITING THE PROFESSOR 11 BOOTS FOR HORIZONTAL WEATHER 15 A PORTABLE PLUNGE-BATH 24 REMOVAL OF UGGUG 41 ‘WHAT A GAME!’ 48 ‘DRINK THIS!’ 53 ‘COME, YOU BE OFF!’ 62 THE GARDENER 66 A BEGGAR’S PALACE 72 THE CRIMSON LOCKET 77 ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A BUFFALO’ 79 ‘IT WAS A HIPPOPOTAMUS’ 91 THE MAP OF FAIRYLAND 96 ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A KANGAROO’ 106 THE MOUSE-LION 108 ‘HAMMER IT IN!’ 115 A BEAR WITHOUT A HEAD 117 ‘COME UP, BRUIN!’ 123 THE OTHER PROFESSOR 135 ‘HOW CHEERFULLY THE BOND HE SIGNED!’ 144 ‘POOR PETER SHUDDERED IN DESPAIR’ 147 ‘SUCH BOOTS AS THESE YOU SELDOM SEE’ 150 ‘I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!’ 154 ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ALBATROSS’ 165 THE MASTIFF-SENTINEL 172 THE DOG-KING 176 FAIRY-SYLVIE 193 BRUNO’S REVENGE 213 FAIRIES RESTING 226 A CHANGED CROCODILE 229 A LECTURE ON ART 240 ‘THREE BADGERS ON A MOSSY STONE’ 247 ‘THE FATHER-BADGER, WRITHING IN A CAVE’ 249 ‘THOSE AGED ONES WAXED GAY’ 252 ‘HOW PERFECTLY ISOCHRONOUS!’ 268 THE LAME CHILD 280 ‘IT WENT IN TWO HALVES’ 285 FIVE O’CLOCK TEA 296 ‘WHAT’S THE MATTER, DARLING?’ 307 THE DEAD HARE 321 CROSSING THE LINE 341 ‘THE PUG-DOG SAT UP’ 351 THE QUEEN’S BABY 363 THE FROGS’ BIRTHDAY-TREAT 373 ‘HE WRENCHED OUT THAT CROCODILE’S TOOF!’ 380 ‘LOOK EASTWARD!’ 395 xxix ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II. PAGE SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL 8 KING FISHER’S WOOING 15 ‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’ 22 ‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’ 50 A ROYAL THIEF-TAKER 62 ‘SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MY SPECTACLES!’ 64 BESSIE’S SONG 75 THE RESCUE OF WILLIE 83 WILLIE’S WIFE 88 FORTUNATUS’ PURSE 103 ‘I AM SITTING AT YOUR FEET’ 119 MEIN HERR’S FAIRY-FRIENDS 163 ‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’ 178 SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUED 188 SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERS 189 THE EGG-MERCHANT 197 STARTING FOR BRUNO’S PICNIC 230 ‘ENTER THE LION’ 236 ‘WHIHUAUCH! WHIHUAUCH!’ 242 ‘NEVER!’ YELLED TOTTLES 248 BRUNO’S BED-TIME 265 ‘LONG CEREMONIOUS CALLS’ 266 THE VOICES 267 ‘HIS SOUL SHALL BE SAD FOR THE SPIDER’ 268 LORDS OF THE CREATION 271 ‘WILL YOU NOT SPARE ME?’ 277 IN THE CHURCH-YARD 291 A FAIRY-DUET 304 THE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUND 317 ‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’ 326 ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ELEPHANT’ 335 AN EXPLOSION 345 ‘A CANNOT SHAK’ HANDS WI’ THEE!’ 350 THE OTHER PROFESSOR’S FALL 352 ‘TEACHING TIGRESSES TO SMILE’ 365 ‘HORRID WAS THAT PIG’S DESPAIR!’ 367 THE FATAL JUMP 369 ‘BATHING CROCODILES IN CREAM’ 371 ‘THAT PIG LAY STILL AS ANY STONE’ 372 ‘STILL HE SITS IN MISERIE’ 373 ‘BLESSED BY HAPPY STAGS’ 377 THE OLD BEGGAR’S RETURN 382 ‘PORCUPINE!’ 388 ‘GOOD-NIGHT, PROFESSOR!’ 398 ‘HIS WIFE KNELT DOWN AT HIS SIDE’ 404 THE BLUE LOCKET 409 ‘IT IS LOVE!’ 411 1 SYLVIE AND BRUNO CONCLUDED. CHAPTER I. BRUNO’S LESSONS. During the next month or two my solitary town-life seemed, by contrast, unusually dull and tedious. I missed the pleasant friends I had left behind at Elveston—the genial interchange of thought—the sympathy which gave to one’s ideas a new and vivid reality: but, perhaps more than all, I missed the companionship of the two Fairies—or Dream-Children, for I had not yet solved the problem as to who or what they were—whose sweet playfulness had shed a magic radiance over my life. In office-hours—which I suppose reduce most men to the mental condition of a coffee-mill 2 or a mangle—time sped along much as usual: it was in the pauses of life, the desolate hours when books and newspapers palled on the sated appetite, and when, thrown back upon one’s own dreary musings, one strove—all in vain—to people the vacant air with the dear faces of absent friends, that the real bitterness of solitude made itself felt. One evening, feeling my life a little more wearisome than usual, I strolled down to my Club, not so much with the hope of meeting any friend there, for London was now ‘out of town,’ as with the feeling that here, at least, I should hear ‘sweet words of human speech,’ and come into contact with human thought. However, almost the first face I saw there was that of a friend. Eric Lindon was lounging, with rather a ‘bored’ expression of face, over a newspaper; and we fell into conversation with a mutual satisfaction which neither of us tried to conceal. After a while I ventured to introduce what was just then the main subject of my thoughts. “And so the Doctor” (a name we had adopted by a tacit agreement, as a convenient compromise 3 between the formality of ‘Doctor Forester’ and the intimacy—to which Eric Lindon hardly seemed entitled—of ‘Arthur’) “has gone abroad by this time, I suppose? Can you give me his present address?” “He is still at Elveston—I believe,” was the reply. “But I have not been there since I last met you.” I did not know which part of this intelligence to wonder at most. “And might I ask—if it isn’t taking too much of a liberty—when your wedding-bells are to—or perhaps they have rung, already?” “No,” said Eric, in a steady voice, which betrayed scarcely a trace of emotion: “that engagement is at an end. I am still ‘Benedick the unmarried man.’” After this, the thick-coming fancies—all radiant with new possibilities of happiness for Arthur—were far too bewildering to admit of any further conversation, and I was only too glad to avail myself of the first decent excuse, that offered itself, for retiring into silence. The next day I wrote to Arthur, with as much of a reprimand for his long silence as I 4 could bring myself to put into words, begging him to tell me how the world went with him. Needs must that three or four days—possibly more—should elapse before I could receive his reply; and never had I known days drag their slow length along with a more tedious indolence. To while away the time, I strolled, one afternoon, into Kensington Gardens, and, wandering aimlessly along any path that presented itself, I soon became aware that I had somehow strayed into one that was wholly new to me. Still, my elfish experiences seemed to have so completely faded out of my life that nothing was further from my thoughts than the idea of again meeting my fairy-friends, when I chanced to notice a small creature, moving among the grass that fringed the path, that did not seem to be an insect, or a frog, or any other living thing that I could think of. Cautiously kneeling down, and making an ex tempore cage of my two hands, I imprisoned the little wanderer, and felt a sudden thrill of surprise and delight on discovering that my prisoner was no other than Bruno himself! 5 Bruno took the matter very coolly, and, when I had replaced him on the ground, where he would be within easy conversational distance, he began talking, just as if it were only a few minutes since last we had met. “Doos oo know what the Rule is,” he enquired, “when oo catches a Fairy, withouten its having tolded oo where it was?” (Bruno’s notions of English Grammar had certainly not improved since our last meeting.) “No,” I said. “I didn’t know there was any Rule about it.” “I think oo’ve got a right to eat me,” said the little fellow, looking up into my face with a winning smile. “But I’m not pruffickly sure. Oo’d better not do it wizout asking.” It did indeed seem reasonable not to take so irrevocable a step as that, without due enquiry. “I’ll certainly ask about it, first,” I said. “Besides, I don’t know yet whether you would be worth eating!” “I guess I’m deliciously good to eat,” Bruno remarked in a satisfied tone, as if it were something to be rather proud of. “And what are you doing here, Bruno?” 6 “That’s not my name!” said my cunning little friend. “Don’t oo know my name’s ‘Oh Bruno!’? That’s what Sylvie always calls me, when I says mine lessons.” “Well then, what are you doing here, oh Bruno?” “Doing mine lessons, a-course!” With that roguish twinkle in his eye, that always came when he knew he was talking nonsense. “Oh, that’s the way you do your lessons, is it? And do you remember them well?” “Always can ’member mine lessons,” said Bruno. “It’s Sylvie’s lessons that’s so dreffully hard to ’member!” He frowned, as if in agonies of thought, and tapped his forehead with his knuckles. “I ca’n’t think enough to understand them!” he said despairingly. “It wants double thinking, I believe!” “But where’s Sylvie gone?” “That’s just what I want to know!” said Bruno disconsolately. “What ever’s the good of setting me lessons, when she isn’t here to ’splain the hard bits?” “I’ll find her for you!” I volunteered; and, getting up, I wandered round the tree under 7 whose shade I had been reclining, looking on all sides for Sylvie. In another minute I again noticed some strange thing moving among the grass, and, kneeling down, was immediately confronted with Sylvie’s innocent face, lighted up with a joyful surprise at seeing me, and was accosted, in the sweet voice I knew so well, with what seemed to be the end of a sentence whose beginning I had failed to catch. “—and I think he ought to have finished them by this time. So I’m going back to him. Will you come too? It’s only just round at the other side of this tree.” It was but a few steps for me; but it was a great many for Sylvie; and I had to be very careful to walk slowly, in order not to leave the little creature so far behind as to lose sight of her. To find Bruno’s lessons was easy enough: they appeared to be neatly written out on large smooth ivy-leaves, which were scattered in some confusion over a little patch of ground where the grass had been worn away; but the pale student, who ought by rights to have been bending over them, was nowhere to be seen: 8 we looked in all directions, for some time, in vain; but at last Sylvie’s sharp eyes detected him, swinging on a tendril of ivy, and Sylvie’s stern voice commanded his instant return to terra firma and to the business of Life. SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL 9 “Pleasure first and business afterwards” seemed to be the motto of these tiny folk, so many hugs and kisses had to be interchanged before anything else could be done. “Now, Bruno,” Sylvie said reproachfully, “didn’t I tell you you were to go on with your lessons, unless you heard to the contrary?” “But I did heard to the contrary!” Bruno insisted, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What did you hear, you wicked boy?” “It were a sort of noise in the air,” said Bruno: “a sort of a scrambling noise. Didn’t oo hear it, Mister Sir?” “Well, anyhow, you needn’t go to sleep over them, you lazy-lazy!” For Bruno had curled himself up, on the largest ‘lesson,’ and was arranging another as a pillow. “I wasn’t asleep!” said Bruno, in a deeply-injured tone. “When I shuts mine eyes, it’s to show that I’m awake!” “Well, how much have you learned, then?” “I’ve learned a little tiny bit,” said Bruno, modestly, being evidently afraid of overstating his achievement. “Ca’n’t learn no more!” “Oh Bruno! You know you can, if you like.” 10 “Course I can, if I like,” the pale student replied; “but I ca’n’t if I don’t like!” Sylvie had a way—which I could not too highly admire—of evading Bruno’s logical perplexities by suddenly striking into a new line of thought; and this masterly stratagem she now adopted. “Well, I must say one thing——” “Did oo know, Mister Sir,” Bruno thoughtfully remarked, “that Sylvie ca’n’t count? Whenever she says ‘I must say one thing,’ I know quite well she’ll say two things! And she always doos.” “Two heads are better than one, Bruno,” I said, but with no very distinct idea as to what I meant by it. “I shouldn’t mind having two heads,” Bruno said softly to himself: “one head to eat mine dinner, and one head to argue wiz Sylvie—doos oo think oo’d look prettier if oo’d got two heads, Mister Sir?” The case did not, I assured him, admit of a doubt. “The reason why Sylvie’s so cross——” Bruno went on very seriously, almost sadly. 11 Sylvie’s eyes grew large and round with surprise at this new line of enquiry—her rosy face being perfectly radiant with good humour. But she said nothing. “Wouldn’t it be better to tell me after the lessons are over?” I suggested. “Very well,” Bruno said with a resigned air: “only she wo’n’t be cross then.” “There’s only three lessons to do,” said Sylvie. “Spelling, and Geography, and Singing.” “Not Arithmetic?” I said. “No, he hasn’t a head for Arithmetic——” “Course I haven’t!” said Bruno. “Mine head’s for hair. I haven’t got a lot of heads!” “—and he ca’n’t learn his Multiplication-table——” “I like History ever so much better,” Bruno remarked. “Oo has to repeat that Muddlecome table——” “Well, and you have to repeat——” “No, oo hasn’t!” Bruno interrupted. “History repeats itself. The Professor said so!” Sylvie was arranging some letters on a board——E—V—I—L. “Now, Bruno,” she said, “what does that spell?” 12 Bruno looked at it, in solemn silence, for a minute. “I knows what it doosn’t spell!” he said at last. “That’s no good,” said Sylvie. “What does it spell?” Bruno took another look at the mysterious letters. “Why, it’s ‘LIVE,’ backwards!” he exclaimed. (I thought it was, indeed.) “How did you manage to see that?” said Sylvie. “I just twiddled my eyes,” said Bruno, “and then I saw it directly. Now may I sing the King-fisher Song?” “Geography next,” said Sylvie. “Don’t you know the Rules?” “I thinks there oughtn’t to be such a lot of Rules, Sylvie! I thinks——” “Yes, there ought to be such a lot of Rules, you wicked, wicked boy! And how dare you think at all about it? And shut up that mouth directly!” So, as ‘that mouth’ didn’t seem inclined to shut up of itself, Sylvie shut it for him—with both hands—and sealed it with a kiss, just as you would fasten up a letter. 13 “Now that Bruno is fastened up from talking,” she went on, turning to me, “I’ll show you the Map he does his lessons on.” And there it was, a large Map of the World, spread out on the ground. It was so large that Bruno had to crawl about on it, to point out the places named in the ‘King-fisher Lesson.’ “When a King-fisher sees a Lady-bird flying away, he says ‘Ceylon, if you Candia!’ And when he catches it, he says ‘Come to Media! And if you’re Hungary or thirsty, I’ll give you some Nubia!’ When he takes it in his claws, he says ‘Europe!’ When he puts it into his beak, he says ‘India!’ When he’s swallowed it, he says ‘Eton!’ That’s all.” “That’s quite perfect,” said Sylvie. “Now you may sing the King-fisher Song.” “Will oo sing the chorus?” Bruno said to me. I was just beginning to say “I’m afraid I don’t know the words,” when Sylvie silently turned the map over, and I found the words were all written on the back. In one respect it was a very peculiar song: the chorus to each verse came in the middle, instead of at the end of it. However, the tune was so easy that I 14 soon picked it up, and managed the chorus as well, perhaps, as it is possible for one person to manage such a thing. It was in vain that I signed to Sylvie to help me: she only smiled sweetly and shook her head. “King Fisher courted Lady Bird— Sing Beans, sing Bones, sing Butterflies! ‘Find me my match,’ he said, ‘With such a noble head— With such a beard, as white as curd— With such expressive eyes!’ “‘Yet pins have heads,’ said Lady Bird— Sing Prunes, sing Prawns, sing Primrose-Hill! ‘And, where you stick them in, They stay, and thus a pin Is very much to be preferred To one that’s never still!’ “‘Oysters have beards,’ said Lady Bird— Sing Flies, sing Frogs, sing Fiddle-strings! ‘I love them, for I know They never chatter so: They would not say one single word— Not if you crowned them Kings!’ 15 “‘Needles have eyes,’ said Lady Bird— Sing Cats, sing Corks, sing Cowslip-tea! ‘And they are sharp—just what Your Majesty is not: So get you gone—’tis too absurd To come a-courting me!’” KING FISHER’S WOOING KING FISHER’S WOOING 16 “So he went away,” Bruno added as a kind of postscript, when the last note of the song had died away. “Just like he always did.” “Oh, my dear Bruno!” Sylvie exclaimed, with her hands over her ears. “You shouldn’t say ‘like’: you should say ‘what.’” To which Bruno replied, doggedly, “I only says ‘what!’ when oo doosn’t speak loud, so as I can hear oo.” “Where did he go to?” I asked, hoping to prevent an argument. “He went more far than he’d never been before,” said Bruno. “You should never say ‘more far,’” Sylvie corrected him: “you should say ‘farther.’” “Then oo shouldn’t say ‘more broth,’ when we’re at dinner,” Bruno retorted: “oo should say ‘brother’!” This time Sylvie evaded an argument by turning away, and beginning to roll up the Map. “Lessons are over!” she proclaimed in her sweetest tones. “And has there been no crying over them?” I enquired. “Little boys always cry over their lessons, don’t they?” 17 “I never cries after twelve o’clock,” said Bruno: “’cause then it’s getting so near to dinner-time.” “Sometimes, in the morning,” Sylvie said in a low voice; “when it’s Geography-day, and when he’s been disobe——” “What a fellow you are to talk, Sylvie!” Bruno hastily interposed. “Doos oo think the world was made for oo to talk in?” “Why, where would you have me talk, then?” Sylvie said, evidently quite ready for an argument. But Bruno answered resolutely. “I’m not going to argue about it, ’cause it’s getting late, and there wo’n’t be time—but oo’s as ’ong as ever oo can be!” And he rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, in which tears were beginning to glitter. Sylvie’s eyes filled with tears in a moment. “I didn’t mean it, Bruno, darling!” she whispered; and the rest of the argument was lost ‘amid the tangles of Neæra’s hair,’ while the two disputants hugged and kissed each other. But this new form of argument was brought to a sudden end by a flash of lightning, which 18 was closely followed by a peal of thunder, and by a torrent of rain-drops, which came hissing and spitting, almost like live creatures, through the leaves of the tree that sheltered us. “Why, it’s raining cats and dogs!” I said. “And all the dogs has come down first,” said Bruno: “there’s nothing but cats coming down now!” In another minute the pattering ceased, as suddenly as it had begun. I stepped out from under the tree, and found that the storm was over; but I looked in vain, on my return, for my tiny companions. They had vanished with the storm, and there was nothing for it but to make the best of my way home. On the table lay, awaiting my return, an envelope of that peculiar yellow tint which always announces a telegram, and which must be, in the memories of so many of us, inseparably linked with some great and sudden sorrow—something that has cast a shadow, never in this world to be wholly lifted off, on the brightness of Life. No doubt it has also heralded—for many of us—some sudden news of joy; but this, I think, is less common: 19 human life seems, on the whole, to contain more of sorrow than of joy. And yet the world goes on. Who knows why? This time, however, there was no shock of sorrow to be faced: in fact, the few words it contained (“Could not bring myself to write. Come soon. Always welcome. A letter follows this. Arthur.”) seemed so like Arthur himself speaking, that it gave me quite a thrill of pleasure, and I at once began the preparations needed for the journey. 20 CHAPTER II. LOVE’S CURFEW. “Fayfield Junction! Change for Elveston!” What subtle memory could there be, linked to these commonplace words, that caused such a flood of happy thoughts to fill my brain? I dismounted from the carriage in a state of joyful excitement for which I could not at first account. True, I had taken this very journey, and at the same hour of the day, six months ago; but many things had happened since then, and an old man’s memory has but a slender hold on recent events: I sought ‘the missing link’ in vain. Suddenly I caught sight of a bench—the only one provided on 21 the cheerless platform—with a lady seated on it, and the whole forgotten scene flashed upon me as vividly as if it were happening over again. “Yes,” I thought. “This bare platform is, for me, rich with the memory of a dear friend! She was sitting on that very bench, and invited me to share it, with some quotation from Shakespeare—I forget what. I’ll try the Earl’s plan for the Dramatisation of Life, and fancy that figure to be Lady Muriel; and I won’t undeceive myself too soon!” So I strolled along the platform, resolutely ‘making-believe’ (as children say) that the casual passenger, seated on that bench, was the Lady Muriel I remembered so well. She was facing away from me, which aided the elaborate cheatery I was practising on myself: but, though I was careful, in passing the spot, to look the other way, in order to prolong the pleasant illusion, it was inevitable that, when I turned to walk back again, I should see who it was. It was Lady Muriel herself! 22 ‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’ ‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’ The whole scene now returned vividly to my memory; and, to make this repetition of it stranger still, there was the same old man, whom I remembered seeing so roughly ordered off, by the Station-Master, to make room for his titled passenger. The same, but ‘with a difference’: no longer tottering feebly along the platform, but actually seated at Lady Muriel’s side, and in conversation with her! “Yes, put it in your purse,” she was saying, “and remember you’re to spend it all for Minnie. And mind you bring her something nice, that’ll do her real good! And give her 23 my love!” So intent was she on saying these words, that, although the sound of my footstep had made her lift her head and look at me, she did not at first recognise me. I raised my hat as I approached, and then there flashed across her face a genuine look of joy, which so exactly recalled the sweet face of Sylvie, when last we met in Kensington Gardens, that I felt quite bewildered. Rather than disturb the poor old man at her side, she rose from her seat, and joined me in my walk up and down the platform, and for a minute or two our conversation was as utterly trivial and commonplace as if we were merely two casual guests in a London drawing-room. Each of us seemed to shrink, just at first, from touching on the deeper interests which linked our lives together. The Elveston train had drawn up at the platform, while we talked; and, in obedience to the Station-Master’s obsequious hint of “This way, my Lady! Time’s up!”, we were making the best of our way towards the end which contained the sole first-class carriage, and were just passing the now-empty bench, 24 when Lady Muriel noticed, lying on it, the purse in which her gift had just been so carefully bestowed, the owner of which, all unconscious of his loss, was being helped into a carriage at the other end of the train. She pounced on it instantly. “Poor old man!” she cried. “He mustn’t go off, and think he’s lost it!” “Let me run with it! I can go quicker than you!” I said. But she was already half-way down the platform, flying (‘running’ is much too mundane a word for such fairy-like motion) at a pace that left all possible efforts of mine hopelessly in the rear. She was back again before I had well completed my audacious boast of speed in running, and was saying, quite demurely, as we entered our carriage, “and you really think you could have done it quicker?” “No indeed!” I replied. “I plead ‘Guilty’ of gross exaggeration, and throw myself on the mercy of the Court!” “The Court will overlook it—for this once!” Then her manner suddenly changed from playfulness to an anxious gravity. 25 “You are not looking your best!” she said with an anxious glance. “In fact, I think you look more of an invalid than when you left us. I very much doubt if London agrees with you?” “It may be the London air,” I said, “or it may be the hard work—or my rather lonely life: anyhow, I’ve not been feeling very well, lately. But Elveston will soon set me up again. Arthur’s prescription—he’s my doctor, you know, and I heard from him this morning—is ‘plenty of ozone, and new milk, and pleasant society’!” “Pleasant society?” said Lady Muriel, with a pretty make-believe of considering the question. “Well, really I don’t know where we can find that for you! We have so few neighbours. But new milk we can manage. Do get it of my old friend Mrs. Hunter, up there, on the hill-side. You may rely upon the quality. And her little Bessie comes to school every day, and passes your lodgings. So it would be very easy to send it.” “I’ll follow your advice, with pleasure,” I said; “and I’ll go and arrange about it tomorrow. I know Arthur will want a walk.” 26 “You’ll find it quite an easy walk—under three miles, I think.” “Well, now that we’ve settled that point, let me retort your own remark upon yourself. I don’t think you’re looking quite your best!” “I daresay not,” she replied in a low voice; and a sudden shadow seemed to overspread her face. “I’ve had some troubles lately. It’s a matter about which I’ve been long wishing to consult you, but I couldn’t easily write about it. I’m so glad to have this opportunity!” “Do you think,” she began again, after a minute’s silence, and with a visible embarrassment of manner most unusual in her, “that a promise, deliberately and solemnly given, is always binding—except, of course, where its fulfilment would involve some actual sin?” “I ca’n’t think of any other exception at this moment,” I said. “That branch of casuistry is usually, I believe, treated as a question of truth and untruth——” “Surely that is the principle?” she eagerly interrupted. “I always thought the Bible-teaching about it consisted of such texts as ‘lie not one to another’?” 27 “I have thought about that point,” I replied; “and it seems to me that the essence of lying is the intention of deceiving. If you give a promise, fully intending to fulfil it, you are certainly acting truthfully then; and, if you afterwards break it, that does not involve any deception. I cannot call it untruthful.” Another pause of silence ensued. Lady Muriel’s face was hard to read: she looked pleased, I thought, but also puzzled; and I felt curious to know whether her question had, as I began to suspect, some bearing on the breaking off of her engagement with Captain (now Major) Lindon. “You have relieved me from a great fear,” she said; “but the thing is of course wrong, somehow. What texts would you quote, to prove it wrong?” “Any that enforce the payment of debts. If A promises something to B, B has a claim upon A. And A’s sin, if he breaks his promise, seems to me more analogous to stealing than to lying.” “It’s a new way of looking at it—to me,” she said; “but it seems a true way, also. 28 However, I won’t deal in generalities, with an old friend like you! For we are old friends, somehow. Do you know, I think we began as old friends?” she said with a playfulness of tone that ill accorded with the tears that glistened in her eyes. “Thank you very much for saying so,” I replied. “I like to think of you as an old friend,” (“—though you don’t look it!” would have been the almost necessary sequence, with any other lady; but she and I seemed to have long passed out of the time when compliments, or any such trivialities, were possible.) Here the train paused at a station, where two or three passengers entered the carriage; so no more was said till we had reached our journey’s end. On our arrival at Elveston, she readily adopted my suggestion that we should walk up together; so, as soon as our luggage had been duly taken charge of—hers by the servant who met her at the station, and mine by one of the porters—we set out together along the familiar lanes, now linked in my memory with so many delightful associations. Lady 29 Muriel at once recommenced the conversation at the point where it had been interrupted. “You knew of my engagement to my cousin Eric. Did you also hear——” “Yes,” I interrupted, anxious to spare her the pain of giving any details. “I heard it had all come to an end.” “I would like to tell you how it happened,” she said; “as that is the very point I want your advice about. I had long realised that we were not in sympathy in religious belief. His ideas of Christianity are very shadowy; and even as to the existence of a God he lives in a sort of dreamland. But it has not affected his life! I feel sure, now, that the most absolute Atheist may be leading, though walking blindfold, a pure and noble life. And if you knew half the good deeds——” she broke off suddenly, and turned away her head. “I entirely agree with you,” I said. “And have we not our Saviour’s own promise that such a life shall surely lead to the light?” “Yes, I know it,” she said in a broken voice, still keeping her head turned away. “And so I told him. He said he would believe, for my 30 sake, if he could. And he wished, for my sake, he could see things as I did. But that is all wrong!” she went on passionately. “God cannot approve such low motives as that! Still it was not I that broke it off. I knew he loved me; and I had promised; and——” “Then it was he that broke it off?” “He released me unconditionally.” She faced me again now, having quite recovered her usual calmness of manner. “Then what difficulty remains?” “It is this, that I don’t believe he did it of his own free will. Now, supposing he did it against his will, merely to satisfy my scruples, would not his claim on me remain just as strong as ever? And would not my promise be as binding as ever? My father says ‘no’; but I ca’n’t help fearing he is biased by his love for me. And I’ve asked no one else. I have many friends—friends for the bright sunny weather; not friends for the clouds and storms of life; not old friends like you!” “Let me think a little,” I said: and for some minutes we walked on in silence, while, 31 pained to the heart at seeing the bitter trial that had come upon this pure and gentle soul, I strove in vain to see my way through the tangled skein of conflicting motives. “If she loves him truly,” (I seemed at last to grasp the clue to the problem) “is not that, for her, the voice of God? May she not hope that she is sent to him, even as Ananias was sent to Saul in his blindness, that he may receive his sight?” Once more I seemed to hear Arthur whispering “What knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?” and I broke the silence with the words “If you still love him truly——” “I do not!” she hastily interrupted. “At least—not in that way. I believe I loved him when I promised; but I was very young: it is hard to know. But, whatever the feeling was, it is dead now. The motive on his side is Love: on mine it is—Duty!” Again there was a long silence. The whole skein of thought was tangled worse than ever. This time she broke the silence. “Don’t misunderstand me!” she said. “When I said my heart was not his, I did not mean it was any 32 one else’s! At present I feel bound to him; and, till I know I am absolutely free, in the sight of God, to love any other than him, I’ll never even think of any one else—in that way, I mean. I would die sooner!” I had never imagined my gentle friend capable of such passionate utterances. I ventured on no further remark until we had nearly arrived at the Hall-gate; but, the longer I reflected, the clearer it became to me that no call of Duty demanded the sacrifice—possibly of the happiness of a life—which she seemed ready to make. I tried to make this clear to her also, adding some warnings on the dangers that surely awaited a union in which mutual love was wanting. “The only argument for it, worth considering,” I said in conclusion, “seems to be his supposed reluctance in releasing you from your promise. I have tried to give to that argument its full weight, and my conclusion is that it does not affect the rights of the case, or invalidate the release he has given you. My belief is that you are entirely free to act as now seems right.” 33 “I am very grateful to you,” she said earnestly. “Believe it, please! I ca’n’t put it into proper words!” and the subject was dropped by mutual consent: and I only learned, long afterwards, that our discussion had really served to dispel the doubts that had harassed her so long. We parted at the Hall-gate, and I found Arthur eagerly awaiting my arrival; and, before we parted for the night, I had heard the whole story—how he had put off his journey from day to day, feeling that he could not go away from the place till his fate had been irrevocably settled by the wedding taking place: how the preparations for the wedding, and the excitement in the neighbourhood, had suddenly come to an end, and he had learned (from Major Lindon, who called to wish him good-bye) that the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent: how he had instantly abandoned all his plans for going abroad, and had decided to stay on at Elveston, for a year or two at any rate, till his newly-awakened hopes should prove true or false; and how, since that memorable day, he had avoided all meetings 34 with Lady Muriel, fearing to betray his feelings before he had had any sufficient evidence as to how she regarded him. “But it is nearly six weeks since all that happened,” he said in conclusion, “and we can meet in the ordinary way, now, with no need for any painful allusions. I would have written to tell you all this: only I kept hoping from day to day, that—that there would be more to tell!” “And how should there be more, you foolish fellow,” I fondly urged, “if you never even go near her? Do you expect the offer to come from her?” Arthur was betrayed into a smile. “No,” he said, “I hardly expect that. But I’m a desperate coward. There’s no doubt about it!” “And what reasons have you heard of for breaking off the engagement?” “A good many,” Arthur replied, and proceeded to count them on his fingers. “First, it was found that she was dying of—something; so he broke it off. Then it was found that he was dying of—some other thing; so she broke it off. Then the Major turned out to be a confirmed gamester; so the Earl broke it off. 35 Then the Earl insulted him; so the Major broke it off. It got a good deal broken off, all things considered!” “You have all this on the very best authority, of course?” “Oh, certainly! And communicated in the strictest confidence! Whatever defects Elveston society suffers from, want of information isn’t one of them!” “Nor reticence, either, it seems. But, seriously, do you know the real reason?” “No, I’m quite in the dark.” I did not feel that I had any right to enlighten him; so I changed the subject, to the less engrossing one of “new milk,” and we agreed that I should walk over, next day, to Hunter’s farm, Arthur undertaking to set me part of the way, after which he had to return to keep a business-engagement. 36 CHAPTER III. STREAKS OF DAWN. Next day proved warm and sunny, and we started early, to enjoy the luxury of a good long chat before he would be obliged to leave me. “This neighbourhood has more than its due proportion of the very poor,” I remarked, as we passed a group of hovels, too dilapidated to deserve the name of “cottages.” “But the few rich,” Arthur replied, “give more than their due proportion of help in charity. So the balance is kept.” “I suppose the Earl does a good deal?” “He gives liberally; but he has not the health or strength to do more. Lady Muriel 37 does more in the way of school-teaching and cottage-visiting than she would like me to reveal.” “Then she, at least, is not one of the ‘idle mouths’ one so often meets with among the upper classes. I have sometimes thought they would have a hard time of it, if suddenly called on to give their raison d’être, and to show cause why they should be allowed to live any longer!” “The whole subject,” said Arthur, “of what we may call ‘idle mouths’ (I mean persons who absorb some of the material wealth of a community—in the form of food, clothes, and so on—without contributing its equivalent in the form of productive labour) is a complicated one, no doubt. I’ve tried to think it out. And it seemed to me that the simplest form of the problem, to start with, is a community without money, who buy and sell by barter only; and it makes it yet simpler to suppose the food and other things to be capable of keeping for many years without spoiling.” “Yours is an excellent plan,” I said. “What is your solution of the problem?” 38 “The commonest type of ‘idle mouths,’” said Arthur, “is no doubt due to money being left by parents to their own children. So I imagined a man—either exceptionally clever, or exceptionally strong and industrious—who had contributed so much valuable labour to the needs of the community that its equivalent, in clothes, &c., was (say) five times as much as he needed for himself. We cannot deny his absolute right to give the superfluous wealth as he chooses. So, if he leaves four children behind him (say two sons and two daughters), with enough of all the necessaries of life to last them a life-time, I cannot see that the community is in any way wronged if they choose to do nothing in life but to ‘eat, drink, and be merry.’ Most certainly, the community could not fairly say, in reference to them, ‘if a man will not work, neither let him eat.’ Their reply would be crushing. ‘The labour has already been done, which is a fair equivalent for the food we are eating; and you have had the benefit of it. On what principle of justice can you demand two quotas of work for one quota of food?’” 39 “Yet surely,” I said, “there is something wrong somewhere, if these four people are well able to do useful work, and if that work is actually needed by the community, and they elect to sit idle?” “I think there is,” said Arthur: “but it seems to me to arise from a Law of God—that every one shall do as much as he can to help others—and not from any rights, on the part of the community, to exact labour as an equivalent for food that has already been fairly earned.” “I suppose the second form of the problem is where the ‘idle mouths’ possess money instead of material wealth?” “Yes,” replied Arthur: “and I think the simplest case is that of paper-money. Gold is itself a form of material wealth; but a bank-note is merely a promise to hand over so much material wealth when called upon to do so. The father of these four ‘idle mouths,’ had done (let us say) five thousand pounds’ worth of useful work for the community. In return for this, the community had given him what amounted to a written promise to hand 40 over, whenever called upon to do so, five thousand pounds’ worth of food, &c. Then, if he only uses one thousand pounds’ worth himself, and leaves the rest of the notes to his children, surely they have a full right to present these written promises, and to say ‘hand over the food, for which the equivalent labour has been already done.’ Now I think this case well worth stating, publicly and clearly. I should like to drive it into the heads of those Socialists who are priming our ignorant paupers with such sentiments as ‘Look at them bloated haristocrats! Doing not a stroke o’ work for theirselves, and living on the sweat of our brows!’ I should like to force them to see that the money, which those ‘haristocrats’ are spending, represents so much labour already done for the community, and whose equivalent, in material wealth, is due from the community.” “Might not the Socialists reply ‘Much of this money does not represent honest labour at all. If you could trace it back, from owner to owner, though you might begin with several legitimate steps, such as gift, or bequeathing 41 by will, or ‘value received,’ you would soon reach an owner who had no moral right to it, but had got it by fraud or other crimes; and of course his successors in the line would have no better right to it than he had.” “No doubt, no doubt,” Arthur replied. “But surely that involves the logical fallacy of proving too much? It is quite as applicable to material wealth, as it is to money. If we once begin to go back beyond the fact that the present owner of certain property came by it honestly, and to ask whether any previous owner, in past ages, got it by fraud, would any property be secure?” After a minute’s thought, I felt obliged to admit the truth of this. “My general conclusion,” Arthur continued, “from the mere standpoint of human rights, man against man, was this—that if some wealthy ‘idle mouth,’ who has come by his money in a lawful way, even though not one atom of the labour it represents has been his own doing, chooses to spend it on his own needs, without contributing any labour to the community from whom he buys his food and 42 clothes, that community has no right to interfere with him. But it’s quite another thing, when we come to consider the divine law. Measured by that standard, such a man is undoubtedly doing wrong, if he fails to use, for the good of those in need, the strength or the skill, that God has given him. That strength and skill do not belong to the community, to be paid to them as a debt: they do not belong to the man himself, to be used for his own enjoyment: they do belong to God, to be used according to His will; and we are not left in doubt as to what that will is. ‘Do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again.’” “Anyhow,” I said, “an ‘idle mouth’ very often gives away a great deal in charity.” “In so-called ‘charity,’” he corrected me. “Excuse me if I seem to speak uncharitably. I would not dream of applying the term to any individual. But I would say, generally, that a man who gratifies every fancy that occurs to him—denying himself in nothing—and merely gives to the poor some part, or even all, of his superfluous wealth, is only deceiving himself if he calls it charity.” 43 “But, even in giving away superfluous wealth, he may be denying himself the miser’s pleasure in hoarding?” “I grant you that, gladly,” said Arthur. “Given that he has that morbid craving, he is doing a good deed in restraining it.” “But, even in spending on himself,” I persisted, “our typical rich man often does good, by employing people who would otherwise be out of work: and that is often better than pauperising them by giving the money.” “I’m glad you’ve said that!” said Arthur. “I would not like to quit the subject without exposing the two fallacies of that statement—which have gone so long uncontradicted that Society now accepts it as an axiom!” “What are they?” I said. “I don’t even see one, myself.” “One is merely the fallacy of ambiguity—the assumption that ‘doing good’ (that is, benefiting somebody) is necessarily a good thing to do (that is, a right thing). The other is the assumption that, if one of two specified acts is better than another, it is necessarily a good act in itself. I should like to call this the 44 fallacy of comparison—meaning that it assumes that what is comparatively good is therefore positively good.” “Then what is your test of a good act?” “That it shall be our best,” Arthur confidently replied. “And even then ‘we are unprofitable servants.’ But let me illustrate the two fallacies. Nothing illustrates a fallacy so well as an extreme case, which fairly comes under it. Suppose I find two children drowning in a pond. I rush in, and save one of the children, and then walk away, leaving the other to drown. Clearly I have ‘done good,’ in saving a child’s life? But——. Again, supposing I meet an inoffensive stranger, and knock him down, and walk on. Clearly that is ‘better’ than if I had proceeded to jump upon him and break his ribs? But——” “Those ‘buts’ are quite unanswerable,” I said. “But I should like an instance from real life.” “Well, let us take one of those abominations of modern Society, a Charity-Bazaar. It’s an interesting question to think out—how much of the money, that reaches the object in 45 view, is genuine charity; and whether even that is spent in the best way. But the subject needs regular classification, and analysis, to understand it properly.” “I should be glad to have it analysed,” I said: “it has often puzzled me.” “Well, if I am really not boring you. Let us suppose our Charity-Bazaar to have been organised to aid the funds of some Hospital: and that A, B, C give their services in making articles to sell, and in acting as salesmen, while X, Y, Z buy the articles, and the money so paid goes to the Hospital. “There are two distinct species of such Bazaars: one, where the payment exacted is merely the market-value of the goods supplied, that is, exactly what you would have to pay at a shop: the other, where fancy-prices are asked. We must take these separately. “First, the ‘market-value’ case. Here A, B, C are exactly in the same position as ordinary shopkeepers; the only difference being that they give the proceeds to the Hospital. Practically, they are giving their skilled labour for the benefit of the Hospital. This seems to 46 me to be genuine charity. And I don’t see how they could use it better. But X, Y, Z, are exactly in the same position as any ordinary purchasers of goods. To talk of ‘charity’ in connection with their share of the business, is sheer nonsense. Yet they are very likely to do so. “Secondly, the case of ‘fancy-prices.’ Here I think the simplest plan is to divide the payment into two parts, the ‘market-value’ and the excess over that. The ‘market-value’ part is on the same footing as in the first case: the excess is all we have to consider. Well, A, B, C do not earn it; so we may put them out of the question: it is a gift, from X, Y, Z, to the Hospital. And my opinion is that it is not given in the best way: far better buy what they choose to buy, and give what they choose to give, as two separate transactions: then there is some chance that their motive in giving may be real charity, instead of a mixed motive—half charity, half self-pleasing. ‘The trail of the serpent is over it all.’ And therefore it is that I hold all such spurious ‘Charities’ in utter abomination!” He ended 47 with unusual energy, and savagely beheaded, with his stick, a tall thistle at the road-side, behind which I was startled to see Sylvie and Bruno standing. I caught at his arm, but too late to stop him. Whether the stick reached them, or not, I could not feel sure: at any rate they took not the smallest notice of it, but smiled gaily, and nodded to me; and I saw at once that they were only visible to me: the ‘eerie’ influence had not reached to Arthur. “Why did you try to save it?” he said. “That’s not the wheedling Secretary of a Charity-Bazaar! I only wish it were!” he added grimly. “Doos oo know, that stick went right froo my head!” said Bruno. (They had run round to me by this time, and each had secured a hand.) “Just under my chin! I are glad I aren’t a thistle!” “Well, we’ve threshed that subject out, anyhow!” Arthur resumed. “I’m afraid I’ve been talking too much, for your patience and for my strength. I must be turning soon. This is about the end of my tether.” 48 “Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee; Take, I give it willingly; For, invisible to thee, Spirits twain have crossed with me!” I quoted, involuntarily. “For utterly inappropriate and irrelevant quotations,” laughed Arthur, “you are ‘ekalled by few, and excelled by none’!” And we strolled on. As we passed the head of the lane that led down to the beach, I noticed a single figure, moving slowly along it, seawards. She was a good way off, and had her back to us: but it was Lady Muriel, unmistakably. Knowing that Arthur had not seen her, as he had been looking, in the other direction, at a gathering rain-cloud, I made no remark, but tried to think of some plausible pretext for sending him back by the sea. The opportunity instantly presented itself. “I’m getting tired,” he said. “I don’t think it would be prudent to go further. I had better turn here.” I turned with him, for a few steps, and as we again approached the head of the lane, I 49 said, as carelessly as I could, “Don’t go back by the road. It’s too hot and dusty. Down this lane, and along the beach, is nearly as short; and you’ll get a breeze off the sea.” “Yes, I think I will,” Arthur began; but at that moment we came into sight of Lady Muriel, and he checked himself. “No, it’s too far round. Yet it certainly would be cooler——” He stood, hesitating, looking first one way and then the other—a melancholy picture of utter infirmity of purpose! How long this humiliating scene would have continued, if I had been the only external influence, it is impossible to say; for at this moment Sylvie, with a swift decision worthy of Napoleon himself, took the matter into her own hands. “You go and drive her, up this way,” she said to Bruno. “I’ll get him along!” And she took hold of the stick that Arthur was carrying, and gently pulled him down the lane. He was totally unconscious that any will but his own was acting on the stick, and appeared to think it had taken a horizontal position simply because he was pointing with 50 it. “Are not those orchises under the hedge there?” he said. “I think that decides me. I’ll gather some as I go along.” ‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’ ‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’ Meanwhile Bruno had run on beyond Lady Muriel, and, with much jumping about and shouting (shouts audible to no one but Sylvie and myself), much as if he were driving sheep, he managed to turn her round and make her 51 walk, with eyes demurely cast upon the ground, in our direction. The victory was ours! And, since it was evident that the lovers, thus urged together, must meet in another minute, I turned and walked on, hoping that Sylvie and Bruno would follow my example, as I felt sure that the fewer the spectators the better it would be for Arthur and his good angel. “And what sort of meeting was it?” I wondered, as I paced dreamily on. 52 CHAPTER IV. THE DOG-KING. “They shooked hands,” said Bruno, who was trotting at my side, in answer to the unspoken question. “And they looked ever so pleased!” Sylvie added from the other side. “Well, we must get on, now, as quick as we can,” I said. “If only I knew the best way to Hunter’s farm!” “They’ll be sure to know in this cottage,” said Sylvie. “Yes, I suppose they will. Bruno, would you run in and ask?” 53 Sylvie stopped him, laughingly, as he ran off. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I must make you visible first, you know.” “And audible too, I suppose?” I said, as she took the jewel, that hung round her neck, and waved it over his head, and touched his eyes and lips with it. “Yes,” said Sylvie: “and once, do you know, I made him audible, and forgot to make him visible! And he went to buy some sweeties in a shop. And the man was so frightened! A voice seemed to come out of the air, ‘Please, I want two ounces of barley-sugar drops!’ And a shilling came bang down upon the counter! And the man said ‘I ca’n’t see you!’ And Bruno said ‘It doosn’t sinnify seeing me, so long as oo can see the shilling!’ But the man said he never sold barley-sugar drops to people he couldn’t see. So we had to—Now, Bruno, you’re ready!” And away he trotted. Sylvie spent the time, while we were waiting for him, in making herself visible also. “It’s rather awkward, you know,” she explained to me, “when we meet people, and they can see one of us, and ca’n’t see the other!” 54 In a minute or two Bruno returned, looking rather disconsolate. “He’d got friends with him, and he were cross!” he said. “He asked me who I were. And I said ‘I’m Bruno: who is these peoples?’ And he said ‘One’s my half-brother, and t’other’s my half-sister: and I don’t want no more company! Go along with yer!’ And I said ‘I ca’n’t go along wizout mine self!’ And I said ‘Oo shouldn’t have bits of peoples lying about like that! It’s welly untidy!’ And he said ‘Oh, don’t talk to me!’ And he pushted me outside! And he shutted the door!” “And you never asked where Hunter’s farm was?” queried Sylvie. “Hadn’t room for any questions,” said Bruno. “The room were so crowded.” “Three people couldn’t crowd a room,” said Sylvie. “They did, though,” Bruno persisted. “He crowded it most. He’s such a welly thick man—so as oo couldn’t knock him down.” I failed to see the drift of Bruno’s argument. “Surely anybody could be knocked down,” I said: “thick or thin wouldn’t matter.” 55 “Oo couldn’t knock him down,” said Bruno. “He’s more wider than he’s high: so, when he’s lying down, he’s more higher than when he’s standing: so a-course oo couldn’t knock him down!” “Here’s another cottage,” I said: “I’ll ask the way, this time.” There was no need to go in, this time, as the woman was standing in the doorway, with a baby in her arms, talking to a respectably dressed man—a farmer, as I guessed—who seemed to be on his way to the town. “—and when there’s drink to be had,” he was saying, “he’s just the worst o’ the lot, is your Willie. So they tell me. He gets fairly mad wi’ it!” “I’d have given ’em the lie to their faces, a twelvemonth back!” the woman said in a broken voice. “But a’ canna noo! A’ canna noo!” She checked herself, on catching sight of us, and hastily retreated into the house, shutting the door after her. “Perhaps you can tell me where Hunter’s farm is?” I said to the man, as he turned away from the house. 56 “I can that, Sir!” he replied with a smile. “I’m John Hunter hissel, at your sarvice. It’s nobbut half a mile further—the only house in sight, when you get round bend o’ the road yonder. You’ll find my good woman within, if so be you’ve business wi’ her. Or mebbe I’ll do as well?” “Thanks,” I said. “I want to order some milk. Perhaps I had better arrange it with your wife?” “Aye,” said the man. “She minds all that. Good day t’ye, Master—and to your bonnie childer, as well!” And he trudged on. “He should have said ‘child,’ not ‘childer’,” said Bruno. “Sylvie’s not a childer!” “He meant both of us,” said Sylvie. “No, he didn’t!” Bruno persisted. “’cause he said ‘bonnie’, oo know!” “Well, at any rate he looked at us both,” Sylvie maintained. “Well, then he must have seen we’re not both bonnie!” Bruno retorted. “A-course I’m much uglier than oo! Didn’t he mean Sylvie, Mister Sir?” he shouted over his shoulder, as he ran off. 57 But there was no use in replying, as he had already vanished round the bend of the road. When we overtook him he was climbing a gate, and was gazing earnestly into the field, where a horse, a cow, and a kid were browsing amicably together. “For its father, a Horse,” he murmured to himself. “For its mother, a Cow. For their dear little child, a little Goat, is the most curiousest thing I ever seen in my world!” “Bruno’s World!” I pondered. “Yes, I suppose every child has a world of his own—and every man, too, for the matter of that. I wonder if that’s the cause for all the misunderstanding there is in Life?” “That must be Hunter’s farm!” said Sylvie, pointing to a house on the brow of the hill, led up to by a cart-road. “There’s no other farm in sight, this way; and you said we must be nearly there by this time.” I had thought it, while Bruno was climbing the gate, but I couldn’t remember having said it. However, Sylvie was evidently in the right. “Get down, Bruno,” I said, “and open the gate for us.” 58 “It’s a good thing we’s with oo, isn’t it, Mister Sir?” said Bruno, as we entered the field. “That big dog might have bited oo, if oo’d been alone! Oo needn’t be flightened of it!” he whispered, clinging tight to my hand to encourage me. “It aren’t fierce!” “Fierce!” Sylvie scornfully echoed, as the dog—a magnificent Newfoundland—that had come galloping down the field to meet us, began curveting round us, in gambols full of graceful beauty, and welcoming us with short joyful barks. “Fierce! Why, it’s as gentle as a lamb! It’s—why, Bruno, don’t you know it? It’s——” “So it are!” cried Bruno, rushing forwards and throwing his arms round its neck. “Oh, you dear dog!” And it seemed as if the two children would never have done hugging and stroking it. “And how ever did he get here?” said Bruno. “Ask him, Sylvie. I doosn’t know how.” And then began an eager talk in Doggee, which of course was lost upon me; and I could only guess, when the beautiful creature, with a sly glance at me, whispered something in 59 Sylvie’s ear, that I was now the subject of conversation. Sylvie looked round laughingly. “He asked me who you are,” she explained. “And I said ‘He’s our friend.’ And he said ‘What’s his name?’ And I said ‘It’s Mister Sir.’ And he said ‘Bosh!’” “What is ‘Bosh!’ in Doggee?” I enquired. “It’s the same as in English,” said Sylvie. “Only, when a dog says it, it’s a sort of a whisper, that’s half a cough and half a bark. Nero, say ‘Bosh!’” And Nero, who had now begun gamboling round us again, said “Bosh!” several times; and I found that Sylvie’s description of the sound was perfectly accurate. “I wonder what’s behind this long wall?” I said, as we walked on. “It’s the Orchard,” Sylvie replied, after a consultation with Nero. “See, there’s a boy getting down off the wall, at that far corner. And now he’s running away across the field. I do believe he’s been stealing the apples!” Bruno set off after him, but returned to us in a few moments, as he had evidently no chance of overtaking the young rascal. 60 “I couldn’t catch him!” he said. “I wiss I’d started a little sooner. His pockets was full of apples!” The Dog-King looked up at Sylvie, and said something in Doggee. “Why, of course you can!” Sylvie exclaimed. “How stupid not to think of it! Nero’ll hold him for us, Bruno! But I’d better make him invisible, first.” And she hastily got out the Magic Jewel, and began waving it over Nero’s head, and down along his back. “That’ll do!” cried Bruno, impatiently. “After him, good Doggie!” “Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie exclaimed reproachfully. “You shouldn’t have sent him off so quick! I hadn’t done the tail!” Meanwhile Nero was coursing like a greyhound down the field: so at least I concluded from all I could see of him—the long feathery tail, which floated like a meteor through the air—and in a very few seconds he had come up with the little thief. “He’s got him safe, by one foot!” cried Sylvie, who was eagerly watching the chase. “Now there’s no hurry, Bruno!” 61 So we walked, quite leisurely, down the field, to where the frightened lad stood. A more curious sight I had seldom seen, in all my ‘eerie’ experiences. Every bit of him was in violent action, except the left foot, which was apparently glued to the ground—there being nothing visibly holding it: while, at some little distance, the long feathery tail was waving gracefully from side to side, showing that Nero, at least, regarded the whole affair as nothing but a magnificent game of play. “What’s the matter with you?” I said, as gravely as I could. “Got the crahmp in me ahnkle!” the thief groaned in reply. “An’ me fut’s gone to sleep!” And he began to blubber aloud. “Now, look here!” Bruno said in a commanding tone, getting in front of him. “Oo’ve got to give up those apples!” The lad glanced at me, but didn’t seem to reckon my interference as worth anything. Then he glanced at Sylvie: she clearly didn’t count for very much, either. Then he took courage. “It’ll take a better man than any of yer to get ’em!” he retorted defiantly. 62 A ROYAL THIEF-TAKER A ROYAL THIEF-TAKER 63 Sylvie stooped and patted the invisible Nero. “A little tighter!” she whispered. And a sharp yell from the ragged boy showed how promptly the Dog-King had taken the hint. “What’s the matter now?” I said. “Is your ankle worse?” “And it’ll get worse, and worse, and worse,” Bruno solemnly assured him, “till oo gives up those apples!” Apparently the thief was convinced of this at last, and he sulkily began emptying his pockets of the apples. The children watched from a little distance, Bruno dancing with delight at every fresh yell extracted from Nero’s terrified prisoner. “That’s all,” the boy said at last. “It isn’t all!” cried Bruno. “There’s three more in that pocket!” Another hint from Sylvie to the Dog-King—another sharp yell from the thief, now convicted of lying also—and the remaining three apples were surrendered. “Let him go, please,” Sylvie said in Doggee, and the lad limped away at a great pace, stooping now and then to rub the ailing ankle, in fear, seemingly, that the ‘crahmp’ might attack it again. 64 ‘SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MY SPECTACLES!’ ‘SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MY SPECTACLES!’ 65 Bruno ran back, with his booty, to the orchard wall, and pitched the apples over it one by one. “I’s welly afraid some of them’s gone under the wrong trees!” he panted, on overtaking us again. “The wrong trees!” laughed Sylvie. “Trees ca’n’t do wrong! There’s no such things as wrong trees!” “Then there’s no such things as right trees, neither!” cried Bruno. And Sylvie gave up the point. “Wait a minute, please!” she said to me. “I must make Nero visible, you know!” “No, please don’t!” cried Bruno, who had by this time mounted on the Royal back, and was twisting the Royal hair into a bridle. “It’ll be such fun to have him like this!” “Well, it does look funny,” Sylvie admitted, and led the way to the farm-house, where the farmer’s wife stood, evidently much perplexed at the weird procession now approaching her. “It’s summat gone wrong wi’ my spectacles, I doubt!” she murmured, as she took them 66 off, and began diligently rubbing them with a corner of her apron. Meanwhile Sylvie had hastily pulled Bruno down from his steed, and had just time to make His Majesty wholly visible before the spectacles were resumed. All was natural, now; but the good woman still looked a little uneasy about it. “My eyesight’s getting bad,” she said, “but I see you now, my darlings! You’ll give me a kiss, wo’n’t you?” Bruno got behind me, in a moment: however Sylvie put up her face, to be kissed, as representative of both, and we all went in together. 67 CHAPTER V. MATILDA JANE. “Come to me, my little gentleman,” said our hostess, lifting Bruno into her lap, “and tell me everything.” “I ca’n’t,” said Bruno. “There wouldn’t be time. Besides, I don’t know everything.” The good woman looked a little puzzled, and turned to Sylvie for help. “Does he like riding?” she asked. “Yes, I think so,” Sylvie gently replied. “He’s just had a ride on Nero.” “Ah, Nero’s a grand dog, isn’t he? Were you ever outside a horse, my little man?” 68 “Always!” Bruno said with great decision. “Never was inside one. Was oo?” Here I thought it well to interpose, and to mention the business on which we had come, and so relieved her, for a few minutes, from Bruno’s perplexing questions. “And those dear children will like a bit of cake, I’ll warrant!” said the farmer’s hospitable wife, when the business was concluded, as she opened her cupboard, and brought out a cake. “And don’t you waste the crust, little gentleman!” she added, as she handed a good slice of it to Bruno. “You know what the poetry-book says about wilful waste?” “No, I don’t,” said Bruno. “What doos he say about it?” “Tell him, Bessie!” And the mother looked down, proudly and lovingly, on a rosy little maiden, who had just crept shyly into the room, and was leaning against her knee. “What’s that your poetry-book says about wilful waste?” “For wilful waste makes woeful want,” Bessie recited, in an almost inaudible whisper: “and you may live to say ‘How much I wish I had the crust that then I threw away!’” 69 “Now try if you can say it, my dear! For wilful——” “For wifful—sumfinoruvver—” Bruno began, readily enough; and then there came a dead pause. “Ca’n’t remember no more!” “Well, what do you learn from it, then? You can tell us that, at any rate?” Bruno ate a little more cake, and considered: but the moral did not seem to him to be a very obvious one. “Always to——” Sylvie prompted him in a whisper. “Always to——” Bruno softly repeated: and then, with sudden inspiration, “always to look where it goes to!” “Where what goes to, darling?” “Why the crust, a course!” said Bruno. “Then, if I lived to say ‘How much I wiss I had the crust—’ (and all that), I’d know where I frew it to!” This new interpretation quite puzzled the good woman. She returned to the subject of ‘Bessie.’ “Wouldn’t you like to see Bessie’s doll, my dears! Bessie, take the little lady and gentleman to see Matilda Jane!” 70 Bessie’s shyness thawed away in a moment. “Matilda Jane has just woke up,” she stated, confidentially, to Sylvie. “Wo’n’t you help me on with her frock? Them strings is such a bother to tie!” “I can tie strings,” we heard, in Sylvie’s gentle voice, as the two little girls left the room together. Bruno ignored the whole proceeding, and strolled to the window, quite with the air of a fashionable gentleman. Little girls, and dolls, were not at all in his line. And forthwith the fond mother proceeded to tell me (as what mother is not ready to do?) of all Bessie’s virtues (and vices too, for the matter of that) and of the many fearful maladies which, notwithstanding those ruddy cheeks and that plump little figure, had nearly, time and again, swept her from the face of the earth. When the full stream of loving memories had nearly run itself out, I began to question her about the working men of that neighbourhood, and specially the ‘Willie,’ whom we had heard of at his cottage. “He was a good fellow once,” said my kind hostess: “but it’s the drink has ruined him! Not that I’d rob them of the 71 drink—it’s good for the most of them—but there’s some as is too weak to stand agin’ temptations: it’s a thousand pities, for them, as they ever built the Golden Lion at the corner there!” “The Golden Lion?” I repeated. “It’s the new Public,” my hostess explained. “And it stands right in the way, and handy for the workmen, as they come back from the brickfields, as it might be to-day, with their week’s wages. A deal of money gets wasted that way. And some of ’em gets drunk.” “If only they could have it in their own houses—” I mused, hardly knowing I had said the words out loud. “That’s it!” she eagerly exclaimed. It was evidently a solution, of the problem, that she had already thought out. “If only you could manage, so’s each man to have his own little barrel in his own house—there’d hardly be a drunken man in the length and breadth of the land!” And then I told her the old story—about a certain cottager who bought himself a little barrel of beer, and installed his wife as bar-keeper: 72 and how, every time he wanted his mug of beer, he regularly paid her over the counter for it: and how she never would let him go on ‘tick,’ and was a perfectly inflexible bar-keeper in never letting him have more than his proper allowance: and how, every time the barrel needed refilling, she had plenty to do it with, and something over for her money-box: and how, at the end of the year, he not only found himself in first-rate health and spirits, with that undefinable but quite unmistakeable air which always distinguishes the sober man from the one who takes ‘a drop too much,’ but had quite a box full of money, all saved out of his own pence! “If only they’d all do like that!” said the good woman, wiping her eyes, which were overflowing with kindly sympathy. “Drink hadn’t need to be the curse it is to some——” “Only a curse,” I said, “when it is used wrongly. Any of God’s gifts may be turned into a curse, unless we use it wisely. But we must be getting home. Would you call the little girls? Matilda Jane has seen enough of company, for one day, I’m sure!” 73 “I’ll find ’em in a minute,” said my hostess, as she rose to leave the room. “Maybe that young gentleman saw which way they went?” “Where are they, Bruno?” I said. “They ain’t in the field,” was Bruno’s rather evasive reply, “’cause there’s nothing but pigs there, and Sylvie isn’t a pig. Now don’t imperrupt me any more, ’cause I’m telling a story to this fly; and it won’t attend!” “They’re among the apples, I’ll warrant ’em!” said the Farmer’s wife. So we left Bruno to finish his story, and went out into the orchard, where we soon came upon the children, walking sedately side by side, Sylvie carrying the doll, while little Bess carefully shaded its face, with a large cabbage-leaf for a parasol. As soon as they caught sight of us, little Bess dropped her cabbage-leaf and came running to meet us, Sylvie following more slowly, as her precious charge evidently needed great care and attention. “I’m its Mamma, and Sylvie’s the Head-Nurse,” Bessie explained: “and Sylvie’s taught me ever such a pretty song, for me to sing to Matilda Jane!” 74 “Let’s hear it once more, Sylvie,” I said, delighted at getting the chance I had long wished for, of hearing her sing. But Sylvie turned shy and frightened in a moment. “No, please not!” she said, in an earnest ‘aside’ to me. “Bessie knows it quite perfect now. Bessie can sing it!” “Aye, aye! Let Bessie sing it!” said the proud mother. “Bessie has a bonny voice of her own,” (this again was an ‘aside’ to me) “though I say it as shouldn’t!” Bessie was only too happy to accept the ‘encore.’ So the plump little Mamma sat down at our feet, with her hideous daughter reclining stiffly across her lap (it was one of a kind that wo’n’t sit down, under any amount of persuasion), and, with a face simply beaming with delight, began the lullaby, in a shout that ought to have frightened the poor baby into fits. The Head-Nurse crouched down behind her, keeping herself respectfully in the back-ground, with her hands on the shoulders of her little mistress, so as to be ready to act as Prompter, if required, and to supply ‘each gap in faithless memory void.’ 75 BESSIE’S SONG BESSIE’S SONG The shout, with which she began, proved to be only a momentary effort. After a very few notes, Bessie toned down, and sang on in a small but very sweet voice. At first her great black eyes were fixed on her mother, but soon her gaze wandered upwards, among the apples, and she seemed to have quite forgotten that she had any other audience than her Baby, and her Head-Nurse, who once or twice supplied, almost inaudibly, the right note, when the singer was getting a little ‘flat.’ 76 “Matilda Jane, you never look At any toy or picture-book: I show you pretty things in vain— You must be blind, Matilda Jane! “I ask you riddles, tell you tales, But all our conversation fails: You never answer me again— I fear you’re dumb, Matilda Jane! “Matilda, darling, when I call, You never seem to hear at all: I shout with all my might and main— But you’re so deaf, Matilda Jane! “Matilda Jane, you needn’t mind; For, though you’re deaf, and dumb, and blind, There’s some one loves you, it is plain— And that is me, Matilda Jane!” She sang three of the verses in a rather perfunctory style, but the last stanza evidently excited the little maiden. Her voice rose, ever clearer and louder: she had a rapt look on her face, as if suddenly inspired, and, as she sang the last few words, she clasped to her heart the inattentive Matilda Jane. 77 “Kiss it now!” prompted the Head-Nurse. And in a moment the simpering meaningless face of the Baby was covered with a shower of passionate kisses. “What a bonny song!” cried the Farmer’s wife. “Who made the words, dearie?” “I—I think I’ll look for Bruno,” Sylvie said demurely, and left us hastily. The curious child seemed always afraid of being praised, or even noticed. “Sylvie planned the words,” Bessie informed us, proud of her superior information: “and Bruno planned the music—and I sang it!” (this last circumstance, by the way, we did not need to be told). So we followed Sylvie, and all entered the parlour together. Bruno was still standing at the window, with his elbows on the sill. He had, apparently, finished the story that he was telling to the fly, and had found a new occupation. “Don’t imperrupt!” he said as we came in. “I’m counting the Pigs in the field!” “How many are there?” I enquired. “About a thousand and four,” said Bruno. 78 “You mean ‘about a thousand,’” Sylvie corrected him. “There’s no good saying ‘and four’: you ca’n’t be sure about the four!” “And you’re as wrong as ever!” Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. “It’s just the four I can be sure about; ’cause they’re here, grubbling under the window! It’s the thousand I isn’t pruffickly sure about!” “But some of them have gone into the sty,” Sylvie said, leaning over him to look out of the window. “Yes,” said Bruno; “but they went so slowly and so fewly, I didn’t care to count them.” “We must be going, children,” I said. “Wish Bessie good-bye.” Sylvie flung her arms round the little maiden’s neck, and kissed her: but Bruno stood aloof, looking unusually shy. (“I never kiss nobody but Sylvie!” he explained to me afterwards.) The farmer’s wife showed us out: and we were soon on our way back to Elveston. “And that’s the new public-house that we were talking about, I suppose?” I said, as we came in sight of a long low building, with the words ‘The Golden Lion’ over the door. 79 “Yes, that’s it,” said Sylvie. “I wonder if her Willie’s inside? Run in, Bruno, and see if he’s there.” I interposed, feeling that Bruno was, in a sort of way, in my care. “That’s not a place to send a child into.” For already the revelers were getting noisy: and a wild discord of singing, shouting, and meaningless laughter came to us through the open windows. “They wo’n’t see him, you know,” Sylvie explained. “Wait a minute, Bruno!” She clasped the jewel, that always hung round her neck, between the palms of her hands, and muttered a few words to herself. What they were I could not at all make out, but some mysterious change seemed instantly to pass over us. My feet seemed to me no longer to press the ground, and the dream-like feeling came upon me, that I was suddenly endowed with the power of floating in the air. I could still just see the children: but their forms were shadowy and unsubstantial, and their voices sounded as if they came from some distant place and time, they were so unreal. However, I offered no further opposition to Bruno’s 80 going into the house. He was back again in a few moments. “No, he isn’t come yet,” he said. “They’re talking about him inside, and saying how drunk he was last week.” While he was speaking, one of the men lounged out through the door, a pipe in one hand and a mug of beer in the other, and crossed to where we were standing, so as to get a better view along the road. Two or three others leaned out through the open window, each holding his mug of beer, with red faces and sleepy eyes. “Canst see him, lad?” one of them asked. “I dunnot know,” the man said, taking a step forwards, which brought us nearly face to face. Sylvie hastily pulled me out of his way. “Thanks, child,” I said. “I had forgotten he couldn’t see us. What would have happened if I had staid in his way?” “I don’t know,” Sylvie said gravely. “It wouldn’t matter to us; but you may be different.” She said this in her usual voice, but the man took no sort of notice, though she was standing close in front of him, and looking up into his face as she spoke. 81 “He’s coming now!” cried Bruno, pointing down the road. “He be a-coomin noo!” echoed the man, stretching out his arm exactly over Bruno’s head, and pointing with his pipe. “Then chorus agin!” was shouted out by one of the red-faced men in the window: and forthwith a dozen voices yelled, to a harsh discordant melody, the refrain:— “There’s him, an’ yo’ an’ me, Roarin’ laddies! We loves a bit o spree, Roarin’ laddies we, Roarin’ laddies Roarin’ laddies!” The man lounged back again to the house, joining lustily in the chorus as he went: so that only the children and I were in the road when ‘Willie’ came up. 82 CHAPTER VI. WILLIE’S WIFE. He made for the door of the public-house, but the children intercepted him. Sylvie clung to one arm; while Bruno, on the opposite side, was pushing him with all his strength, with many inarticulate cries of “Gee-up! Gee-back! Woah then!” which he had picked up from the waggoners. ‘Willie’ took not the least notice of them: he was simply conscious that something had checked him: and, for want of any other way of accounting for it, he seemed to regard it as his own act. 83 THE RESCUE OF WILLIE THE RESCUE OF WILLIE “I wunnut coom in,” he said: “not to-day.” “A mug o’ beer wunnut hurt ’ee!” his friends shouted in chorus. “Two mugs wunnut hurt ’ee! Nor a dozen mugs!” 84 “Nay,” said Willie. “I’m agoan whoam.” “What, withouten thy drink, Willie man?” shouted the others. But ‘Willie man’ would have no more discussion, and turned doggedly away, the children keeping one on each side of him, to guard him against any change in his sudden resolution. For a while he walked on stoutly enough, keeping his hands in his pockets, and softly whistling a tune, in time to his heavy tread: his success, in appearing entirely at his ease, was almost complete; but a careful observer would have noted that he had forgotten the second part of the air, and that, when it broke down, he instantly began it again, being too nervous to think of another, and too restless to endure silence. It was not the old fear that possessed him now—the old fear, that had been his dreary companion every Saturday night he could remember, as he had reeled along, steadying himself against gates and garden-palings, and when the shrill reproaches of his wife had seemed to his dazed brain only the echo of a yet more piercing voice within, the intolerable 85 wail of a hopeless remorse: it was a wholly new fear that had come to him now: life had taken on itself a new set of colours, and was lighted up with a new and dazzling radiance, and he did not see, as yet, how his home-life, and his wife and child, would fit into the new order of things: the very novelty of it all was, to his simple mind, a perplexity and an overwhelming terror. And now the tune died into sudden silence on the trembling lips, as he turned a sharp corner, and came in sight of his own cottage, where his wife stood, leaning with folded arms on the wicket-gate, and looking up the road with a pale face, that had in it no glimmer of the light of hope—only the heavy shadow of a deep stony despair. “Fine an’ early, lad! Fine an’ early!” The words might have been words of welcoming, but oh, the bitterness of the tone in which she said it! “What brings thee from thy merry mates, and all the fiddling and the jigging? Pockets empty, I doubt? Or thou’st come, mebbe, for to see thy little one die? The bairnie’s clemmed, and I’ve nor bite nor sup 86 to gie her. But what does thou care?” She flung the gate open, and met him with blazing eyes of fury. The man said no word. Slowly, and with downcast eyes, he passed into the house, while she, half terrified at his strange silence, followed him in without another word; and it was not till he had sunk into a chair, with his arms crossed on the table and with drooping head, that she found her voice again. It seemed entirely natural for us to go in with them: at another time one would have asked leave for this, but I felt, I knew not why, that we were in some mysterious way invisible, and as free to come and to go as disembodied spirits. The child in the cradle woke up, and raised a piteous cry, which in a moment brought the children to its side: Bruno rocked the cradle, while Sylvie tenderly replaced the little head on the pillow from which it had slipped. But the mother took no heed of the cry, nor yet of the satisfied ‘coo’ that it set up when Sylvie had made it happy again: she only stood gazing at her husband, and vainly trying, with white 87 quivering lips (I believe she thought he was mad), to speak in the old tones of shrill upbraiding that he knew so well. “And thou’st spent all thy wages—I’ll swear thou hast—on the devil’s own drink—and thou’st been and made thysen a beast again—as thou allus dost——” “Hasna!” the man muttered, his voice hardly rising above a whisper, as he slowly emptied his pockets on the table. “There’s th’ wage, Missus, every penny on’t.” The woman gasped, and put one hand to her heart, as if under some great shock of surprise. “Then how’s thee gotten th’ drink?” “Hasna gotten it,” he answered her, in a tone more sad than sullen. “I hanna touched a drop this blessed day. No!” he cried aloud, bringing his clenched fist heavily down upon the table, and looking up at her with gleaming eyes, “nor I’ll never touch another drop o’ the cursed drink—till I die—so help me God my Maker!” His voice, which had suddenly risen to a hoarse shout, dropped again as suddenly: and once more he bowed his head, and buried his face in his folded arms. 88 WILLIE’S WIFE WILLIE’S WIFE 89 The woman had dropped upon her knees by the cradle, while he was speaking. She neither looked at him nor seemed to hear him. With hands clasped above her head, she rocked herself wildly to and fro. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” was all she said, over and over again. Sylvie and Bruno gently unclasped her hands and drew them down—till she had an arm round each of them, though she took no notice of them, but knelt on with eyes gazing upwards, and lips that moved as if in silent thanksgiving. The man kept his face hidden, and uttered no sound: but one could see the sobs that shook him from head to foot. After a while he raised his head—his face all wet with tears. “Polly!” he said softly; and then, louder, “Old Poll!” Then she rose from her knees and came to him, with a dazed look, as if she were walking in her sleep. “Who was it called me old Poll?” she asked: her voice took on it a tender playfulness: her eyes sparkled; and the rosy light of Youth flushed her pale cheeks, till she looked more like a happy girl of seventeen than a worn woman of forty. “Was 90 that my own lad, my Willie, a-waiting for me at the stile?” His face too was transformed, in the same magic light, to the likeness of a bashful boy: and boy and girl they seemed, as he wound an arm about her, and drew her to his side, while with the other hand he thrust from him the heap of money, as though it were something hateful to the touch. “Tak it, lass,” he said, “tak it all! An’ fetch us summat to eat: but get a sup o’ milk, first, for t’ bairn.” “My little bairn!” she murmured as she gathered up the coins. “My own little lassie!” Then she moved to the door, and was passing out, but a sudden thought seemed to arrest her: she hastily returned—first to kneel down and kiss the sleeping child, and then to throw herself into her husband’s arms and be strained to his heart. The next moment she was on her way, taking with her a jug that hung on a peg near the door: we followed close behind. We had not gone far before we came in sight of a swinging sign-board bearing the word ‘DAIRY’ on it, and here she went in, welcomed by a little curly white dog, who, not being 91 under the ‘eerie’ influence, saw the children, and received them with the most effusive affection. When I got inside, the dairyman was in the act of taking the money. “Is’t for thysen, Missus, or for t’ bairn?” he asked, when he had filled the jug, pausing with it in his hand. “For t’ bairn!” she said, almost reproachfully. “Think’st tha I’d touch a drop mysen, while as she hadna got her fill?” “All right, Missus,” the man replied, turning away with the jug in his hand. “Let’s just mak sure it’s good measure.” He went back among his shelves of milk-bowls, carefully keeping his back towards her while he emptied a little measure of cream into the jug, muttering to himself “mebbe it’ll hearten her up a bit, the little lassie!” The woman never noticed the kind deed, but took back the jug with a simple “Good evening, Master,” and went her way: but the children had been more observant, and, as we followed her out, Bruno remarked “That were welly kind: and I loves that man: and if I was welly rich I’d give him a hundred pounds—and a bun. That little grummeling 92 dog doosn’t know its business!” He referred to the dairyman’s little dog, who had apparently quite forgotten the affectionate welcome he had given us on our arrival, and was now following at a respectful distance, doing his best to ‘speed the parting guest’ with a shower of little shrill barks, that seemed to tread on one another’s heels. “What is a dog’s business?” laughed Sylvie. “Dogs ca’n’t keep shops and give change!” “Sisters’ businesses isn’t to laugh at their brothers,” Bruno replied with perfect gravity. “And dogs’ businesses is to bark—not like that: it should finish one bark before it begins another: and it should—Oh Sylvie, there’s some dindledums!” And in another moment the happy children were flying across the common, racing for the patch of dandelions. While I stood watching them, a strange dreamy feeling came upon me: a railway-platform seemed to take the place of the green sward, and, instead of the light figure of Sylvie bounding along, I seemed to see the flying form of Lady Muriel; but whether Bruno 93 had also undergone a transformation, and had become the old man whom she was running to overtake, I was unable to judge, so instantaneously did the feeling come and go. When I re-entered the little sitting-room which I shared with Arthur, he was standing with his back to me, looking out of the open window, and evidently had not heard me enter. A cup of tea, apparently just tasted and pushed aside, stood on the table, on the opposite side of which was a letter, just begun, with the pen lying across it: an open book lay on the sofa: the London paper occupied the easy chair; and on the little table, which stood by it, I noticed an unlighted cigar and an open box of cigar-lights: all things betokened that the Doctor, usually so methodical and so self-contained, had been trying every form of occupation, and could settle to none! “This is very unlike you, Doctor!” I was beginning, but checked myself, as he turned at the sound of my voice, in sheer amazement at the wonderful change that had taken place in his appearance. Never had I seen a face so radiant with happiness, or eyes that sparkled 94 with such unearthly light! “Even thus,” I thought, “must the herald-angel have looked, who brought to the shepherds, watching over their flocks by night, that sweet message of ‘peace on earth, good-will to men’!” “Yes, dear friend!” he said, as if in answer to the question that I suppose he read in my face. “It is true! It is true!” No need to ask what was true. “God bless you both!” I said, as I felt the happy tears brimming to my eyes. “You were made for each other!” “Yes,” he said, simply, “I believe we were. And what a change it makes in one’s Life! This isn’t the same world! That isn’t the sky I saw yesterday! Those clouds—I never saw such clouds in all my life before! They look like troops of hovering angels!” To me they looked very ordinary clouds indeed: but then I had not fed ‘on honey-dew, And drunk the milk of Paradise’! “She wants to see you—at once,” he continued, descending suddenly to the things of earth. “She says that is the one drop yet wanting in her cup of happiness!” 95 “I’ll go at once,” I said, as I turned to leave the room. “Wo’n’t you come with me?” “No, Sir!” said the Doctor, with a sudden effort—which proved an utter failure—to resume his professional manner. “Do I look like coming with you? Have you never heard that two is company, and——” “Yes,” I said, “I have heard it: and I’m painfully aware that I am Number Three! But, when shall we three meet again?” “When the hurly-burly’s done!” he answered with a happy laugh, such as I had not heard from him for many a year. 96 CHAPTER VII. MEIN HERR. So I went on my lonely way, and, on reaching the Hall, I found Lady Muriel standing at the garden-gate waiting for me. “No need to give you joy, or to wish you joy?” I began. “None whatever!” she replied, with the joyous laugh of a child. “We give people what they haven’t got: we wish for something that is yet to come. For me, it’s all here! It’s all mine! Dear friend,” she suddenly broke off, “do you think Heaven ever begins on Earth, for any of us?” 97 “For some,” I said. “For some, perhaps, who are simple and childlike. You know He said ‘of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.’” Lady Muriel clasped her hands, and gazed up into the cloudless sky, with a look I had often seen in Sylvie’s eyes. “I feel as if it had begun for me,” she almost whispered. “I feel as if I were one of the happy children, whom He bid them bring near to Him, though the people would have kept them back. Yes, He has seen me in the throng. He has read the wistful longing in my eyes. He has beckoned me to Him. They have had to make way for me. He has taken me up in His arms. He has put His hands upon me and blessed me!” She paused, breathless in her perfect happiness. “Yes,” I said. “I think He has!” “You must come and speak to my father,” she went on, as we stood side by side at the gate, looking down the shady lane. But, even as she said the words, the ‘eerie’ sensation came over me like a flood: I saw the dear old Professor approaching us, and also saw, what was stranger still, that he was visible to Lady Muriel! 98 What was to be done? Had the fairy-life been merged in the real life? Or was Lady Muriel ‘eerie’ also, and thus able to enter into the fairy-world along with me? The words were on my lips (“I see an old friend of mine in the lane: if you don’t know him, may I introduce him to you?”) when the strangest thing of all happened: Lady Muriel spoke. “I see an old friend of mine in the lane,” she said: “if you don’t know him, may I introduce him to you?” I seemed to wake out of a dream: for the ‘eerie’ feeling was still strong upon me, and the figure outside seemed to be changing at every moment, like one of the shapes in a kaleidoscope: now he was the Professor, and now he was somebody else! By the time he had reached the gate, he certainly was somebody else: and I felt that the proper course was for Lady Muriel, not for me, to introduce him. She greeted him kindly, and, opening the gate, admitted the venerable old man—a German, obviously—who looked about him with dazed eyes, as if he, too, had but just awaked from a dream! 99 No, it was certainly not the Professor! My old friend could not have grown that magnificent beard since last we met: moreover, he would have recognised me, for I was certain that I had not changed much in the time. As it was, he simply looked at me vaguely, and took off his hat in response to Lady Muriel’s words “Let me introduce Mein Herr to you”; while in the words, spoken in a strong German accent, “proud to make your acquaintance, Sir!” I could detect no trace of an idea that we had ever met before. Lady Muriel led us to the well-known shady nook, where preparations for afternoon tea had already been made, and, while she went in to look for the Earl, we seated ourselves in two easy-chairs, and ‘Mein Herr’ took up Lady Muriel’s work, and examined it through his large spectacles (one of the adjuncts that made him so provokingly like the Professor). “Hemming pocket-handkerchiefs?” he said, musingly. “So that is what the English miladies occupy themselves with, is it?” “It is the one accomplishment,” I said, “in which Man has never yet rivaled Woman!” 100 Here Lady Muriel returned with her father; and, after he had exchanged some friendly words with ‘Mein Herr,’ and we had all been supplied with the needful ‘creature-comforts,’ the newcomer returned to the suggestive subject of Pocket-handkerchiefs. “You have heard of Fortunatus’s Purse, Miladi? Ah, so! Would you be surprised to hear that, with three of these leetle handkerchiefs, you shall make the Purse of Fortunatus, quite soon, quite easily?” “Shall I indeed?” Lady Muriel eagerly replied, as she took a heap of them into her lap, and threaded her needle. “Please tell me how, Mein Herr! I’ll make one before I touch another drop of tea!” “You shall first,” said Mein Herr, possessing himself of two of the handkerchiefs, spreading one upon the other, and holding them up by two corners, “you shall first join together these upper corners, the right to the right, the left to the left; and the opening between them shall be the mouth of the Purse.” A very few stitches sufficed to carry out this direction. “Now, if I sew the other three 101 edges together,” she suggested, “the bag is complete?” “Not so, Miladi: the lower edges shall first be joined—ah, not so!” (as she was beginning to sew them together). “Turn one of them over, and join the right lower corner of the one to the left lower corner of the other, and sew the lower edges together in what you would call the wrong way.” “I see!” said Lady Muriel, as she deftly executed the order. “And a very twisted, uncomfortable, uncanny-looking bag it makes! But the moral is a lovely one. Unlimited wealth can only be attained by doing things in the wrong way! And how are we to join up these mysterious—no, I mean this mysterious opening?” (twisting the thing round and round with a puzzled air.) “Yes, it is one opening. I thought it was two, at first.” “You have seen the puzzle of the Paper Ring?” Mein Herr said, addressing the Earl. “Where you take a slip of paper, and join its ends together, first twisting one, so as to join the upper corner of one end to the lower corner of the other?” 102 “I saw one made, only yesterday,” the Earl replied. “Muriel, my child, were you not making one, to amuse those children you had to tea?” “Yes, I know that Puzzle,” said Lady Muriel. “The Ring has only one surface, and only one edge. It’s very mysterious!” “The bag is just like that, isn’t it?” I suggested. “Is not the outer surface of one side of it continuous with the inner surface of the other side?” “So it is!” she exclaimed. “Only it isn’t a bag, just yet. How shall we fill up this opening, Mein Herr?” “Thus!” said the old man impressively, taking the bag from her, and rising to his feet in the excitement of the explanation. “The edge of the opening consists of four handkerchief-edges, and you can trace it continuously, round and round the opening: down the right edge of one handkerchief, up the left edge of the other, and then down the left edge of the one, and up the right edge of the other!” “So you can!” Lady Muriel murmured thoughtfully, leaning her head on her hand, 103 and earnestly watching the old man. “And that proves it to be only one opening!” FORTUNATUS’ PURSE FORTUNATUS’ PURSE She looked so strangely like a child, puzzling over a difficult lesson, and Mein Herr had become, for the moment, so strangely like the old Professor, that I felt utterly bewildered: the ‘eerie’ feeling was on me in its full force, and I felt almost impelled to say “Do you understand it, Sylvie?” However I checked myself by a great effort, and let the dream (if indeed it was a dream) go on to its end. 104 “Now, this third handkerchief,” Mein Herr proceeded, “has also four edges, which you can trace continuously round and round: all you need do is to join its four edges to the four edges of the opening. The Purse is then complete, and its outer surface——” “I see!” Lady Muriel eagerly interrupted. “Its outer surface will be continuous with its inner surface! But it will take time. I’ll sew it up after tea.” She laid aside the bag and resumed her cup of tea. “But why do you call it Fortunatus’s Purse, Mein Herr?” The dear old man beamed upon her, with a jolly smile, looking more exactly like the Professor than ever. “Don’t you see, my child—I should say Miladi? Whatever is inside that Purse, is outside it; and whatever is outside it, is inside it. So you have all the wealth of the world in that leetle Purse!” His pupil clapped her hands, in unrestrained delight. “I’ll certainly sew the third handkerchief in—some time,” she said: “but I wo’n’t take up your time by trying it now. Tell us some more wonderful things, please!” And her face and her voice so exactly recalled 105 Sylvie, that I could not help glancing round, half-expecting to see Bruno also! Mein Herr began thoughtfully balancing his spoon on the edge of his teacup, while he pondered over this request. “Something wonderful—like Fortunatus’s Purse? That will give you—when it is made—wealth beyond your wildest dreams: but it will not give you Time!” A pause of silence ensued—utilised by Lady Muriel for the very practical purpose of refilling the teacups. “In your country,” Mein Herr began with a startling abruptness, “what becomes of all the wasted Time?” Lady Muriel looked grave. “Who can tell?” she half-whispered to herself. “All one knows is that it is gone—past recall!” “Well, in my—I mean in a country I have visited,” said the old man, “they store it up: and it comes in very useful, years afterwards! For example, suppose you have a long tedious evening before you: nobody to talk to: nothing you care to do: and yet hours too soon to go to bed. How do you behave then?” 106 “I get very cross,” she frankly admitted: “and I want to throw things about the room!” “When that happens to—to the people I have visited, they never act so. By a short and simple process—which I cannot explain to you—they store up the useless hours: and, on some other occasion, when they happen to need extra time, they get them out again!” The Earl was listening with a slightly incredulous smile. “Why cannot you explain the process?” he enquired. Mein Herr was ready with a quite unanswerable reason. “Because you have no words, in your language, to convey the ideas which are needed. I could explain it in—in—but you would not understand it!” “No indeed!” said Lady Muriel, graciously dispensing with the name of the unknown language. “I never learnt it—at least, not to speak it fluently, you know. Please tell us some more wonderful things!” “They run their railway-trains without any engines—nothing is needed but machinery to stop them with. Is that wonderful enough, Miladi?” 107 “But where does the force come from?” I ventured to ask. Mein Herr turned quickly round, to look at the new speaker. Then he took off his spectacles, and polished them, and looked at me again, in evident bewilderment. I could see he was thinking—as indeed I was also—that we must have met before. “They use the force of gravity,” he said. “It is a force known also in your country, I believe?” “But that would need a railway going down-hill,” the Earl remarked. “You ca’n’t have all your railways going down-hill?” “They all do,” said Mein Herr. “Not from both ends?” “From both ends.” “Then I give it up!” said the Earl. “Can you explain the process?” said Lady Muriel. “Without using that language, that I ca’n’t speak fluently?” “Easily,” said Mein Herr. “Each railway is in a long tunnel, perfectly straight: so of course the middle of it is nearer the centre of the globe than the two ends: so every train 108 runs half-way down-hill, and that gives it force enough to run the other half up-hill.” “Thank you. I understand that perfectly,” said Lady Muriel. “But the velocity, in the middle of the tunnel, must be something fearful!” ‘Mein Herr’ was evidently much gratified at the intelligent interest Lady Muriel took in his remarks. At every moment the old man seemed to grow more chatty and more fluent. “You would like to know our methods of driving?” he smilingly enquired. “To us, a run-away horse is of no import at all!” Lady Muriel slightly shuddered. “To us it is a very real danger,” she said. “That is because your carriage is wholly behind your horse. Your horse runs. Your carriage follows. Perhaps your horse has the bit in his teeth. Who shall stop him? You fly, ever faster and faster! Finally comes the inevitable upset!” “But suppose your horse manages to get the bit in his teeth?” “No matter! We would not concern ourselves. Our horse is harnessed in the very 109 centre of our carriage. Two wheels are in front of him, and two behind. To the roof is attached one end of a broad belt. This goes under the horse’s body, and the other end is attached to a leetle—what you call a ‘windlass,’ I think. The horse takes the bit in his teeth. He runs away. We are flying at ten miles an hour! We turn our little windlass, five turns, six turns, seven turns, and—poof! Our horse is off the ground! Now let him gallop in the air, as much as he pleases: our carriage stands still. We sit round him, and watch him till he is tired. Then we let him down. Our horse is glad, very much glad, when his feet once more touch the ground!” “Capital!” said the Earl, who had been listening attentively. “Are there any other peculiarities in your carriages?” “In the wheels, sometimes, my Lord. For your health, you go to sea: to be pitched, to be rolled, occasionally to be drowned. We do all that on land: we are pitched, as you; we are rolled, as you; but drowned, no! There is no water!” “What are the wheels like, then?” 110 “They are oval, my Lord. Therefore the carriages rise and fall.” “Yes, and pitch the carriage backwards and forwards: but how do they make it roll?” “They do not match, my Lord. The end of one wheel answers to the side of the opposite wheel. So first one side of the carriage rises, then the other. And it pitches all the while. Ah, you must be a good sailor, to drive in our boat-carriages!” “I can easily believe it,” said the Earl. Mein Herr rose to his feet. “I must leave you now, Miladi,” he said, consulting his watch. “I have another engagement.” “I only wish we had stored up some extra time!” Lady Muriel said, as she shook hands with him. “Then we could have kept you a little longer!” “In that case I would gladly stay,” replied Mein Herr. “As it is—I fear I must say good-bye!” “Where did you first meet him?” I asked Lady Muriel, when Mein Herr had left us. “And where does he live? And what is his real name?” 111 “We first—met—him——” she musingly replied, “really, I ca’n’t remember where! And I’ve no idea where he lives! And I never heard any other name! It’s very curious. It never occurred to me before to consider what a mystery he is!” “I hope we shall meet again,” I said: “he interests me very much.” “He will be at our farewell-party, this day fortnight,” said the Earl. “Of course you will come? Muriel is anxious to gather all our friends around us once more, before we leave the place.” And then he explained to me—as Lady Muriel had left us together—that he was so anxious to get his daughter away from a place full of so many painful memories connected with the now-canceled engagement with Major Lindon, that they had arranged to have the wedding in a months time, after which Arthur and his wife were to go on a foreign tour. “Don’t forget Tuesday week!” he said as we shook hands at parting. “I only wish you could bring with you those charming children, that you introduced to us in the summer. 112 Talk of the mystery of Mein Herr! That’s nothing to the mystery that seems to attend them! I shall never forget those marvellous flowers!” “I will bring them if I possibly can,” I said. But how to fulfil such a promise, I mused to myself on my way back to our lodgings, was a problem entirely beyond my skill! 113 CHAPTER VIII. IN A SHADY PLACE. The ten days glided swiftly away: and, the day before the great party was to take place, Arthur proposed that we should stroll down to the Hall, in time for afternoon-tea. “Hadn’t you better go alone?” I suggested. “Surely I shall be very much de trop?” “Well, it’ll be a kind of experiment,” he said. “Fiat experimentum in corpore vili!” he added, with a graceful bow of mock politeness towards the unfortunate victim. “You see I shall have to bear the sight, to-morrow night, of my lady-love making herself agreable 114 to everybody except the right person, and I shall bear the agony all the better if we have a dress-rehearsal beforehand!” “My part in the play being, apparently, that of the sample wrong person?” “Well, no,” Arthur said musingly, as we set forth: “there’s no such part in a regular company. ‘Heavy Father’? That won’t do: that’s filled already. ‘Singing Chambermaid’? Well, the ‘First Lady’ doubles that part. ‘Comic Old Man’? You’re not comic enough. After all, I’m afraid there’s no part for you but the ‘Well-dressed Villain’: only,” with a critical side-glance, “I’m a leetle uncertain about the dress!” We found Lady Muriel alone, the Earl having gone out to make a call, and at once resumed old terms of intimacy, in the shady arbour where the tea-things seemed to be always waiting. The only novelty in the arrangements (one which Lady Muriel seemed to regard as entirely a matter of course), was that two of the chairs were placed quite close together, side by side. Strange to say, I was not invited to occupy either of them! 115 “We have been arranging, as we came along, about letter-writing,” Arthur began. “He will want to know how we’re enjoying our Swiss tour: and of course we must pretend we are?” “Of course,” she meekly assented. “And the skeleton-in-the-cupboard——” I suggested. “—is always a difficulty,” she quickly put in, “when you’re traveling about, and when there are no cupboards in the hotels. However, ours is a very portable one; and will be neatly packed, in a nice leather case——” “But please don’t think about writing,” I said, “when you’ve anything more attractive on hand. I delight in reading letters, but I know well how tiring it is to write them.” “It is, sometimes,” Arthur assented. “For instance, when you’re very shy of the person you have to write to.” “Does that show itself in the letter?” Lady Muriel enquired. “Of course, when I hear any one talking—you, for instance—I can see how desperately shy he is! But can you see that in a letter?” 116 “Well, of course, when you hear any one talk fluently—you, for instance—you can see how desperately un-shy she is—not to say saucy! But the shyest and most intermittent talker must seem fluent in letter-writing. He may have taken half-an-hour to compose his second sentence; but there it is, close after the first!” “Then letters don’t express all that they might express?” “That’s merely because our system of letter-writing is incomplete. A shy writer ought to be able to show that he is so. Why shouldn’t he make pauses in writing, just as he would do in speaking? He might leave blank spaces—say half a page at a time. And a very shy girl—if there is such a thing—might write a sentence on the first sheet of her letter—then put in a couple of blank sheets—then a sentence on the fourth sheet: and so on.” “I quite foresee that we—I mean this clever little boy and myself—” Lady Muriel said to me, evidently with the kind wish to bring me into the conversation, “—are going to become famous—of course all our inventions are 117 common property now—for a new Code of Rules for Letter-writing! Please invent some more, little boy!” “Well, another thing greatly needed, little girl, is some way of expressing that we don’t mean anything.” “Explain yourself, little boy! Surely you can find no difficulty in expressing a total absence of meaning?” “I mean that you should be able, when you don’t mean a thing to be taken seriously, to express that wish. For human nature is so constituted that whatever you write seriously is taken as a joke, and whatever you mean as a joke is taken seriously! At any rate, it is so in writing to a lady!” “Ah! you’re not used to writing to ladies!” Lady Muriel remarked, leaning back in her chair, and gazing thoughtfully into the sky. “You should try.” “Very good,” said Arthur. “How many ladies may I begin writing to? As many as I can count on the fingers of both hands?” “As many as you can count on the thumbs of one hand!” his lady-love replied with much 118 severity. “What a very naughty little boy he is! Isn’t he?” (with an appealing glance at me). “He’s a little fractious,” I said. “Perhaps he’s cutting a tooth.” While to myself I said “How exactly like Sylvie talking to Bruno!” “He wants his tea.” (The naughty little boy volunteered the information.) “He’s getting very tired, at the mere prospect of the great party to-morrow!” “Then he shall have a good rest beforehand!” she soothingly replied. “The tea isn’t made yet. Come, little boy, lean well back in your chair, and think about nothing—or about me, whichever you prefer!” “All the same, all the same!” Arthur sleepily murmured, watching her with loving eyes, as she moved her chair away to the tea table, and began to make the tea. “Then he’ll wait for his tea, like a good, patient little boy!” “Shall I bring you the London Papers?” said Lady Muriel. “I saw them lying on the table as I came out, but my father said there was nothing in them, except that horrid murder-trial.” (Society was just then enjoying its daily 119 thrill of excitement in studying the details of a specially sensational murder in a thieves’ den in the East of London.) “I have no appetite for horrors,” Arthur replied. “But I hope we have learned the lesson they should teach us—though we are very apt to read it backwards!” ‘I AM SITTING AT YOUR FEET’ ‘I AM SITTING AT YOUR FEET’ “You speak in riddles,” said Lady Muriel. “Please explain yourself. See now,” suiting the action to the word, “I am sitting at your feet, just as if you were a second Gamaliel! 120 Thanks, no.” (This was to me, who had risen to bring her chair back to its former place.) “Pray don’t disturb yourself. This tree and the grass make a very nice easy-chair. What is the lesson that one always reads wrong?” Arthur was silent for a minute. “I would like to be clear what it is I mean,” he said, slowly and thoughtfully, “before I say anything to you—because you think about it.” Anything approaching to a compliment was so unusual an utterance for Arthur, that it brought a flush of pleasure to her cheek, as she replied “It is you, that give me the ideas to think about.” “One’s first thought,” Arthur proceeded, “in reading of anything specially vile or barbarous, as done by a fellow-creature, is apt to be that we see a new depth of Sin revealed beneath us: and we seem to gaze down into that abyss from some higher ground, far apart from it.” “I think I understand you now. You mean that one ought to think—not ‘God, I thank Thee that I am not as other men are’—but ‘God, be merciful to me also, who might be, but for Thy grace, a sinner as vile as he!’” 121 “No,” said Arthur. “I meant a great deal more than that.” She looked up quickly, but checked herself, and waited in silence. “One must begin further back, I think. Think of some other man, the same age as this poor wretch. Look back to the time when they both began life—before they had sense enough to know Right from Wrong. Then, at any rate, they were equal in God’s sight?” She nodded assent. “We have, then, two distinct epochs at which we may contemplate the two men whose lives we are comparing. At the first epoch they are, so far as moral responsibility is concerned, on precisely the same footing: they are alike incapable of doing right or wrong. At the second epoch the one man—I am taking an extreme case, for contrast—has won the esteem and love of all around him: his character is stainless, and his name will be held in honour hereafter: the other man’s history is one unvaried record of crime, and his life is at last forfeited to the outraged laws of his country. Now what have been the causes, in each case, 122 of each man’s condition being what it is at the second epoch? They are of two kinds—one acting from within, the other from without. These two kinds need to be discussed separately—that is, if I have not already tired you with my prosing?” “On the contrary,” said Lady Muriel, “it is a special delight to me to have a question discussed in this way—analysed and arranged, so that one can understand it. Some books, that profess to argue out a question, are to me intolerably wearisome, simply because the ideas are all arranged hap-hazard—a sort of ‘first come, first served.’” “You are very encouraging,” Arthur replied, with a pleased look. “The causes, acting from within, which make a man’s character what it is at any given moment, are his successive acts of volition—that is, his acts of choosing whether he will do this or that.” “We are to assume the existence of Free-Will?” I said, in order to have that point made quite clear. “If not,” was the quiet reply, “cadit quaestio: and I have no more to say.” 123 “We will assume it!” the rest of the audience—the majority, I may say, looking at it from Arthur’s point of view—imperiously proclaimed. The orator proceeded. “The causes, acting from without, are his surroundings—what Mr. Herbert Spencer calls his ‘environment.’ Now the point I want to make clear is this, that a man is responsible for his acts of choosing, but not responsible for his environment. Hence, if these two men make, on some given occasion, when they are exposed to equal temptation, equal efforts to resist and to choose the right, their condition, in the sight of God, must be the same. If He is pleased in the one case, so will He be in the other; if displeased in the one case, so also in the other.” “That is so, no doubt: I see it quite clearly,” Lady Muriel put in. “And yet, owing to their different environments, the one may win a great victory over the temptation, while the other falls into some black abyss of crime.” “But surely you would not say those men were equally guilty in the sight of God?” 124 “Either that,” said Arthur, “or else I must give up my belief in God’s perfect justice. But let me put one more case, which will show my meaning even more forcibly. Let the one man be in a high social position—the other, say, a common thief. Let the one be tempted to some trivial act of unfair dealing—something which he can do with the absolute certainty that it will never be discovered—something which he can with perfect ease forbear from doing—and which he distinctly knows to be a sin. Let the other be tempted to some terrible crime—as men would consider it—but under an almost overwhelming pressure of motives—of course not quite overwhelming, as that would destroy all responsibility. Now, in this case, let the second man make a greater effort at resistance than the first. Also suppose both to fall under the temptation—I say that the second man is, in God’s sight, less guilty than the other.” Lady Muriel drew a long breath. “It upsets all one’s ideas of Right and Wrong—just at first! Why, in that dreadful murder-trial, you would say, I suppose, that it was possible that 125 the least guilty man in the Court was the murderer, and that possibly the judge who tried him, by yielding to the temptation of making one unfair remark, had committed a crime outweighing the criminal’s whole career!” “Certainly I should,” Arthur firmly replied. “It sounds like a paradox, I admit. But just think what a grievous sin it must be, in God’s sight, to yield to some very slight temptation, which we could have resisted with perfect ease, and to do it deliberately, and in the full light of God’s Law. What penance can atone for a sin like that?” “I ca’n’t reject your theory,” I said. “But how it seems to widen the possible area of Sin in the world!” “Is that so?” Lady Muriel anxiously enquired. “Oh, not so, not so!” was the eager reply. “To me it seems to clear away much of the cloud that hangs over the world’s history. When this view first made itself clear to me, I remember walking out into the fields, repeating to myself that line of Tennyson ‘There seemed no room for sense of wrong!’ The 126 thought, that perhaps the real guilt of the human race was infinitely less than I fancied it—that the millions, whom I had thought of as sunk in hopeless depths of sin, were perhaps, in God’s sight, scarcely sinning at all—was more sweet than words can tell! Life seemed more bright and beautiful, when once that thought had come! ‘A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, A purer sapphire melts into the sea!’” His voice trembled as he concluded, and the tears stood in his eyes. Lady Muriel shaded her face with her hand, and was silent for a minute. “It is a beautiful thought,” she said, looking up at last. “Thank you—Arthur, for putting it into my head!” The Earl returned in time to join us at tea, and to give us the very unwelcome tidings that a fever had broken out in the little harbour-town that lay below us—a fever of so malignant a type that, though it had only appeared a day or two ago, there were already more than a dozen down in it, two or three of whom were reported to be in imminent danger. In answer to the eager questions of Arthur—who of course took a deep scientific interest 127 in the matter—he could give very few technical details, though he had met the local doctor. It appeared, however, that it was an almost new disease—at least in this century, though it might prove to be identical with the ‘Plague’ recorded in History—very infectious, and frightfully rapid in its action. “It will not, however, prevent our party to-morrow,” he said in conclusion. “None of the guests belong to the infected district, which is, as you know, exclusively peopled by fishermen: so you may come without any fear.” Arthur was very silent, all the way back, and, on reaching our lodgings, immediately plunged into medical studies, connected with the alarming malady of whose arrival we had just heard. 128 CHAPTER IX. THE FAREWELL-PARTY. On the following day, Arthur and I reached the Hall in good time, as only a few of the guests—it was to be a party of eighteen—had as yet arrived; and these were talking with the Earl, leaving us the opportunity of a few words apart with our hostess. “Who is that very learned-looking man with the large spectacles?” Arthur enquired. “I haven’t met him here before, have I?” “No, he’s a new friend of ours,” said Lady Muriel: “a German, I believe. He is such a dear old thing! And quite the most learned 129 man I ever met—with one exception, of course!” she added humbly, as Arthur drew himself up with an air of offended dignity. “And the young lady in blue, just beyond him, talking to that foreign-looking man. Is she learned, too?” “I don’t know,” said Lady Muriel. “But I’m told she’s a wonderful piano-forte-player. I hope you’ll hear her to-night. I asked that foreigner to take her in, because he’s very musical, too. He’s a French Count, I believe; and he sings splendidly!” “Science—music—singing—you have indeed got a complete party!” said Arthur. “I feel quite a privileged person, meeting all these stars. I do love music!” “But the party isn’t quite complete!” said Lady Muriel. “You haven’t brought us those two beautiful children,” she went on, turning to me. “He brought them here to tea, you know, one day last summer,” again addressing Arthur; “and they are such darlings!” “They are, indeed,” I assented. “But why haven’t you brought them with you? You promised my father you would.” 130 “I’m very sorry,” I said; “but really it was impossible to bring them with me.” Here I most certainly meant to conclude the sentence: and it was with a feeling of utter amazement, which I cannot adequately describe, that I heard myself going on speaking. “—but they are to join me here in the course of the evening” were the words, uttered in my voice, and seeming to come from my lips. “I’m so glad!” Lady Muriel joyfully replied. “I shall enjoy introducing them to some of my friends here! When do you expect them?” I took refuge in silence. The only honest reply would have been “That was not my remark. I didn’t say it, and it isn’t true!” But I had not the moral courage to make such a confession. The character of a ‘lunatic’ is not, I believe, very difficult to acquire: but it is amazingly difficult to get rid of: and it seemed quite certain that any such speech as that would quite justify the issue of a writ ‘de lunatico inquirendo.’ Lady Muriel evidently thought I had failed to hear her question, and turned to Arthur with a remark on some other subject; and I 131 had time to recover from my shock of surprise—or to awake out of my momentary ‘eerie’ condition, whichever it was. When things around me seemed once more to be real, Arthur was saying “I’m afraid there’s no help for it: they must be finite in number.” “I should be sorry to have to believe it,” said Lady Muriel. “Yet, when one comes to think of it, there are no new melodies, now-a-days. What people talk of as ‘the last new song’ always recalls to me some tune I’ve known as a child!” “The day must come—if the world lasts long enough——” said Arthur, “when every possible tune will have been composed—every possible pun perpetrated——” (Lady Muriel wrung her hands, like a tragedy-queen) “and, worse than that, every possible book written! For the number of words is finite.” “It’ll make very little difference to the authors,” I suggested. “Instead of saying ‘what book shall I write?’ an author will ask himself ‘which book shall I write?’ A mere verbal distinction!” 132 Lady Muriel gave me an approving smile. “But lunatics would always write new books, surely?” she went on. “They couldn’t write the sane books over again!” “True,” said Arthur. “But their books would come to an end, also. The number of lunatic books is as finite as the number of lunatics.” “And that number is becoming greater every year,” said a pompous man, whom I recognised as the self-appointed showman on the day of the picnic. “So they say,” replied Arthur. “And, when ninety per cent. of us are lunatics,” (he seemed to be in a wildly nonsensical mood) “the asylums will be put to their proper use.” “And that is——?” the pompous man gravely enquired. “To shelter the sane!” said Arthur. “We shall bar ourselves in. The lunatics will have it all their own way, outside. They’ll do it a little queerly, no doubt. Railway-collisions will be always happening: steamers always blowing up: most of the towns will be burnt down: most of the ships sunk——” 133 “And most of the men killed!” murmured the pompous man, who was evidently hopelessly bewildered. “Certainly,” Arthur assented. “Till at last there will be fewer lunatics than sane men. Then we come out: they go in: and things return to their normal condition!” The pompous man frowned darkly, and bit his lip, and folded his arms, vainly trying to think it out. “He is jesting!” he muttered to himself at last, in a tone of withering contempt, as he stalked away. By this time the other guests had arrived; and dinner was announced. Arthur of course took down Lady Muriel: and I was pleased to find myself seated at her other side, with a severe-looking old lady (whom I had not met before, and whose name I had, as is usual in introductions, entirely failed to catch, merely gathering that it sounded like a compound-name) as my partner for the banquet. She appeared, however, to be acquainted with Arthur, and confided to me in a low voice her opinion that he was “a very argumentative young man.” Arthur, for his part, seemed well 134 inclined to show himself worthy of the character she had given him, and, hearing her say “I never take wine with my soup!” (this was not a confidence to me, but was launched upon Society, as a matter of general interest), he at once challenged a combat by asking her “when would you say that property commence in a plate of soup?” “This is my soup,” she sternly replied: “and what is before you is yours.” “No doubt,” said Arthur: “but when did I begin to own it? Up to the moment of its being put into the plate, it was the property of our host: while being offered round the table, it was, let us say, held in trust by the waiter: did it become mine when I accepted it? Or when it was placed before me? Or when I took the first spoonful?” “He is a very argumentative young man!” was all the old lady would say: but she said it audibly, this time, feeling that Society had a right to know it. Arthur smiled mischievously. “I shouldn’t mind betting you a shilling,” he said, “that the Eminent Barrister next you” (It certainly is 135 possible to say words so as to make them begin with capitals!) “ca’n’t answer me!” “I never bet,” she sternly replied. “Not even sixpenny points at whist?” “Never!” she repeated. “Whist is innocent enough: but whist played for money!” She shuddered. Arthur became serious again. “I’m afraid I ca’n’t take that view,” he said. “I consider that the introduction of small stakes for card-playing was one of the most moral acts Society ever did, as Society.” “How was it so?” said Lady Muriel. “Because it took Cards, once for all, out of the category of games at which cheating is possible. Look at the way Croquet is demoralising Society. Ladies are beginning to cheat at it, terribly: and, if they’re found out, they only laugh, and call it fun. But when there’s money at stake, that is out of the question. The swindler is not accepted as a wit. When a man sits down to cards, and cheats his friends out of their money, he doesn’t get much fun out of it—unless he thinks it fun to be kicked down stairs!” 136 “If all gentlemen thought as badly of ladies as you do,” my neighbour remarked with some bitterness, “there would be very few—very few——.” She seemed doubtful how to end her sentence, but at last took “honeymoons” as a safe word. “On the contrary,” said Arthur, the mischievous smile returning to his face, “if only people would adopt my theory, the number of honeymoons—quite of a new kind—would be greatly increased!” “May we hear about this new kind of honeymoon?” said Lady Muriel. “Let X be the gentleman,” Arthur began, in a slightly raised voice, as he now found himself with an audience of six, including ‘Mein Herr,’ who was seated at the other side of my polynomial partner. “Let X be the gentleman, and Y the lady to whom he thinks of proposing. He applies for an Experimental Honeymoon. It is granted. Forthwith the young couple—accompanied by the great-aunt of Y, to act as chaperone—start for a month’s tour, during which they have many a moonlight-walk, and many a tête-à-tête conversation, and each can 137 form a more correct estimate of the other’s character, in four weeks, than would have been possible in as many years, when meeting under the ordinary restrictions of Society. And it is only after their return that X finally decides whether he will, or will not, put the momentous question to Y!” “In nine cases out of ten,” the pompous man proclaimed, “he would decide to break it off!” “Then, in nine cases out of ten,” Arthur rejoined, “an unsuitable match would be prevented, and both parties saved from misery!” “The only really unsuitable matches,” the old lady remarked, “are those made without sufficient Money. Love may come afterwards. Money is needed to begin with!” This remark was cast loose upon Society, as a sort of general challenge; and, as such, it was at once accepted by several of those within hearing: Money became the key-note of the conversation for some time; and a fitful echo of it was again heard, when the dessert had been placed upon the table, the servants had left the room, and the Earl had started the wine in its welcome progress round the table. 138 “I’m very glad to see you keep up the old customs,” I said to Lady Muriel as I filled her glass. “It’s really delightful to experience, once more, the peaceful feeling that comes over one when the waiters have left the room—when one can converse without the feeling of being overheard, and without having dishes constantly thrust over one’s shoulder. How much more sociable it is to be able to pour out the wine for the ladies, and to hand the dishes to those who wish for them!” “In that case, kindly send those peaches down here,” said a fat red-faced man, who was seated beyond our pompous friend. “I’ve been wishing for them—diagonally—for some time!” “Yes, it is a ghastly innovation,” Lady Muriel replied, “letting the waiters carry round the wine at dessert. For one thing, they always take it the wrong way round—which of course brings bad luck to everybody present!” “Better go the wrong way than not go at all!” said our host. “Would you kindly help yourself?” (This was to the fat red-faced man.) “You are not a teetotaler, I think?” 139 “Indeed but I am!” he replied, as he pushed on the bottles. “Nearly twice as much money is spent in England on Drink, as on any other article of food. Read this card.” (What faddist ever goes about without a pocketful of the appropriate literature?) “The stripes of different colours represent the amounts spent on various articles of food. Look at the highest three. Money spent on butter and on cheese, thirty-five millions: on bread, seventy millions: on intoxicating liquors, one hundred and thirty-six millions! If I had my way, I would close every public-house in the land! Look at that card, and read the motto. That’s where all the money goes to!” “Have you seen the Anti-Teetotal Card?” Arthur innocently enquired. “No, Sir, I have not!” the orator savagely replied. “What is it like?” “Almost exactly like this one. The coloured stripes are the same. Only, instead of the words ‘Money spent on,’ it has ‘Incomes derived from sale of’; and, instead of ‘That’s where all the money goes to,’ its motto is ‘That’s where all the money comes from!’” 140 The red-faced man scowled, but evidently considered Arthur beneath his notice. So Lady Muriel took up the cudgels. “Do you hold the theory,” she enquired, “that people can preach teetotalism more effectually by being teetotalers themselves?” “Certainly I do!” replied the red-faced man. “Now, here is a case in point,” unfolding a newspaper-cutting: “let me read you this letter from a teetotaler. To the Editor. Sir, I was once a moderate drinker, and knew a man who drank to excess. I went to him. ‘Give up this drink,’ I said. ‘It will ruin your health!’ ‘You drink,’ he said: ‘why shouldn’t I?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I know when to leave off.’ He turned away from me. ‘You drink in your way,’ he said: ‘let me drink in mine. Be off!’ Then I saw that, to do any good with him, I must forswear drink. From that hour I haven’t touched a drop!” “There! What do you say to that?” He looked round triumphantly, while the cutting was handed round for inspection. “How very curious!” exclaimed Arthur, when it had reached him. “Did you happen 141 to see a letter, last week, about early rising? It was strangely like this one.” The red-faced man’s curiosity was roused. “Where did it appear?” he asked. “Let me read it to you,” said Arthur. He took some papers from his pocket, opened one of them, and read as follows. “To the Editor. Sir, I was once a moderate sleeper, and knew a man who slept to excess. I pleaded with him. ‘Give up this lying in bed,’ I said, ‘It will ruin your health!’ ‘You go to bed,’ he said: ‘why shouldn’t I?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I know when to get up in the morning.’ He turned away from me. ‘You sleep in your way,’ he said: ‘let me sleep in mine. Be off!’ Then I saw that to do any good with him, I must forswear sleep. From that hour I haven’t been to bed!” Arthur folded and pocketed his paper, and passed on the newspaper-cutting. None of us dared to laugh, the red-faced man was evidently so angry. “Your parallel doesn’t run on all fours!” he snarled. “Moderate drinkers never do so!” Arthur quietly replied. Even the stern old lady laughed at this. 142 “But it needs many other things to make a perfect dinner!” said Lady Muriel, evidently anxious to change the subject. “Mein Herr! What is your idea of a perfect dinner-party?” The old man looked round smilingly, and his gigantic spectacles seemed more gigantic than ever. “A perfect dinner-party?” he repeated. “First, it must be presided over by our present hostess!” “That, of course!” she gaily interposed. “But what else, Mein Herr?” “I can but tell you what I have seen,” said Mein Herr, “in mine own—in the country I have traveled in.” He paused for a full minute, and gazed steadily at the ceiling—with so dreamy an expression on his face, that I feared he was going off into a reverie, which seemed to be his normal state. However, after a minute, he suddenly began again. “That which chiefly causes the failure of a dinner-party, is the running-short—not of meat, nor yet of drink, but of conversation.” “In an English dinner-party,” I remarked, “I have never known small-talk run short!” 143 “Pardon me,” Mein Herr respectfully replied, “I did not say ‘small-talk.’ I said ‘conversation.’ All such topics as the weather, or politics, or local gossip, are unknown among us. They are either vapid or controversial. What we need for conversation is a topic of interest and of novelty. To secure these things we have tried various plans—Moving-Pictures, Wild-Creatures, Moving-Guests, and a Revolving-Humorist. But this last is only adapted to small parties.” “Let us have it in four separate Chapters, please!” said Lady Muriel, who was evidently deeply interested—as, indeed, most of the party were, by this time: and, all down the table, talk had ceased, and heads were leaning forwards, eager to catch fragments of Mein Herr’s oration. “Chapter One! Moving-Pictures!” was proclaimed in the silvery voice of our hostess. “The dining-table is shaped like a circular ring,” Mein Herr began, in low dreamy tones, which, however, were perfectly audible in the silence. “The guests are seated at the inner side as well as the outer, having ascended to 144 their places by a winding-staircase, from the room below. Along the middle of the table runs a little railway; and there is an endless train of trucks, worked round by machinery; and on each truck there are two pictures, leaning back to back. The train makes two circuits during dinner; and, when it has been once round, the waiters turn the pictures round in each truck, making them face the other way. Thus every guest sees every picture!” He paused, and the silence seemed deader than ever. Lady Muriel looked aghast. “Really, if this goes on,” she exclaimed, “I shall have to drop a pin! Oh, it’s my fault, is it?” (In answer to an appealing look from Mein Herr.) “I was forgetting my duty. Chapter Two! Wild-Creatures!” “We found the Moving-Pictures a little monotonous,” said Mein Herr. “People didn’t care to talk Art through a whole dinner; so we tried Wild-Creatures. Among the flowers, which we laid (just as you do) about the table, were to be seen, here a mouse, there a beetle; here a spider,” (Lady Muriel shuddered) “there a wasp; here a toad, there a snake;” (“Father!” 145 said Lady Muriel, plaintively. “Did you hear that?”) “so we had plenty to talk about!” “And when you got stung——” the old lady began. “They were all chained-up, dear Madam!” And the old lady gave a satisfied nod. There was no silence to follow, this time. “Third Chapter!” Lady Muriel proclaimed at once, “Moving-Guests!” “Even the Wild-Creatures proved monotonous,” the orator proceeded. “So we left the guests to choose their own subjects; and, to avoid monotony, we changed them. We made the table of two rings; and the inner ring moved slowly round, all the time, along with the floor in the middle and the inner row of guests. Thus every inner guest was brought face-to-face with every outer guest. It was a little confusing, sometimes, to have to begin a story to one friend and finish it to another; but every plan has its faults, you know.” “Fourth Chapter!” Lady Muriel hastened to announce. “The Revolving-Humorist!” “For a small party we found it an excellent plan to have a round table, with a hole cut in 146 the middle large enough to hold one guest. Here we placed our best talker. He revolved slowly, facing every other guest in turn: and he told lively anecdotes the whole time!” “I shouldn’t like it!” murmured the pompous man. “It would make me giddy, revolving like that! I should decline to——” here it appeared to dawn upon him that perhaps the assumption he was making was not warranted by the circumstances: he took a hasty gulp of wine, and choked himself. But Mein Herr had relapsed into reverie, and made no further remark. Lady Muriel gave the signal, and the ladies left the room. 147 CHAPTER X. JABBERING AND JAM. When the last lady had disappeared, and the Earl, taking his place at the head of the table, had issued the military order “Gentlemen! Close up the ranks, if you please!”, and when, in obedience to his command, we had gathered ourselves compactly round him, the pompous man gave a deep sigh of relief, filled his glass to the brim, pushed on the wine, and began one of his favorite orations. “They are charming, no doubt! Charming, but very frivolous. They drag us down, so to speak, to a lower level. They——” 148 “Do not all pronouns require antecedent nouns?” the Earl gently enquired. “Pardon me,” said the pompous man, with lofty condescension. “I had overlooked the noun. The ladies. We regret their absence. Yet we console ourselves. Thought is free. With them, we are limited to trivial topics—Art, Literature, Politics, and so forth. One can bear to discuss such paltry matters with a lady. But no man, in his senses—” (he looked sternly round the table, as if defying contradiction) “—ever yet discussed WINE with a lady!” He sipped his glass of port, leaned back in his chair, and slowly raised it up to his eye, so as to look through it at the lamp. “The vintage, my Lord?” he enquired, glancing at his host. The Earl named the date. “So I had supposed. But one likes to be certain. The tint is, perhaps, slightly pale. But the body is unquestionable. And as for the bouquet——” Ah, that magic Bouquet! How vividly that single word recalled the scene! The little beggar-boy turning his somersault in 149 the road—the sweet little crippled maiden in my arms—the mysterious evanescent nurse-maid—all rushed tumultuously into my mind, like the creatures of a dream: and through this mental haze there still boomed on, like the tolling of a bell, the solemn voice of the great connoisseur of WINE! Even his utterances had taken on themselves a strange and dream-like form. “No,” he resumed—and why is it, I pause to ask, that, in taking up the broken thread of a dialogue, one always begins with this cheerless monosyllable? After much anxious thought, I have come to the conclusion that the object in view is the same as that of the schoolboy, when the sum he is working has got into a hopeless muddle, and when in despair he takes the sponge, washes it all out, and begins again. Just in the same way the bewildered orator, by the simple process of denying everything that has been hitherto asserted, makes a clean sweep of the whole discussion, and can ‘start fair’ with a fresh theory. “No,” he resumed: “there’s nothing like cherry-jam, after all. That’s what I say!” 150 “Not for all qualities!” an eager little man shrilly interposed. “For richness of general tone I don’t say that it has a rival. But for delicacy of modulation—for what one may call the ‘harmonics’ of flavour—give me good old raspberry-jam!” “Allow me one word!” The fat red-faced man, quite hoarse with excitement, broke into the dialogue. “It’s too important a question to be settled by Amateurs! I can give you the views of a Professional—perhaps the most experienced jam-taster now living. Why, I’ve known him fix the age of strawberry-jam, to a day—and we all know what a difficult jam it is to give a date to—on a single tasting! Well, I put to him the very question you are discussing. His words were ‘cherry-jam is best, for mere chiaroscuro of flavour: raspberry-jam lends itself best to those resolved discords that linger so lovingly on the tongue: but, for rapturous utterness of saccharine perfection, it’s apricot-jam first and the rest nowhere!’ That was well put, wasn’t it?” “Consummately put!” shrieked the eager little man. 151 “I know your friend well,” said the pompous man. “As a jam-taster, he has no rival! Yet I scarcely think——” But here the discussion became general: and his words were lost in a confused medley of names, every guest sounding the praises of his own favorite jam. At length, through the din, our host’s voice made itself heard. “Let us join the ladies!” These words seemed to recall me to waking life; and I felt sure that, for the last few minutes, I had relapsed into the ‘eerie’ state. “A strange dream!” I said to myself as we trooped upstairs. “Grown men discussing, as seriously as if they were matters of life and death, the hopelessly trivial details of mere delicacies, that appeal to no higher human function than the nerves of the tongue and palate! What a humiliating spectacle such a discussion would be in waking life!” When, on our way to the drawing-room, I received from the housekeeper my little friends, clad in the daintiest of evening costumes, and looking, in the flush of expectant delight, more radiantly beautiful than I had ever seen them 152 before, I felt no shock of surprise, but accepted the fact with the same unreasoning apathy with which one meets the events of a dream, and was merely conscious of a vague anxiety as to how they would acquit themselves in so novel a scene—forgetting that Court-life in Outland was as good training as they could need for Society in the more substantial world. It would be best, I thought, to introduce them as soon as possible to some good-natured lady-guest, and I selected the young lady whose piano-forte-playing had been so much talked of. “I am sure you like children,” I said. “May I introduce two little friends of mine? This is Sylvie—and this is Bruno.” The young lady kissed Sylvie very graciously. She would have done the same for Bruno, but he hastily drew back out of reach. “Their faces are new to me,” she said. “Where do you come from, my dear?” I had not anticipated so inconvenient a question; and, fearing that it might embarrass Sylvie, I answered for her. “They come from some distance. They are only here just for this one evening.” 153 “How far have you come, dear?” the young lady persisted. Sylvie looked puzzled. “A mile or two, I think,” she said doubtfully. “A mile or three,” said Bruno. “You shouldn’t say ‘a mile or three,’” Sylvie corrected him. The young lady nodded approval. “Sylvie’s quite right. It isn’t usual to say ‘a mile or three.’” “It would be usual—if we said it often enough,” said Bruno. It was the young lady’s turn to look puzzled now. “He’s very quick, for his age!” she murmured. “You’re not more than seven, are you, dear?” she added aloud. “I’m not so many as that,” said Bruno. “I’m one. Sylvie’s one. Sylvie and me is two. Sylvie taught me to count.” “Oh, I wasn’t counting you, you know!” the young lady laughingly replied. “Hasn’t oo learnt to count?” said Bruno. The young lady bit her lip. “Dear! What embarrassing questions he does ask!” she said in a half-audible ‘aside.’ 154 “Bruno, you shouldn’t!” Sylvie said reprovingly. “Shouldn’t what?” said Bruno. “You shouldn’t ask—that sort of questions.” “What sort of questions?” Bruno mischievously persisted. “What she told you not,” Sylvie replied, with a shy glance at the young lady, and losing all sense of grammar in her confusion. “Oo ca’n’t pronounce it!” Bruno triumphantly cried. And he turned to the young lady, for sympathy in his victory. “I knewed she couldn’t pronounce ‘umbrella-sting’!” The young lady thought it best to return to the arithmetical problem. “When I asked if you were seven, you know, I didn’t mean ‘how many children?’ I meant ‘how many years——’” “Only got two ears,” said Bruno. “Nobody’s got seven ears.” “And you belong to this little girl?” the young lady continued, skilfully evading the anatomical problem. “No, I doosn’t belong to her!” said Bruno. “Sylvie belongs to me!” And he clasped 155 his arms round her as he added “She are my very mine!” “And, do you know,” said the young lady, “I’ve a little sister at home, exactly like your sister? I’m sure they’d love each other.” “They’d be very extremely useful to each other,” Bruno said, thoughtfully. “And they wouldn’t want no looking-glasses to brush their hair wiz.” “Why not, my child?” “Why, each one would do for the other one’s looking-glass, a-course!” cried Bruno. But here Lady Muriel, who had been standing by, listening to this bewildering dialogue, interrupted it to ask if the young lady would favour us with some music; and the children followed their new friend to the piano. Arthur came and sat down by me. “If rumour speaks truly,” he whispered, “we are to have a real treat!” And then, amid a breathless silence, the performance began. She was one of those players whom Society talks of as ‘brilliant,’ and she dashed into the loveliest of Haydn’s Symphonies in a style that was clearly the outcome of years of patient 156 study under the best masters. At first it seemed to be the perfection of piano-forte-playing; but in a few minutes I began to ask myself, wearily, “What is it that is wanting? Why does one get no pleasure from it?” Then I set myself to listen intently to every note; and the mystery explained itself. There was an almost-perfect mechanical correctness—and there was nothing else! False notes, of course, did not occur: she knew the piece too well for that; but there was just enough irregularity of time to betray that the player had no real ‘ear’ for music—just enough inarticulateness in the more elaborate passages to show that she did not think her audience worth taking real pains for—just enough mechanical monotony of accent to take all soul out of the heavenly modulations she was profaning—in short, it was simply irritating; and, when she had rattled off the finale and had struck the final chord as if, the instrument being now done with, it didn’t matter how many wires she broke, I could not even affect to join in the stereotyped “Oh, thank you!” which was chorused around me. 157 Lady Muriel joined us for a moment. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she whispered, to Arthur, with a mischievous smile. “No, it isn’t!” said Arthur. But the gentle sweetness of his face quite neutralised the apparent rudeness of the reply. “Such execution, you know!” she persisted. “That’s what she deserves,” Arthur doggedly replied: “but people are so prejudiced against capital——” “Now you’re beginning to talk nonsense!” Lady Muriel cried. “But you do like Music, don’t you? You said so just now.” “Do I like Music?” the Doctor repeated softly to himself. “My dear Lady Muriel, there is Music and Music. Your question is painfully vague. You might as well ask ‘Do you like People?’” Lady Muriel bit her lip, frowned, and stamped with one tiny foot. As a dramatic representation of ill-temper, it was distinctly not a success. However, it took in one of her audience, and Bruno hastened to interpose, as peacemaker in a rising quarrel, with the remark “I likes Peoples!” 158 Arthur laid a loving hand on the little curly head. “What? All Peoples?” he enquired. “Not all Peoples,” Bruno explained. “Only but Sylvie—and Lady Muriel—and him—” (pointing to the Earl) “and oo—and oo!” “You shouldn’t point at people,” said Sylvie. “It’s very rude.” “In Bruno’s World,” I said, “there are only four People—worth mentioning!” “In Bruno’s World!” Lady Muriel repeated thoughtfully. “A bright and flowery world. Where the grass is always green, where the breezes always blow softly, and the rain-clouds never gather; where there are no wild beasts, and no deserts——” “There must be deserts,” Arthur decisively remarked. “At least if it was my ideal world.” “But what possible use is there in a desert?” said Lady Muriel. “Surely you would have no wilderness in your ideal world?” Arthur smiled. “But indeed I would!” he said. “A wilderness would be more necessary than a railway; and far more conducive to general happiness than church-bells!” “But what would you use it for?” 159 “To practise music in,” he replied. “All the young ladies, that have no ear for music, but insist on learning it, should be conveyed, every morning, two or three miles into the wilderness. There each would find a comfortable room provided for her, and also a cheap second-hand piano-forte, on which she might play for hours, without adding one needless pang to the sum of human misery!” Lady Muriel glanced round in alarm, lest these barbarous sentiments should be overheard. But the fair musician was at a safe distance. “At any rate you must allow that she’s a sweet girl?” she resumed. “Oh, certainly. As sweet as eau sucrée, if you choose—and nearly as interesting!” “You are incorrigible!” said Lady Muriel, and turned to me. “I hope you found Mrs. Mills an interesting companion?” “Oh, that’s her name, is it?” I said. “I fancied there was more of it.” “So there is: and it will be ‘at your proper peril’ (whatever that may mean) if you ever presume to address her as ‘Mrs. Mills.’ She is ‘Mrs. Ernest—Atkinson—Mills’!” 160 “She is one of those would-be grandees,” said Arthur, “who think that, by tacking on to their surname all their spare Christian-names, with hyphens between, they can give it an aristocratic flavour. As if it wasn’t trouble enough to remember one surname!” By this time the room was getting crowded, as the guests, invited for the evening-party, were beginning to arrive, and Lady Muriel had to devote herself to the task of welcoming them, which she did with the sweetest grace imaginable. Sylvie and Bruno stood by her, deeply interested in the process. “I hope you like my friends?” she said to them. “Specially my dear old friend, Mein Herr (What’s become of him, I wonder? Oh, there he is!), that old gentleman in spectacles, with a long beard?” “He’s a grand old gentleman!” Sylvie said, gazing admiringly at ‘Mein Herr,’ who had settled down in a corner, from which his mild eyes beamed on us through a gigantic pair of spectacles. “And what a lovely beard!” “What does he call his-self?” Bruno whispered. 161 “He calls himself ‘Mein Herr,’” Sylvie whispered in reply. Bruno shook his head impatiently. “That’s what he calls his hair, not his self, oo silly!” He appealed to me. “What doos he call his self, Mister Sir?” “That’s the only name I know of,” I said. “But he looks very lonely. Don’t you pity his grey hairs?” “I pities his self,” said Bruno, still harping on the misnomer; “but I doosn’t pity his hair, one bit. His hair ca’n’t feel!” “We met him this afternoon,” said Sylvie. “We’d been to see Nero, and we’d had such fun with him, making him invisible again! And we saw that nice old gentleman as we came back.” “Well, let’s go and talk to him, and cheer him up a little,” I said: “and perhaps we shall find out what he calls himself.” 162 CHAPTER XI. THE MAN IN THE MOON. The children came willingly. With one of them on each side of me, I approached the corner occupied by ‘Mein Herr.’ “You don’t object to children, I hope?” I began. “Crabbed age and youth cannot live together!” the old man cheerfully replied, with a most genial smile. “Now take a good look at me, my children! You would guess me to be an old man, wouldn’t you?” At first sight, though his face had reminded me so mysteriously of “the Professor,” he had seemed to be decidedly a younger man: 163 but, when I came to look into the wonderful depth of those large dreamy eyes, I felt, with a strange sense of awe, that he was incalculably older: he seemed to gaze at us out of some by-gone age, centuries away. MEIN HERR’S FAIRY-FRIENDS MEIN HERR’S FAIRY-FRIENDS “I don’t know if oo’re an old man,” Bruno answered, as the children, won over by the gentle voice, crept a little closer to him. “I thinks oo’re eighty-three.” 164 “He is very exact!” said Mein Herr. “Is he anything like right?” I said. “There are reasons,” Mein Herr gently replied, “reasons which I am not at liberty to explain, for not mentioning definitely any Persons, Places, or Dates. One remark only I will permit myself to make—that the period of life, between the ages of a hundred-and-sixty-five and a hundred-and-seventy-five, is a specially safe one.” “How do you make that out?” I said. “Thus. You would consider swimming to be a very safe amusement, if you scarcely ever heard of any one dying of it. Am I not right in thinking that you never heard of any one dying between those two ages?” “I see what you mean,” I said: “but I’m afraid you ca’n’t prove swimming to be safe, on the same principle. It is no uncommon thing to hear of some one being drowned.” “In my country,” said Mein Herr, “no one is ever drowned.” “Is there no water deep enough?” “Plenty! But we ca’n’t sink. We are all lighter than water. Let me explain,” he added, 165 seeing my look of surprise. “Suppose you desire a race of pigeons of a particular shape or colour, do you not select, from year to year, those that are nearest to the shape or colour you want, and keep those, and part with the others?” “We do,” I replied. “We call it ‘Artificial Selection.’” “Exactly so,” said Mein Herr. “Well, we have practised that for some centuries—constantly selecting the lightest people: so that, now, everybody is lighter than water.” “Then you never can be drowned at sea?” “Never! It is only on the land—for instance, when attending a play in a theatre—that we are in such a danger.” “How can that happen at a theatre?” “Our theatres are all underground. Large tanks of water are placed above. If a fire breaks out, the taps are turned, and in one minute the theatre is flooded, up to the very roof! Thus the fire is extinguished.” “And the audience, I presume?” “That is a minor matter,” Mein Herr carelessly replied. “But they have the comfort of 166 knowing that, whether drowned or not, they are all lighter than water. We have not yet reached the standard of making people lighter than air: but we are aiming at it; and, in another thousand years or so——” “What doos oo do wiz the peoples that’s too heavy?” Bruno solemnly enquired. “We have applied the same process,” Mein Herr continued, not noticing Bruno’s question, “to many other purposes. We have gone on selecting walking-sticks—always keeping those that walked best—till we have obtained some, that can walk by themselves! We have gone on selecting cotton-wool, till we have got some lighter than air! You’ve no idea what a useful material it is! We call it ‘Imponderal.’” “What do you use it for?” “Well, chiefly for packing articles, to go by Parcel-Post. It makes them weigh less than nothing, you know.” “And how do the Post-Office people know what you have to pay?” “That’s the beauty of the new system!” Mein Herr cried exultingly. “They pay us: 167 we don’t pay them! I’ve often got as much as five shillings for sending a parcel.” “But doesn’t your Government object?” “Well, they do object, a little. They say it comes so expensive, in the long run. But the thing’s as clear as daylight, by their own rules. If I send a parcel, that weighs a pound more than nothing, I pay three-pence: so, of course, if it weighs a pound less than nothing, I ought to receive three-pence.” “It is indeed a useful article!” I said. “Yet even ‘Imponderal’ has its disadvantages,” he resumed. “I bought some, a few days ago, and put it into my hat, to carry it home, and the hat simply floated away!” “Had oo some of that funny stuff in oor hat today?” Bruno enquired. “Sylvie and me saw oo in the road, and oor hat were ever so high up! Weren’t it, Sylvie?” “No, that was quite another thing.” said Mein Herr. “There was a drop or two of rain falling: so I put my hat on the top of my stick—as an umbrella, you know. As I came along the road,” he continued, turning to me, “I was overtaken by——” 168 “——a shower of rain?” said Bruno. “Well, it looked more like the tail of a dog,” Mein Herr replied. “It was the most curious thing! Something rubbed affectionately against my knee. And I looked down. And I could see nothing! Only, about a yard off, there was a dog’s tail, wagging, all by itself!” “Oh, Sylvie!” Bruno murmured reproachfully. “Oo didn’t finish making him visible!” “I’m so sorry!” Sylvie said, looking very penitent. “I meant to rub it along his back, but we were in such a hurry. We’ll go and finish him tomorrow. Poor thing! Perhaps he’ll get no supper tonight!” “Course he won’t!” said Bruno. “Nobody never gives bones to a dog’s tail!” Mein Herr looked from one to the other in blank astonishment. “I do not understand you,” he said. “I had lost my way, and I was consulting a pocket-map, and somehow I had dropped one of my gloves, and this invisible Something, that had rubbed against my knee, actually brought it back to me!” “Course he did!” said Bruno. “He’s welly fond of fetching things.” 169 Mein Herr looked so thoroughly bewildered that I thought it best to change the subject. “What a useful thing a pocket-map is!” I remarked. “That’s another thing we’ve learned from your Nation,” said Mein Herr, “map-making. But we’ve carried it much further than you. What do you consider the largest map that would be really useful?” “About six inches to the mile.” “Only six inches!” exclaimed Mein Herr. “We very soon got to six yards to the mile. Then we tried a hundred yards to the mile. And then came the grandest idea of all! We actually made a map of the country, on the scale of a mile to the mile!” “Have you used it much?” I enquired. “It has never been spread out, yet,” said Mein Herr: “the farmers objected: they said it would cover the whole country, and shut out the sunlight! So we now use the country itself, as its own map, and I assure you it does nearly as well. Now let me ask you another question. What is the smallest world you would care to inhabit?” 170 “I know!” cried Bruno, who was listening intently. “I’d like a little teeny-tiny world, just big enough for Sylvie and me!” “Then you would have to stand on opposite sides of it,” said Mein Herr. “And so you would never see your sister at all!” “And I’d have no lessons,” said Bruno. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been trying experiments in that direction!” I said. “Well, not experiments exactly. We do not profess to construct planets. But a scientific friend of mine, who has made several balloon-voyages, assures me he has visited a planet so small that he could walk right round it in twenty minutes! There had been a great battle, just before his visit, which had ended rather oddly: the vanquished army ran away at full speed, and in a very few minutes found themselves face-to-face with the victorious army, who were marching home again, and who were so frightened at finding themselves between two armies, that they surrendered at once! Of course that lost them the battle, though, as a matter of fact, they had killed all the soldiers on the other side.” 171 “Killed soldiers ca’n’t run away,” Bruno thoughtfully remarked. “‘Killed’ is a technical word,” replied Mein Herr. “In the little planet I speak of, the bullets were made of soft black stuff, which marked everything it touched. So, after a battle, all you had to do was to count how many soldiers on each side were ‘killed’—that means ‘marked on the back,’ for marks in front didn’t count.” “Then you couldn’t ‘kill’ any, unless they ran away?” I said. “My scientific friend found out a better plan than that. He pointed out that, if only the bullets were sent the other way round the world, they would hit the enemy in the back. After that, the worst marksmen were considered the best soldiers; and the very worst of all always got First Prize.” “And how did you decide which was the very worst of all?” “Easily. The best possible shooting is, you know, to hit what is exactly in front of you: so of course the worst possible is to hit what is exactly behind you.” 172 “They were strange people in that little planet!” I said. “They were indeed! Perhaps their method of government was the strangest of all. In this planet, I am told, a Nation consists of a number of Subjects, and one King: but, in the little planet I speak of, it consisted of a number of Kings, and one Subject!” “You say you are ‘told’ what happens in this planet,” I said. “May I venture to guess that you yourself are a visitor from some other planet?” Bruno clapped his hands in his excitement. “Is oo the Man-in-the-Moon?” he cried. Mein Herr looked uneasy. “I am not in the Moon, my child,” he said evasively. “To return to what I was saying. I think that method of government ought to answer well. You see, the Kings would be sure to make Laws contradicting each other: so the Subject could never be punished, because, whatever he did, he’d be obeying some Law.” “And, whatever he did, he’d be disobeying some Law!” cried Bruno. “So he’d always be punished!” 173 Lady Muriel was passing at the moment, and caught the last word. “Nobody’s going to be punished here!” she said, taking Bruno in her arms. “This is Liberty-Hall! Would you lend me the children for a minute?” “The children desert us, you see,” I said to Mein Herr, as she carried them off: “so we old folk must keep each other company!” The old man sighed. “Ah, well! We’re old folk now; and yet I was a child myself, once—at least I fancy so.” It did seem a rather unlikely fancy, I could not help owning to myself—looking at the shaggy white hair, and the long beard—that he could ever have been a child. “You are fond of young people?” I said. “Young men,” he replied. “Not of children exactly. I used to teach young men—many a year ago—in my dear old University!” “I didn’t quite catch its name?” I hinted. “I did not name it,” the old man replied mildly. “Nor would you know the name if I did. Strange tales I could tell you of all the changes I have witnessed there! But it would weary you, I fear.” 174 “No, indeed!” I said. “Pray go on. What kind of changes?” But the old man seemed to be more in a humour for questions than for answers. “Tell me,” he said, laying his hand impressively on my arm, “tell me something. For I am a stranger in your land, and I know little of your modes of education: yet something tells me we are further on than you in the eternal cycle of change—and that many a theory we have tried and found to fail, you also will try, with a wilder enthusiasm: you also will find to fail, with a bitterer despair!” It was strange to see how, as he talked, and his words flowed more and more freely, with a certain rhythmic eloquence, his features seemed to glow with an inner light, and the whole man seemed to be transformed, as if he had grown fifty years younger in a moment of time. 175 CHAPTER XII. FAIRY-MUSIC. The silence that ensued was broken by the voice of the musical young lady, who had seated herself near us, and was conversing with one of the newly-arrived guests. “Well!” she said in a tone of scornful surprise. “We are to have something new in the way of music, it appears!” I looked round for an explanation, and was nearly as much astonished as the speaker herself: it was Sylvie whom Lady Muriel was leading to the piano! “Do try it, my darling!” she was saying. “I’m sure you can play very nicely!” 176 Sylvie looked round at me, with tears in her eyes. I tried to give her an encouraging smile, but it was evidently a great strain on the nerves of a child so wholly unused to be made an exhibition of, and she was frightened and unhappy. Yet here came out the perfect sweetness of her disposition: I could see that she was resolved to forget herself, and do her best to give pleasure to Lady Muriel and her friends. She seated herself at the instrument, and began instantly. Time and expression, so far as one could judge, were perfect: but her touch was one of such extraordinary lightness that it was at first scarcely possible, through the hum of conversation which still continued, to catch a note of what she was playing. But in a minute the hum had died away into absolute silence, and we all sat, entranced and breathless, to listen to such heavenly music as none then present could ever forget. Hardly touching the notes at first, she played a sort of introduction in a minor key—like an embodied twilight; one felt as though the lights were growing dim, and a mist were creeping through the room. Then there flashed through 177 the gathering gloom the first few notes of a melody so lovely, so delicate, that one held one’s breath, fearful to lose a single note of it. Ever and again the music dropped into the pathetic minor key with which it had begun, and, each time that the melody forced its way, so to speak, through the enshrouding gloom into the light of day, it was more entrancing, more magically sweet. Under the airy touch of the child, the instrument actually seemed to warble, like a bird. “Rise up, my love, my fair one,” it seemed to sing, “and come away! For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come!” One could fancy one heard the tinkle of the last few drops, shaken from the trees by a passing gust—that one saw the first glittering rays of the sun, breaking through the clouds. The Count hurried across the room in great excitement. “I cannot remember myself,” he exclaimed, “of the name of this so charming an air! It is of an opera, most surely. Yet not even will the opera remind his name to me! What you call him, dear child?” 178 ‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’ ‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’ Sylvie looked round at him with a rapt expression of face. She had ceased playing, but her fingers still wandered fitfully over the keys. All fear and shyness had quite passed away now, and nothing remained but the pure joy of the music that had thrilled our hearts. “The title of it!” the Count repeated impatiently. “How call you the opera?” “I don’t know what an opera is,” Sylvie half-whispered. 179 “How, then, call you the air?” “I don’t know any name for it,” Sylvie replied, as she rose from the instrument. “But this is marvellous!” exclaimed the Count, following the child, and addressing himself to me, as if I were the proprietor of this musical prodigy, and so must know the origin of her music. “You have heard her play this, sooner—I would say ‘before this occasion’? How call you the air?” I shook my head; but was saved from more questions by Lady Muriel, who came up to petition the Count for a song. The Count spread out his hands apologetically, and ducked his head. “But, Milady, I have already respected—I would say prospected—all your songs; and there shall be none fitted to my voice! They are not for basso voices!” “Wo’n’t you look at them again?” Lady Muriel implored. “Let’s help him!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie. “Let’s get him—you know!” Sylvie nodded. “Shall we look for a song for you?” she said sweetly to the Count. 180 “Mais oui!” the little man exclaimed. “Of course we may!” said Bruno, while, each taking a hand of the delighted Count, they led him to the music-stand. “There is still hope!” said Lady Muriel over her shoulder, as she followed them. I turned to ‘Mein Herr,’ hoping to resume our interrupted conversation. “You were remarking——” I began: but at this moment Sylvie came to call Bruno, who had returned to my side, looking unusually serious. “Do come, Bruno!” she entreated. “You know we’ve nearly found it!” Then, in a whisper, “The locket’s in my hand, now. I couldn’t get it out while they were looking!” But Bruno drew back. “The man called me names,” he said with dignity. “What names?” I enquired with some curiosity. “I asked him,” said Bruno, “which sort of song he liked. And he said ‘A song of a man, not of a lady.’ And I said ‘Shall Sylvie and me find you the song of Mister Tottles?’ And he said ‘Wait, eel!’ And I’m not an eel, oo know!” 181 “I’m sure he didn’t mean it!” Sylvie said earnestly. “It’s something French—you know he ca’n’t talk English so well as——” Bruno relented visibly. “Course he knows no better, if he’s Flench! Flenchmen never can speak English so goodly as us!” And Sylvie led him away, a willing captive. “Nice children!” said the old man, taking off his spectacles and rubbing them carefully. Then he put them on again, and watched with an approving smile, while the children tossed over the heap of music, and we just caught Sylvie’s reproving words, “We’re not making hay, Bruno!” “This has been a long interruption to our conversation,” I said. “Pray let us go on!” “Willingly!” replied the gentle old man. “I was much interested in what you——” He paused a moment, and passed his hand uneasily across his brow. “One forgets,” he murmured. “What was I saying? Oh! Something you were to tell me. Yes. Which of your teachers do you value the most highly, those whose words are easily understood, or those who puzzle you at every turn?” 182 I felt obliged to admit that we generally admired most the teachers we couldn’t quite understand. “Just so,” said Mein Herr. “That’s the way it begins. Well, we were at that stage some eighty years ago—or was it ninety? Our favourite teacher got more obscure every year; and every year we admired him more—just as your Art-fanciers call mist the fairest feature in a landscape, and admire a view with frantic delight when they can see nothing! Now I’ll tell you how it ended. It was Moral Philosophy that our idol lectured on. Well, his pupils couldn’t make head or tail of it, but they got it all by heart; and, when Examination-time came, they wrote it down; and the Examiners said ‘Beautiful! What depth!’” “But what good was it to the young men afterwards?” “Why, don’t you see?” replied Mein Herr. “They became teachers in their turn, and they said all these things over again; and their pupils wrote it all down; and the Examiners accepted it; and nobody had the ghost of an idea what it all meant!” 183 “And how did it end?” “It ended this way. We woke up one fine day, and found there was no one in the place that knew anything about Moral Philosophy. So we abolished it, teachers, classes, examiners, and all. And if any one wanted to learn anything about it, he had to make it out for himself; and after another twenty years or so there were several men that really knew something about it! Now tell me another thing. How long do you teach a youth before you examine him, in your Universities?” I told him, three or four years. “Just so, just what we did!” he exclaimed. “We taught ’em a bit, and, just as they were beginning to take it in, we took it all out again! We pumped our wells dry before they were a quarter full—we stripped our orchards while the apples were still in blossom—we applied the severe logic of arithmetic to our chickens, while peacefully slumbering in their shells! Doubtless it’s the early bird that picks up the worm—but if the bird gets up so outrageously early that the worm is still deep underground, what then is its chance of a breakfast?” 184 Not much, I admitted. “Now see how that works!” he went on eagerly. “If you want to pump your wells so soon—and I suppose you tell me that is what you must do?” “We must,” I said. “In an over-crowded country like this, nothing but Competitive Examinations——” Mein Herr threw up his hands wildly. “What, again?” he cried. “I thought it was dead, fifty years ago! Oh this Upas tree of Competitive Examinations! Beneath whose deadly shade all the original genius, all the exhaustive research, all the untiring life-long diligence by which our fore-fathers have so advanced human knowledge, must slowly but surely wither away, and give place to a system of Cookery, in which the human mind is a sausage, and all we ask is, how much indigestible stuff can be crammed into it!” Always, after these bursts of eloquence, he seemed to forget himself for a moment, and only to hold on to the thread of thought by some single word. “Yes, crammed,” he repeated. “We went through all that stage of 185 the disease—had it bad, I warrant you! Of course, as the Examination was all in all, we tried to put in just what was wanted—and the great thing to aim at was, that the Candidate should know absolutely nothing beyond the needs of the Examination! I don’t say it was ever quite achieved: but one of my own pupils (pardon an old man’s egotism) came very near it. After the Examination, he mentioned to me the few facts which he knew but had not been able to bring in, and I can assure you they were trivial, Sir, absolutely trivial!” I feebly expressed my surprise and delight. The old man bowed, with a gratified smile, and proceeded. “At that time, no one had hit on the much more rational plan of watching for the individual scintillations of genius, and rewarding them as they occurred. As it was, we made our unfortunate pupil into a Leyden-jar, charged him up to the eyelids—then applied the knob of a Competitive Examination, and drew off one magnificent spark, which very often cracked the jar! What mattered that? We labeled it ‘First Class Spark,’ and put it away on the shelf.” 186 “But the more rational system——?” I suggested. “Ah, yes! that came next. Instead of giving the whole reward of learning in one lump, we used to pay for every good answer as it occurred. How well I remember lecturing in those days, with a heap of small coins at my elbow! It was ‘A very good answer, Mr. Jones!’ (that meant a shilling, mostly). ‘Bravo, Mr. Robinson!’ (that meant half-a-crown). Now I’ll tell you how that worked. Not one single fact would any of them take in, without a fee! And when a clever boy came up from school, he got paid more for learning than we got paid for teaching him! Then came the wildest craze of all.” “What, another craze?” I said. “It’s the last one,” said the old man. “I must have tired you out with my long story. Each College wanted to get the clever boys: so we adopted a system which we had heard was very popular in England: the Colleges competed against each other, and the boys let themselves out to the highest bidder! What geese we were! Why, they were bound 187 to come to the University somehow. We needn’t have paid ’em! And all our money went in getting clever boys to come to one College rather than another! The competition was so keen, that at last mere money-payments were not enough. Any College, that wished to secure some specially clever young man, had to waylay him at the Station, and hunt him through the streets. The first who touched him was allowed to have him.” “That hunting-down of the scholars, as they arrived, must have been a curious business,” I said. “Could you give me some idea of what it was like?” “Willingly!” said the old man. “I will describe to you the very last Hunt that took place, before that form of Sport (for it was actually reckoned among the Sports of the day: we called it ‘Cub-Hunting’) was finally abandoned. I witnessed it myself, as I happened to be passing by at the moment, and was what we called ‘in at the death.’ I can see it now!” he went on in an excited tone, gazing into vacancy with those large dreamy eyes of his. “It seems like yesterday; and 188 yet it happened——” He checked himself hastily, and the remaining words died away into a whisper. SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUED SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUED “How many years ago did you say?” I asked, much interested in the prospect of at last learning some definite fact in his history. 189 SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERS SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERS “Many years ago,” he replied. “The scene at the Railway-Station had been (so they told me) one of wild excitement. Eight or nine Heads of Colleges had assembled at the gates (no one was allowed inside), and the Station-Master had drawn a line on the pavement, and insisted on their all standing behind it. The gates were flung open! The young man darted through them, and fled like lightning down the street, while the Heads of Colleges actually yelled with excitement on catching sight of him! The Proctor gave the word, in the old statutory form, ‘Semel! Bis! Ter! Currite!’, and the Hunt began! Oh, it was a fine sight, believe me! At the first corner he dropped his Greek Lexicon: further on, his railway-rug: then various small articles: 190 then his umbrella: lastly, what I suppose he prized most, his hand-bag: but the game was up: the spherical Principal of—of——” “Of which College?” I said. “—of one of the Colleges,” he resumed, “had put into operation the Theory—his own discovery—of Accelerated Velocity, and captured him just opposite to where I stood. I shall never forget that wild breathless struggle! But it was soon over. Once in those great bony hands, escape was impossible!” “May I ask why you speak of him as the ‘spherical’ Principal?” I said. “The epithet referred to his shape, which was a perfect sphere. You are aware that a bullet, another instance of a perfect sphere, when falling in a perfectly straight line, moves with Accelerated Velocity?” I bowed assent. “Well, my spherical friend (as I am proud to call him) set himself to investigate the causes of this. He found them to be three. One; that it is a perfect sphere. Two; that it moves in a straight line. Three; that its direction is not upwards. When these three 191 conditions are fulfilled, you get Accelerated Velocity.” “Hardly,” I said: “if you will excuse my differing from you. Suppose we apply the theory to horizontal motion. If a bullet is fired horizontally, it——” “—it does not move in a straight line,” he quietly finished my sentence for me. “I yield the point,” I said. “What did your friend do next?” “The next thing was to apply the theory, as you rightly suggest, to horizontal motion. But the moving body, ever tending to fall, needs constant support, if it is to move in a true horizontal line. ‘What, then,’ he asked himself, ‘will give constant support to a moving body?’ And his answer was ‘Human legs!’ That was the discovery that immortalised his name!” “His name being——?” I suggested. “I had not mentioned it,” was the gentle reply of my most unsatisfactory informant. “His next step was an obvious one. He took to a diet of suet-dumplings, until his body had become a perfect sphere. Then 192 he went out for his first experimental run—which nearly cost him his life!” “How was that?” “Well, you see, he had no idea of the tremendous new Force in Nature that he was calling into play. He began too fast. In a very few minutes he found himself moving at a hundred miles an hour! And, if he had not had the presence of mind to charge into the middle of a haystack (which he scattered to the four winds) there can be no doubt that he would have left the Planet he belonged to, and gone right away into Space!” “And how came that to be the last of the Cub-Hunts?” I enquired. “Well, you see, it led to a rather scandalous dispute between two of the Colleges. Another Principal had laid his hand on the young man, so nearly at the same moment as the spherical one, that there was no knowing which had touched him first. The dispute got into print, and did us no credit, and, in short, Cub-Hunts came to an end. Now I’ll tell you what cured us of that wild craze of ours, the bidding against each other, for the 193 clever scholars, just as if they were articles to be sold by auction! Just when the craze had reached its highest point, and when one of the Colleges had actually advertised a Scholarship of one thousand pounds per annum, one of our tourists brought us the manuscript of an old African legend—I happen to have a copy of it in my pocket. Shall I translate it for you?” “Pray go on,” I said, though I felt I was getting very sleepy. 194 CHAPTER XIII. WHAT TOTTLES MEANT. Mein Herr unrolled the manuscript, but, to my great surprise, instead of reading it, he began to sing it, in a rich mellow voice that seemed to ring through the room. “One thousand pounds per annuum Is not so bad a figure, come!” Cried Tottles. “And I tell you, flat, A man may marry well on that! To say ‘the Husband needs the Wife’ Is not the way to represent it. The crowning joy of Woman’s life Is Man!” said Tottles (and he meant it). 195 The blissful Honey-moon is past: The Pair have settled down at last: Mamma-in-law their home will share, And make their happiness her care. “Your income is an ample one; Go it, my children!” (And they went it). “I rayther think this kind of fun Won’t last!” said Tottles (and he meant it). They took a little country-box— A box at Covent Garden also: They lived a life of double-knocks, Acquaintances began to call so: Their London house was much the same (It took three hundred, clear, to rent it): “Life is a very jolly game!” Cried happy Tottles (and he meant it). ‘Contented with a frugal lot’ (He always used that phrase at Gunter’s), He bought a handy little yacht— A dozen serviceable hunters— The fishing of a Highland Loch— A sailing-boat to circumvent it— “The sounding of that Gaelic ‘och’ Beats me!” said Tottles (and he meant it). 196 Here, with one of those convulsive starts that wake one up in the very act of dropping off to sleep, I became conscious that the deep musical tones that thrilled me did not belong to Mein Herr, but to the French Count. The old man was still conning the manuscript. “I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting!” he said. “I was just making sure that I knew the English for all the words. I am quite ready now.” And he read me the following Legend:— “In a city that stands in the very centre of Africa, and is rarely visited by the casual tourist, the people had always bought eggs—a daily necessary in a climate where egg-flip was the usual diet—from a Merchant who came to their gates once a week. And the people always bid wildly against each other: so there was quite a lively auction every time the Merchant came, and the last egg in his basket used to fetch the value of two or three camels, or thereabouts. And eggs got dearer every week. And still they drank their egg-flip, and wondered where all their money went to. 197 THE EGG-MERCHANT THE EGG-MERCHANT “And there came a day when they put their heads together. And they understood what donkeys they had been. “And next day, when the Merchant came, only one Man went forth. And he said ‘Oh, thou of the hook-nose and the goggle-eyes, thou of the measureless beard, how much for that lot of eggs?’ 198 “And the Merchant answered him ‘I could let thee have that lot at ten thousand piastres the dozen.’ “And the Man chuckled inwardly, and said ‘Ten piastres the dozen I offer thee, and no more, oh descendant of a distinguished grandfather!’ “And the Merchant stroked his beard, and said ‘Hum! I will await the coming of thy friends,’ So he waited. And the Man waited with him. And they waited both together.” “The manuscript breaks off here,” said Mein Herr, as he rolled it up again; “but it was enough to open our eyes. We saw what simpletons we had been—buying our Scholars much as those ignorant savages bought their eggs—and the ruinous system was abandoned. If only we could have abandoned, along with it, all the other fashions we had borrowed from you, instead of carrying them to their logical results! But it was not to be. What ruined my country, and drove me from my home, was the introduction—into the Army, of all places—of your theory of Political Dichotomy!” 199 “Shall I trouble you too much,” I said, “if I ask you to explain what you mean by ‘the Theory of Political Dichotomy’?” “No trouble at all!” was Mein Herr’s most courteous reply. “I quite enjoy talking, when I get so good a listener. What started the thing, with us, was the report brought to us, by one of our most eminent statesmen, who had stayed some time in England, of the way affairs were managed there. It was a political necessity (so he assured us, and we believed him, though we had never discovered it till that moment) that there should be two Parties, in every affair and on every subject. In Politics, the two Parties, which you had found it necessary to institute, were called, he told us, ‘Whigs’ and ‘Tories’.” “That must have been some time ago?” I remarked. “It was some time ago,” he admitted. “And this was the way the affairs of the British Nation were managed. (You will correct me if I misrepresent it. I do but repeat what our traveler told us.) These two Parties—which were in chronic hostility 200 to each other—took turns in conducting the Government; and the Party, that happened not to be in power, was called the ‘Opposition’, I believe?” “That is the right name,” I said. “There have always been, so long as we have had a Parliament at all, two Parties, one ‘in’, and one ‘out’.” “Well, the function of the ‘Ins’ (if I may so call them) was to do the best they could for the national welfare—in such things as making war or peace, commercial treaties, and so forth?” “Undoubtedly,” I said. “And the function of the ‘Outs’ was (so our traveller assured us, though we were very incredulous at first) to prevent the ‘Ins’ from succeeding in any of these things?” “To criticize and to amend their proceedings,” I corrected him. “It would be unpatriotic to hinder the Government in doing what was for the good of the Nation! We have always held a Patriot to be the greatest of heroes, and an unpatriotic spirit to be one of the worst of human ills!” 201 “Excuse me for a moment,” the old gentleman courteously replied, taking out his pocket-book. “I have a few memoranda here, of a correspondence I had with our tourist, and, if you will allow me, I’ll just refresh my memory—although I quite agree with you—it is, as you say, one of the worst of human ills—” And, here Mein Herr began singing again:— But oh, the worst of human ills (Poor Tottles found) are ‘little bills’! And, with no balance in the Bank, What wonder that his spirits sank? Still, as the money flowed away, He wondered how on earth she spent it. “You cost me twenty pounds a day, At least!” cried Tottles (and he meant it). She sighed. “Those Drawing Rooms, you know! I really never thought about it: Mamma declared we ought to go— We should be Nobodies without it. That diamond-circlet for my brow— I quite believed that she had sent it, Until the Bill came in just now——” “Viper!” cried Tottles (and he meant it). 202 Poor Mrs. T. could bear no more, But fainted flat upon the floor. Mamma-in-law, with anguish wild, Seeks, all in vain, to rouse her child. “Quick! Take this box of smelling-salts! Don’t scold her, James, or you’ll repent it, She’s a dear girl, with all her faults——” “She is!” groaned Tottles (and he meant it). “I was a donkey,” Tottles cried, “To choose your daughter for my bride! ’Twas you that bid us cut a dash! ’Tis you have brought us to this smash! You don’t suggest one single thing That can in any way prevent it—— Then what’s the use of arguing? Shut up!” cried Tottles (and he meant it). Once more I started into wakefulness, and realised that Mein Herr was not the singer. He was still consulting his memoranda. “It is exactly what my friend told me,” he resumed, after conning over various papers. “‘Unpatriotic’ is the very word I had used, in writing to him, and ‘hinder’ is the very word he used in his reply! Allow me to read you a portion of his letter:—— 203 “‘I can assure you,’ he writes, ‘that, unpatriotic as you may think it, the recognised function of the ‘Opposition’ is to hinder, in every manner not forbidden by the Law, the action of the Government. This process is called ‘Legitimate Obstruction’: and the greatest triumph the ‘Opposition’ can ever enjoy, is when they are able to point out that, owing to their ‘Obstruction’, the Government have failed in everything they have tried to do for the good of the Nation!’” “Your friend has not put it quite correctly,” I said. “The Opposition would no doubt be glad to point out that the Government had failed through their own fault; but not that they had failed on account of Obstruction!” “You think so?” he gently replied. “Allow me now to read to you this newspaper-cutting, which my friend enclosed in his letter. It is part of the report of a public speech, made by a Statesman who was at the time a member of the ‘Opposition’:— “‘At the close of the Session, he thought they had no reason to be discontented with the 204 fortunes of the campaign. They had routed the enemy at every point. But the pursuit must be continued. They had only to follow up a disordered and dispirited foe.’” “Now to what portion of your national history would you guess that the speaker was referring?” “Really, the number of successful wars we have waged during the last century,” I replied, with a glow of British pride, “is far too great for me to guess, with any chance of success, which it was we were then engaged in. However, I will name ‘India’ as the most probable. The Mutiny was no doubt, all but crushed, at the time that speech was made. What a fine, manly, patriotic speech it must have been!” I exclaimed in an outburst of enthusiasm. “You think so?” he replied, in a tone of gentle pity. “Yet my friend tells me that the ‘disordered and dispirited foe’ simply meant the Statesmen who happened to be in power at the moment; that the ‘pursuit’ simply meant ‘Obstruction’; and that the 205 words ‘they had routed the enemy’ simply meant that the ‘Opposition’ had succeeded in hindering the Government from doing any of the work which the Nation had empowered them to do!” I thought it best to say nothing. “It seemed queer to us, just at first,” he resumed, after courteously waiting a minute for me to speak: “but, when once we had mastered the idea, our respect for your Nation was so great that we carried it into every department of life! It was ‘the beginning of the end’ with us. My country never held up its head again!” And the poor old gentleman sighed deeply. “Let us change the subject,” I said. “Do not distress yourself, I beg!” “No, no!” he said, with an effort to recover himself. “I had rather finish my story! The next step (after reducing our Government to impotence, and putting a stop to all useful legislation, which did not take us long to do) was to introduce what we called ‘the glorious British Principle of Dichotomy’ into Agriculture. We persuaded many of the well-to-do 206 farmers to divide their staff of labourers into two Parties, and to set them one against the other. They were called, like our political Parties, the ‘Ins’ and the ‘Outs’: the business of the ‘Ins’ was to do as much of ploughing, sowing, or whatever might be needed, as they could manage in a day, and at night they were paid according to the amount they had done: the business of the ‘Outs’ was to hinder them, and they were paid for the amount they had hindered. The farmers found they had to pay only half as much wages as they did before, and they didn’t observe that the amount of work done was only a quarter as much as was done before: so they took it up quite enthusiastically, at first.” “And afterwards——?” I enquired. “Well, afterwards they didn’t like it quite so well. In a very short time, things settled down into a regular routine. No work at all was done. So the ‘Ins’ got no wages, and the ‘Outs’ got full pay. And the farmers never discovered, till most of them were ruined, that the rascals had agreed to manage it so, and had shared the pay between them! 207 While the thing lasted, there were funny sights to be seen! Why, I’ve often watched a ploughman, with two horses harnessed to the plough, doing his best to get it forwards; while the opposition-ploughman, with three donkeys harnessed at the other end, was doing his best to get it backwards! And the plough never moving an inch, either way!” “But we never did anything like that!” I exclaimed. “Simply because you were less logical than we were,” replied Mein Herr. “There is sometimes an advantage in being a donk—Excuse me! No personal allusion intended. All this happened long ago, you know!” “Did the Dichotomy-Principle succeed in any direction?” I enquired. “In none,” Mein Herr candidly confessed. “It had a very short trial in Commerce. The shop-keepers wouldn’t take it up, after once trying the plan of having half the attendants busy in folding up and carrying away the goods which the other half were trying to spread out upon the counters. They said the Public didn’t like it!” 208 “I don’t wonder at it,” I remarked. “Well, we tried ‘the British Principle’ for some years. And the end of it all was—” His voice suddenly dropped, almost to a whisper; and large tears began to roll down his cheeks. “—the end was that we got involved in a war; and there was a great battle, in which we far out-numbered the enemy. But what could one expect, when only half of our soldiers were fighting, and the other half pulling them back? It ended in a crushing defeat—an utter rout. This caused a Revolution; and most of the Government were banished. I myself was accused of Treason, for having so strongly advocated ‘the British Principle.’ My property was all forfeited, and—and—I was driven into exile! ‘Now the mischief’s done,’ they said, ‘perhaps you’ll kindly leave the country?’ It nearly broke my heart, but I had to go!” The melancholy tone became a wail: the wail became a chant: the chant became a song—though whether it was Mein Herr that was singing, this time, or somebody else, I could not feel certain. 209 “And, now the mischief’s done, perhaps You’ll kindly go and pack your traps? Since two (your daughter and your son) Are Company, but three are none. A course of saving we’ll begin: When change is needed, I’ll invent it: Don’t think to put your finger in This pie!” cried Tottles (and he meant it). The music seemed to die away. Mein Herr was again speaking in his ordinary voice. “Now tell me one thing more,” he said. “Am I right in thinking that in your Universities, though a man may reside some thirty or forty years, you examine him, once for all, at the end of the first three or four?” “That is so, undoubtedly,” I admitted. “Practically, then, you examine a man at the beginning of his career!” the old man said to himself rather than to me. “And what guarantee have you that he retains the knowledge for which you have rewarded him—beforehand, as we should say?” “None,” I admitted, feeling a little puzzled at the drift of his remarks. “How do you secure that object?” 210 “By examining him at the end of his thirty or forty years—not at the beginning,” he gently replied. “On an average, the knowledge then found is about one-fifth of what it was at first—the process of forgetting going on at a very steady uniform rate—and he, who forgets least, gets most honour, and most rewards.” “Then you give him the money when he needs it no longer? And you make him live most of his life on nothing!” “Hardly that. He gives his orders to the tradesmen: they supply him, for forty, sometimes fifty, years, at their own risk: then he gets his Fellowship—which pays him in one year as much as your Fellowships pay in fifty—and then he can easily pay all his bills, with interest.” “But suppose he fails to get his Fellowship? That must occasionally happen.” “That occasionally happens.” It was Mein Herr’s turn, now, to make admissions. “And what becomes of the tradesmen?” “They calculate accordingly. When a man appears to be getting alarmingly ignorant, or 211 stupid, they will sometimes refuse to supply him any longer. You have no idea with what enthusiasm a man will begin to rub up his forgotten sciences or languages, when his butcher has cut off the supply of beef and mutton!” “And who are the Examiners?” “The young men who have just come, brimming over with knowledge. You would think it a curious sight,” he went on, “to see mere boys examining such old men. I have known a man set to examine his own grandfather. It was a little painful for both of them, no doubt. The old gentleman was as bald as a coot——” “How bald would that be?” I’ve no idea why I asked this question. I felt I was getting foolish. 212 CHAPTER XIV. BRUNO’S PICNIC. “As bald as bald,” was the bewildering reply. “Now, Bruno, I’ll tell you a story.” “And I’ll tell oo a story,” said Bruno, beginning in a great hurry for fear of Sylvie getting the start of him: “once there were a Mouse—a little tiny Mouse—such a tiny little Mouse! Oo never saw such a tiny Mouse——” “Did nothing ever happen to it, Bruno?” I asked. “Haven’t you anything more to tell us, besides its being so tiny?” “Nothing never happened to it,” Bruno solemnly replied. 213 “Why did nothing never happen to it?” said Sylvie, who was sitting, with her head on Bruno’s shoulder, patiently waiting for a chance of beginning her story. “It were too tiny,” Bruno explained. “That’s no reason!” I said. “However tiny it was, things might happen to it.” Bruno looked pityingly at me, as if he thought me very stupid. “It were too tiny,” he repeated. “If anything happened to it, it would die—it were so very tiny!” “Really that’s enough about its being tiny!” Sylvie put in. “Haven’t you invented any more about it?” “Haven’t invented no more yet.” “Well then, you shouldn’t begin a story till you’ve invented more! Now be quiet, there’s a good boy, and listen to my story.” And Bruno, having quite exhausted all his inventive faculty, by beginning in too great a hurry, quietly resigned himself to listening. “Tell about the other Bruno, please,” he said coaxingly. Sylvie put her arms round his neck, and began:—— 214 “The wind was whispering among the trees,” (“That wasn’t good manners!” Bruno interrupted. “Never mind about manners,” said Sylvie) “and it was evening—a nice moony evening, and the Owls were hooting——” “Pretend they weren’t Owls!” Bruno pleaded, stroking her cheek with his fat little hand. “I don’t like Owls. Owls have such great big eyes. Pretend they were Chickens!” “Are you afraid of their great big eyes, Bruno?” I said. “Aren’t ’fraid of nothing,” Bruno answered in as careless a tone as he could manage: “they’re ugly with their great big eyes. I think if they cried, the tears would be as big—oh, as big as the moon!” And he laughed merrily. “Doos Owls cry ever, Mister Sir?” “Owls cry never,” I said gravely, trying to copy Bruno’s way of speaking: “they’ve got nothing to be sorry for, you know.” “Oh, but they have!” Bruno exclaimed. “They’re ever so sorry, ’cause they killed the poor little Mouses!” “But they’re not sorry when they’re hungry, I suppose?” 215 “Oo don’t know nothing about Owls!” Bruno scornfully remarked. “When they’re hungry, they’re very, very sorry they killed the little Mouses, ’cause if they hadn’t killed them there’d be sumfin for supper, oo know!” Bruno was evidently getting into a dangerously inventive state of mind, so Sylvie broke in with “Now I’m going on with the story. So the Owls—the Chickens, I mean—were looking to see if they could find a nice fat Mouse for their supper——” “Pretend it was a nice ’abbit!” said Bruno. “But it wasn’t a nice habit, to kill Mouses,” Sylvie argued. “I can’t pretend that!” “I didn’t say ‘habit,’ oo silly fellow!” Bruno replied with a merry twinkle in his eye. “’abbits—that runs about in the fields!” “Rabbit? Well it can be a Rabbit, if you like. But you mustn’t alter my story so much, Bruno. A Chicken couldn’t eat a Rabbit!” “But it might have wished to see if it could try to eat it.” “Well, it wished to see if it could try—oh, really, Bruno, that’s nonsense! I shall go back to the Owls.” 216 “Well then, pretend they hadn’t great eyes!” “And they saw a little Boy,” Sylvie went on, disdaining to make any further corrections. “And he asked them to tell him a story. And the Owls hooted and flew away——” (“Oo shouldn’t say ‘flewed;’ oo should say ‘flied,’” Bruno whispered. But Sylvie wouldn’t hear.) “And he met a Lion. And he asked the Lion to tell him a story. And the Lion said ‘yes,’ it would. And, while the Lion was telling him the story, it nibbled some of his head off——” “Don’t say ‘nibbled’!” Bruno entreated. “Only little things nibble—little thin sharp things, with edges——” “Well then, it ‘nubbled,’” said Sylvie. “And when it had nubbled all his head off, he went away, and he never said ‘thank you’!” “That were very rude,” said Bruno. “If he couldn’t speak, he might have nodded—no, he couldn’t nod. Well, he might have shaked hands with the Lion!” “Oh, I’d forgotten that part!” said Sylvie. “He did shake hands with it. He came back again, you know, and he thanked the Lion very much, for telling him the story.” 217 “Then his head had growed up again?” said Bruno. “Oh yes, it grew up in a minute. And the Lion begged pardon, and said it wouldn’t nubble off little boys’ heads—not never no more!” Bruno looked much pleased at this change of events. “Now that are a really nice story!” he said. “Aren’t it a nice story, Mister Sir?” “Very,” I said. “I would like to hear another story about that Boy.” “So would I,” said Bruno, stroking Sylvie’s cheek again. “Please tell about Bruno’s Picnic; and don’t talk about nubbly Lions!” “I won’t, if it frightens you,” said Sylvie. “Flightens me!” Bruno exclaimed indignantly. “It isn’t that! It’s ’cause ‘nubbly’ ’s such a grumbly word to say—when one person’s got her head on another person’s shoulder. When she talks like that,” he explained to me, “the talking goes down bofe sides of my face—all the way to my chin—and it doos tickle so! It’s enough to make a beard grow, that it is!” He said this with great severity, but it was evidently meant for a joke: so Sylvie laughed—a 218 delicious musical little laugh, and laid her soft cheek on the top of her brother’s curly head, as if it were a pillow, while she went on with the story. “So this Boy——” “But it wasn’t me, oo know!” Bruno interrupted. “And oo needn’t try to look as if it was, Mister Sir!” I represented, respectfully, that I was trying to look as if it wasn’t. “—he was a middling good Boy——” “He were a welly good Boy!” Bruno corrected her. “And he never did nothing he wasn’t told to do——” “That doesn’t make a good Boy!” Sylvie said contemptuously. “That do make a good Boy!” Bruno insisted. Sylvie gave up the point. “Well, he was a very good Boy, and he always kept his promises, and he had a big cupboard——” “—for to keep all his promises in!” cried Bruno. “If he kept all his promises,” Sylvie said, with a mischievous look in her eyes, “he wasn’t like some Boys I know of!” 219 “He had to put salt with them, a-course,” Bruno said gravely: “oo ca’n’t keep promises when there isn’t any salt. And he kept his birthday on the second shelf.” “How long did he keep his birthday?” I asked. “I never can keep mine more than twenty-four hours.” “Why, a birthday stays that long by itself!” cried Bruno. “Oo doosn’t know how to keep birthdays! This Boy kept his a whole year!” “And then the next birthday would begin,” said Sylvie. “So it would be his birthday always.” “So it were,” said Bruno. “Doos oo have treats on oor birthday, Mister Sir?” “Sometimes,” I said. “When oo’re good, I suppose?” “Why, it is a sort of treat, being good, isn’t it?” I said. “A sort of treat!” Bruno repeated. “It’s a sort of punishment, I think!” “Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie interrupted, almost sadly. “How can you?” “Well, but it is,” Bruno persisted. “Why, look here, Mister Sir! This is being good!” 220 And he sat bolt upright, and put on an absurdly solemn face. “First oo must sit up as straight as pokers——” “—as a poker,” Sylvie corrected him. “—as straight as pokers,” Bruno firmly repeated. “Then oo must clasp oor hands—so. Then—‘Why hasn’t oo brushed oor hair? Go and brush it toreckly!’ Then—‘Oh, Bruno, oo mustn’t dog’s-ear the daisies!’ Did oo learn oor spelling wiz daisies, Mister Sir?” “I want to hear about that Boy’s Birthday,” I said. Bruno returned to the story instantly. “Well, so this Boy said ‘Now it’s my Birthday!’ And so—I’m tired!” he suddenly broke off, laying his head in Sylvie’s lap. “Sylvie knows it best. Sylvie’s grown-upper than me. Go on, Sylvie!” Sylvie patiently took up the thread of the story again. “So he said ‘Now it’s my Birthday. Whatever shall I do to keep my Birthday? All good little Boys——” (Sylvie turned away from Bruno, and made a great pretence of whispering to me) “—all good little 221 Boys—Boys that learn their lessons quite perfect—they always keep their birthdays, you know. So of course this little Boy kept his Birthday.” “Oo may call him Bruno, if oo like,” the little fellow carelessly remarked. “It weren’t me, but it makes it more interesting.” “So Bruno said to himself ‘The properest thing to do is to have a Picnic, all by myself, on the top of the hill. And I’ll take some Milk, and some Bread, and some Apples: and first and foremost, I want some Milk!’ So, first and foremost, Bruno took a milk-pail——” “And he went and milkted the Cow!” Bruno put in. “Yes,” said Sylvie, meekly accepting the new verb. “And the Cow said ‘Moo! What are you going to do with all that Milk?’ And Bruno said ‘Please’m, I want it for my Picnic.’ And the Cow said ‘Moo! But I hope you wo’n’t boil any of it?’ And Bruno said ‘No, indeed I won’t! New Milk’s so nice and so warm, it wants no boiling!’” “It doesn’t want no boiling,” Bruno offered as an amended version. 222 “So Bruno put the Milk in a bottle. And then Bruno said ‘Now I want some Bread!’ So he went to the Oven, and he took out a delicious new Loaf. And the Oven——” “—ever so light and so puffy!” Bruno impatiently corrected her. “Oo shouldn’t leave out so many words!” Sylvie humbly apologised. “—a delicious new Loaf, ever so light and so puffy. And the Oven said——” Here Sylvie made a long pause. “Really I don’t know what an Oven begins with, when it wants to speak!” Both children looked appealingly at me; but I could only say, helplessly, “I haven’t the least idea! I never heard an Oven speak!” For a minute or two we all sat silent; and then Bruno said, very softly, “Oven begins wiz ‘O’.” “Good little boy!” Sylvie exclaimed. “He does his spelling very nicely. He’s cleverer than he knows!” she added, aside, to me. “So the Oven said ‘O! What are you going to do with all that Bread?’ And Bruno said ‘Please——’ Is an Oven ‘Sir’ or ‘’m,’ would you say?” She looked to me for a reply. 223 “Both, I think,” seemed to me the safest thing to say. Sylvie adopted the suggestion instantly. “So Bruno said ‘Please, Sirm, I want it for my Picnic.’ And the Oven said ‘O! But I hope you wo’n’t toast any of it?’ And Bruno said ‘No, indeed I wo’n’t! New Bread’s so light and so puffy, it wants no toasting!’” “It never doesn’t want no toasting,” said Bruno. “I wiss oo wouldn’t say it so short!” “So Bruno put the Bread in the hamper. Then Bruno said ‘Now I want some Apples!’ So he took the hamper, and he went to the Apple-Tree, and he picked some lovely ripe Apples. And the Apple-Tree said——” Here followed another long pause. Bruno adopted his favourite expedient of tapping his forehead; while Sylvie gazed earnestly upwards, as if she hoped for some suggestion from the birds, who were singing merrily among the branches overhead. But no result followed. “What does an Apple-tree begin with, when it wants to speak?” Sylvie murmured despairingly, to the irresponsive birds. 224 At last, taking a leaf out of Bruno’s book, I ventured on a remark. “Doesn’t ‘Apple-tree’ always begin with ‘Eh!’?” “Why, of course it does! How clever of you!” Sylvie cried delightedly. Bruno jumped up, and patted me on the head. I tried not to feel conceited. “So the Apple Tree said ‘Eh! What are you going to do with all those Apples?’ And Bruno said ‘Please, Sir, I want them for my Picnic,’ And the Apple-Tree said ‘Eh! But I hope you wo’n’t bake any of them?’ And Bruno said ‘No, indeed I wo’n’t! Ripe Apples are so nice and so sweet, they want no baking!’” “They never doesn’t——” Bruno was beginning, but Sylvie corrected herself before he could get the words out. “‘They never doesn’t nonow want no baking.’ So Bruno put the Apples in the hamper, along with the Bread, and the bottle of Milk. And he set off to have a Picnic, on the top of the hill, all by himself——” “He wasn’t greedy, oo know, to have it all by himself,” Bruno said, patting me on the 225 cheek to call my attention; “’cause he hadn’t got no brothers and sisters.” “It was very sad to have no sisters, wasn’t it?” I said. “Well, I don’t know,” Bruno said thoughtfully; “’cause he hadn’t no lessons to do. So he didn’t mind.” Sylvie went on. “So, as he was walking along the road, he heard behind him such a curious sort of noise—a sort of a Thump! Thump! Thump! ‘Whatever is that?’ said Bruno. ‘Oh, I know!’ said Bruno. ‘Why, it’s only my Watch a-ticking!’” “Were it his Watch a-ticking?” Bruno asked me, with eyes that fairly sparkled with mischievous delight. “No doubt of it!” I replied. And Bruno laughed exultingly. “Then Bruno thought a little harder. And he said ‘No! It ca’n’t be my Watch a-ticking; because I haven’t got a Watch!’” Bruno peered up anxiously into my face, to see how I took it. I hung my head, and put a thumb into my mouth, to the evident delight of the little fellow. 226 “So Bruno went a little further along the road. And then he heard it again, that queer noise—Thump! Thump! Thump! ‘What ever is that?’ said Bruno. ‘Oh, I know!’ said Bruno. ‘Why, it’s only the Carpenter a-mending my Wheelbarrow!’” “Were it the Carterpenter a-mending his Wheelbarrow?” Bruno asked me. I brightened up, and said “It must have been!” in a tone of absolute conviction. Bruno threw his arms round Sylvie’s neck. “Sylvie!” he said, in a perfectly audible whisper. “He says it must have been!” “Then Bruno thought a little harder. And he said ‘No! It ca’n’t be the Carpenter amending my Wheelbarrow, because I haven’t got a Wheelbarrow!’” This time I hid my face in my hands, quite unable to meet Bruno’s look of triumph. “So Bruno went a little further along the road. And then he heard that queer noise again—Thump! Thump! Thump! So he thought he’d look round, this time, just to see what it was. And what should it be but a great Lion!” 227 “A great big Lion,” Bruno corrected her. “A great big Lion. And Bruno was ever so frightened, and he ran——” “No, he wasn’t flightened a bit!” Bruno interrupted. (He was evidently anxious for the reputation of his namesake.) “He runned away to get a good look at the Lion; ’cause he wanted to see if it were the same Lion what used to nubble little Boys’ heads off; and he wanted to know how big it was!” “Well, he ran away, to get a good look at the Lion. And the Lion trotted slowly after him. And the Lion called after him, in a very gentle voice, ‘Little Boy, little Boy! You needn’t be afraid of me! I’m a very gentle old Lion now. I never nubble little Boys’ heads off, as I used to do.’ And so Bruno said ‘Don’t you really, Sir? Then what do you live on?’ And the Lion——” “Oo see he weren’t a bit flightened!” Bruno said to me, patting my cheek again. “’cause he remembered to call it ‘Sir,’ oo know.” I said that no doubt that was the real test whether a person was frightened or not. 228 “And the Lion said ‘Oh, I live on bread-and-butter, and cherries, and marmalade, and plum-cake———’” “—and apples!” Bruno put in. “Yes, ‘and apples.’ And Bruno said ‘Won’t you come with me to my Picnic?’ And the Lion said ‘Oh, I should like it very much indeed!’ And Bruno and the Lion went away together.” Sylvie stopped suddenly. “Is that all?” I asked, despondingly. “Not quite all,” Sylvie slily replied. “There’s a sentence or two more. Isn’t there, Bruno?” “Yes,” with a carelessness that was evidently put on: “just a sentence or two more.” “And, as they were walking along, they looked over a hedge, and who should they see but a little black Lamb! And the Lamb was ever so frightened. And it ran——” “It were really flightened!” Bruno put in. “It ran away. And Bruno ran after it. And he called ‘Little Lamb! You needn’t be afraid of this Lion! It never kills things! It lives on cherries, and marmalade——’” “—and apples!” said Bruno. “Oo always forgets the apples!” 229 “And Bruno said ‘Wo’n’t you come with us to my Picnic?’ And the Lamb said ‘Oh, I should like it very much indeed, if my Ma will let me!’ And Bruno said ‘Let’s go and ask your Ma!’ And they went to the old Sheep. And Bruno said ‘Please, may your little Lamb come to my Picnic?’ And the Sheep said ‘Yes, if it’s learnt all its lessons.’ And the Lamb said ‘Oh yes, Ma! I’ve learnt all my lessons!’” “Pretend it hadn’t any lessons!” Bruno earnestly pleaded. “Oh, that would never do!” said Sylvie. “I ca’n’t leave out all about the lessons! And the old Sheep said ‘Do you know your A B C yet? Have you learnt A?’ And the Lamb said ‘Oh yes, Ma! I went to the A-field, and I helped them to make A!’ ‘Very good, my child! And have you learnt B?’ ‘Oh yes, Ma! I went to the B-hive, and the B gave me some honey!’ ‘Very good, my child! And have you learnt C?’ ‘Oh yes, Ma! I went to the C-side, and I saw the ships sailing on the C!’ ‘Very good, my child! You may go to Bruno’s Picnic.’ 230 STARTING FOR BRUNO’S PICNIC STARTING FOR BRUNO’S PICNIC “So they set off. And Bruno walked in the middle, so that the Lamb mightn’t see the Lion——” “It were flightened,” Bruno explained. “Yes, and it trembled so; and it got paler and paler; and, before they’d got to the top of the hill, it was a white little Lamb—as white as snow!” 231 “But Bruno weren’t flightened!” said the owner of that name. “So he staid black!” “No, he didn’t stay black! He staid pink!” laughed Sylvie. “I shouldn’t kiss you like this, you know, if you were black!” “Oo’d have to!” Bruno said with great decision. “Besides, Bruno wasn’t Bruno, oo know—I mean, Bruno wasn’t me—I mean—don’t talk nonsense, Sylvie!” “I won’t do it again!” Sylvie said very humbly. “And so, as they went along, the Lion said ‘Oh, I’ll tell you what I used to do when I was a young Lion. I used to hide behind trees, to watch for little Boys.’” (Bruno cuddled a little closer to her.) “‘And, if a little thin scraggy Boy came by, why, I used to let him go. But, if a little fat juicy——’” Bruno could bear no more. “Pretend he wasn’t juicy!” he pleaded, half-sobbing. “Nonsense, Bruno!” Sylvie briskly replied. “It’ll be done in a moment! ‘—if a little fat juicy Boy came by, why, I used to spring out and gobble him up! Oh, you’ve no idea what a delicious thing it is—a little juicy Boy!’ And Bruno said ‘Oh, if you please, 232 Sir, don’t talk about eating little boys! It makes me so shivery!’” The real Bruno shivered, in sympathy with the hero. “And the Lion said ‘Oh, well, we won’t talk about it, then! I’ll tell you what happened on my wedding-day——’” “I like this part better,” said Bruno, patting my cheek to keep me awake. “‘There was, oh, such a lovely wedding-breakfast! At one end of the table there was a large plum-pudding. And at the other end there was a nice roasted Lamb! Oh, you’ve no idea what a delicious thing it is—a nice roasted Lamb!’ And the Lamb said ‘Oh, if you please, Sir, don’t talk about eating Lambs! It makes me so shivery!’ And the Lion said ‘Oh, well, we won’t talk about it, then!’” 233 CHAPTER XV. THE LITTLE FOXES. “So, when they got to the top of the hill, Bruno opened the hamper: and he took out the Bread, and the Apples, and the Milk: and they ate, and they drank. And when they’d finished the Milk, and eaten half the Bread and half the Apples, the Lamb said ‘Oh, my paws is so sticky! I want to wash my paws!’ And the Lion said ‘Well, go down the hill, and wash them in the brook, yonder. We’ll wait for you!’” “It never comed back!” Bruno solemnly whispered to me. 234 But Sylvie overheard him. “You’re not to whisper, Bruno! It spoils the story! And when the Lamb had been gone a long time, the Lion said to Bruno ‘Do go and see after that silly little Lamb! It must have lost its way.’ And Bruno went down the hill. And when he got to the brook, he saw the Lamb sitting on the bank: and who should be sitting by it but an old Fox!” “Don’t know who should be sitting by it,” Bruno said thoughtfully to himself. “A old Fox were sitting by it.” “And the old Fox were saying,” Sylvie went on, for once conceding the grammatical point, “‘Yes, my dear, you’ll be ever so happy with us, if you’ll only come and see us! I’ve got three little Foxes there, and we do love little Lambs so dearly!’ And the Lamb said ‘But you never eat them, do you, Sir?’ And the Fox said ‘Oh, no! What, eat a Lamb? We never dream of doing such a thing!’ So the Lamb said ‘Then I’ll come with you.’ And off they went, hand in hand.” “That Fox were welly extremely wicked, weren’t it?” said Bruno. 235 “No, no!” said Sylvie, rather shocked at such violent language. “It wasn’t quite so bad as that!” “Well, I mean, it wasn’t nice,” the little fellow corrected himself. “And so Bruno went back to the Lion. ‘Oh, come quick!’ he said. ‘The Fox has taken the Lamb to his house with him! I’m sure he means to eat it!’ And the Lion said ‘I’ll come as quick as ever I can!’ And they trotted down the hill.” “Do oo think he caught the Fox, Mister Sir?” said Bruno. I shook my head, not liking to speak: and Sylvie went on. “And when they got to the house, Bruno looked in at the window. And there he saw the three little Foxes sitting round the table, with their clean pinafores on, and spoons in their hands——” “Spoons in their hands!” Bruno repeated in an ecstasy of delight. “And the Fox had got a great big knife—all ready to kill the poor little Lamb——” (“Oo needn’t be flightened, Mister Sir!” Bruno put in, in a hasty whisper.) 236 ‘ENTER THE LION’ ‘ENTER THE LION’ 237 “And just as he was going to do it, Bruno heard a great ROAR——” (The real Bruno put his hand into mine, and held tight), “and the Lion came bang through the door, and the next moment it had bitten off the old Fox’s head! And Bruno jumped in at the window, and went leaping round the room, and crying out ‘Hooray! Hooray! The old Fox is dead! The old Fox is dead!’” Bruno got up in some excitement. “May I do it now?” he enquired. Sylvie was quite decided on this point. “Wait till afterwards,” she said. “The speeches come next, don’t you know? You always love the speeches, don’t you?” “Yes, I doos,” said Bruno: and sat down again. “The Lion’s speech. ‘Now, you silly little Lamb, go home to your mother, and never listen to old Foxes again. And be very good and obedient.’ “The Lamb’s speech. ‘Oh, indeed, Sir, I will, Sir!’ and the Lamb went away.” (“But oo needn’t go away!” Bruno explained. “It’s quite the nicest part—what’s coming now!” 238 Sylvie smiled. She liked having an appreciative audience.) “The Lion’s speech to Bruno. ‘Now, Bruno, take those little Foxes home with you, and teach them to be good obedient little Foxes! Not like that wicked old thing there, that’s got no head!’” (“That hasn’t got no head,” Bruno repeated.) “Bruno’s speech to the Lion. ‘Oh, indeed, Sir, I will, Sir!’ And the Lion went away.” (“It gets betterer and betterer, now,” Bruno whispered to me, “right away to the end!”) “Bruno’s speech to the little Foxes. ‘Now, little Foxes, you’re going to have your first lesson in being good. I’m going to put you into the hamper, along with the Apples and the Bread: and you’re not to eat the Apples: and you’re not to eat the Bread: and you’re not to eat anything——till we get to my house: and then you’ll have your supper.’ “The little Foxes’ speech to Bruno. The little Foxes said nothing. “So Bruno put the Apples into the hamper—and the little Foxes—and the Bread——” (“They had picnicked all the Milk,” Bruno 239 explained in a whisper) “—and he set off to go to his house.” (“We’re getting near the end now,” said Bruno.) “And, when he had got a little way, he thought he would look into the hamper, and see how the little Foxes were getting on.” “So he opened the door——” said Bruno. “Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie exclaimed, “you’re not telling the story! So he opened the door, and behold, there were no Apples! So Bruno said ‘Eldest little Fox, have you been eating the Apples?’ And the eldest little Fox said ‘No no no!’” (It is impossible to give the tone in which Sylvie repeated this rapid little ‘No no no!’ The nearest I can come to it is to say that it was much as if a young and excited duck had tried to quack the words. It was too quick for a quack, and yet too harsh to be anything else.) “Then he said ‘Second little Fox, have you been eating the Apples?’ And the second little Fox said ‘No no no!’ Then he said ‘Youngest little Fox, have you been eating the Apples?’ And the youngest little Fox tried to say ‘No no no!’ but its mouth was so full, it couldn’t, and it only 240 said ‘Wauch! Wauch! Wauch!’ And Bruno looked into its mouth. And its mouth was full of Apples! And Bruno shook his head, and he said ‘Oh dear, oh dear! What bad creatures these Foxes are!’” Bruno was listening intently: and, when Sylvie paused to take breath, he could only just gasp out the words “About the Bread?” “Yes,” said Sylvie, “the Bread comes next. So he shut the door again; and he went a little further; and then he thought he’d just peep in once more. And behold, there was no Bread!” (“What do ‘behold’ mean?” said Bruno. “Hush!” said Sylvie.) “And he said ‘Eldest little Fox, have you been eating the Bread?’ And the eldest little Fox said ‘No no no!’ ‘Second little Fox, have you been eating the Bread?’ And the second little Fox only said ‘Wauch! Wauch! Wauch!’ And Bruno looked into its mouth, and its mouth was full of Bread!” (“It might have chokeded it,” said Bruno.) “So he said ‘Oh dear, oh dear! What shall I do with these Foxes?’ And he went a little further.” (“Now comes the most interesting part,” Bruno whispered.) 241 “And when Bruno opened the hamper again, what do you think he saw?” (“Only two Foxes!” Bruno cried in a great hurry.) “You shouldn’t tell it so quick. However, he did see only two Foxes. And he said ‘Eldest little Fox, have you been eating the youngest little Fox?’ And the eldest little Fox said ‘No no no!’ ‘Second little Fox, have you been eating the youngest little Fox?’ And the second little Fox did its very best to say ‘No no no!’ but it could only say ‘Weuchk! Weuchk! Weuchk!’ And when Bruno looked into its mouth, it was half full of Bread, and half full of Fox!” (Bruno said nothing in the pause this time. He was beginning to pant a little, as he knew the crisis was coming.) “And when he’d got nearly home, he looked once more into the hamper, and he saw——” “Only——” Bruno began, but a generous thought struck him, and he looked at me. “Oo may say it, this time, Mister Sir!” he whispered. It was a noble offer, but I wouldn’t rob him of the treat. “Go on, Bruno,” I said, “you say it much the best.” “Only—but—one—Fox!” Bruno said with great solemnity. 242 ‘WHIHUAUCH! WHIHUAUCH!’ ‘WHIHUAUCH! WHIHUAUCH!’ “‘Eldest little Fox,’” Sylvie said, dropping the narrative-form in her eagerness, “‘you’ve been so good that I can hardly believe you’ve been disobedient: but I’m afraid you’ve been eating your little sister?’ And the eldest little Fox said ‘Whihuauch! Whihuauch!’ and then it choked. And Bruno looked into its mouth, and it was full!” (Sylvie paused to take breath, and Bruno lay back among the daisies, 243 and looked at me triumphantly. “Isn’t it grand, Mister Sir?” said he. I tried hard to assume a critical tone. “It’s grand,” I said: “but it frightens one so!” “Oo may sit a little closer to me, if oo like,” said Bruno.) “And so Bruno went home: and took the hamper into the kitchen, and opened it. And he saw——” Sylvie looked at me, this time, as if she thought I had been rather neglected and ought to be allowed one guess, at any rate. “He ca’n’t guess!” Bruno cried eagerly. “I ’fraid I must tell him! There weren’t—nuffin in the hamper!” I shivered in terror, and Bruno clapped his hands with delight. “He is flightened, Sylvie! Tell the rest!” “So Bruno said ‘Eldest little Fox, have you been eating yourself, you wicked little Fox?’ And the eldest little Fox said ‘Whihuauch!’ And then Bruno saw there was only its mouth in the hamper! So he took the mouth, and he opened it, and shook, and shook! And at last he shook the little Fox out of its own mouth! And then he said ‘Open your mouth again, you wicked little thing!’ And he shook, and shook! And he shook out the second little 244 Fox! And he said ‘Now open your mouth!’ And he shook, and shook! And he shook out the youngest little Fox, and all the Apples, and all the Bread! “And then Bruno stood the little Foxes up against the wall: and he made them a little speech. ‘Now, little Foxes, you’ve begun very wickedly—and you’ll have to be punished. First you’ll go up to the nursery, and wash your faces, and put on clean pinafores. Then you’ll hear the bell ring for supper. Then you’ll come down: and you won’t have any supper: but you’ll have a good whipping! Then you’ll go to bed. Then in the morning you’ll hear the bell ring for breakfast. But you won’t have any breakfast! You’ll have a good whipping! Then you’ll have your lessons. And, perhaps, if you’re very good, when dinner-time comes, you’ll have a little dinner, and no more whipping!’” (“How very kind he was!” I whispered to Bruno. “Middling kind,” Bruno corrected me gravely.) “So the little Foxes ran up to the nursery. And soon Bruno went into the hall, and rang the big bell. ‘Tingle, tingle, tingle! Supper, 245 supper, supper!’ Down came the little Foxes, in such a hurry for their supper! Clean pinafores! Spoons in their hands! And, when they got into the dining-room, there was ever such a white table-cloth on the table! But there was nothing on it but a big whip. And they had such a whipping!” (I put my handkerchief to my eyes, and Bruno hastily climbed upon my knee and stroked my face. “Only one more whipping, Mister Sir!” he whispered. “Don’t cry more than oo ca’n’t help!”) “And the next morning early, Bruno rang the big bell again. ‘Tingle, tingle, tingle! Breakfast, breakfast, breakfast!’ Down came the little Foxes! Clean pinafores! Spoons in their hands! No breakfast! Only the big whip! Then came lessons,” Sylvie hurried on, for I still had my handkerchief to my eyes. “And the little Foxes were ever so good! And they learned their lessons backwards, and forwards, and upside-down. And at last Bruno rang the big bell again. ‘Tingle, tingle, tingle! Dinner, dinner, dinner!’ And when the little Foxes came down——” (“Had they clean pinafores on?” Bruno enquired. “Of 246 course!” said Sylvie. “And spoons?” “Why, you know they had!” “Couldn’t be certain,” said Bruno.) “—they came as slow as slow! And they said ‘Oh! There’ll be no dinner! There’ll only be the big whip!’ But, when they got into the room, they saw the most lovely dinner!” (“Buns?” cried Bruno, clapping his hands.) “Buns, and cake, and——” (“—and jam?” said Bruno.) “Yes, jam—and soup—and——” (“—and sugar plums!” Bruno put in once more; and Sylvie seemed satisfied.) “And ever after that, they were such good little Foxes! They did their lessons as good as gold—and they never did what Bruno told them not to—and they never ate each other any more—and they never ate themselves!” The story came to an end so suddenly, it almost took my breath away; however I did my best to make a pretty speech of thanks. “I’m sure it’s very—very—very much so, I’m sure!” I seemed to hear myself say. 247 CHAPTER XVI. BEYOND THESE VOICES. “I didn’t quite catch what you said!” were the next words that reached my ear, but certainly not in the voice either of Sylvie or of Bruno, whom I could just see, through the crowd of guests, standing by the piano, and listening to the Count’s song. Mein Herr was the speaker. “I didn’t quite catch what you said!” he repeated. “But I’ve no doubt you take my view of it. Thank you very much for your kind attention. There is only but one verse left to be sung!” These last words were not in the gentle voice of Mein Herr, but in 248 the deep bass of the French Count. And, in the silence that followed, the final stanza of ‘Tottles’ rang through the room. ‘NEVER!’ YELLED TOTTLES ‘NEVER!’ YELLED TOTTLES See now this couple settled down In quiet lodgings, out of town: Submissively the tearful wife Accepts a plain and humble life: Yet begs one boon on bended knee: ‘My ducky-darling, don’t resent it! Mamma might come for two or three——’ ‘NEVER!’ yelled Tottles. And he meant it. 249 The conclusion of the song was followed by quite a chorus of thanks and compliments from all parts of the room, which the gratified singer responded to by bowing low in all directions. “It is to me a great privilege,” he said to Lady Muriel, “to have met with this so marvellous a song. The accompaniment to him is so strange, so mysterious: it is as if a new music were to be invented! I will play him once again so as that to show you what I mean.” He returned to the piano, but the song had vanished. The bewildered singer searched through the heap of music lying on an adjoining table, but it was not there, either. Lady Muriel helped in the search: others soon joined: the excitement grew. “What can have become of it?” exclaimed Lady Muriel. Nobody knew: one thing only was certain, that no one had been near the piano since the Count had sung the last verse of the song. “Nevare mind him!” he said, most good-naturedly. “I shall give it you with memory alone!” He sat down, and began vaguely fingering the notes; but nothing resembling the tune came out. Then he, too, grew excited. 250 “But what oddness! How much of singularity! That I might lose, not the words alone, but the tune also—that is quite curious, I suppose?” We all supposed it, heartily. “It was that sweet little boy, who found it for me,” the Count suggested. “Quite perhaps he is the thief?” “Of course he is!” cried Lady Muriel. “Bruno! Where are you, my darling?” But no Bruno replied: it seemed that the two children had vanished as suddenly, and as mysteriously, as the song. “They are playing us a trick!” Lady Muriel gaily exclaimed. “This is only an ex tempore game of Hide-and-Seek! That little Bruno is an embodied Mischief!” The suggestion was a welcome one to most of us, for some of the guests were beginning to look decidedly uneasy. A general search was set on foot with much enthusiasm: curtains were thrown back and shaken, cupboards opened, and ottomans turned over; but the number of possible hiding-places proved to be strictly limited; and the search came to an end almost as soon as it had begun. 251 “They must have run out, while we were wrapped up in the song,” Lady Muriel said, addressing herself to the Count, who seemed more agitated than the others; “and no doubt they’ve found their way back to the housekeeper’s room.” “Not by this door!” was the earnest protest of a knot of two or three gentlemen, who had been grouped round the door (one of them actually leaning against it) for the last half-hour, as they declared. “This door has not been opened since the song began!” An uncomfortable silence followed this announcement. Lady Muriel ventured no further conjectures, but quietly examined the fastenings of the windows, which opened as doors. They all proved to be well fastened, inside. Not yet at the end of her resources, Lady Muriel rang the bell. “Ask the housekeeper to step here,” she said, “and to bring the children’s walking-things with her.” “I’ve brought them, my Lady,” said the obsequious housekeeper, entering after another minute of silence. “I thought the young lady would have come to my room to put on 252 her boots. Here’s your boots, my love!” she added cheerfully, looking in all directions for the children. There was no answer, and she turned to Lady Muriel with a puzzled smile. “Have the little darlings hid themselves?” “I don’t see them, just now,” Lady Muriel replied, rather evasively. “You can leave their things here, Wilson. I’ll dress them, when they’re ready to go.” The two little hats, and Sylvie’s walking-jacket, were handed round among the ladies, with many exclamations of delight. There certainly was a sort of witchery of beauty about them. Even the little boots did not miss their share of favorable criticism. “Such natty little things!” the musical young lady exclaimed, almost fondling them as she spoke. “And what tiny tiny feet they must have!” Finally, the things were piled together on the centre-ottoman, and the guests, despairing of seeing the children again, began to wish good-night and leave the house. There were only some eight or nine left—to whom the Count was explaining, for the twentieth time, how he had had his eye on the 253 children during the last verse of the song; how he had then glanced round the room, to see what effect “de great chest-note” had had upon his audience; and how, when he looked back again, they had both disappeared—when exclamations of dismay began to be heard on all sides, the Count hastily bringing his story to an end to join in the outcry. The walking-things had all disappeared! After the utter failure of the search for the children, there was a very half-hearted search made for their apparel. The remaining guests seemed only too glad to get away, leaving only the Count and our four selves. The Count sank into an easy-chair, and panted a little. “Who then are these dear children, I pray you?” he said. “Why come they, why go they, in this so little ordinary a fashion? That the music should make itself to vanish—that the hats, the boots, should make themselves to vanish—how is it, I pray you?” “I’ve no idea where they are!” was all I could say, on finding myself appealed to, by general consent, for an explanation. 254 The Count seemed about to ask further questions, but checked himself. “The hour makes himself to become late,” he said. “I wish to you a very good night, my Lady. I betake myself to my bed—to dream—if that indeed I be not dreaming now!” And he hastily left the room. “Stay awhile, stay awhile!” said the Earl, as I was about to follow the Count. “You are not a guest, you know! Arthur’s friend is at home here!” “Thanks!” I said, as, with true English instincts, we drew our chairs together round the fire-place, though no fire was burning—Lady Muriel having taken the heap of music on her knee, to have one more search for the strangely-vanished song. “Don’t you sometimes feel a wild longing,” she said, addressing herself to me, “to have something more to do with your hands, while you talk, than just holding a cigar, and now and then knocking off the ash? Oh, I know all that you’re going to say!” (This was to Arthur, who appeared about to interrupt her.) “The Majesty of Thought supersedes the 255 work of the fingers. A Man’s severe thinking, plus the shaking-off a cigar-ash, comes to the same total as a Woman’s trivial fancies, plus the most elaborate embroidery. That’s your sentiment, isn’t it, only better expressed?” Arthur looked into the radiant, mischievous face, with a grave and very tender smile. “Yes,” he said resignedly: “that is my sentiment, exactly.” “Rest of body, and activity of mind,” I put in. “Some writer tells us that is the acme of human happiness.” “Plenty of bodily rest, at any rate!” Lady Muriel replied, glancing at the three recumbent figures around her. “But what you call activity of mind——” “—is the privilege of young Physicians only,” said the Earl. “We old men have no claim to be active! What can an old man do but die?” “A good many other things, I should hope,” Arthur said earnestly. “Well, maybe. Still you have the advantage of me in many ways, dear boy! Not only that your day is dawning while mine is 256 setting, but your interest in Life—somehow I ca’n’t help envying you that. It will be many a year before you lose your hold of that.” “Yet surely many human interests survive human Life?” I said. “Many do, no doubt. And some forms of Science; but only some, I think. Mathematics, for instance: that seems to possess an endless interest: one ca’n’t imagine any form of Life, or any race of intelligent beings, where Mathematical truth would lose its meaning. But I fear Medicine stands on a different footing. Suppose you discover a remedy for some disease hitherto supposed to be incurable. Well, it is delightful for the moment, no doubt—full of interest—perhaps it brings you fame and fortune. But what then? Look on, a few years, into a life where disease has no existence. What is your discovery worth, then? Milton makes Jove promise too much. ‘Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’ Poor comfort, when one’s ‘fame’ concerns matters that will have ceased to have a meaning!” “At any rate, one wouldn’t care to make any fresh medical discoveries,” said Arthur. 257 “I see no help for that—though I shall be sorry to give up my favorite studies. Still, medicine, disease, pain, sorrow, sin—I fear they’re all linked together. Banish sin, and you banish them all!” “Military science is a yet stronger instance,” said the Earl. “Without sin, war would surely be impossible. Still any mind, that has had in this life any keen interest, not in itself sinful, will surely find itself some congenial line of work hereafter. Wellington may have no more battles to fight—and yet— ‘We doubt not that, for one so true, There must be other, nobler work to do, Than when he fought at Waterloo, And Victor he must ever be!’” He lingered over the beautiful words, as if he loved them: and his voice, like distant music, died away into silence. After a minute or two he began again. “If I’m not wearying you, I would like to tell you an idea of the future Life which has haunted me for years, like a sort of waking nightmare—I ca’n’t reason myself out of it.” 258 “Pray do,” Arthur and I replied, almost in a breath. Lady Muriel put aside the heap of music, and folded her hands together. “The one idea,” the Earl resumed, “that has seemed to me to overshadow all the rest, is that of Eternity—involving, as it seems to do, the necessary exhaustion of all subjects of human interest. Take Pure Mathematics, for instance—a Science independent of our present surroundings. I have studied it, myself, a little. Take the subject of circles and ellipses—what we call ‘curves of the second degree.’ In a future Life, it would only be a question of so many years (or hundreds of years, if you like), for a man to work out all their properties. Then he might go to curves of the third degree. Say that took ten times as long (you see we have unlimited time to deal with). I can hardly imagine his interest in the subject holding out even for those; and, though there is no limit to the degree of the curves he might study, yet surely the time, needed to exhaust all the novelty and interest of the subject, would be absolutely finite? And so of all other branches of Science. And, 259 when I transport myself, in thought, through some thousands or millions of years, and fancy myself possessed of as much Science as one created reason can carry, I ask myself ‘What then? With nothing more to learn, can one rest content on knowledge, for the eternity yet to be lived through?’ It has been a very wearying thought to me. I have sometimes fancied one might, in that event, say ‘It is better not to be,’ and pray for personal annihilation—the Nirvana of the Buddhists.” “But that is only half the picture,” I said. “Besides working for oneself, may there not be the helping of others?” “Surely, surely!” Lady Muriel exclaimed in a tone of relief, looking at her father with sparkling eyes. “Yes,” said the Earl, “so long as there were any others needing help. But, given ages and ages more, surely all created reasons would at length reach the same dead level of satiety. And then what is there to look forward to?” “I know that weary feeling,” said the young Doctor. “I have gone through it all, more than once. Now let me tell you how I have 260 put it to myself. I have imagined a little child, playing with toys on his nursery-floor, and yet able to reason, and to look on, thirty years ahead. Might he not say to himself ‘By that time I shall have had enough of bricks and ninepins. How weary Life will be!’ Yet, if we look forward through those thirty years, we find him a great statesman, full of interests and joys far more intense than his baby-life could give—joys wholly inconceivable to his baby-mind—joys such as no baby-language could in the faintest degree describe. Now, may not our life, a million years hence, have the same relation, to our life now, that the man’s life has to the child’s? And, just as one might try, all in vain, to express to that child, in the language of bricks and ninepins, the meaning of ‘politics,’ so perhaps all those descriptions of Heaven, with its music, and its feasts, and its streets of gold, may be only attempts to describe, in our words, things for which we really have no words at all. Don’t you think that, in your picture of another life, you are in fact transplanting that child into political life, without making any allowance for his growing up?” 261 “I think I understand you,” said the Earl. “The music of Heaven may be something beyond our powers of thought. Yet the music of Earth is sweet! Muriel, my child, sing us something before we go to bed!” “Do,” said Arthur, as he rose and lit the candles on the cottage-piano, lately banished from the drawing-room to make room for a ‘semi-grand.’ “There is a song here, that I have never heard you sing. ‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart!’” he read from the page he had spread open before her. “And our little life here,” the Earl went on, “is, to that grand time, like a child’s summer-day! One gets tired as night draws on,” he added, with a touch of sadness in his voice, “and one gets to long for bed! For those welcome words ‘Come, child, ’tis bed-time!’” 262 CHAPTER XVII. TO THE RESCUE! “It isn’t bed-time!” said a sleepy little voice. “The owls hasn’t gone to bed, and I s’a’n’t go to seep wizout oo sings to me!” “Oh, Bruno!” cried Sylvie. “Don’t you know the owls have only just got up? But the frogs have gone to bed, ages ago.” “Well, I aren’t a frog,” said Bruno. “What shall I sing?” said Sylvie, skilfully avoiding the argument. “Ask Mister Sir,” Bruno lazily replied, clasping his hands behind his curly head, and lying back on his fern-leaf, till it almost bent over 263 with his weight. “This aren’t a comfable leaf, Sylvie. Find me a comfabler—please!” he added, as an after-thought, in obedience to a warning finger held up by Sylvie. “I doosn’t like being feet-upwards!” It was a pretty sight to see—the motherly way in which the fairy-child gathered up her little brother in her arms, and laid him on a stronger leaf. She gave it just a touch to set it rocking, and it went on vigorously by itself, as if it contained some hidden machinery. It certainly wasn’t the wind, for the evening-breeze had quite died away again, and not a leaf was stirring over our heads. “Why does that one leaf rock so, without the others?” I asked Sylvie. She only smiled sweetly and shook her head. “I don’t know why,” she said. “It always does, if it’s got a fairy-child on it. It has to, you know.” “And can people see the leaf rock, who ca’n’t see the Fairy on it?” “Why, of course!” cried Sylvie. “A leaf’s a leaf, and everybody can see it; but Bruno’s Bruno, and they ca’n’t see him, unless they’re eerie, like you.” 264 Then I understood how it was that one sometimes sees—going through the woods in a still evening—one fern-leaf rocking steadily on, all by itself. Haven’t you ever seen that? Try if you can see the fairy-sleeper on it, next time; but don’t pick the leaf, whatever you do; let the little one sleep on! But all this time Bruno was getting sleepier and sleepier. “Sing, sing!” he murmured fretfully. Sylvie looked to me for instructions. “What shall it be?” she said. “Could you sing him the nursery-song you once told me of?” I suggested. “The one that had been put through the mind-mangle, you know. ‘The little man that had a little gun,’ I think it was.” “Why, that are one of the Professor’s songs!” cried Bruno. “I likes the little man; and I likes the way they spinned him——like a teetle-totle-tum.” And he turned a loving look on the gentle old man who was sitting at the other side of his leaf-bed, and who instantly began to sing, accompanying himself on his Outlandish guitar, while the snail, on which he sat, waved its horns in time to the music. 265 BRUNO’S BED-TIME BRUNO’S BED-TIME In stature the Manlet was dwarfish—— No burly big Blunderbore he: And he wearily gazed on the crawfish His Wifelet had dressed for his tea. “Now reach me, sweet Atom, my gunlet, And hurl the old shoelet for luck: Let me hie to the bank of the runlet, And shoot thee a Duck!” She has reached him his minikin gunlet: She has hurled the old shoelet for luck: She is busily baking a bunlet, To welcome him home with his Duck. 266 On he speeds, never wasting a wordlet, Though thoughtlets cling, closely as wax, To the spot where the beautiful birdlet So quietly quacks. ‘LONG CEREMONIOUS CALLS’ ‘LONG CEREMONIOUS CALLS’ Where the Lobsterlet lurks, and the Crablet So slowly and sleepily crawls: Where the Dolphin’s at home, and the Dablet Pays long ceremonious calls: Where the Grublet is sought by the Froglet: Where the Frog is pursued by the Duck: Where the Ducklet is chased by the Doglet—— So runs the world’s luck! 267 THE VOICES THE VOICES He has loaded with bullet and powder: His footfall is noiseless as air: But the Voices grow louder and louder, And bellow, and bluster, and blare. They bristle before him and after, They flutter above and below, Shrill shriekings of lubberly laughter, Weird wailings of woe! They echo without him, within him: They thrill through his whiskers and beard: Like a teetotum seeming to spin him, With sneers never hitherto sneered. 268 “Avengement,” they cry, “on our Foelet! Let the Manikin weep for our wrongs! Let us drench him, from toplet to toelet, With Nursery-Songs! ‘HIS SOUL SHALL BE SAD FOR THE SPIDER’ ‘HIS SOUL SHALL BE SAD FOR THE SPIDER’ “He shall muse upon ‘Hey! Diddle! Diddle!’ On the Cow that surmounted the Moon: He shall rave of the Cat and the Fiddle, And the Dish that eloped with the Spoon: And his soul shall be sad for the Spider, When Miss Muffet was sipping her whey, That so tenderly sat down beside her, And scared her away! 269 “The music of Midsummer-madness Shall sting him with many a bite, Till, in rapture of rollicking sadness, He shall groan with a gloomy delight: He shall swathe him, like mists of the morning, In platitudes luscious and limp, Such as deck, with a deathless adorning, The Song of the Shrimp! “When the Ducklet’s dark doom is decided, We will trundle him home in a trice: And the banquet, so plainly provided, Shall round into rose-buds and rice: In a blaze of pragmatic invention He shall wrestle with Fate, and shall reign: But he has not a friend fit to mention, So hit him again!” He has shot it, the delicate darling! And the Voices have ceased from their strife: Not a whisper of sneering or snarling; As he carries it home to his wife: Then, cheerily champing the bunlet His spouse was so skilful to bake, He hies him once more to the runlet, To fetch her the Drake! 270 “He’s sound asleep now,” said Sylvie, carefully tucking in the edge of a violet-leaf, which she had been spreading over him as a sort of blanket: “good night!” “Good night!” I echoed. “You may well say ‘good night’!” laughed Lady Muriel, rising and shutting up the piano as she spoke. “When you’ve been nid—nid—nodding all the time I’ve been singing for your benefit! What was it all about, now?” she demanded imperiously. “Something about a duck?” I hazarded. “Well, a bird of some kind?” I corrected myself, perceiving at once that that guess was wrong, at any rate. “Something about a bird of some kind!” Lady Muriel repeated, with as much withering scorn as her sweet face was capable of conveying. “And that’s the way he speaks of Shelley’s Sky-Lark, is it? When the Poet particularly says ‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert!’” 271 LORDS OF THE CREATION LORDS OF THE CREATION She led the way to the smoking-room, where, ignoring all the usages of Society and all the instincts of Chivalry, the three Lords of the Creation reposed at their ease in low rocking-chairs, and permitted the one lady who was present to glide gracefully about among us, supplying our wants in the form of cooling drinks, cigarettes, and lights. Nay, it was only one of the three who had the chivalry to go 272 beyond the common-place “thank you,” and to quote the Poet’s exquisite description of how Geraint, when waited on by Enid, was moved “To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb That crossed the platter as she laid it down,” and to suit the action to the word—an audacious liberty for which, I feel bound to report, he was not duly reprimanded. As no topic of conversation seemed to occur to any one, and as we were, all four, on those delightful terms with one another (the only terms, I think, on which any friendship, that deserves the name of intimacy, can be maintained) which involve no sort of necessity for speaking for mere speaking’s sake, we sat in silence for some minutes. At length I broke the silence by asking “Is there any fresh news from the harbour about the Fever?” “None since this morning,” the Earl said, looking very grave. “But that was alarming enough. The Fever is spreading fast: the London doctor has taken fright and left the place, and the only one now available isn’t a 273 regular doctor at all: he is apothecary, and doctor, and dentist, and I don’t know what other trades, all in one. It’s a bad outlook for those poor fishermen—and a worse one for all the women and children.” “How many are there of them altogether?” Arthur asked. “There were nearly one hundred, a week ago.” said the Earl: “but there have been twenty or thirty deaths since then.” “And what religious ministrations are there to be had?” “There are three brave men down there,” the Earl replied, his voice trembling with emotion, “gallant heroes as ever won the Victoria Cross! I am certain that no one of the three will ever leave the place merely to save his own life. There’s the Curate: his wife is with him: they have no children. Then there’s the Roman Catholic Priest. And there’s the Wesleyan Minister. They go amongst their own flocks, mostly; but I’m told that those who are dying like to have any of the three with them. How slight the barriers seem to be that part Christian from Christian, when one 274 has to deal with the great facts of Life and the reality of Death!” “So it must be, and so it should be——” Arthur was beginning, when the front-door bell rang, suddenly and violently. We heard the front-door hastily opened, and voices outside: then a knock at the door of the smoking-room, and the old house-keeper appeared, looking a little scared. “Two persons, my Lord, to speak with Dr. Forester.” Arthur stepped outside at once, and we heard his cheery “Well, my men?” but the answer was less audible, the only words I could distinctly catch being “ten since morning, and two more just——” “But there is a doctor there?” we heard Arthur say: and a deep voice, that we had not heard before, replied “Dead, Sir. Died three hours ago.” Lady Muriel shuddered, and hid her face in her hands: but at this moment the front-door was quietly closed, and we heard no more. For a few minutes we sat quite silent: then the Earl left the room, and soon returned to 275 tell us that Arthur had gone away with the two fishermen, leaving word that he would be back in about an hour. And, true enough, at the end of that interval—during which very little was said, none of us seeming to have the heart to talk—the front-door once more creaked on its rusty hinges, and a step was heard in the passage, hardly to be recognised as Arthur’s, so slow and uncertain was it, like a blind man feeling his way. He came in, and stood before Lady Muriel, resting one hand heavily on the table, and with a strange look in his eyes, as if he were walking in his sleep. “Muriel—my love——” he paused, and his lips quivered: but after a minute he went on more steadily. “Muriel—my darling—they—want me—down in the harbour.” “Must you go?” she pleaded, rising and laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking up into his face with her great eyes brimming over with tears. “Must you go, Arthur? It may mean—death!” He met her gaze without flinching. “It does mean death,” he said, in a husky whisper: 276 “but—darling—I am called. And even my life itself——” His voice failed him, and he said no more. For a minute she stood quite silent, looking upwards with a helpless gaze, as if even prayer were now useless, while her features worked and quivered with the great agony she was enduring. Then a sudden inspiration seemed to come upon her and light up her face with a strange sweet smile. “Your life?” she repeated. “It is not yours to give!” Arthur had recovered himself by this time, and could reply quite firmly, “That is true,” he said. “It is not mine to give. It is yours, now, my—wife that is to be! And you—do you forbid me to go? Will you not spare me, my own beloved one?” Still clinging to him, she laid her head softly on his breast. She had never done such a thing in my presence before, and I knew how deeply she must be moved. “I will spare you,” she said, calmly and quietly, “to God.” “And to God’s poor,” he whispered. “And to God’s poor,” she added. “When must it be, sweet love?” 277 ‘WILL YOU NOT SPARE ME?’ ‘WILL YOU NOT SPARE ME?’ “To-morrow morning,” he replied. “And I have much to do before then.” And then he told us how he had spent his hour of absence. He had been to the Vicarage, and had arranged for the wedding to take place at eight the next morning (there was no legal obstacle, as he had, some time before this, obtained a Special License) in the little church 278 we knew so well. “My old friend here,” indicating me, “will act as ‘Best Man,’ I know: your father will be there to give you away: and—and—you will dispense with bride’s-maids, my darling?” She nodded: no words came. “And then I can go with a willing heart—to do God’s work—knowing that we are one—and that we are together in spirit, though not in bodily presence—and are most of all together when we pray! Our prayers will go up together——” “Yes, yes!” sobbed Lady Muriel. “But you must not stay longer now, my darling! Go home and take some rest. You will need all your strength to-morrow——” “Well, I will go,” said Arthur. “We will be here in good time to-morrow. Good night, my own own darling!” I followed his example, and we two left the house together. As we walked back to our lodgings, Arthur sighed deeply once or twice, and seemed about to speak—but no words came, till we had entered the house, and had lit our candles, and were at our bedroom-doors. 279 Then Arthur said “Good night, old fellow! God bless you!” “God bless you!” I echoed, from the very depths of my heart. We were back again at the Hall by eight in the morning, and found Lady Muriel and the Earl, and the old Vicar, waiting for us. It was a strangely sad and silent party that walked up to the little church and back; and I could not help feeling that it was much more like a funeral than a wedding: to Lady Muriel it was in fact, a funeral rather than a wedding, so heavily did the presentiment weigh upon her (as she told us afterwards) that her newly-won husband was going forth to his death. Then we had breakfast; and, all too soon, the vehicle was at the door, which was to convey Arthur, first to his lodgings, to pick up the things he was taking with him, and then as far towards the death-stricken hamlet as it was considered safe to go. One or two of the fishermen were to meet him on the road, to carry his things the rest of the way. “And are you quite sure you are taking all that you will need?” Lady Muriel asked. 280 “All that I shall need as a doctor, certainly. And my own personal needs are few: I shall not even take any of my own wardrobe—there is a fisherman’s suit, ready-made, that is waiting for me at my lodgings. I shall only take my watch, and a few books, and—stay—there is one book I should like to add, a pocket-Testament—to use at the bedsides of the sick and dying——” “Take mine!” said Lady Muriel: and she ran upstairs to fetch it. “It has nothing written in it but ‘Muriel,’” she said as she returned with it: “shall I inscribe——” “No, my own one,” said Arthur, taking it from her. “What could you inscribe better than that? Could any human name mark it more clearly as my own individual property? Are you not mine? Are you not,” (with all the old playfulness of manner) “as Bruno would say, ‘my very mine’?” He bade a long and loving adieu to the Earl and to me, and left the room, accompanied only by his wife, who was bearing up bravely, and was—outwardly, at least—less overcome than her old father. We waited in the room a 281 minute or two, till the sound of wheels had told us that Arthur had driven away; and even then we waited still, for the step of Lady Muriel, going upstairs to her room, to die away in the distance. Her step, usually so light and joyous, now sounded slow and weary, like one who plods on under a load of hopeless misery; and I felt almost as hopeless, and almost as wretched, as she. “Are we four destined ever to meet again, on this side the grave?” I asked myself, as I walked to my home. And the tolling of a distant bell seemed to answer me, “No! No! No!” 282 CHAPTER XVIII. A NEWSPAPER-CUTTING. EXTRACT FROM THE “FAYFIELD CHRONICLE.” Our readers will have followed with painful interest, the accounts we have from time to time published of the terrible epidemic which has, during the last two months, carried off most of the inhabitants of the little fishing-harbour adjoining the village of Elveston. The last survivors, numbering twenty-three only, out of a population which, three short months ago, exceeded one hundred and twenty, were removed on Wednesday last, under the authority of the 283 Local Board, and safely lodged in the County Hospital: and the place is now veritably ‘a city of the dead,’ without a single human voice to break its silence. The rescuing party consisted of six sturdy fellows—fishermen from the neighbourhood—directed by the resident Physician of the Hospital, who came over for that purpose, heading a train of hospital-ambulances. The six men had been selected—from a much larger number who had volunteered for this peaceful ‘forlorn hope’—for their strength and robust health, as the expedition was considered to be, even now, when the malady has expended its chief force, not unattended with danger. Every precaution that science could suggest, against the risk of infection, was adopted: and the sufferers were tenderly carried on litters, one by one, up the steep hill, and placed in the ambulances which, each provided with a hospital nurse, were waiting on the level road. The fifteen miles, to the Hospital, were done at a walking-pace, as some of the patients were in too prostrate a condition to bear jolting, and the journey occupied the whole afternoon. 284 The twenty-three patients consist of nine men, six women, and eight children. It has not been found possible to identify them all, as some of the children—left with no surviving relatives—are infants; and two men and one woman are not yet able to make rational replies, the brain-powers being entirely in abeyance. Among a more well-to-do-race, there would no doubt have been names marked on the clothes; but here no such evidence is forthcoming. Besides the poor fishermen and their families, there were but five persons to be accounted for: and it was ascertained, beyond a doubt, that all five are numbered with the dead. It is a melancholy pleasure to place on record the names of these genuine martyrs—than whom none, surely, are more worthy to be entered on the glory-roll of England’s heroes! They are as follows:— The Rev. James Burgess, M.A., and Emma his wife. He was the Curate at the Harbour, not thirty years old, and had been married only two years. A written record was found in their house, of the dates of their deaths. Next to theirs we will place the honoured name of Dr. Arthur Forester, who, on the death 285 of the local physician, nobly faced the imminent peril of death, rather than leave these poor folk uncared for in their last extremity. No record of his name, or of the date of his death, was found: but the corpse was easily identified, although dressed in the ordinary fisherman’s suit (which he was known to have adopted when he went down there), by a copy of the New Testament, the gift of his wife, which was found, placed next his heart, with his hands crossed over it. It was not thought prudent to remove the body, for burial elsewhere: and accordingly it was at once committed to the ground, along with four others found in different houses, with all due reverence. His wife, whose maiden name was Lady Muriel Orme, had been married to him on the very morning on which he undertook his self-sacrificing mission. Next we record the Rev. Walter Saunders, Wesleyan Minister. His death is believed to have taken place two or three weeks ago, as the words ‘Died October 5’ were found written on the wall of the room which he is known to have occupied—the house being shut up, and apparently not having been entered for some time. 286 Last—though not a whit behind the other four in glorious self-denial and devotion to duty—let us record the name of Father Francis, a young Jesuit Priest who had been only a few months in the place. He had not been dead many hours when the exploring party came upon the body, which was identified, beyond the possibility of doubt, by the dress, and by the crucifix which was, like the young Doctor’s Testament, clasped closely to his heart. Since reaching the hospital, two of the men and one of the children have died. Hope is entertained for all the others: though there are two or three cases where the vital powers seem to be so entirely exhausted that it is but ‘hoping against hope’ to regard ultimate recovery as even possible. 287 CHAPTER XIX. A FAIRY-DUET. The year—what an eventful year it had been for me!—was drawing to a close, and the brief wintry day hardly gave light enough to recognise the old familiar objects, bound up with so many happy memories, as the train glided round the last bend into the station, and the hoarse cry of “Elveston! Elveston!” resounded along the platform. It was sad to return to the place, and to feel that I should never again see the glad smile of welcome, that had awaited me here so few months ago. “And yet, if I were to 288 find him here,” I muttered, as in solitary state I followed the porter, who was wheeling my luggage on a barrow, “and if he were to ‘strike a sudden hand in mine, And ask a thousand things of home,’ I should not—no, ‘I should not feel it to be strange’!” Having given directions to have my luggage taken to my old lodgings, I strolled off alone, to pay a visit, before settling down in my own quarters, to my dear old friends—for such I indeed felt them to be, though it was barely half a year since first we met—the Earl and his widowed daughter. The shortest way, as I well remembered, was to cross through the churchyard. I pushed open the little wicket-gate and slowly took my way among the solemn memorials of the quiet dead, thinking of the many who had, during the past year, disappeared from the place, and had gone to ‘join the majority.’ A very few steps brought me in sight of the object of my search. Lady Muriel, dressed in the deepest mourning, her face hidden by a long crape veil, was kneeling before a little marble cross, round which she was fastening a wreath of flowers. 289 The cross stood on a piece of level turf, unbroken by any mound, and I knew that it was simply a memorial-cross, for one whose dust reposed elsewhere, even before reading the simple inscription:— In loving Memory of ARTHUR FORESTER, M.D. whose mortal remains lie buried by the sea: whose spirit has returned to God who gave it. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” She threw back her veil on seeing me approach, and came forwards to meet me, with a quiet smile, and far more self-possessed than I could have expected. “It is quite like old times, seeing you here again!” she said, in tones of genuine pleasure. “Have you been to see my father?” “No,” I said: “I was on my way there, and came through here as the shortest way. I hope he is well, and you also?” “Thanks, we are both quite well. And you? Are you any better yet?” 290 “Not much better, I fear: but no worse, I am thankful to say.” “Let us sit here awhile, and have a quiet chat,” she said. The calmness—almost indifference—of her manner quite took me by surprise. I little guessed what a fierce restraint she was putting upon herself. “One can be so quiet here,” she resumed. “I come here every—every day.” “It is very peaceful,” I said. “You got my letter?” “Yes, but I delayed writing. It is so hard to say—on paper—” “I know. It was kind of you. You were with us when we saw the last of——” She paused a moment, and went on more hurriedly. “I went down to the harbour several times, but no one knows which of those vast graves it is. However, they showed me the house he died in: that was some comfort. I stood in the very room where—where——.” She struggled in vain to go on. The flood-gates had given way at last, and the outburst of grief was the most terrible I had ever witnessed. Totally regardless of my presence, she flung herself 291 down on the turf, burying her face in the grass, and with her hands clasped round the little marble cross, “Oh, my darling, my darling!” she sobbed. “And God meant your life to be so beautiful!” IN THE CHURCH-YARD IN THE CHURCH-YARD I was startled to hear, thus repeated by Lady Muriel, the very words of the darling child whom I had seen weeping so bitterly over the dead hare. Had some mysterious influence passed, from that sweet fairy-spirit, ere 292 she went back to Fairyland, into the human spirit that loved her so dearly? The idea seemed too wild for belief. And yet, are there not ‘more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy’? “God meant it to be beautiful,” I whispered, “and surely it was beautiful? God’s purpose never fails!” I dared say no more, but rose and left her. At the entrance-gate to the Earl’s house I waited, leaning on the gate and watching the sun set, revolving many memories—some happy, some sorrowful—until Lady Muriel joined me. She was quite calm again now. “Do come in,” she said. “My father will be so pleased to see you!” The old man rose from his chair, with a smile, to welcome me; but his self-command was far less than his daughter’s, and the tears coursed down his face as he grasped both my hands in his, and pressed them warmly. My heart was too full to speak; and we all sat silent for a minute or two. Then Lady Muriel rang the bell for tea. “You do take five o’clock tea, I know!” she said to me, 293 with the sweet playfulness of manner I remembered so well, “even though you ca’n’t work your wicked will on the Law of Gravity, and make the teacups descend into Infinite Space, a little faster than the tea!” This remark gave the tone to our conversation. By a tacit mutual consent, we avoided, during this our first meeting after her great sorrow, the painful topics that filled our thoughts, and talked like light-hearted children who had never known a care. “Did you ever ask yourself the question,” Lady Muriel began, à propos of nothing, “what is the chief advantage of being a Man instead of a Dog?” “No, indeed,” I said: “but I think there are advantages on the Dog’s side of the question, as well.” “No doubt,” she replied, with that pretty mock-gravity that became her so well: “but, on Man’s side, the chief advantage seems to me to consist in having pockets! It was borne in upon me—upon us, I should say; for my father and I were returning from a walk—only yesterday. We met a dog carrying home 294 a bone. What it wanted it for, I’ve no idea: certainly there was no meat on it——” A strange sensation came over me, that I had heard all this, or something exactly like it, before: and I almost expected her next words to be “perhaps he meant to make a cloak for the winter?” However what she really said was “and my father tried to account for it by some wretched joke about pro bono publico. Well, the dog laid down the bone—not in disgust with the pun, which would have shown it to be a dog of taste—but simply to rest its jaws, poor thing! I did pity it so! Won’t you join my Charitable Association for supplying dogs with pockets? How would you like to have to carry your walking-stick in your mouth?” Ignoring the difficult question as to the raison d’être of a walking-stick, supposing one had no hands, I mentioned a curious instance, I had once witnessed, of reasoning by a dog. A gentleman, with a lady, and child, and a large dog, were down at the end of a pier on which I was walking. To amuse his child, I suppose, the gentleman put down on the 295 ground his umbrella and the lady’s parasol, and then led the way to the other end of the pier, from which he sent the dog back for the deserted articles. I was watching with some curiosity. The dog came racing back to where I stood, but found an unexpected difficulty in picking up the things it had come for. With the umbrella in its mouth, its jaws were so far apart that it could get no firm grip on the parasol. After two or three failures, it paused and considered the matter. Then it put down the umbrella and began with the parasol. Of course that didn’t open its jaws nearly so wide, and it was able to get a good hold of the umbrella, and galloped off in triumph. One couldn’t doubt that it had gone through a real train of logical thought. “I entirely agree with you,” said Lady Muriel: “but don’t orthodox writers condemn that view, as putting Man on the level of the lower animals? Don’t they draw a sharp boundary-line between Reason and Instinct?” “That certainly was the orthodox view, a generation ago,” said the Earl. “The truth of Religion seemed ready to stand or fall with 296 the assertion that Man was the only reasoning animal. But that is at an end now. Man can still claim certain monopolies—for instance, such a use of language as enables us to utilise the work of many, by ‘division of labour.’ But the belief, that we have a monopoly of Reason, has long been swept away. Yet no catastrophe has followed. As some old poet says, ‘God is where he was.’” “Most religious believers would now agree with Bishop Butler,” said I, “and not reject a line of argument, even if it led straight to the conclusion that animals have some kind of soul, which survives their bodily death.” “I would like to know that to be true!” Lady Muriel exclaimed. “If only for the sake of the poor horses. Sometimes I’ve thought that, if anything could make me cease to believe in a God of perfect justice, it would be the sufferings of horses—without guilt to deserve it, and without any compensation!” “It is only part of the great Riddle,” said the Earl, “why innocent beings ever suffer. It is a great strain on Faith—but not a breaking strain, I think.” 297 “The sufferings of horses,” I said, “are chiefly caused by Man’s cruelty. So that is merely one of the many instances of Sin causing suffering to others than the Sinner himself. But don’t you find a greater difficulty in sufferings inflicted by animals upon each other? For instance, a cat playing with a mouse. Assuming it to have no moral responsibility, isn’t that a greater mystery than a man over-driving a horse?” “I think it is,” said Lady Muriel, looking a mute appeal to her father. “What right have we to make that assumption?” said the Earl. “Many of our religious difficulties are merely deductions from unwarranted assumptions. The wisest answer to most of them, is, I think, ‘behold, we know not anything.’” “You mentioned ‘division of labour,’ just now,” I said. “Surely it is carried to a wonderful perfection in a hive of bees?” “So wonderful—so entirely super-human—” said the Earl, “and so entirely inconsistent with the intelligence they show in other ways—that I feel no doubt at all that it is 298 pure Instinct, and not, as some hold, a very high order of Reason. Look at the utter stupidity of a bee, trying to find its way out of an open window! It doesn’t try, in any reasonable sense of the word: it simply bangs itself about! We should call a puppy imbecile, that behaved so. And yet we are asked to believe that its intellectual level is above Sir Isaac Newton!” “Then you hold that pure Instinct contains no Reason at all?” “On the contrary,” said the Earl, “I hold that the work of a bee-hive involves Reason of the highest order. But none of it is done by the Bee. God has reasoned it all out, and has put into the mind of the Bee the conclusions, only, of the reasoning process.” “But how do their minds come to work together?” I asked. “What right have we to assume that they have minds?” “Special pleading, special pleading!” Lady Muriel cried, in a most unfilial tone of triumph. “Why, you yourself said, just now, ‘the mind of the Bee’!” 299 “But I did not say ‘minds,’ my child,” the Earl gently replied. “It has occurred to me, as the most probable solution of the ‘Bee’-mystery, that a swarm of Bees have only one mind among them. We often see one mind animating a most complex collection of limbs and organs, when joined together. How do we know that any material connection is necessary? May not mere neighbourhood be enough? If so, a swarm of bees is simply a single animal whose many limbs are not quite close together!” “It is a bewildering thought,” I said, “and needs a night’s rest to grasp it properly. Reason and Instinct both tell me I ought to go home. So, good-night!” “I’ll ‘set’ you part of the way,” said Lady Muriel. “I’ve had no walk to-day. It will do me good, and I have more to say to you. Shall we go through the wood? It will be pleasanter than over the common, even though it is getting a little dark.” We turned aside into the shade of interlacing boughs, which formed an architecture of almost perfect symmetry, grouped into lovely groined 300 arches, or running out, far as the eye could follow, into endless aisles, and chancels, and naves, like some ghostly cathedral, fashioned out of the dream of a moon-struck poet. “Always, in this wood,” she began after a pause (silence seemed natural in this dim solitude), “I begin thinking of Fairies! May I ask you a question?” she added hesitatingly. “Do you believe in Fairies?” The momentary impulse was so strong to tell her of my experiences in this very wood, that I had to make a real effort to keep back the words that rushed to my lips. “If you mean, by ‘believe,’ ‘believe in their possible existence,’ I say ‘Yes.’ For their actual existence, of course, one would need evidence.” “You were saying, the other day,” she went on, “that you would accept anything, on good evidence, that was not à priori impossible. And I think you named Ghosts as an instance of a provable phenomenon. Would Fairies be another instance?” “Yes, I think so.” And again it was hard to check the wish to say more: but I was not yet sure of a sympathetic listener. 301 “And have you any theory as to what sort of place they would occupy in Creation? Do tell me what you think about them! Would they, for instance (supposing such beings to exist), would they have any moral responsibility? I mean” (and the light bantering tone suddenly changed to one of deep seriousness) “would they be capable of sin?” “They can reason—on a lower level, perhaps, than men and women—never rising, I think, above the faculties of a child; and they have a moral sense, most surely. Such a being, without free will, would be an absurdity. So I am driven to the conclusion that they are capable of sin.” “You believe in them?” she cried delightedly, with a sudden motion as if about to clap her hands. “Now tell me, have you any reason for it?” And still I strove to keep back the revelation I felt sure was coming. “I believe that there is life everywhere—not material only, not merely what is palpable to our senses—but immaterial and invisible as well. We believe in our own immaterial essence—call it ‘soul,’ 302 or ‘spirit,’ or what you will. Why should not other similar essences exist around us, not linked on to a visible and material body? Did not God make this swarm of happy insects, to dance in this sunbeam for one hour of bliss, for no other object, that we can imagine, than to swell the sum of conscious happiness? And where shall we dare to draw the line, and say ‘He has made all these and no more’?” “Yes, yes!” she assented, watching me with sparkling eyes. “But these are only reasons for not denying. You have more reasons than this, have you not?” “Well, yes,” I said, feeling I might safely tell all now. “And I could not find a fitter time or place to say it. I have seen them—and in this very wood!” Lady Muriel asked no more questions. Silently she paced at my side, with head bowed down and hands clasped tightly together. Only, as my tale went on, she drew a little short quick breath now and then, like a child panting with delight. And I told her what I had never yet breathed to any other listener, of my double life, and, more than that (for 303 mine might have been but a noonday-dream), of the double life of those two dear children. And when I told her of Bruno’s wild gambols, she laughed merrily; and when I spoke of Sylvie’s sweetness and her utter unselfishness and trustful love, she drew a deep breath, like one who hears at last some precious tidings for which the heart has ached for a long while; and the happy tears chased one another down her cheeks. “I have often longed to meet an angel,” she whispered, so low that I could hardly catch the words. “I’m so glad I’ve seen Sylvie! My heart went out to the child the first moment that I saw her—— Listen!” she broke off suddenly. “That’s Sylvie singing! I’m sure of it! Don’t you know her voice?” “I have heard Bruno sing, more than once,” I said: “but I never heard Sylvie.” “I have only heard her once,” said Lady Muriel. “It was that day when you brought us those mysterious flowers. The children had run out into the garden; and I saw Eric coming in that way, and went to the window to meet him: and Sylvie was singing, under 304 the trees, a song I had never heard before. The words were something like ‘I think it is Love, I feel it is Love.’ Her voice sounded far away, like a dream, but it was beautiful beyond all words—as sweet as an infant’s first smile, or the first gleam of the white cliffs when one is coming home after weary years—a voice that seemed to fill one’s whole being with peace and heavenly thoughts—— Listen!” she cried, breaking off again in her excitement. “That is her voice, and that’s the very song!” I could distinguish no words, but there was a dreamy sense of music in the air that seemed to grow ever louder and louder, as if coming nearer to us. We stood quite silent, and in another minute the two children appeared, coming straight towards us through an arched opening among the trees. Each had an arm round the other, and the setting sun shed a golden halo round their heads, like what one sees in pictures of saints. They were looking in our direction, but evidently did not see us, and I soon made out that Lady Muriel had for once passed into a condition familiar to me, that we were both of us ‘eerie,’ and that, though we could see the children so plainly, we were quite invisible to them. A FAIRY-DUET A FAIRY-DUET 305 The song ceased just as they came into sight: but, to my delight, Bruno instantly said “Let’s sing it all again, Sylvie! It did sound so pretty!” And Sylvie replied “Very well. It’s you to begin, you know.” So Bruno began, in the sweet childish treble I knew so well:— “Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings 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?” And now ensued quite the strangest of all the strange experiences that marked the wonderful year whose history I am writing—the experience of first hearing Sylvie’s voice in song. Her part was a very short one—only a few words—and she sang it timidly, and very low indeed, scarcely audibly, but the sweetness 306 of her voice was simply indescribable; I have never heard any earthly music like it. “’Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low— And the name of the secret is Love!” On me the first effect of her voice was a sudden sharp pang that seemed to pierce through one’s very heart. (I had felt such a pang only once before in my life, and it had been from seeing what, at the moment, realised one’s idea of perfect beauty—it was in a London exhibition, where, in making my way through a crowd, I suddenly met, face to face, a child of quite unearthly beauty.) Then came a rush of burning tears to the eyes, as though one could weep one’s soul away for pure delight. And lastly there fell on me a sense of awe that was almost terror—some such feeling as Moses must have had when he heard the words “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.” The figures of the children became vague and shadowy, like glimmering meteors: while their voices rang together in exquisite harmony as they sang:— 307 “For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!” By this time I could see them clearly once more. Bruno again sang by himself:— “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?” Sylvie sang more courageously, this time: the words seemed to carry her away, out of herself:— “’Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, how it goes: But the name of the secret is Love!” And clear and strong the chorus rang out:— “For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!” 308 Once more we heard Bruno’s delicate little voice alone:— “Say whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight? That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight?” And again uprose that silvery voice, whose angelic sweetness I could hardly bear:— “’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!” And then Bruno joined in again with “For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!” “That are pretty!” the little fellow exclaimed, as the children passed us—so closely that we drew back a little to make room for them, and it seemed we had only to reach out a hand to touch them: but this we did not attempt. 309 “No use to try and stop them!” I said, as they passed away into the shadows. “Why, they could not even see us!” “No use at all,” Lady Muriel echoed with a sigh. “One would like to meet them again, in living form! But I feel, somehow, that can never be. They have passed out of our lives!” She sighed again; and no more was said, till we came out into the main road, at a point near my lodgings. “Well, I will leave you here,” she said. “I want to get back before dark: and I have a cottage-friend to visit, first. Good night, dear friend! Let us see you soon—and often!” she added, with an affectionate warmth that went to my very heart. “For those are few we hold as dear!” “Good night!” I answered. “Tennyson said that of a worthier friend than me.” “Tennyson didn’t know what he was talking about!” she saucily rejoined, with a touch of her old childish gaiety; and we parted. 310 CHAPTER XX. GAMMON AND SPINACH. My landlady’s welcome had an extra heartiness about it: and though, with a rare delicacy of feeling, she made no direct allusion to the friend whose companionship had done so much to brighten life for me, I felt sure that it was a kindly sympathy with my solitary state that made her so specially anxious to do all she could think of to ensure my comfort, and make me feel at home. The lonely evening seemed long and tedious: yet I lingered on, watching the dying fire, and letting Fancy mould the red embers into the 311 forms and faces belonging to bygone scenes. Now it seemed to be Bruno’s roguish smile that sparkled for a moment, and died away: now it was Sylvie’s rosy cheek: and now the Professor’s jolly round face, beaming with delight. “You’re welcome, my little ones!” he seemed to say. And then the red coal, which for the moment embodied the dear old Professor, began to wax dim, and with its dying lustre the words seemed to die away into silence. I seized the poker, and with an artful touch or two revived the waning glow, while Fancy—no coy minstrel she—sang me once again the magic strain I loved to hear. “You’re welcome, little ones!” the cheery voice repeated. “I told them you were coming. Your rooms are all ready for you. And the Emperor and the Empress—well, I think they’re rather pleased than otherwise! In fact, Her Highness said ‘I hope they’ll be in time for the Banquet!’ Those were her very words, I assure you!” “Will Uggug be at the Banquet?” Bruno asked. And both children looked uneasy at the dismal suggestion. 312 “Why, of course he will!” chuckled the Professor. “Why, it’s his birthday, don’t you know? And his health will be drunk, and all that sort of thing. What would the Banquet be without him?” “Ever so much nicer,” said Bruno. But he said it in a very low voice, and nobody but Sylvie heard him. The Professor chuckled again. “It’ll be a jolly Banquet, now you’ve come, my little man! I am so glad to see you again!” “I ’fraid we’ve been very long in coming,” Bruno politely remarked. “Well, yes,” the Professor assented. “However, you’re very short now you’re come: that’s some comfort.” And he went on to enumerate the plans for the day. “The Lecture comes first,” he said. “That the Empress insists on. She says people will eat so much at the Banquet, they’ll be too sleepy to attend to the Lecture afterwards—and perhaps she’s right. There’ll just be a little refreshment, when the people first arrive—as a kind of surprise for the Empress, you know. Ever since she’s been—well, not quite so clever as she 313 once was—we’ve found it desirable to concoct little surprises for her. Then comes the Lecture——” “What? The Lecture you were getting ready—ever so long ago?” Sylvie enquired. “Yes—that’s the one,” the Professor rather reluctantly admitted. “It has taken a goodish time to prepare. I’ve got so many other things to attend to. For instance, I’m Court-Physician. I have to keep all the Royal Servants in good health—and that reminds me!” he cried, ringing the bell in a great hurry. “This is Medicine-Day! We only give Medicine once a week. If we were to begin giving it every day, the bottles would soon be empty!” “But if they were ill on the other days?” Sylvie suggested. “What, ill on the wrong day!” exclaimed the Professor. “Oh, that would never do! A Servant would be dismissed at once, who was ill on the wrong day! This is the Medicine for today,” he went on, taking down a large jug from a shelf. “I mixed it, myself, first thing this morning. Taste it!” he said, 314 holding out the jug to Bruno. “Dip in your finger, and taste it!” Bruno did so, and made such an excruciatingly wry face that Sylvie exclaimed, in alarm, “Oh, Bruno, you mustn’t!” “It’s welly extremely nasty!” Bruno said, as his face resumed its natural shape. “Nasty?” said the Professor. “Why, of course it is! What would Medicine be, if it wasn’t nasty?” “Nice,” said Bruno. “I was going to say—” the Professor faltered, rather taken aback by the promptness of Bruno’s reply, “—that that would never do! Medicine has to be nasty, you know. Be good enough to take this jug, down into the Servants’ Hall,” he said to the footman who answered the bell: “and tell them it’s their Medicine for today.” “Which of them is to drink it?” the footman asked, as he carried off the jug. “Oh, I’ve not settled that yet!” the Professor briskly replied. “I’ll come and settle that, soon. Tell them not to begin, on any account, till I come! It’s really wonderful,” 315 he said, turning to the children, “the success I’ve had in curing Diseases! Here are some of my memoranda.” He took down from the shelf a heap of little bits of paper, pinned together in twos and threes. “Just look at this set, now. ‘Under-Cook Number Thirteen recovered from Common Fever—Febris Communis.’ And now see what’s pinned to it. ‘Gave Under-Cook Number Thirteen a Double Dose of Medicine.’ That’s something to be proud of, isn’t it?” “But which happened first?” said Sylvie, looking very much puzzled. The Professor examined the papers carefully. “They are not dated, I find,” he said with a slightly dejected air: “so I fear I ca’n’t tell you. But they both happened: there’s no doubt of that. The Medicine’s the great thing, you know. The Diseases are much less important. You can keep a Medicine, for years and years: but nobody ever wants to keep a Disease! By the way, come and look at the platform. The Gardener asked me to come and see if it would do. We may as well go before it gets dark.” 316 “We’d like to, very much!” Sylvie replied. “Come, Bruno, put on your hat. Don’t keep the dear Professor waiting!” “Ca’n’t find my hat!” the little fellow sadly replied. “I were rolling it about. And it’s rolled itself away!” “Maybe it’s rolled in there,” Sylvie suggested, pointing to a dark recess, the door of which stood half open: and Bruno ran in to look. After a minute he came slowly out again, looking very grave, and carefully shut the cupboard-door after him. “It aren’t in there,” he said, with such unusual solemnity, that Sylvie’s curiosity was roused. “What is in there, Bruno?” “There’s cobwebs—and two spiders—” Bruno thoughtfully replied, checking off the catalogue on his fingers, “—and the cover of a picture-book—and a tortoise—and a dish of nuts—and an old man.” “An old man!” cried the Professor, trotting across the room in great excitement. “Why, it must be the Other Professor, that’s been lost for ever so long!” 317 THE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUND THE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUND He opened the door of the cupboard wide: and there he was, the Other Professor, sitting in a chair, with a book on his knee, and in the act of helping himself to a nut from a dish, which he had taken down off a shelf just within his reach. He looked round at us, but said nothing till he had cracked and eaten the nut. Then he asked the old question. “Is the Lecture all ready?” “It’ll begin in an hour,” the Professor said, evading the question. “First, we must have something to surprise the Empress. And then comes the Banquet——” “The Banquet!” cried the Other Professor, springing up, and filling the room with a cloud 318 of dust. “Then I’d better go and—and brush myself a little. What a state I’m in!” “He does want brushing!” the Professor said, with a critical air, “Here’s your hat, little man! I had put it on by mistake. I’d quite forgotten I had one on, already. Let’s go and look at the platform.” “And there’s that nice old Gardener singing still!” Bruno exclaimed in delight, as we went out into the garden. “I do believe he’s been singing that very song ever since we went away!” “Why, of course he has!” replied the Professor. “It wouldn’t be the thing to leave off, you know.” “Wouldn’t be what thing?” said Bruno: but the Professor thought it best not to hear the question. “What are you doing with that hedgehog?” he shouted at the Gardener, whom they found standing upon one foot, singing softly to himself, and rolling a hedgehog up and down with the other foot. “Well, I wanted fur to know what hedgehogs lives on: so I be a-keeping this here hedgehog—fur to see if it eats potatoes——” 319 “Much better keep a potato,” said the Professor; “and see if hedgehogs eat it!” “That be the roight way, sure-ly!” the delighted Gardener exclaimed. “Be you come to see the platform?” “Aye, aye!” the Professor cheerily replied. “And the children have come back, you see!” The Gardener looked round at them with a grin. Then he led the way to the Pavilion; and as he went he sang:— “He looked again, and found it was A Double Rule of Three: ‘And all its Mystery,’ he said, ‘Is clear as day to me!’” “You’ve been months over that song,” said the Professor. “Isn’t it finished yet?” “There be only one verse more,” the Gardener sadly replied. And, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he sang the last verse:— “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!’” 320 Choking with sobs, the Gardener hastily stepped on a few yards ahead of the party, to conceal his emotion. “Did he see the Bar of Mottled Soap?” Sylvie enquired, as we followed. “Oh, certainly!” said the Professor. “That song is his own history, you know.” Tears of an ever-ready sympathy glittered in Bruno’s eyes. “I’s welly sorry he isn’t the Pope!” he said. “Aren’t you sorry, Sylvie?” “Well—I hardly know,” Sylvie replied in the vaguest manner. “Would it make him any happier?” she asked the Professor. “It wouldn’t make the Pope any happier,” said the Professor. “Isn’t the platform lovely?” he asked, as we entered the Pavilion. “I’ve put an extra beam under it!” said the Gardener, patting it affectionately as he spoke. “And now it’s that strong, as—as a mad elephant might dance upon it!” “Thank you very much!” the Professor heartily rejoined. “I don’t know that we shall exactly require—but it’s convenient to know.” And he led the children upon the platform, to explain the arrangements to them. “Here are 321 three seats, you see, for the Emperor and the Empress and Prince Uggug. But there must be two more chairs here!” he said, looking down at the Gardener. “One for Lady Sylvie, and one for the smaller animal!” “And may I help in the Lecture?” said Bruno. “I can do some conjuring-tricks.” “Well, it’s not exactly a conjuring lecture,” the Professor said, as he arranged some curious-looking machines on the table. “However, what can you do? Did you ever go through a table, for instance?” “Often!” said Bruno. “Haven’t I, Sylvie?” The Professor was evidently surprised, though he tried not to show it. “This must be looked into,” he muttered to himself, taking out a note-book. “And first—what kind of table?” “Tell him!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie, putting his arms round her neck. “Tell him yourself,” said Sylvie. “Ca’n’t,” said Bruno. “It’s a bony word.” “Nonsense!” laughed Sylvie. “You can say it well enough, if you only try. Come!” “Muddle—” said Bruno. “That’s a bit of it.” 322 “What does he say?” cried the bewildered Professor. “He means the multiplication-table,” Sylvie explained. The Professor looked annoyed, and shut up his note-book again. “Oh, that’s quite another thing,” he said. “It are ever so many other things,” said Bruno. “Aren’t it, Sylvie?” A loud blast of trumpets interrupted this conversation. “Why, the entertainment has begun!” the Professor exclaimed, as he hurried the children into the Reception-Saloon. “I had no idea it was so late!” A small table, containing cake and wine, stood in a corner of the Saloon; and here we found the Emperor and Empress waiting for us. The rest of the Saloon had been cleared of furniture, to make room for the guests. I was much struck by the great change a few months had made in the faces of the Imperial Pair. A vacant stare was now the Emperor’s usual expression; while over the face of the Empress there flitted, ever and anon, a meaningless smile. 323 “So you’re come at last!” the Emperor sulkily remarked, as the Professor and the children took their places. It was evident that he was very much out of temper: and we were not long in learning the cause of this. He did not consider the preparations, made for the Imperial party, to be such as suited their rank. “A common mahogany table!” he growled, pointing to it contemptuously with his thumb. “Why wasn’t it made of gold, I should like to know?” “It would have taken a very long——” the Professor began, but the Emperor cut the sentence short. “Then the cake! Ordinary plum! Why wasn’t it made of—of——” He broke off again. “Then the wine! Merely old Madeira! Why wasn’t it——? Then this chair! That’s worst of all. Why wasn’t it a throne? One might excuse the other omissions, but I ca’n’t get over the chair!” “What I ca’n’t get over,” said the Empress, in eager sympathy with her angry husband, “is the table!” “Pooh!” said the Emperor. 324 “It is much to be regretted!” the Professor mildly replied, as soon as he had a chance of speaking. After a moment’s thought he strengthened the remark. “Everything,” he said, addressing Society in general, “is very much to be regretted!” A murmur of “Hear, hear!” rose from the crowded Saloon. There was a rather awkward pause: the Professor evidently didn’t know how to begin. The Empress leant forwards, and whispered to him. “A few jokes, you know, Professor—just to put people at their ease!” “True, true, Madam!” the Professor meekly replied. “This little boy——” “Please don’t make any jokes about me!” Bruno exclaimed, his eyes filling with tears. “I won’t if you’d rather I didn’t,” said the kind-hearted Professor. “It was only something about a Ship’s Buoy: a harmless pun—but it doesn’t matter.” Here he turned to the crowd and addressed them in a loud voice. “Learn your A’s!” he shouted. “Your B’s! Your C’s! And your D’s! Then you’ll be at your ease!” 325 There was a roar of laughter from all the assembly, and then a great deal of confused whispering. “What was it he said? Something about bees, I fancy——.” The Empress smiled in her meaningless way, and fanned herself. The poor Professor looked at her timidly: he was clearly at his wits’ end again, and hoping for another hint. The Empress whispered again. “Some spinach, you know, Professor, as a surprise.” The Professor beckoned to the Head-Cook, and said something to him in a low voice. Then the Head-Cook left the room, followed by all the other cooks. “It’s difficult to get things started,” the Professor remarked to Bruno. “When once we get started, it’ll go on all right, you’ll see.” “If oo want to startle people,” said Bruno, “oo should put live frogs on their backs.” Here the cooks all came in again, in a procession, the Head-Cook coming last and carrying something, which the others tried to hide by waving flags all round it. “Nothing but flags, Your Imperial Highness! Nothing but flags!” he kept repeating, as he set it before her. Then all the flags were dropped in a moment, as the Head-Cook raised the cover from an enormous dish. 326 ‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’ ‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’ 327 “What is it?” the Empress said faintly, as she put her spy-glass to her eye. “Why, it’s Spinach, I declare!” “Her Imperial Highness is surprised,” the Professor explained to the attendants: and some of them clapped their hands. The Head-Cook made a low bow, and in doing so dropped a spoon on the table, as if by accident, just within reach of the Empress, who looked the other way and pretended not to see it. “I am surprised!” the Empress said to Bruno. “Aren’t you?” “Not a bit,” said Bruno. “I heard——” but Sylvie put her hand over his mouth, and spoke for him. “He’s rather tired, I think. He wants the Lecture to begin.” “I want the supper to begin,” Bruno corrected her. The Empress took up the spoon in an absent manner, and tried to balance it across 328 the back of her hand, and in doing this she dropped it into the dish: and, when she took it out again, it was full of spinach. “How curious!” she said, and put it into her mouth. “It tastes just like real spinach! I thought it was an imitation—but I do believe it’s real!” And she took another spoonful. “It wo’n’t be real much longer,” said Bruno. But the Empress had had enough spinach by this time, and somehow—I failed to notice the exact process—we all found ourselves in the Pavilion, and the Professor in the act of beginning the long-expected Lecture. 329 CHAPTER XXI. THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE. “In Science—in fact, in most things—it is usually best to begin at the beginning. In some things, of course, it’s better to begin at the other end. For instance, if you wanted to paint a dog green, it might be best to begin with the tail, as it doesn’t bite at that end. And so——” “May I help oo?” Bruno interrupted. “Help me to do what?” said the puzzled Professor, looking up for a moment, but keeping his finger on the book he was reading from, so as not to lose his place. 330 “To paint a dog green!” cried Bruno. “Oo can begin wiz its mouf, and I’ll——” “No, no!” said the Professor. “We haven’t got to the Experiments yet. And so,” returning to his note-book, “I’ll give you the Axioms of Science. After that I shall exhibit some Specimens. Then I shall explain a Process or two. And I shall conclude with a few Experiments. An Axiom, you know, is a thing that you accept without contradiction. For instance, if I were to say ‘Here we are!’, that would be accepted without any contradiction, and it’s a nice sort of remark to begin a conversation with. So it would be an Axiom. Or again, supposing I were to say ‘Here we are not!’ that would be——” “—a fib!” cried Bruno. “Oh, Bruno!” said Sylvie in a warning whisper. “Of course it would be an Axiom, if the Professor said it!” “—that would be accepted, if people were civil,” continued the Professor; “so it would be another Axiom.” “It might be an Axledum,” Bruno said: “but it wouldn’t be true!” 331 “Ignorance of Axioms,” the Lecturer continued, “is a great drawback in life. It wastes so much time to have to say them over and over again. For instance, take the Axiom ‘Nothing is greater than itself’; that is, ‘Nothing can contain itself.’ How often you hear people say ‘He was so excited, he was quite unable to contain himself,’ Why, of course he was unable! The excitement had nothing to do with it!” “I say, look here, you know!” said the Emperor, who was getting a little restless. “How many Axioms are you going to give us? At this rate, we sha’n’t get to the Experiments till to-morrow-week!” “Oh, sooner than that, I assure you!” the Professor replied, looking up in alarm. “There are only,” (he referred to his notes again) “only two more, that are really necessary.” “Read ’em out, and get on to the Specimens,” grumbled the Emperor. “The First Axiom,” the Professor read out in a great hurry, “consists of these words, ‘Whatever is, is.’ And the Second consists of these words, ‘Whatever isn’t, isn’t.’ We will 332 now go on to the Specimens. The first tray contains Crystals and other Things.” He drew it towards him, and again referred to his note-book. “Some of the labels—owing to insufficient adhesion——” Here he stopped again, and carefully examined the page with his eyeglass. “I ca’n’t quite read the rest of the sentence,” he said at last, “but it means that the labels have come loose, and the Things have got mixed——” “Let me stick ’em on again!” cried Bruno eagerly, and began licking them, like postage-stamps, and dabbing them down upon the Crystals and the other Things. But the Professor hastily moved the tray out of his reach. “They might get fixed to the wrong Specimens, you know!” he said. “Oo shouldn’t have any wrong peppermints in the tray!” Bruno boldly replied. “Should he, Sylvie?” But Sylvie only shook her head. The Professor heard him not. He had taken up one of the bottles, and was carefully reading the label through his eye-glass. “Our first Specimen——” he announced, as he placed the 333 bottle in front of the other Things, “is—that is, it is called——” here he took it up, and examined the label again, as if he thought it might have changed since he last saw it, “is called Aqua Pura—common water—the fluid that cheers——” “Hip! Hip! Hip!” the Head-Cook began enthusiastically. “—but not inebriates!” the Professor went on quickly, but only just in time to check the “Hooroar!” which was beginning. “Our second Specimen,” he went on, carefully opening a small jar, “is——” here he removed the lid, and a large beetle instantly darted out, and with an angry buzz went straight out of the Pavilion, “—is—or rather, I should say,” looking sadly into the empty jar, “it was—a curious kind of Blue Beetle. Did any one happen to remark—as it went past—three blue spots under each wing?” Nobody had remarked them. “Ah, well!” the Professor said with a sigh. “It’s a pity. Unless you remark that kind of thing at the moment, it’s very apt to get overlooked! The next Specimen, at any rate, will 334 not fly away! It is—in short, or perhaps, more correctly, at length—an Elephant. You will observe——.” Here he beckoned to the Gardener to come up on the platform, and with his help began putting together what looked like an enormous dog-kennel, with short tubes projecting out of it on both sides. “But we’ve seen Elephants before,” the Emperor grumbled. “Yes, but not through a Megaloscope!” the Professor eagerly replied. “You know you can’t see a Flea, properly, without a magnifying-glass—what we call a Microscope. Well, just in the same way, you ca’n’t see an Elephant, properly, without a minimifying-glass. There’s one in each of these little tubes. And this is a Megaloscope! The Gardener will now bring in the next Specimen. Please open both curtains, down at the end there, and make way for the Elephant!” There was a general rush to the sides of the Pavilion, and all eyes were turned to the open end, watching for the return of the Gardener, who had gone away singing “He thought he saw an Elephant That practised on a Fife!” 335 There was silence for a minute: and then his harsh voice was heard again in the distance. “He looked again—come up, then! He looked again, and found it was—woa back! and, found it was A letter from his—make way there! He’s a-coming!” ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ELEPHANT’ ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ELEPHANT’ And in marched, or waddled—it is hard to say which is the right word—an Elephant, on its hind-legs, and playing on an enormous fife which it held with its fore-feet. 336 The Professor hastily threw open a large door at the end of the Megaloscope, and the huge animal, at a signal from the Gardener, dropped the fife, and obediently trotted into the machine, the door of which was at once shut by the Professor. “The Specimen is now ready for observation!” he proclaimed. “It is exactly the size of the Common Mouse—Mus Communis!” There was a general rush to the tubes, and the spectators watched with delight the minikin creature, as it playfully coiled its trunk round the Professor’s extended finger, finally taking its stand upon the palm of his hand, while he carefully lifted it out, and carried it off to exhibit to the Imperial party. “Isn’t it a darling?” cried Bruno. “May I stroke it, please? I’ll touch it welly gently!” The Empress inspected it solemnly with her eye-glass. “It is very small,” she said in a deep voice. “Smaller than elephants usually are, I believe?” The Professor gave a start of delighted surprise. “Why, that’s true!” he murmured to himself. Then louder, turning to the audience, 337 “Her Imperial Highness has made a remark which is perfectly sensible!” And a wild cheer arose from that vast multitude. “The next Specimen,” the Professor proclaimed, after carefully placing the little Elephant in the tray, among the Crystals and other Things, “is a Flea, which we will enlarge for the purposes of observation.” Taking a small pill-box from the tray, he advanced to the Megaloscope, and reversed all the tubes. “The Specimen is ready!” he cried, with his eye at one of the tubes, while he carefully emptied the pill-box through a little hole at the side. “It is now the size of the Common Horse—Equus Communis!” There was another general rush, to look through the tubes, and the Pavilion rang with shouts of delight, through which the Professor’s anxious tones could scarcely be heard. “Keep the door of the Microscope shut!” he cried. “If the creature were to escape, this size, it would——” But the mischief was done. The door had swung open, and in another moment the Monster had got out, and was trampling down the terrified, shrieking spectators. 338 But the Professor’s presence of mind did not desert him. “Undraw those curtains!” he shouted. It was done. The Monster gathered its legs together, and in one tremendous bound vanished into the sky. “Where is it?” said the Emperor, rubbing his eyes. “In the next Province, I fancy,” the Professor replied. “That jump would take it at least five miles! The next thing is to explain a Process or two. But I find there is hardly room enough to operate—the smaller animal is rather in my way——” “Who does he mean?” Bruno whispered to Sylvie. “He means you!” Sylvie whispered back. “Hush!” “Be kind enough to move—angularly—to this corner,” the Professor said, addressing himself to Bruno. Bruno hastily moved his chair in the direction indicated. “Did I move angrily enough?” he inquired. But the Professor was once more absorbed in his Lecture, which he was reading from his note-book. 339 “I will now explain the Process of—the name is blotted, I’m sorry to say. It will be illustrated by a number of—of——” here he examined the page for some time, and at last said “It seems to be either ‘Experiments’ or ‘Specimens’——” “Let it be Experiments,” said the Emperor. “We’ve seen plenty of Specimens.” “Certainly, certainly!” the Professor assented. “We will have some Experiments.” “May I do them?” Bruno eagerly asked. “Oh dear no!” The Professor looked dismayed. “I really don’t know what would happen if you did them!” “Nor nobody doosn’t know what’ll happen if oo doos them!” Bruno retorted. “Our First Experiment requires a Machine. It has two knobs—only two—you can count them, if you like.” The Head-Cook stepped forwards, counted them, and retired satisfied. “Now you might press those two knobs together—but that’s not the way to do it. Or you might turn the Machine upside-down—but that’s not the way to do it!” 340 “What are the way to do it?” said Bruno, who was listening very attentively. The Professor smiled benignantly. “Ah, yes!” he said, in a voice like the heading of a chapter. “The Way To Do It! Permit me!” and in a moment he had whisked Bruno upon the table. “I divide my subject,” he began, “into three parts——” “I think I’ll get down!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie. “It aren’t nice to be divided!” “He hasn’t got a knife, silly boy!” Sylvie whispered in reply. “Stand still! You’ll break all the bottles!” “The first part is to take hold of the knobs,” putting them into Bruno’s hands. “The second part is——” Here he turned the handle, and, with a loud “Oh!”, Bruno dropped both the knobs, and began rubbing his elbows. The Professor chuckled in delight. “It had a sensible effect. Hadn’t it?” he enquired. “No, it hadn’t a sensible effect!” Bruno said indignantly. “It were very silly indeed. It jingled my elbows, and it banged my back, and it crinkled my hair, and it buzzed among my bones!” 341 “I’m sure it didn’t!” said Sylvie. “You’re only inventing!” “Oo doosn’t know nuffin about it!” Bruno replied. “Oo wasn’t there to see. Nobody ca’n’t go among my bones. There isn’t room!” “Our Second Experiment,” the Professor announced, as Bruno returned to his place, still thoughtfully rubbing his elbows, “is the production of that seldom-seen-but-greatly-to-be-admired phenomenon, Black Light! You have seen White Light, Red Light, Green Light, and so on: but never, till this wonderful day, have any eyes but mine seen Black Light! This box,” carefully lifting it upon the table, and covering it with a heap of blankets, “is quite full of it. The way I made it was this—I took a lighted candle into a dark cupboard and shut the door. Of course the cupboard was then full of Yellow Light. Then I took a bottle of Black ink, and poured it over the candle: and, to my delight, every atom of the Yellow Light turned Black! That was indeed the proudest moment of my life! Then I filled a box with it. And now—would any one like to get under the blankets and see it?” 342 Dead silence followed this appeal: but at last Bruno said “I’ll get under, if it won’t jingle my elbows.” Satisfied on this point, Bruno crawled under the blankets, and, after a minute or two, crawled out again, very hot and dusty, and with his hair in the wildest confusion. “What did you see in the box?” Sylvie eagerly enquired. “I saw nuffin!” Bruno sadly replied. “It were too dark!” “He has described the appearance of the thing exactly!” the Professor exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Black Light, and Nothing, look so extremely alike, at first sight, that I don’t wonder he failed to distinguish them! We will now proceed to the Third Experiment.” The Professor came down, and led the way to where a post had been driven firmly into the ground. To one side of the post was fastened a chain, with an iron weight hooked on to the end of it, and from the other side projected a piece of whalebone, with a ring at the end of it. “This is a most interesting Experiment!” the Professor announced. “It 343 will need time, I’m afraid: but that is a trifling disadvantage. Now observe. If I were to unhook this weight, and let go, it would fall to the ground. You do not deny that?” Nobody denied it. “And in the same way, if I were to bend this piece of whalebone round the post—thus—and put the ring over this hook—thus—it stays bent: but, if I unhook it, it straightens itself again. You do not deny that?” Again, nobody denied it. “Well, now, suppose we left things just as they are, for a long time. The force of the whalebone would get exhausted, you know, and it would stay bent, even when you unhooked it. Now, why shouldn’t the same thing happen with the weight? The whalebone gets so used to being bent, that it ca’n’t straighten itself any more. Why shouldn’t the weight get so used to being held up, that it ca’n’t fall any more? That’s what I want to know!” “That’s what we want to know!” echoed the crowd. “How long must we wait?” grumbled the Emperor. 344 The Professor looked at his watch. “Well, I think a thousand years will do to begin with,” he said. “Then we will cautiously unhook the weight: and, if it still shows (as perhaps it will) a slight tendency to fall, we will hook it on to the chain again, and leave it for another thousand years.” Here the Empress experienced one of those flashes of Common Sense which were the surprise of all around her. “Meanwhile there’ll be time for another Experiment,” she said. “There will indeed!” cried the delighted Professor. “Let us return to the platform, and proceed to the Fourth Experiment!” “For this concluding Experiment, I will take a certain Alkali, or Acid—I forget which. Now you’ll see what will happen when I mix it with Some——” here he took up a bottle, and looked at it doubtfully, “—when I mix it with—with Something——” Here the Emperor interrupted. “What’s the name of the stuff?” he asked. “I don’t remember the name,” said the Professor: “and the label has come off.” He emptied it quickly into the other bottle, and, 345 with a tremendous bang, both bottles flew to pieces, upsetting all the machines, and filling the Pavilion with thick black smoke. I sprang to my feet in terror, and—and found myself standing before my solitary hearth, where the poker, dropping at last from the hand of the sleeper, had knocked over the tongs and the shovel, and had upset the kettle, filling the air with clouds of steam. With a weary sigh, I betook myself to bed. AN EXPLOSION AN EXPLOSION 346 CHAPTER XXII. THE BANQUET. “Heaviness may endure for a night: but joy cometh in the morning.” The next day found me quite another being. Even the memories of my lost friend and companion were sunny as the genial weather that smiled around me. I did not venture to trouble Lady Muriel, or her father, with another call so soon: but took a walk into the country, and only turned homewards when the low sunbeams warned me that day would soon be over. On my way home, I passed the cottage where the old man lived, whose face always recalled 347 to me the day when I first met Lady Muriel; and I glanced in as I passed, half-curious to see if he were still living there. Yes: the old man was still alive. He was sitting out in the porch, looking just as he did when I first saw him at Fayfield Junction—it seemed only a few days ago! “Good evening!” I said, pausing. “Good evening, Maister!” he cheerfully responded. “Wo’n’t ee step in?” I stepped in, and took a seat on the bench in the porch. “I’m glad to see you looking so hearty,” I began. “Last time, I remember, I chanced to pass just as Lady Muriel was coming away from the house. Does she still come to see you?” “Ees,” he answered slowly. “She has na forgotten me. I don’t lose her bonny face for many days together. Well I mind the very first time she come, after we’d met at Railway Station. She told me as she come to mak’ amends. Dear child! Only think o’ that! To mak’ amends!” “To make amends for what?” I enquired. “What could she have done to need it?” 348 “Well, it were loike this, you see? We were both on us a-waiting fur t’ train at t’ Junction. And I had setten mysen down upat t’ bench. And Station-Maister, he comes and he orders me off—fur t’ mak’ room for her Ladyship, you understand?” “I remember it all,” I said. “I was there myself, that day.” “Was you, now? Well, an’ she axes my pardon fur’t. Think o’ that, now! My pardon! An owd ne’er-do-weel like me! Ah! She’s been here many a time, sin’ then. Why, she were in here only yestere’en, as it were, asittin’, as it might be, where you’re a-sitting now, an’ lookin’ sweeter and kinder nor an angel! An’ she says ‘You’ve not got your Minnie, now,’ she says, ‘to fettle for ye.’ Minnie was my grand-daughter, Sir, as lived wi’ me. She died, a matter of two months ago—or it may be three. She was a bonny lass—and a good lass, too. Eh, but life has been rare an’ lonely without her!” He covered his face in his hands: and I waited a minute or two, in silence, for him to recover himself. 349 “So she says ‘Just tak’ me fur your Minnie!’ she says. ‘Didna Minnie mak’ your tea fur you?’ says she. ‘Ay,’ says I. An she mak’s the tea. ‘An’ didna Minnie light your pipe?’ says she. ‘Ay,’ says I. An’ she lights the pipe for me. ‘An’ didna Minnie set out your tea in t’ porch?’ An’ I says ‘My dear,’ I says, ‘I’m thinking you’re Minnie hersen!’ An’ she cries a bit. We both on us cries a bit——.” Again I kept silence for a while. “An’ while I smokes my pipe, she sits an’ talks to me—as loving an’ as pleasant! I’ll be bound I thowt it were Minnie come again! An’ when she gets up to go, I says ‘Winnot ye shak’ hands wi’ me?’ says I. An’ she says ‘Na,’ she says: ‘a cannot shak’ hands wi’ thee!’ she says.” “I’m sorry she said that,” I put in, thinking it was the only instance I had ever known of pride of rank showing itself in Lady Muriel. “Bless you, it werena pride!” said the old man, reading my thoughts. “She says ‘Your Minnie never shook hands wi’ you!’ she says. ‘An’ I’m your Minnie now,’ she says. 350 An’ she just puts her dear arms about my neck—and she kisses me on t’ cheek—an’ may God in Heaven bless her!” And here the poor old man broke down entirely, and could say no more. ‘A CANNOT SHAK’ HANDS WI’ THEE!’ ‘A CANNOT SHAK’ HANDS WI’ THEE!’ “God bless her!” I echoed. “And good night to you!” I pressed his hand, and left 351 him. “Lady Muriel,” I said softly to myself as I went homewards, “truly you know how to ‘mak’ amends’!” Seated once more by my lonely fireside, I tried to recall the strange vision of the night before, and to conjure up the face of the dear old Professor among the blazing coals. “That black one—with just a touch of red—would suit him well,” I thought. “After such a catastrophe, it would be sure to be covered with black stains—and he would say:— “The result of that combination—you may have noticed?—was an Explosion! Shall I repeat the Experiment?” “No, no! Don’t trouble yourself!” was the general cry. And we all trooped off, in hot haste, to the Banqueting-Hall, where the feast had already begun. No time was lost in helping the dishes, and very speedily every guest found his plate filled with good things. “I have always maintained the principle,” the Professor began, “that it is a good rule to take some food—occasionally. The great advantage of dinner-parties——” he broke off suddenly. “Why, actually here’s the Other Professor!” he cried. “And there’s no place left for him!” 352 THE OTHER PROFESSOR’S FALL THE OTHER PROFESSOR’S FALL 353 The Other Professor came in reading a large book, which he held close to his eyes. One result of his not looking where he was going was that he tripped up, as he crossed the Saloon, flew up into the air, and fell heavily on his face in the middle of the table. “What a pity!” cried the kind-hearted Professor, as he helped him up. “It wouldn’t be me, if I didn’t trip,” said the Other Professor. The Professor looked much shocked. “Almost anything would be better than that!” he exclaimed. “It never does,” he added, aside to Bruno, “to be anybody else, does it?” To which Bruno gravely replied “I’s got nuffin on my plate.” The Professor hastily put on his spectacles, to make sure that the facts were all right, to begin with: then he turned his jolly round face upon the unfortunate owner of the empty plate. “And what would you like next, my little man?” 354 “Well,” Bruno said, a little doubtfully, “I think I’ll take some plum-pudding, please—while I think of it.” “Oh, Bruno!” (This was a whisper from Sylvie.) “It isn’t good manners to ask for a dish before it comes!” And Bruno whispered back “But I might forget to ask for some, when it comes, oo know—I do forget things, sometimes,” he added, seeing Sylvie about to whisper more. And this assertion Sylvie did not venture to contradict. Meanwhile a chair had been placed for the Other Professor, between the Empress and Sylvie. Sylvie found him a rather uninteresting neighbour: in fact, she couldn’t afterwards remember that he had made more than one remark to her during the whole banquet, and that was “What a comfort a Dictionary is!” (She told Bruno, afterwards, that she had been too much afraid of him to say more than “Yes, Sir,” in reply; and that had been the end of their conversation. On which Bruno expressed a very decided opinion that that wasn’t worth calling a ‘conversation’ at all. “Oo should 355 have asked him a riddle!” he added triumphantly. “Why, I asked the Professor three riddles! One was that one you asked me in the morning, ‘How many pennies is there in two shillings?’ And another was——” “Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie interrupted. “That wasn’t a riddle!” “It were!” Bruno fiercely replied.) By this time a waiter had supplied Bruno with a plateful of something, which drove the plum-pudding out of his head. “Another advantage of dinner-parties,” the Professor cheerfully explained, for the benefit of any one that would listen, “is that it helps you to see your friends. If you want to see a man, offer him something to eat. It’s the same rule with a mouse.” “This Cat’s very kind to the Mouses,” Bruno said, stooping to stroke a remarkably fat specimen of the race, that had just waddled into the room, and was rubbing itself affectionately against the leg of his chair. “Please, Sylvie, pour some milk in your saucer. Pussie’s ever so thirsty!” “Why do you want my saucer?” said Sylvie. “You’ve got one yourself!” 356 “Yes, I know,” said Bruno: “but I wanted mine for to give it some more milk in.” Sylvie looked unconvinced: however it seemed quite impossible for her ever to refuse what her brother asked: so she quietly filled her saucer with milk, and handed it to Bruno, who got down off his chair to administer it to the cat. “The room’s very hot, with all this crowd,” the Professor said to Sylvie. “I wonder why they don’t put some lumps of ice in the grate? You fill it with lumps of coal in the winter, you know, and you sit round it and enjoy the warmth. How jolly it would be to fill it now with lumps of ice, and sit round it and enjoy the coolth!” Hot as it was, Sylvie shivered a little at the idea. “It’s very cold outside,” she said. “My feet got almost frozen to-day.” “That’s the shoemaker’s fault!” the Professor cheerfully replied. “How often I’ve explained to him that he ought to make boots with little iron frames under the soles, to hold lamps! But he never thinks. No one would suffer from cold, if only they would think of 357 those little things. I always use hot ink, myself, in the winter. Very few people ever think of that! Yet how simple it is!” “Yes, it’s very simple,” Sylvie said politely. “Has the cat had enough?” This was to Bruno, who had brought back the saucer only half-emptied. But Bruno did not hear the question. “There’s somebody scratching at the door and wanting to come in,” he said. And he scrambled down off his chair, and went and cautiously peeped out through the door-way. “Who was it wanted to come in?” Sylvie asked, as he returned to his place. “It were a Mouse,” said Bruno. “And it peepted in. And it saw the Cat. And it said ‘I’ll come in another day.’ And I said ‘Oo needn’t be flightened. The Cat’s welly kind to Mouses.’ And it said ‘But I’s got some imporkant business, what I must attend to.’ And it said ‘I’ll call again to-morrow.’ And it said ‘Give my love to the Cat.’” “What a fat cat it is!” said the Lord Chancellor, leaning across the Professor to address his small neighbour. “It’s quite a wonder!” 358 “It was awfully fat when it camed in,” said Bruno: “so it would be more wonderfuller if it got thin all in a minute.” “And that was the reason, I suppose,” the Lord Chancellor suggested, “why you didn’t give it the rest of the milk?” “No,” said Bruno. “It were a betterer reason. I tooked the saucer up ’cause it were so discontented!” “It doesn’t look so to me,” said the Lord Chancellor. “What made you think it was discontented?” “’Cause it grumbled in its throat.” “Oh, Bruno!” cried Sylvie. “Why, that’s the way cats show they’re pleased!” Bruno looked doubtful. “It’s not a good way,” he objected. “Oo wouldn’t say I were pleased, if I made that noise in my throat!” “What a singular boy!” the Lord Chancellor whispered to himself: but Bruno had caught the words. “What do it mean to say ‘a singular boy’?” he whispered to Sylvie. “It means one boy,” Sylvie whispered in return. “And plural means two or three.” 359 “Then I’s welly glad I is a singular boy!” Bruno said with great emphasis. “It would be horrid to be two or three boys! P’raps they wouldn’t play with me!” “Why should they?” said the Other Professor, suddenly waking up out of a deep reverie. “They might be asleep, you know.” “Couldn’t, if I was awake,” Bruno said cunningly. “Oh, but they might indeed!” the Other Professor protested. “Boys don’t all go to sleep at once, you know. So these boys—but who are you talking about?” “He never remembers to ask that first!” the Professor whispered to the children. “Why, the rest of me, a-course!” Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. “Supposing I was two or three boys!” The Other Professor sighed, and seemed to be sinking back into his reverie; but suddenly brightened up again, and addressed the Professor. “There’s nothing more to be done now, is there?” “Well, there’s the dinner to finish,” the Professor said with a bewildered smile: “and the 360 heat to bear. I hope you’ll enjoy the dinner—such as it is; and that you won’t mind the heat—such as it isn’t.” The sentence sounded well, but somehow I couldn’t quite understand it; and the Other Professor seemed to be no better off. “Such as it isn’t what?” he peevishly enquired. “It isn’t as hot as it might be,” the Professor replied, catching at the first idea that came to hand. “Ah, I see what you mean now!” the Other Professor graciously remarked. “It’s very badly expressed, but I quite see it now! Thirteen minutes and a half ago,” he went on, looking first at Bruno and then at his watch as he spoke, “you said ‘this Cat’s very kind to the Mouses.’ It must be a singular animal!” “So it are,” said Bruno, after carefully examining the Cat, to make sure how many there were of it. “But how do you know it’s kind to the Mouses—or, more correctly speaking, the Mice?” “’Cause it plays with the Mouses,” said Bruno; “for to amuse them, oo know.” 361 “But that is just what I don’t know,” the Other Professor rejoined. “My belief is, it plays with them to kill them!” “Oh, that’s quite a accident!” Bruno began, so eagerly, that it was evident he had already propounded this very difficulty to the Cat. “It ’splained all that to me, while it were drinking the milk. It said ‘I teaches the Mouses new games: the Mouses likes it ever so much.’ It said ‘Sometimes little accidents happens: sometimes the Mouses kills theirselves.’ It said ‘I’s always welly sorry, when the Mouses kills theirselves.’ It said——” “If it was so very sorry,” Sylvie said, rather disdainfully, “it wouldn’t eat the Mouses after they’d killed themselves!” But this difficulty, also, had evidently not been lost sight of in the exhaustive ethical discussion just concluded. “It said——” (the orator constantly omitted, as superfluous, his own share in the dialogue, and merely gave us the replies of the Cat) “It said ‘Dead Mouses never objecks to be eaten.’ It said ‘There’s no use wasting good Mouses.’ It said ‘Wifful—’ sumfinoruvver. It said ‘And oo may live to 362 say ‘How much I wiss I had the Mouse that then I frew away!’ It said——.” “It hadn’t time to say such a lot of things!” Sylvie interrupted indignantly. “Oo doosn’t know how Cats speaks!” Bruno rejoined contemptuously. “Cats speaks welly quick!” 363 CHAPTER XXIII. THE PIG-TALE. By this time the appetites of the guests seemed to be nearly satisfied, and even Bruno had the resolution to say, when the Professor offered him a fourth slice of plum-pudding, “I thinks three helpings is enough!” Suddenly the Professor started as if he had been electrified. “Why, I had nearly forgotten the most important part of the entertainment! The Other Professor is to recite a Tale of a Pig—I mean a Pig-Tale,” he corrected himself. “It has Introductory Verses at the beginning, and at the end.” 364 “It ca’n’t have Introductory Verses at the end, can it?” said Sylvie. “Wait till you hear it,” said the Professor: “then you’ll see. I’m not sure it hasn’t some in the middle, as well.” Here he rose to his feet, and there was an instant silence through the Banqueting-Hall: they evidently expected a speech. “Ladies, and gentlemen,” the Professor began, “the Other Professor is so kind as to recite a Poem. The title of it is ‘The Pig-Tale.’ He never recited it before!” (General cheering among the guests.) “He will never recite it again!” (Frantic excitement, and wild cheering all down the hall, the Professor himself mounting the table in hot haste, to lead the cheering, and waving his spectacles in one hand and a spoon in the other.) Then the Other Professor got up, and began:— Little Birds are dining Warily and well, Hid in mossy cell: Hid, I say, by waiters Gorgeous in their gaiters— I’ve a Tale to tell. 365 ‘TEACHING TIGRESSES TO SMILE’ ‘TEACHING TIGRESSES TO SMILE’ Little Birds are feeding Justices with jam, Rich in frizzled ham: Rich, I say, in oysters Haunting shady cloisters— That is what I am. Little Birds are teaching Tigresses to smile, Innocent of guile: Smile, I say, not smirkle— Mouth a semicircle, That’s the proper style. Little Birds are sleeping All among the pins, Where the loser wins: Where, I say, he sneezes When and how he pleases— So the Tale begins. 366 There was a Pig that sat alone Beside a ruined Pump: By day and night he made his moan— It would have stirred a heart of stone To see him wring his hoofs and groan, Because he could not jump. A certain Camel heard him shout— A Camel with a hump. “Oh, is it Grief, or is it Gout? What is this bellowing about?” That Pig replied, with quivering snout, “Because I cannot jump!” That Camel scanned him, dreamy-eyed. “Methinks you are too plump. I never knew a Pig so wide— That wobbled so from side to side— Who could, however much he tried, Do such a thing as jump! “Yet mark those trees, two miles away, All clustered in a clump: If you could trot there twice a day, Nor ever pause for rest or play, In the far future—Who can say?— You may be fit to jump.” 367 ‘HORRID WAS THAT PIG’S DESPAIR!’ ‘HORRID WAS THAT PIG’S DESPAIR!’ That Camel passed, and left him there, Beside the ruined Pump. Oh, horrid was that Pig’s despair! His shrieks of anguish filled the air. He wrung his hoofs, he rent his hair, Because he could not jump. There was a Frog that wandered by— A sleek and shining lump: Inspected him with fishy eye, 368 And said “O Pig, what makes you cry?” And bitter was that Pig’s reply, “Because I cannot jump!” That Frog he grinned a grin of glee, And hit his chest a thump “O Pig,” said, “be ruled by me, And you shall see what you shall see. This minute, for a trifling fee, I’ll teach you how to jump! “You may be faint from many a fall, And bruised by many a bump: But, if you persevere through all, And practise first on something small, Concluding with a ten-foot wall, You’ll find that you can jump!” That Pig looked up with joyful start: “Oh Frog, you are a trump! Your words have healed my inward smart— Come, name your fee and do your part: Bring comfort to a broken heart, By teaching me to jump!” “My fee shall be a mutton-chop, My goal this ruined Pump. Observe with what an airy flop 369 I plant myself upon the top! Now bend your knees and take a hop, For that’s the way to jump!” THE FATAL JUMP THE FATAL JUMP Uprose that Pig, and rushed, full whack, Against the ruined Pump: Rolled over like an empty sack, And settled down upon his back, While all his bones at once went ‘Crack!’ It was a fatal jump. 370 When the Other Professor had recited this Verse, he went across to the fire-place, and put his head up the chimney. In doing this, he lost his balance, and fell head-first into the empty grate, and got so firmly fixed there that it was some time before he could be dragged out again. Bruno had had time to say “I thought he wanted to see how many peoples was up the chimbley.” And Sylvie had said “Chimney—not chimbley.” And Bruno had said “Don’t talk ’ubbish!” All this, while the Other Professor was being extracted. “You must have blacked your face!” the Empress said anxiously. “Let me send for some soap?” “Thanks, no,” said the Other Professor, keeping his face turned away. “Black’s quite a respectable colour. Besides, soap would be no use without water.” Keeping his back well turned away from the audience, he went on with the Introductory Verses:— 371 ‘BATHING CROCODILES IN CREAM’ ‘BATHING CROCODILES IN CREAM’ Little Birds are writing Interesting books, To be read by cooks: Read, I say, not roasted— Letterpress, when toasted, Loses its good looks. Little Birds are playing Bagpipes on the shore, Where the tourists snore: “Thanks!” they cry. “’Tis thrilling! Take, oh take this shilling! Let us have no more!” Little Birds are bathing Crocodiles in cream, Like a happy dream: Like, but not so lasting— Crocodiles, when fasting, Are not all they seem! 372 ‘THAT PIG LAY STILL AS ANY STONE’ ‘THAT PIG LAY STILL AS ANY STONE’ That Camel passed, as Day grew dim Around the ruined Pump. “O broken heart! O broken limb! It needs,” that Camel said to him, “Something more fairy-like and slim, To execute a jump!” That Pig lay still as any stone, And could not stir a stump: Nor ever, if the truth were known, 373 Was he again observed to moan, Nor ever wring his hoofs and groan, Because he could not jump. That Frog made no remark, for he Was dismal as a dump: He knew the consequence must be That he would never get his fee— And still he sits, in miserie, Upon that ruined Pump! ‘STILL HE SITS IN MISERIE’ ‘STILL HE SITS IN MISERIE’ “It’s a miserable story!” said Bruno. “It begins miserably, and it ends miserablier. I think I shall cry. Sylvie, please lend me your handkerchief.” 374 “I haven’t got it with me,” Sylvie whispered. “Then I won’t cry,” said Bruno manfully. “There are more Introductory Verses to come,” said the Other Professor, “but I’m hungry.” He sat down, cut a large slice of cake, put it on Bruno’s plate, and gazed at his own empty plate in astonishment. “Where did you get that cake?” Sylvie whispered to Bruno. “He gived it me,” said Bruno. “But you shouldn’t ask for things! You know you shouldn’t!” “I didn’t ask,” said Bruno, taking a fresh mouthful: “he gived it me.” Sylvie considered this for a moment: then she saw her way out of it. “Well, then, ask him to give me some!” “You seem to enjoy that cake?” the Professor remarked. “Doos that mean ‘munch’?” Bruno whispered to Sylvie. Sylvie nodded. “It means ‘to munch’ and ‘to like to munch.’” Bruno smiled at the Professor. “I doos enjoy it,” he said. 375 The Other Professor caught the word. “And I hope you’re enjoying yourself, little Man?” he enquired. Bruno’s look of horror quite startled him. “No, indeed I aren’t!” he said. The Other Professor looked thoroughly puzzled. “Well, well!” he said. “Try some cowslip wine!” And he filled a glass and handed it to Bruno. “Drink this, my dear, and you’ll be quite another man!” “Who shall I be?” said Bruno, pausing in the act of putting it to his lips. “Don’t ask so many questions!” Sylvie interposed, anxious to save the poor old man from further bewilderment. “Suppose we get the Professor to tell us a story.” Bruno adopted the idea with enthusiasm. “Please do!” he cried eagerly. “Sumfin about tigers—and bumble-bees—and robin-redbreasts, oo knows!” “Why should you always have live things in stories?” said the Professor. “Why don’t you have events, or circumstances?” “Oh, please invent a story like that!” cried Bruno. 376 The Professor began fluently enough. “Once a coincidence was taking a walk with a little accident, and they met an explanation—a very old explanation—so old that it was quite doubled up, and looked more like a conundrum——” he broke off suddenly. “Please go on!” both children exclaimed. The Professor made a candid confession. “It’s a very difficult sort to invent, I find. Suppose Bruno tells one, first.” Bruno was only too happy to adopt the suggestion. “Once there were a Pig, and a Accordion, and two Jars of Orange-marmalade——” “The dramatis personæ,” murmured the Professor. “Well, what then?” “So, when the Pig played on the Accordion,” Bruno went on, “one of the Jars of Orange-marmalade didn’t like the tune, and the other Jar of Orange-marmalade did like the tune—I know I shall get confused among those Jars of Orange-marmalade, Sylvie!” he whispered anxiously. “I will now recite the other Introductory Verses,” said the Other Professor. 377 ‘BLESSED BY HAPPY STAGS’ ‘BLESSED BY HAPPY STAGS’ Little Birds are choking Baronets with bun, Taught to fire a gun: Taught, I say, to splinter Salmon in the winter— Merely for the fun. Little Birds are hiding Crimes in carpet-bags, Blessed by happy stags: Blessed, I say, though beaten— Since our friends are eaten When the memory flags. Little Birds are tasting Gratitude and gold, Pale with sudden cold Pale, I say, and wrinkled— When the bells have tinkled And the Tale is told. 378 “The next thing to be done,” the Professor cheerfully remarked to the Lord Chancellor, as soon as the applause, caused by the recital of the Pig-Tale, had come to an end, “is to drink the Emperor’s health, is it not?” “Undoubtedly!” the Lord Chancellor replied with much solemnity, as he rose to his feet to give the necessary directions for the ceremony. “Fill your glasses!” he thundered. All did so, instantly. “Drink the Emperor’s health!” A general gurgling resounded all through the Hall. “Three cheers for the Emperor!” The faintest possible sound followed this announcement: and the Chancellor, with admirable presence of mind, instantly proclaimed “A speech from the Emperor!” The Emperor had begun his speech almost before the words were uttered. “However unwilling to be Emperor—since you all wish me to be Emperor—you know how badly the late Warden managed things—with such enthusiasm as you have shown—he persecuted you—he taxed you too heavily—you know who is fittest man to be Emperor—my brother had no sense——.” 379 How long this curious speech might have lasted it is impossible to say, for just at this moment a hurricane shook the palace to its foundations, bursting open the windows, extinguishing some of the lamps, and filling the air with clouds of dust, which took strange shapes in the air, and seemed to form words. But the storm subsided as suddenly as it had risen—the casements swung into their places again: the dust vanished: all was as it had been a minute ago—with the exception of the Emperor and Empress, over whom had come a wondrous change. The vacant stare, the meaningless smile, had passed away: all could see that these two strange beings had returned to their senses. The Emperor continued his speech as if there had been no interruption. “And we have behaved—my wife and I—like two arrant Knaves. We deserve no better name. When my brother went away, you lost the best Warden you ever had. And I’ve been doing my best, wretched hypocrite that I am, to cheat you into making me an Emperor. Me! One that has hardly got the wits to be a shoe-black!” 380 The Lord Chancellor wrung his hands in despair. “He is mad, good people!” he was beginning. But both speeches stopped suddenly—and, in the dead silence that followed, a knocking was heard at the outer door. “What is it?” was the general cry. People began running in and out. The excitement increased every moment. The Lord Chancellor, forgetting all the rules of Court-ceremony, ran full speed down the hall, and in a minute returned, pale and gasping for breath. 381 CHAPTER XXIV. THE BEGGAR’S RETURN. “Your Imperial Highnesses!” he began. “It’s the old Beggar again! Shall we set the dogs at him?” “Bring him here!” said the Emperor. The Chancellor could scarcely believe his ears. “Here, your Imperial Highness? Did I rightly understand——.” “Bring him here!” the Emperor thundered once more. The Chancellor tottered down the hall—and in another minute the crowd divided, and the poor old Beggar was seen entering the Banqueting-Hall. 382 THE OLD BEGGAR’S RETURN THE OLD BEGGAR’S RETURN He was indeed a pitiable object: the rags, that hung about him, were all splashed with mud: his white hair and his long beard were tossed about in wild disorder. Yet he walked upright, with a stately tread, as if used to command: and—strangest sight of all—Sylvie and Bruno came with him, clinging to his hands, and gazing at him with looks of silent love. 383 Men looked eagerly to see how the Emperor would receive the bold intruder. Would he hurl him from the steps of the daïs? But no. To their utter astonishment, the Emperor knelt as the beggar approached, and with bowed head murmured “Forgive us!” “Forgive us!” the Empress, kneeling at her husband’s side, meekly repeated. The Outcast smiled. “Rise up!” he said. “I forgive you!” And men saw with wonder that a change had passed over the old beggar, even as he spoke. What had seemed, but now, to be vile rags and splashes of mud, were seen to be in truth kingly trappings, broidered with gold, and sparkling with gems. All knew him now, and bent low before the Elder Brother, the true Warden. “Brother mine, and Sister mine!” the Warden began, in a clear voice that was heard all through that vast hall. “I come not to disturb you. Rule on, as Emperor, and rule wisely. For I am chosen King of Elfland. To-morrow I return there, taking nought from hence, save only—save only——” his voice trembled, and with a look of ineffable tenderness, he laid 384 his hands in silence on the heads of the two little ones who clung around him. But he recovered himself in a moment, and beckoned to the Emperor to resume his place at the table. The company seated themselves again—room being found for the Elfin-King between his two children—and the Lord Chancellor rose once more, to propose the next toast. “The next toast—the hero of the day—why, he isn’t here!” he broke off in wild confusion. Good gracious! Everybody had forgotten Prince Uggug! “He was told of the Banquet, of course?” said the Emperor. “Undoubtedly!” replied the Chancellor. “That would be the duty of the Gold Stick in Waiting.” “Let the Gold Stick come forwards!” the Emperor gravely said. The Gold Stick came forwards. “I attended on His Imperial Fatness,” was the statement made by the trembling official. “I told him of the Lecture and the Banquet——.” 385 “What followed?” said the Emperor: for the unhappy man seemed almost too frightened to go on. “His Imperial Fatness was graciously pleased to be sulky. His Imperial Fatness was graciously pleased to box my ears. His Imperial Fatness was graciously pleased to say ‘I don’t care!’” “‘Don’t-care’ came to a bad end,” Sylvie whispered to Bruno. “I’m not sure, but I believe he was hanged.” The Professor overheard her. “That result,” he blandly remarked, “was merely a case of mistaken identity.” Both children looked puzzled. “Permit me to explain. ‘Don’t-care’ and ‘Care’ were twin-brothers. ‘Care,’ you know, killed the Cat. And they caught ‘Don’t-care’ by mistake, and hanged him instead. And so ‘Care’ is alive still. But he’s very unhappy without his brother. That’s why they say ‘Begone, dull Care!’” “Thank you!” Sylvie said, heartily. “It’s very extremely interesting. Why, it seems to explain everything!” 386 “Well, not quite everything,” the Professor modestly rejoined. “There are two or three scientific difficulties——” “What was your general impression as to His Imperial Fatness?” the Emperor asked the Gold Stick. “My impression was that His Imperial Fatness was getting more——” “More what?” All listened breathlessly for the next word. “More PRICKLY!” “He must be sent for at once!” the Emperor exclaimed. And the Gold Stick went off like a shot. The Elfin-King sadly shook his head. “No use, no use!” he murmured to himself. “Loveless, loveless!” Pale, trembling, speechless, the Gold Stick came slowly back again. “Well?” said the Emperor. “Why does not the Prince appear?” “One can easily guess,” said the Professor. “His Imperial Fatness is, without doubt, a little preoccupied.” Bruno turned a look of solemn enquiry on his old friend. “What do that word mean?” 387 But the Professor took no notice of the question. He was eagerly listening to the Gold Stick’s reply. “Please your Highness! His Imperial Fatness is——” Not a word more could he utter. The Empress rose in an agony of alarm. “Let us go to him!” she cried. And there was a general rush for the door. Bruno slipped off his chair in a moment. “May we go too?” he eagerly asked. But the King did not hear the question, as the Professor was speaking to him. “Preoccupied, your Majesty!” he was saying. “That is what he is, no doubt!” “May we go and see him?” Bruno repeated. The King nodded assent, and the children ran off. In a minute or two they returned, slowly and gravely. “Well?” said the King. “What’s the matter with the Prince?” “He’s—what you said,” Bruno replied, looking at the Professor. “That hard word.” And he looked to Sylvie for assistance. “Porcupine,” said Sylvie. “No, no!” the Professor corrected her. “‘Pre-occupied,’ you mean.” 388 ‘PORCUPINE!’ ‘PORCUPINE!’ 389 “No, it’s porcupine,” persisted Sylvie. “Not that other word at all. And please will you come? The house is all in an uproar.” (“And oo’d better bring an uproar-glass wiz oo!” added Bruno.) We got up in great haste, and followed the children upstairs. No one took the least notice of me, but I wasn’t at all surprised at this, as I had long realised that I was quite invisible to them all—even to Sylvie and Bruno. All along the gallery, that led to the Prince’s apartment, an excited crowd was surging to and fro, and the Babel of voices was deafening: against the door of the room three strong men were leaning, vainly trying to shut it—for some great animal inside was constantly bursting it half open, and we had a glimpse, before the men could push it back again, of the head of a furious wild beast, with great fiery eyes and gnashing teeth. Its voice was a sort of mixture—there was the roaring of a lion, and the bellowing of a bull, and now and then a scream like a gigantic parrot. “There is no judging by the voice!” the Professor cried in great excitement. “What is it?” he shouted to the men at the door. 390 And a general chorus of voices answered him “Porcupine! Prince Uggug has turned into a Porcupine!” “A new Specimen!” exclaimed the delighted Professor. “Pray let me go in. It should be labeled at once!” But the strong men only pushed him back. “Label it, indeed! Do you want to be eaten up?” they cried. “Never mind about Specimens, Professor!” said the Emperor, pushing his way through the crowd. “Tell us how to keep him safe!” “A large cage!” the Professor promptly replied. “Bring a large cage,” he said to the people generally, “with strong bars of steel, and a portcullis made to go up and down like a mouse-trap! Does any one happen to have such a thing about him?” It didn’t sound a likely sort of thing for any one to have about him; however, they brought him one directly: curiously enough, there happened to be one standing in the gallery. “Put it facing the opening of the door, and draw up the portcullis!” This was done in a moment. 391 “Blankets now!” cried the Professor. “This is a most interesting Experiment!” There happened to be a pile of blankets close by: and the Professor had hardly said the word, when they were all unfolded and held up like curtains all around. The Professor rapidly arranged them in two rows, so as to make a dark passage, leading straight from the door to the mouth of the cage. “Now fling the door open!” This did not need to be done: the three men had only to leap out of the way, and the fearful monster flung the door open for itself, and, with a yell like the whistle of a steam-engine, rushed into the cage. “Down with the portcullis!” No sooner said than done: and all breathed freely once more, on seeing the Porcupine safely caged. The Professor rubbed his hands in childish delight. “The Experiment has succeeded!” he proclaimed. “All that is needed now is to feed it three times a day, on chopped carrots and——.” “Never mind about its food, just now!” the Emperor interrupted. “Let us return to 392 the Banquet. Brother, will you lead the way?” And the old man, attended by his children, headed the procession down stairs. “See the fate of a loveless life!” he said to Bruno, as they returned to their places. To which Bruno made reply, “I always loved Sylvie, so I’ll never get prickly like that!” “He is prickly, certainly,” said the Professor, who had caught the last words, “but we must remember that, however porcupiny, he is royal still! After this feast is over, I’m going to take a little present to Prince Uggug—just to soothe him, you know: it isn’t pleasant living in a cage.” “What’ll you give him for a birthday-present?” Bruno enquired. “A small saucer of chopped carrots,” replied the Professor. “In giving birthday-presents, my motto is—cheapness! I should think I save forty pounds a year by giving—oh, what a twinge of pain!” “What is it?” said Sylvie anxiously. “My old enemy!” groaned the Professor. “Lumbago—rheumatism—that sort of thing. I think I’ll go and lie down a bit.” And he 393 hobbled out of the Saloon, watched by the pitying eyes of the two children. “He’ll be better soon!” the Elfin-King said cheerily. “Brother!” turning to the Emperor, “I have some business to arrange with you to-night. The Empress will take care of the children.” And the two Brothers went away together, arm-in-arm. The Empress found the children rather sad company. They could talk of nothing but “the dear Professor,” and “what a pity he’s so ill!”, till at last she made the welcome proposal “Let’s go and see him!” The children eagerly grasped the hands she offered them: and we went off to the Professor’s study, and found him lying on the sofa, covered up with blankets, and reading a little manuscript-book. “Notes on Vol. Three!” he murmured, looking up at us. And there, on a table near him, lay the book he was seeking when first I saw him. “And how are you now, Professor?” the Empress asked, bending over the invalid. The Professor looked up, and smiled feebly. “As devoted to your Imperial Highness as 394 ever!” he said in a weak voice. “All of me, that is not Lumbago, is Loyalty!” “A sweet sentiment!” the Empress exclaimed with tears in her eyes. “You seldom hear anything so beautiful as that—even in a Valentine!” “We must take you to stay at the seaside,” Sylvie said, tenderly. “It’ll do you ever so much good! And the Sea’s so grand!” “But a Mountain’s grander!” said Bruno. “What is there grand about the Sea?” said the Professor. “Why, you could put it all into a teacup!” “Some of it,” Sylvie corrected him. “Well, you’d only want a certain number of tea-cups to hold it all. And then where’s the grandeur? Then as to a Mountain—why, you could carry it all away in a wheel-barrow, in a certain number of years!” “It wouldn’t look grand—the bits of it in the wheel-barrow,” Sylvie candidly admitted. “But when oo put it together again——” Bruno began. “When you’re older,” said the Professor, “you’ll know that you ca’n’t put Mountains 395 together again so easily! One lives and one learns, you know!” “But it needn’t be the same one, need it?” said Bruno. “Won’t it do, if I live, and if Sylvie learns?” “I ca’n’t learn without living!” said Sylvie. “But I can live without learning!” Bruno retorted. “Oo just try me!” “What I meant, was—” the Professor began, looking much puzzled, “—was—that you don’t know everything, you know.” “But I do know everything I know!” persisted the little fellow. “I know ever so many things! Everything, ’cept the things I don’t know. And Sylvie knows all the rest.” The Professor sighed, and gave it up. “Do you know what a Boojum is?” “I know!” cried Bruno. “It’s the thing what wrenches people out of their boots!” “He means ‘bootjack,’” Sylvie explained in a whisper. “You ca’n’t wrench people out of boots,” the Professor mildly observed. Bruno laughed saucily. “Oo can, though! Unless they’re welly tight in.” 396 “Once upon a time there was a Boojum——” the Professor began, but stopped suddenly. “I forget the rest of the Fable,” he said. “And there was a lesson to be learned from it. I’m afraid I forget that, too.” “I’ll tell oo a Fable!” Bruno began in a great hurry. “Once there were a Locust, and a Magpie, and a Engine-driver. And the Lesson is, to learn to get up early——” “It isn’t a bit interesting!” Sylvie said contemptuously. “You shouldn’t put the Lesson so soon.” “When did you invent that Fable?” said the Professor. “Last week?” “No!” said Bruno. “A deal shorter ago than that. Guess again!” “I ca’n’t guess,” said the Professor. “How long ago?” “Why, it isn’t invented yet!” Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. “But I have invented a lovely one! Shall I say it?” “If you’ve finished inventing it,” said Sylvie. “And let the Lesson be ‘to try again’!” “No,” said Bruno with great decision. “The Lesson are ‘not to try again’!” “Once there 397 were a lovely china man, what stood on the chimbley-piece. And he stood, and he stood. And one day he tumbleded off, and he didn’t hurt his self one bit. Only he would try again. And the next time he tumbleded off, he hurted his self welly much, and breaked off ever so much varnish.” “But how did he come back on the chimney-piece after his first tumble?” said the Empress. (It was the first sensible question she had asked in all her life.) “I put him there!” cried Bruno. “Then I’m afraid you know something about his tumbling,” said the Professor. “Perhaps you pushed him?” To which Bruno replied, very seriously, “Didn’t pushed him much—he were a lovely china man,” he added hastily, evidently very anxious to change the subject. “Come, my children!” said the Elfin-King, who had just entered the room. “We must have a little chat together, before you go to bed.” And he was leading them away, but at the door they let go his hands, and ran back again to wish the Professor good night. 398 ‘GOOD-NIGHT, PROFESSOR!’ ‘GOOD-NIGHT, PROFESSOR!’ “Good night, Professor, good night!” And Bruno solemnly shook hands with the old man, who gazed at him with a loving smile, while Sylvie bent down to press her sweet lips upon his forehead. “Good night, little ones!” said the Professor. “You may leave me now—to ruminate. I’m as jolly as the day is long, except when it’s necessary to ruminate on some very difficult subject. All of me,” he murmured sleepily 399 as we left the room, “all of me, that isn’t Bonhommie, is Rumination!” “What did he say, Bruno?” Sylvie enquired, as soon as we were safely out of hearing. “I think he said ‘All of me that isn’t Bone-disease is Rheumatism.’ Whatever are that knocking, Sylvie?” Sylvie stopped, and listened anxiously. It sounded like some one kicking at a door. “I hope it isn’t that Porcupine breaking loose!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go on!” Bruno said hastily. “There’s nuffin to wait for, oo know!“ 400 CHAPTER XXV LIFE OUT OF DEATH. The sound of kicking, or knocking, grew louder every moment: and at last a door opened somewhere near us. “Did you say ‘come in!’ Sir?” my landlady asked timidly. “Oh yes, come in!” I replied. “What’s the matter?” “A note has just been left for you, Sir, by the baker’s boy. He said he was passing the Hall, and they asked him to come round and leave it here.” The note contained five words only. “Please come at once. Muriel.” 401 A sudden terror seemed to chill my very heart. “The Earl is ill!” I said to myself. “Dying, perhaps!” And I hastily prepared to leave the house. “No bad news, Sir, I hope?” my landlady said, as she saw me out. “The boy said as some one had arrived unexpectedly——.” “I hope that is it!” I said. But my feelings were those of fear rather than of hope: though, on entering the house, I was somewhat reassured by finding luggage lying in the entrance, bearing the initials “E. L.” “It’s only Eric Lindon after all!” I thought, half relieved and half annoyed. “Surely she need not have sent for me for that!” Lady Muriel met me in the passage. Her eyes were gleaming—but it was the excitement of joy, rather than of grief. “I have a surprise for you!” she whispered. “You mean that Eric Lindon is here?” I said, vainly trying to disguise the involuntary bitterness of my tone. “‘The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage-tables,’” I could not help repeating to myself. How cruelly I was misjudging her! 402 “No, no!” she eagerly replied. “At least—Eric is here. But——,” her voice quivered, “but there is another!” No need for further question. I eagerly followed her in. There on the bed, he lay—pale and worn—the mere shadow of his old self—my old friend come back again from the dead! “Arthur!” I exclaimed. I could not say another word. “Yes, back again, old boy!” he murmured, smiling as I grasped his hand. “He,” indicating Eric, who stood near, “saved my life—He brought me back. Next to God, we must thank him, Muriel, my wife!” Silently I shook hands with Eric and with the Earl: and with one consent we moved into the shaded side of the room, where we could talk without disturbing the invalid, who lay, silent and happy, holding his wife’s hand in his, and watching her with eyes that shone with the deep steady light of Love. “He has been delirious till to-day,” Eric explained in a low voice: “and even to-day he has been wandering more than once. But the 403 sight of her has been new life to him.” And then he went on to tell us, in would-be careless tones—I knew how he hated any display of feeling—how he had insisted on going back to the plague-stricken town, to bring away a man whom the doctor had abandoned as dying, but who might, he fancied, recover if brought to the hospital: how he had seen nothing in the wasted features to remind him of Arthur, and only recognised him when he visited the hospital a month after: how the doctor had forbidden him to announce the discovery, saying that any shock to the over taxed brain might kill him at once: how he had staid on at the hospital, and nursed the sick man by night and day—all this with the studied indifference of one who is relating the commonplace acts of some chance acquaintance! “And this was his rival!” I thought. “The man who had won from him the heart of the woman he loved!” 404 ‘HIS WIFE KNELT DOWN AT HIS SIDE’ ‘HIS WIFE KNELT DOWN AT HIS SIDE’ 405 “The sun is setting,” said Lady Muriel, rising and leading the way to the open window. “Just look at the western sky! What lovely crimson tints! We shall have a glorious day to-morrow——” We had followed her across the room, and were standing in a little group, talking in low tones in the gathering gloom, when we were startled by the voice of the sick man, murmuring words too indistinct for the ear to catch. “He is wandering again,” Lady Muriel whispered, and returned to the bedside. We drew a little nearer also: but no, this had none of the incoherence of delirium. “What reward shall I give unto the Lord,” the tremulous lips were saying, “for all the benefits that He hath done unto me? I will receive the cup of salvation, and call—and call——” but here the poor weakened memory failed, and the feeble voice died into silence. His wife knelt down at the bedside, raised one of his arms, and drew it across her own, fondly kissing the thin white hand that lay so listlessly in her loving grasp. It seemed to me a good opportunity for stealing away without making her go through any form of parting: so, nodding to the Earl and Eric, I silently left the room. Eric followed me down the stairs, and out into the night. 406 “Is it Life or Death?” I asked him, as soon as we were far enough from the house for me to speak in ordinary tones. “It is Life!” he replied with eager emphasis. “The doctors are quite agreed as to that. All he needs now, they say, is rest, and perfect quiet, and good nursing. He’s quite sure to get rest and quiet, here: and, as for the nursing why, I think it’s just possible——” (he tried hard to make his trembling voice assume a playful tone) “he may even get fairly well nursed, in his present quarters!” “I’m sure of it!” I said. “Thank you so much for coming out to tell me!” And, thinking he had now said all he had come to say, I held out my hand to bid him good night. He grasped it warmly, and added, turning his face away as he spoke, “By the way, there is one other thing I wanted to say. I thought you’d like to know that—that I’m not—not in the mind I was in when last we met. It isn’t—that I can accept Christian belief—at least, not yet. But all this came about so strangely. And she had prayed, you know. And I had prayed. And—and—” his voice broke, and 407 I could only just catch the concluding words, “there is a God that answers prayer! I know it for certain now.” He wrung my hand once more, and left me suddenly. Never before had I seen him so deeply moved. So, in the gathering twilight, I paced slowly homewards, in a tumultuous whirl of happy thoughts: my heart seemed full, and running over, with joy and thankfulness: all that I had so fervently longed for, and prayed for, seemed now to have come to pass. And, though I reproached myself, bitterly, for the unworthy suspicion I had for one moment harboured against the true-hearted Lady Muriel, I took comfort in knowing it had been but a passing thought. Not Bruno himself could have mounted the stairs with so buoyant a step, as I felt my way up in the dark, not pausing to strike a light in the entry, as I knew I had left the lamp burning in my sitting-room. But it was no common lamplight into which I now stepped, with a strange, new, dreamy sensation of some subtle witchery that had come over the place. Light, richer and more golden than any lamp could give, flooded the room, 408 streaming in from a window I had somehow never noticed before, and lighting up a group of three shadowy figures, that grew momently more distinct—a grave old man in royal robes, leaning back in an easy chair, and two children, a girl and a boy, standing at his side. “Have you the Jewel still, my child?” the old man was saying. “Oh, yes!” Sylvie exclaimed with unusual eagerness. “Do you think I’d ever lose it or forget it?” She undid the ribbon round her neck, as she spoke, and laid the Jewel in her father’s hand. Bruno looked at it admiringly. “What a lovely brightness!” he said. “It’s just like a little red star! May I take it in my hand?” Sylvie nodded: and Bruno carried it off to the window, and held it aloft against the sky, whose deepening blue was already spangled with stars. Soon he came running back in some excitement. “Sylvie! Look here!” he cried. “I can see right through it when I hold it up to the sky. And it isn’t red a bit: it’s, oh such a lovely blue! And the words are all different! Do look at it!” 409 Sylvie was quite excited, too, by this time; and the two children eagerly held up the Jewel to the light, and spelled out the legend between them, “ALL WILL LOVE SYLVIE.” THE BLUE LOCKET THE BLUE LOCKET “Why, this is the other Jewel!” cried Bruno. “Don’t you remember, Sylvie? The one you didn’t choose!” Sylvie took it from him, with a puzzled look, and held it, now up to the light, now down. “It’s blue, one way,” she said softly to herself, “and it’s red, the other way! Why, I thought there were two of them—Father!” she suddenly exclaimed, laying the Jewel once more in his hand, “I do believe it was the same Jewel all the time!” 410 “Then you choosed it from itself,” Bruno thoughtfully remarked. “Father, could Sylvie choose a thing from itself?” “Yes, my own one,” the old man replied to Sylvie, not noticing Bruno’s embarrassing question, “it was the same Jewel—but you chose quite right.” And he fastened the ribbon round her neck again. “SYLVIE WILL LOVE ALL—ALL WILL LOVE SYLVIE,” Bruno murmured, raising himself on tiptoe to kiss the ‘little red star.’ “And, when you look at it, it’s red and fierce like the sun—and, when you look through it, it’s gentle and blue like the sky!” “God’s own sky,” Sylvie said, dreamily. “God’s own sky,” the little fellow repeated, as they stood, lovingly clinging together, and looking out into the night. “But oh, Sylvie, what makes the sky such a darling blue?” Sylvie’s sweet lips shaped themselves to reply, but her voice sounded faint and very far away. The vision was fast slipping from my eager gaze: but it seemed to me, in that last bewildering moment, that not Sylvie but an angel was looking out through those trustful 411 brown eyes, and that not Sylvie’s but an angel’s voice was whispering “It is love.” ‘IT IS LOVE!’ ‘IT IS LOVE!’ THE END. 413 GENERAL INDEX. [N.B. ‘I’ refers to “Sylvie and Bruno,” ‘II’ to “Sylvie and Bruno Concluded.”] A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z A Accelerated Velocity, causes of; II. 190 Air, Cotton-wool lighter than, how to obtain; II. 166 Animal-Suffering, mystery of; II. 296 Anti-Teetotal Card; II. 139 Artistic effect said to require Indistinctness; I. 241 Asylums, Lunatic-, future use for; II. 132 Axioms of Science; II. 330 B Badgers, the Three (Poem); I. 247 Barometer, sideways motion of; I. 13 Baron Doppelgeist; I. 85 Bath, Portable, for Tourists; I. 25 Bazaars, Charity-; II. 44 Beauty, Pain of realising; II. 337 Bed, reason for never going to; II. 141 Bees, Mind of; II. 29 Bessie’s Song; II. 76 Bible-Selections for Children; I. xiii ” ” learning by heart; I. xiv Black Light, how to produce; II. 341 Boat, motion of, how to imitate on land; II. 108 Books, or Minds. Which contain most Science? I. 21 Boots for Horizontal Weather; I. 14 414 Brain, inverted position of; I. 243 Bread-sauce appropriate for Weltering; I. 58 Breaking promises. Why is it wrong? II. 27 Bruno’s Song: I. 215 Burden of Proof misplaced by Crocodiles; I. 230 ” ” ” Ladies; I. 235 ” ” ” Watts, Dr.; do. C ‘Care’ and ‘Don’t-Care,’ history of; II. 385 Carrying one’s self. Why is it not fatiguing? I. 169 Charity-Bazaars; II. 44 ” fallacies as to; II. 43 ” Pseudo-; II. 42 Child’s Bible; I. xiii ” Sunday, in last generation; I. 387 ” view of Adult Life; II. 260 ” ” Present Life; I. 330 Choral Services, effect of; I. 273. II. xix Chorister’s life, dangers of; I. 274. II. xix Church-going, true principle of; I. 272 Competition for Scholars; II. 187 Competitive Examination; II. 184 Conceited Critic always depreciates; I. 237 Content, opportunity for cultivating; I. 152 ‘Convenient’ and ‘Inconvenient,’ difference in meaning; I. 140 Conversation at Dinner-parties, how to promote: (see “Dinner-parties”) Cotton-wool lighter than air, how to obtain; II. 166 Critic, conceited, always depreciates; I. 237 ” how to gain character of; I. 238 Crocodiles, Logic of; I. 230 Croquet. Why is it demoralising? II. 135 415 D Darwinism reversed; I. 64 Day, length and shortness of, compared; I. 159 ” true length of; I. 159 Death, certainty of, effect of realising; I. xix Debts, how to avoid Payment of; I. 131 Deserts, use for; II. 158 Dichotomy, Political, in common life; II. 198, 205, 207 Dinner-parties, how to promote Conversation at:— Moving-Guests; II. 145 ” Pictures; II. 143 Revolving-Humorist; II. 145 Wild-Creatures; II. 144 Dog-King, the, (‘Nero’); I. 175. II. 58 Dog, Man’s advantage over; II. 293 ” reasoning power of; II. 294 ‘Doing good,’ ambiguity of phrase; II. 43 Doppelgeist, Baron; I. 85 Dramatization of Life; I. 333 Dreaminess, certain cure for; I. 136 Drunkenness, how to prevent; II. 71 E Eggs, how to purchase; II. 196 Electricity, influence of, on Literature; I. 64 Enjoyment of Life; I. 335 ” Novel-reading; I. 336 Eternity, contemplation of. Why is it wearisome? II. 258 Events in reverse order; I. 350 Examination, Competitive; II. 184 Experimental Honeymoons; II. 136 Eye, images inverted in the; I. 242 F Fairies, captured, how to treat; II. 5 ” character of, how to improve; I. 190 416 ” existence of, possible; II. 300 ” presence of, how to recognise; I. 191. II. 264 ” moral responsibility of; II. 301 Falling Houses, Life in; I. 100 Final Causes, problem in; I. 297 Fires in Theatres, how to prevent; II. 165 Fortunatus’ Purse, how to make; II. 100 Free-Will and Nerve-Force; I. 390 Frog, young, how to amuse; I. 364 Future Life. What interests will survive in it? II. 256 G Gardener’s Song:— Albatross; I. 164 Argument; II. 319. Banker’s Clerk; I. 90. Bar of Mottled Soap; II. 319. Bear without a head; I. 116. Buffalo; I. 78. Coach-and-Four; I. 116. Double Rule of Three; I. 168. Elephant; I. 65; II. 334. Garden-Door; I. 168. Hippopotamus; I. 90. Kangaroo; I. 106. Letter from his Wife; I. 65. Middle of Next Week; I. 83. Penny-Postage-Stamp; I. 164. Rattlesnake; I. 83. Sister’s Husband’s Niece; I. 78. Vegetable-Pill; I. 106 Ghosts, treatment of, by Shakespeare; I. 60 ” ” in Railway-Literature; I. 58 ” Weltering, Bread-sauce appropriate for; I. 58 Girls’ Shakespeare; I. xv Government with many Kings and one Subject; II. 172 Graduated races of Man; I. 299 Guests, Moving-; II. 145 H Happiness, excessive, how to moderate; I. 159 Heaven inconceivable to those on Earth; II. 260 Honesty, Dr. Watts’ argument for; I. 235 417 Honeymoons, Experimental; II. 136 Horizontal Weather, Boots for; I. 14 Horses, Runaway, how to control; II. 108 Hot Ink, use of; II. 357 Houses, Falling, Life in; I. 100 Humorist, Revolving; II. 145 Hunting, Morality of; I. xx, 318; II. xviii Hymns appealing to Selfishness; I. 276 I ‘Idle Mouths’; II. 37 ‘Imponderal’; II. 166 ‘Inconvenient’ and ‘Convenient,’ difference in meaning of; I. 140 Indistinctness said to be necessary for Artistic effect; I. 241 Ink, Hot, use of; II. 357 Instinct and Reason; II. 295 Inversion of Brain; I. 243 “ images on Retina; I. 242 J Jam-tasting; II. 150 Jesting in Letter-writing, how to indicate; II. 117 K ‘King Fisher’ Song; II. 14 Knocking-down, some persons not liable to; II. 54 L Ladies, Logic of; I. 235 Least Common Multiple, rule of, applied to Literature; I. 22 Letter-writing, how to indicate Jesting in; II. 117 ” ” ” Shyness in; II. 115 Life, adult, Child’s view of; II. 260 ” Dramatization of; I. 133 ” Future, What interests will survive in it? II. 256 418 ” how to enjoy; I. 335 ” in Falling Houses; I. 100 ” ” reverse order; I. 350 ” Present, Child’s view of; I. 330 Light, Black, how to produce; II. 341 Literature as influenced by Electricity; I. 64 ” ” Steam; I. 64 ” for Railway; I. 58 ” treated by rule of Least Common Multiple; I. 22 ‘Little Birds’ (Poem); II. 364, 371, 377 ‘Little Man’ (Poem); II. 265 ” privilege of being; I. 299 Liturgy, Choral, effect of; I. 273 Logic of Crocodiles; I. 230 ” of Ladies; I. 235 ” of Dr. Watts; do. ” requisites for complete Argument in; I. 259 Loving or being loved. Which is best? I. 77 Lunatic-Asylums, future use for; II. 132 Lunatics out-numbering the Sane, result of; II. 133 M Man, advantages of, over the Dog; II. 293 ” graduated races of; I. 299 ” Little, privilege of being; I. 299 Maps, best size for; II. 169 ‘Matilda Jane’ (Poem); II. 76 ‘Megaloscope’; II. 334 Minds, or Books. Which contain most Science? I. 21 Money, effect of increasing value of; I. 312 ” playing for, a moral act; II. 135 Morality of Sport; I. xx, 318. II. xviii Moral Philosophy, teachers of. Which are most esteemed? II. 181 419 Moving-Guests; II. 145 ” Pictures; II. 143 Music, how to get largest amount of in given time; I. 338 “ Why is it sometimes not pleasing? II. 156 N ‘Nero’ the Dog-King; I. 175. II. 58 Nerve-Force and Free-Will; I. 390 Nerves, slow action of; I. 158 Novel-reading, how to enjoy; I. 336 O ‘Obstruction,’ Political, in common life; II. 203 ‘Onus probandi’ misplaced by Crocodiles; I. 230 ” ” Ladies; I. 235 ” ” Dr. Watts; do. ‘Opposition,’ Political, in common life; II. 200 P Pain, how to minimise; I. 337 Paley’s definition of Virtue; I. 273 Parentheses in Conversation, how to indicate; I. 251 Passages, Selected, for learning by heart; I. xv Payment of Debts, how to avoid; I. 131 ‘Peter and Paul’ (Poem); I. 143 Philosophy, Moral. What kind is most esteemed? II. 181 Phlizz, a visionary flower; I. 282 ” ” fruit; I. 75 ” ” nurse-maid; I. 283 Pictures, how to criticize; I. 238 ” Moving; II. 143 ‘Pig Tale’ (Poem); I. 138; II. 366, 372 Planets, small; II. 170 Playing for money, a moral act; II. 135 Pleasure, how to maximise; I. 335 420 Plunge-Bath, portable, for Tourists; I. 25 Poems, first lines of:— ‘He stept so lightly to the land’; I. 291 ‘He thought he saw an Albatross’; I. 164 ” ” an Argument’; II. 319 ” ” a Banker’s Clerk’; I. 90 ” ” a Buffalo’; I. 78 ” ” a Coach-and-Four’; I. 116 ” ” an Elephant’; I. 65; II. 334 ” ” a Garden-Door’; I. 168 ” ” a Kangaroo’; I. 106 ” ” a Rattlesnake’; I. 83 ‘In Stature the Manlet was dwarfish’; II. 265 ‘King Fisher courted Lady Bird’; II. 14 ‘Little Birds are &c.’; II. 364, 371, 377 ‘Matilda Jane, you never look’; II. 76 ‘One thousand pounds per annuum’; II. 194 ‘Peter is poor, said noble Paul’; I. 143 ‘Rise, oh rise! The daylight dies’; I. 215 ‘Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping’; II. 305 ‘There be three Badgers on a mossy stone’; I. 247 ‘There was a Pig, that sat alone’; I. 138; II. 366, 372 Political Dichotomy in common life; II. 198, 205, 207 ” ‘Opposition’ in common life; II. 200 Poor people, method for enriching; I. 312 Poverty, blessings of; I. 152 Prayer for temporal blessings, efficacy of; I. 391 Preachers appealing to Selfishness; I. 276 ” exceptional privileges of; I. 277 Promises. When are they binding? II. 26 ” breaking of. Why is it wrong? II. 27 Proof, Burden of; (see ‘Burden of Proof’) 421 Property, inherited, duties of owner of; II. 39 Pseudo-Charity; II. 43 Purse of Fortunatus, how to make; II. 100 Q Questions in Conversation, how to indicate; I. 251 R Railway Literature; I. 58 ” Scenes, Dramatization of; I. 333 Rain, Horizontal, Boots for; I. 14 Reason and Instinct; II. 295 ” power of, in Dog; II. 294 Retina, images inverted on; I. 242 Reversed order of Events; I. 350 Revolving-Humorist; II. 145 Runaway Horses, how to control; II. 108 S Scenery enjoyed most by Little Men; I. 299 Scholars, Competition for; II. 187 Science, Axioms of; II. 330 “ Do Books, or Minds, contain most? I. 21 Selections from Bible, for Children; I. xiii ” ” for learning by heart; I. xiv ” Prose and Verse, ” ”; I. xv ” from Shakespeare, for Girls; I. xv Selfishness appealed to in Hymns; I. 276 ” ” religious teaching; do. ” ” Sermons; do. Sermons appealing to Selfishness; do. ” faults of; I. 277. II. xix Services, Choral, effect of; I. 273 Shakespeare, passages of, discussed:— ‘All the world’s a stage’; I. 335 ‘Aye, every inch a king!’; I. 373 422 ‘Is this a dagger that I see before me?’; I. 371 ‘Rest, rest, perturbed Spirit!’; I. 60 ‘To be, or not to be’; I. 370 ” Selections from, for Girls; I. xv ” treatment of Ghosts by; I. 60 Shyness, how to indicate in Letter-writing; II. 115 ‘Sillygism,’ requisites for; I. 259 Sinfulness, amount of, in World; II. 125 ” of an act differs with environment; II. 123 Sobriety, extreme, inconvenience of; I. 140 Spencer, Herbert, difficulties in; I. 258 Spherical, advantage of being; II. 190 Sport, Morality of; I. xx, 318. II. xviii Steam, influence of, on Literature; I. 64 Sufferings of Animals, mystery of; II. 296 Sunday, as spent by children of last generation; I. 387 ” observance of; I. 385 Sylvie and Bruno’s Song; II. 305 T Teetotal-Card; II. 139 Theatres, Fires in, how to prevent; II. 165 ‘Three Badgers’ (Poem); I. 247 Time, how to put back; I. 314, 347 ” ” reverse; I. 350 ” storage of; II. 105 ‘Tottles’ (Poem); II. 194, 201, 209, 248 Tourists’ Portable Bath; I. 25 Trains running without engines; II. 106 V Velocity, Accelerated, causes of; II. 190 Virtue, Paley’s definition of; I. 274 Voyages on Land; II. 109 423 W Walking-sticks that walk alone, how to obtain; II. 166 Water, people lighter than, how to obtain; II. 165 Watts, Dr., Argument for Honesty; I. 235 ” Logic of; do. Weather, Horizontal, Boots for; I. 14 Weight, force of, how to exhaust; II. 343 ” relative, conceivable non-existence of; I. 100 Weltering, Bread-sauce appropriate for; I. 58 ‘What Tottles meant’ (Poem); II. 194, 201, 209, 248 Wild-Creatures; II. 144 Wilderness, use for; II. 158 ‘Wilful waste, &c.,’ lesson to be learnt from; II. 69 425 Works by Lewis Carroll. SYLVIE AND BRUNO. First Part. With forty-six Illustrations by Harry Furniss. 12mo, cloth extra, gilt, $1.50. “A charming book for children. The illustrations are very happy.”—Boston Traveller. “Alice was a delightful little girl, but hardly more pleasing than are the hero and heroine of this latest book from a writer in whose nonsense there is far more sense than in the serious works of many contemporary authors.”—Morning Post. “Mr. Furniss’s illustrations, which are numerous, are at once graceful and full of humor. We pay him a high compliment when we say he proves himself a worthy successor to Mr. Tenniel in illustrating Mr. Lewis Carroll’s books.”—St. James’s Gazette. “Bruno and Sylvie are wholly delightful creations, the Professor is worthy to rank with the immortal Pickwick, and there is an endless fund of enjoyment in the Gardener and his wonderful songs.... The pictures by Harry Furniss are incomparably good.”—Boston Beacon. “Sylvie and Bruno is characterized by his peculiar and whimsical humor, his extravagant conceits, and the grotesqueness and inconsistency of plot, characters, and incidents in his stories.... It is a charming piece of work.”—New York Sun. ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. One Hundredth Thousand. With forty-two Illustrations by Tenniel. 12mo, cloth, gilt, $1.00. Also a German Translation. 12mo, $2.00. A French Translation. 12mo, $2.00. An Italian Translation. 12mo, $2.00. “An excellent piece of nonsense.”—Times. “That most delightful of children’s stories.”—Saturday Review. “That delectable and truly imaginative work.”—New York Sun. “Probably no other book has ever filled just the place that Alice in Wonderland has held in the hearts of children and grown people during the last twenty years.”—Every Thursday. “Alice in Wonderland and its sequel Through the Looking-Glass are known wherever the English tongue is spoken. They are classics of their kind and could in no wise be improved upon.”—St. Louis Republic. “Alice in Wonderland is the most delightful imaginative composition of late years for boys and girls.”—The Boston Globe. “Love for children and keen sympathy with them in the delightfully primitive views they take of life is one of the distinctive characteristics of Lewis Carroll.”—The Churchman. 426 THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. Sixtieth Thousand. With fifty Illustrations by Tenniel. 12mo, cloth, gilt, $1.00. “Will fairly rank with the tale of her previous experience.”—Daily Telegraph. “Many of Mr. Tenniel’s designs are masterpieces of wise absurdity.”—Athenæum. “Whether as regarding author or illustrator, this book is a jewel rarely to be found nowadays.”—Echo. ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, and THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With all the Illustrations. Printed in one volume, on thinner paper, cloth, $1.25. “We know of no books in the whole range of juvenile literature so full of genuine and boundless fun as these.”—Boston Evening Transcript. THE NURSERY ALICE. Containing twenty colored enlargements from Tenniel’s Illustrations to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, with text adapted to Nursery Readers by Lewis Carroll. 4to, colored cover, $1.50. “Let the little people rejoice!—the most charming book in the world has appeared for them. The Nursery Alice, with its wealth of colored illustrations from Tenniel’s pictures, is certainly the most artistic juvenile that has been seen for many and many a day.”—Boston Budget. “This is a charming book, both in pictures and in text, for the little ones of the nursery. It is a sort of miniature of Alice in Wonderland, and will no doubt have a circulation and become as great a favorite among the wee ones as the larger volume has among the older children.”—Christian at Work. ALICE’S ADVENTURES UNDER GROUND. Being a Fac-simile of the original MS. Book afterward developed into Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. With twenty-seven Illustrations. 12mo, $1.50. 427 THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK. An Agony in Eight Fits. With nine Illustrations by Henry Holiday. New Edition. Cloth, gilt, $1.00. “This is a very pretty edition of the verses which should have made their author famous, even if he had never written Alice in Wonderland. The Snark, like the Jabberwock, for some reason or other, has no place in the natural histories, yet it is a very charming creature. The book contains nine quaint illustrations by Henry Holiday.”—America. RHYME? AND REASON? With sixty-five Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost and nine by Henry Holiday. 12mo, $1.50. This book is a reprint, with additions, of the comic portions of Phantasmagoria, and other Poems, and of The Hunting of the Snark. “Rhyme? and Reason? by Lewis Carroll, author of Alice in Wonderland shows the same quaintness of fancy and the same originality of humor that mark his prose works. The versification is smooth and flowing, and the rhyming exceedingly ingenious.”—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. “Rhyme? and Reason? with its clever illustrations, will be sure of great popularity.”—Philadelphia Press. A TANGLED TALE. Reprinted from the Monthly Packet. With Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, $1.50. “To people mathematically inclined, who are fond of odd style and odd illustrations, and who like to travel so many (Gordian) knots an hour, Mr. Lewis Carroll’s new ‘wonderland’—A Tangled Tale—will prove a delightful treat.”—The Critic. THE GAME OF LOGIC. With an Envelope containing a Card Diagram and Nine Counters—four red and five gray. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 428 A NEW UNIFORM EDITION OF MRS. MOLESWORTH’S STORIES FOR CHILDREN WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WALTER CRANE AND LESLIE BROOKE. In Ten Volumes. 12mo. Cloth. One Dollar a Volume. Tell Me a Story, and Herr Baby. “Carrots,” and A Christmas Child. Grandmother Dear, and Two Little Waifs. The Cuckoo Clock, and The Tapestry Room. Christmas-Tree Land, and A Christmas Posy. The Children of the Castle, and Four Winds Farm. Little Miss Peggy, and Nurse Heatherdale’s Story. “Us,” and The Rectory Children. Rosy, and The Girls and I. Mary. THE SET, TEN VOLUMES, IN BOX, $10.00. “It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child than to draw a lifelike man or woman: Shakespeare and Webster were the only two men of their age who could do it with perfect delicacy and success; at least, it there was another who could, I must crave pardon of his happy memory for my forgetfulness or ignorance of his name. Our own age is more fortunate, on this single score at least, having a larger and far nobler proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of George Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, so truthful, or so delightful as Mrs. Molesworth’s. Any chapter of The Cuckoo Clock or the enchanting Adventures of Herr Baby is worth a shoal of the very best novels dealing with the characters and fortunes of mere adults.”—Mrs. A. C. Swinburne, in The Nineteenth Century. 429 MRS. MOLESWORTH’S Stories for Children. “There is hardly a better author to put into the hands of children than Mrs. Molesworth. I cannot easily speak too highly of her work. It is a curious art she has, not wholly English in its spirit, but a cross of the old English with the Italian. Indeed, I should say Mrs. Molesworth had also been a close student of the German and Russian, and had some way, catching and holding the spirit of all, created a method and tone quite her own.... Her characters are admirable and real.”—St. Louis Globe-Democrat. “Mrs. Molesworth has a rare gift for composing stories for children. With a light yet forcible touch, she paints sweet and artless, yet natural and strong, characters.”—Congregationalist. “Mrs. Molesworth always has in her books those charming touches of nature that are sure to charm small people. Her stories are so likely to have been true that men ‘grown up’ do not disdain them.”—Home Journal. “No English writer of childish stories has a better reputation than Mrs. Molesworth, and none with whose stories we are familiar deserves it better. She has a motherly knowledge of the child nature, a clear sense of character, the power of inventing simple incidents that interest, and the ease which comes of continuous practice.”—Mail and Express. “Christmas would hardly be Christmas without one of Mrs. Molesworth’s stories. No one has quite the same power of throwing a charm and an interest about the most commonplace every-day doings as she has, and no one has ever blended fairy-land and reality with the same skill.”—Educational Times. “Mrs. Molesworth is justly a great favorite with children; her stories for them are always charmingly interesting and healthful in tone.”—Boston Home Journal. “Mrs. Molesworth’s books are cheery, wholesome, and particularly well adapted to refined life. It is safe to add that Mrs. Molesworth is the best English prose writer for children.... A new volume from Mrs. Molesworth is always a treat.”—The Beacon. “No holiday season would be complete for a host of young readers without a volume from the hand of Mrs. Molesworth.... It is one of the peculiarities of Mrs. Molesworth’s stories that older readers can no more escape their charm than younger ones.”—Christian Union. “Mrs. Molesworth ranks with George Macdonald and Mrs. Ewing as a writer of children’s stories that possess real literary merit.”—Milwaukee Sentinel. THE SET, TEN VOLUMES, IN BOX, $10.00. 430 TELL ME A STORY, and HERR BABY. “So delightful that we are inclined to join in the petition, and we hope she may soon tell us more stories.”—Athenæum. “CARROTS”; Just a Little Boy. “One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of.”—Examiner. A CHRISTMAS CHILD; A Sketch of a Boy’s Life. “A very sweet and tenderly drawn sketch, with life and reality manifest throughout.”—Pall Mall Gazette. “This is a capital story, well illustrated. Mrs. Molesworth is one of those sunny, genial writers who has genius for writing acceptably for the young. She has the happy faculty of blending enough real with romance to make her stories very practical for good without robbing them of any of their exciting interest.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean. “Mrs. Molesworth is one of the few writers of tales for children whose sentiment though of the sweetest kind is never sickly; whose religious feeling is never concealed yet never obtruded; whose books are always good but never ‘goody.’ Little Ted with his soft heart, clever head, and brave spirit is no morbid presentment of the angelic child ‘too good to live,’ and who is certainly a nuisance on earth, but a charming creature, if not a portrait, whom it is a privilege to meet even in fiction.”—The Academy. THE CUCKOO CLOCK. “A beautiful little story.... It will be read with delight by every child into whose hands it is placed.”—Pall Mall Gazette. GRANDMOTHER DEAR. “The author’s concern is with the development of character, and seldom does one meet with the wisdom, tact, and good breeding which pervade this little book.”—Nation. TWO LITTLE WAIFS. “Mrs. Molesworth’s delightful story of Two Little Waifs will charm all the small people who find it in their stockings. It relates the adventures of two lovable English children lost in Paris, and is just wonderful enough to pleasantly wring the youthful heart.”—New York Tribune. “It is, in its way, indeed, a little classic, of which the real beauty and pathos can hardly be appreciated by young people.... It is not too much to say of the story that it is perfect of its kind.”—Critic and Good Literature. “This is a charming little juvenile story from the pen of Mrs. Molesworth, detailing the various adventures of a couple of motherless children in searching for their father, whom they had missed in Paris, where they had gone to meet him.”—Montreal Star. 431 THE TAPESTRY ROOM. “Mrs. Molesworth is the queen of children’s fairy-land. She knows how to make use of the vague, fresh, wondering instincts of childhood, and to invest familiar things with fairy glamour.”—Athenæum. “The story told is a charming one of what may be called the neo-fairy sort.... There has been nothing better of its kind done anywhere for children, whether we consider its capacity to awaken interest or its wholesomeness.”—Evening Post. CHRISTMAS-TREE LAND. “It is conceived after a happy fancy, as it relates the supposititious journey of a party of little ones through that part of fairy-land where Christmas-trees are supposed to most abound. There is just enough of the old-fashioned fancy about fairies mingled with the ‘modern improvements’ to incite and stimulate the youthful imagination to healthful action. The pictures by Walter Crane are, of course, not only well executed in themselves, but in charming consonance with the spirit of the tale.”—Troy Times. “Christmas-Tree Land, by Mrs. Molesworth, is a book to make younger readers open their eyes wide with delight. A little boy and a little girl, domiciled in a great white castle, wander on their holidays through the surrounding fir-forests, and meet with the most delightful pleasures. There is a fascinating, mysterious character in their adventures and enough of the fairylike and wonderful to puzzle and enchant all the little ones.”—Boston Home Journal. A CHRISTMAS POSY. “This is a collection of eight of those inimitable stories for children which none could write better than Mrs. Molesworth. Her books are prime favorites with children of all ages, and they are as good and wholesome as they are interesting and popular. This makes a very handsome book, and its illustrations are excellent.”—Christian at Work. “A Christmas Posy, by Mrs. Molesworth, is lovely and fragrant. Mrs. Molesworth succeeds by right to the place occupied with so much honor by the late Mrs. Ewing, as a writer of charming stories for children. The present volume is a cluster of delightful short stories. Mr. Crane’s illustrations are in harmony with the text.”—Christian Intelligencer. THE CHILDREN OF THE CASTLE. “The Children of the Castle, by Mrs. Molesworth, is another of those delightful juvenile stories of which this author has written so many. It is a fascinating little book, with a charming plot, a sweet, pure atmosphere, and teaches a wholesome moral in the most winning manner.”—B. S. E. Gazette. “The Children of the Castle are delightful creations, actual little girls, living in an actual castle, but often led by their fancies into a shadowy fairy-land. There is a charming refinement of style and spirit about the story from beginning to end; an imaginative child will find endless pleasure in it, and the lesson of gentleness and unselfishness is so artistically managed that it does not seem like a lesson, but only a part of the story.”—Milwaukee Sentinel. 432 FOUR WINDS FARM. “Mrs. Molesworth’s books are always delightful, but of all none is more charming than the volume with which she greets the holidays this season. Four Winds Farm is one of the most delicate and pleasing books for a child that has seen the light this many a day. It is full of fancy and of that instinctive sympathy with childhood which makes this author’s books so attractive and so individual.”—Boston Courier. “Still more delicately fanciful is Mrs. Molesworth’s lovely little tale of the Four Winds Farm. It is neither a dream nor a fairy story, but concerns the fortune of a real little boy, named Gratian; yet the dream and the fairy tale seem to enter into his life, and make part of it. The farmhouse in which the child lives is set exactly at the meeting-place of the four winds, and they, from the moment of his birth, have acted as his self-elected godmothers.... All the winds love the boy, and, held in the balance of their influence, he grows up as a boy should, simply and truly, with a tender heart and firm mind. The idea of this little book is essentially poetical.”—Literary World. NURSE HEATHERDALE’S STORY. “Nurse Heatherdale’s Story is all about a small boy, who was good enough, yet was always getting into some trouble through complications in which he was not to blame. The same sort of things happens to men and women. He is an orphan, though he is cared for in a way by relations, who are not so very rich, yet are looked on as well fixed. After many youthful trials and disappointments he falls into a big stroke of good luck, which lifts him and goes to make others happy. Those who want a child’s book will find nothing to harm and something to interest in this simple story.”—Commercial Advertiser. “US.” “Mrs. Molesworth’s Us, an Old-Fashioned Story, is very charming. A dear little six-year-old ‘bruvver’ and sister constitute the ‘us,’ whose adventures with gypsies form the theme of the story. Mrs. Molesworth’s style is graceful, and she pictures the little ones with brightness and tenderness.”—Evening Post. “A pretty and wholesome story.”—Literary World. “Us, an Old-Fashioned Story, is a sweet and quaint story of two little children who lived long ago, in an old-fashioned way, with their grandparents. The story is delightfully told.”—Philadelphia News. “Us is one of Mrs. Molesworth’s charming little stories for young children. The narrative ... is full of interest for its real grace and delicacy, and the exquisiteness and purity of the English in which it is written.”—Boston Advertiser. THE RECTORY CHILDREN. “In The Rectory Children Mrs. Molesworth has written one of those delightful volumes which we always look for at Christmas time.”—Athenæum. “Quiet, sunny, interesting, and thoroughly winning and wholesome.”—Boston Journal. 433 The Rectory Children—“There is no writer of children’s books more worthy of their admiration and love than Mrs. Molesworth. Her bright and sweet invention is so truthful, her characters so faithfully drawn, and the teaching of her stories so tender and noble, that while they please and charm they insensibly distil into the youthful mind the most valuable lessons. In The Rectory Children we have a fresh, bright story that will be sure to please all her young admirers.”—Christian at Work. “The Rectory Children, by Mrs. Molesworth, is a very pretty story of English life. Mrs. Molesworth is one of the most popular and charming of English story-writers for children. Her child characters are true to life, always natural and attractive, and her stories are wholesome and interesting.”—Indianapolis Journal. ROSY. “Rosy, like all the rest of her stories, is bright and pure and utterly free from cant,—a book that children will read with pleasure and lasting profit.”—Boston Traveller. “There is no one who has a genius better adapted for entertaining children than Mrs. Molesworth, and her latest story, Rosy, is one of her best. It is illustrated with eight woodcuts from designs by Walter Crane.”—Philadelphia Press. “... Mrs. Molesworth’s clever Rosy, a story showing in a charming way how one little girl’s jealousy and bad temper were conquered; one of the best, most suggestive and improving of the Christmas juveniles.”—New York Tribune. “Rosy is an exceedingly graceful and interesting story by Mrs. Molesworth, one of the best and most popular writers of juvenile fiction. This little story is full of tenderness, is fragrant in sentiment, and points with great delicacy and genuine feeling a charming moral.”—Boston Gazette. THE GIRLS AND I. “Perhaps the most striking feature of this pleasant story is the natural manner in which it is written. It is just like the conversation of a bright boy—consistently like it from beginning to end. It is a boy who is the hero of the tale, and he tells the adventures of himself and those nearest him. He is, by the way, in many respects an example for most young persons. It is a story characterized by sweetness and purity—a desirable one to put into the hands of youthful readers.”—Gettysburg Monthly. “... A delightful and purposeful story which no one can read without being benefited.”—New York Observer. MARY. Mrs. Molesworth’s last story. Just Ready. “Mrs. Molesworth’s reputation as a writer of story-books is so well established that any new book of hers scarce needs a word of introduction.”—Home Journal. MACMILLAN & CO., 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. Book back cover. Transcriber’s Notes Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication. Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged. Moved the frontispiece illustration to the corresponding place in the text, and adjusted the table of illustration accordingly. Collated table of illustrations, checked page numbers, and added its captions to the illustrations. Only in the text versions, delimited italicized text (or non-italicized text within poetry) in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.) The HTML version contains relative links to pages and illustrations in the companion volume: Gutenberg #48630: Sylvie and Bruno, Illustrated Removed the note (N.B. “stagy-entrances” is a misprint for “stage-entrances”) because the typo was corrected in the companion volume Special Note on Links between Gutenberg eBooks This eBook contains “relative” links to other Project Gutenberg eBooks. These links function correctly if the books are read online, and can be made to work for books installed on a local drive or a website. To install these books in another file system, create a directory (called localbooks in the example). Within that directory, create a subdirectory for each eBook, as in this outline view: localbooks/ 40000/ 40000-h/ 40000-h.htm images/ ... 40001/ 40001-h/ 40001-h.htm images/ ... ... Note that each eBook’s directory name is the same as the Project Gutenberg number for the eBook. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Phantasmagoria and Other Poems Author: Lewis Carroll Release Date: March 28, 2013 [eBook #651] [This file was first posted on September 17, 1996] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHANTASMAGORIA*** Transcribed from the 1911 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org PHANTASMAGORIA AND OTHER POEMS BY LEWIS CARROLL WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR B. FROST MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON 1911 p. ivRichard Clay and Sons, Limited BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. First published in 1869. p. vInscribed to a dear Child: in memory of golden summer hours and whispers of a summer sea. Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task, Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well Rest on the friendly knee, intent to ask The tale one loves to tell. Rude scoffer of the seething outer strife, Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright, Deem, if thou wilt, such hours a waste of life, Empty of all delight! Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguilded. Ah, happy he who owns the 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 the sunlit shore Yet haunt my dreaming gaze. p. viiCONTENTS PAGE Phantasmagoria, in Seven Cantos:— I. The Trystyng 1 II. Hys Fyve Rules 10 III. Scarmoges 18 IV. Hys Nouryture 26 V. Byckerment 34 VI. Dyscomfyture 44 VII. Sad Souvenaunce 53 Echoes 58 A Sea Dirge 59 Ye Carpette Knyghte 64 Hiawatha’s Photographing 66 Melancholetta 78 A Valentine 84 The Three Voices:— The First Voice 87 The Second Voice 98 The Third Voice 109 p. viiiTèma Con Variaziòni 118 A Game of Fives 120 Poeta fit, non nascitur 123 Size and Tears 131 Atalanta in Camden-Town 136 The Lang Coortin’ 140 Four Riddles 152 Fame’s Penny-Trumpet 163 p. 1PHANTASMAGORIA CANTO I The Trystyng One winter night, at half-past nine, Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy, I had come home, too late to dine, And supper, with cigars and wine, Was waiting in the study. There was a strangeness in the room, And Something white and wavy Was standing near me in the gloom— I took it for the carpet-broom Left by that careless slavey. p. 2But presently the Thing began To shiver and to sneeze: On which I said “Come, come, my man! That’s a most inconsiderate plan. Less noise there, if you please!” The Thing standing by chair p. 3“I’ve caught a cold,” the Thing replies, “Out there upon the landing.” I turned to look in some surprise, And there, before my very eyes, A little Ghost was standing! He trembled when he caught my eye, And got behind a chair. “How came you here,” I said, “and why? I never saw a thing so shy. Come out! Don’t shiver there!” He said “I’d gladly tell you how, And also tell you why; But” (here he gave a little bow) “You’re in so bad a temper now, You’d think it all a lie. “And as to being in a fright, Allow me to remark That Ghosts have just as good a right In every way, to fear the light, As Men to fear the dark.” p. 4“No plea,” said I, “can well excuse Such cowardice in you: For Ghosts can visit when they choose, Whereas we Humans ca’n’t refuse To grant the interview.” He said “A flutter of alarm Is not unnatural, is it? I really feared you meant some harm: But, now I see that you are calm, Let me explain my visit. “Houses are classed, I beg to state, According to the number Of Ghosts that they accommodate: (The Tenant merely counts as weight, With Coals and other lumber). “This is a ‘one-ghost’ house, and you When you arrived last summer, May have remarked a Spectre who Was doing all that Ghosts can do To welcome the new-comer. p. 5“In Villas this is always done— However cheaply rented: For, though of course there’s less of fun When there is only room for one, Ghosts have to be contented. “That Spectre left you on the Third— Since then you’ve not been haunted: For, as he never sent us word, ’Twas quite by accident we heard That any one was wanted. “A Spectre has first choice, by right, In filling up a vacancy; Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite— If all these fail them, they invite The nicest Ghoul that they can see. “The Spectres said the place was low, And that you kept bad wine: So, as a Phantom had to go, And I was first, of course, you know, I couldn’t well decline.” p. 6“No doubt,” said I, “they settled who Was fittest to be sent Yet still to choose a brat like you, To haunt a man of forty-two, Was no great compliment!” “I’m not so young, Sir,” he replied, “As you might think. The fact is, In caverns by the water-side, And other places that I’ve tried, I’ve had a lot of practice: “But I have never taken yet A strict domestic part, And in my flurry I forget The Five Good Rules of Etiquette We have to know by heart.” My sympathies were warming fast Towards the little fellow: He was so utterly aghast At having found a Man at last, And looked so scared and yellow. p. 7 In caverns by the water-side p. 8“At least,” I said, “I’m glad to find A Ghost is not a dumb thing! But pray sit down: you’ll feel inclined (If, like myself, you have not dined) To take a snack of something: “Though, certainly, you don’t appear A thing to offer food to! And then I shall be glad to hear— If you will say them loud and clear— The Rules that you allude to.” “Thanks! You shall hear them by and by. This is a piece of luck!” “What may I offer you?” said I. “Well, since you are so kind, I’ll try A little bit of duck. “One slice! And may I ask you for Another drop of gravy?” I sat and looked at him in awe, For certainly I never saw A thing so white and wavy. p. 9And still he seemed to grow more white, More vapoury, and wavier— Seen in the dim and flickering light, As he proceeded to recite His “Maxims of Behaviour.” The Phantom dines p. 10CANTO II Hys Fyve Rules “My First—but don’t suppose,” he said, “I’m setting you a riddle— Is—if your Victim be in bed, Don’t touch the curtains at his head, But take them in the middle, “And wave them slowly in and out, While drawing them asunder; And in a minute’s time, no doubt, He’ll raise his head and look about With eyes of wrath and wonder. “And here you must on no pretence Make the first observation. Wait for the Victim to commence: No Ghost of any common sense Begins a conversation. p. 11 Ghostly border “If he should say ‘How came you here?’ (The way that you began, Sir,) In such a case your course is clear— ‘On the bat’s back, my little dear!’ Is the appropriate answer. p. 12“If after this he says no more, You’d best perhaps curtail your Exertions—go and shake the door, And then, if he begins to snore, You’ll know the thing’s a failure. “By day, if he should be alone— At home or on a walk— You merely give a hollow groan, To indicate the kind of tone In which you mean to talk. “But if you find him with his friends, The thing is rather harder. In such a case success depends On picking up some candle-ends, Or butter, in the larder. “With this you make a kind of slide (It answers best with suet), On which you must contrive to glide, And swing yourself from side to side— One soon learns how to do it. p. 13 And swing yourself from side to side p. 14“The Second tells us what is right In ceremonious calls:— ‘First burn a blue or crimson light’ (A thing I quite forgot to-night), ‘Then scratch the door or walls.’” I said “You’ll visit here no more, If you attempt the Guy. I’ll have no bonfires on my floor— And, as for scratching at the door, I’d like to see you try!” “The Third was written to protect The interests of the Victim, And tells us, as I recollect, To treat him with a grave respect, And not to contradict him.” “That’s plain,” said I, “as Tare and Tret, To any comprehension: I only wish some Ghosts I’ve met Would not so constantly forget The maxim that you mention!” p. 15“Perhaps,” he said, “you first transgressed The laws of hospitality: All Ghosts instinctively detest The Man that fails to treat his guest With proper cordiality. And then you’re sure to catch it . . . p. 16“If you address a Ghost as ‘Thing!’ Or strike him with a hatchet, He is permitted by the King To drop all formal parleying— And then you’re sure to catch it! “The Fourth prohibits trespassing Where other Ghosts are quartered: And those convicted of the thing (Unless when pardoned by the King) Must instantly be slaughtered. “That simply means ‘be cut up small’: Ghosts soon unite anew. The process scarcely hurts at all— Not more than when you ’re what you call ‘Cut up’ by a Review. “The Fifth is one you may prefer That I should quote entire:— The King must be addressed as ‘Sir.’ This, from a simple courtier, Is all the Laws require: p. 17“But, should you wish to do the thing With out-and-out politeness, Accost him as ‘My Goblin King! And always use, in answering, The phrase ‘Your Royal Whiteness!’ “I’m getting rather hoarse, I fear, After so much reciting: So, if you don’t object, my dear, We’ll try a glass of bitter beer— I think it looks inviting.” We’ll try a glass of bitter beer p. 18CANTO III Scarmoges “And did you really walk,” said I, “On such a wretched night? I always fancied Ghosts could fly— If not exactly in the sky, Yet at a fairish height.” “It’s very well,” said he, “for Kings To soar above the earth: But Phantoms often find that wings— Like many other pleasant things— Cost more than they are worth. “Spectres of course are rich, and so Can buy them from the Elves: But we prefer to keep below— They’re stupid company, you know, For any but themselves: p. 19“For, though they claim to be exempt From pride, they treat a Phantom As something quite beneath contempt— Just as no Turkey ever dreamt Of noticing a Bantam.” The phantom p. 20“They seem too proud,” said I, “to go To houses such as mine. Pray, how did they contrive to know So quickly that ‘the place was low,’ And that I ‘kept bad wine’?” “Inspector Kobold came to you—” The little Ghost began. Here I broke in—“Inspector who? Inspecting Ghosts is something new! Explain yourself, my man!” “His name is Kobold,” said my guest: “One of the Spectre order: You’ll very often see him dressed In a yellow gown, a crimson vest, And a night-cap with a border. “He tried the Brocken business first, But caught a sort of chill; So came to England to be nursed, And here it took the form of thirst, Which he complains of still. p. 21 And here it took the form of thirst p. 22“Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound, Warms his old bones like nectar: And as the inns, where it is found, Are his especial hunting-ground, We call him the Inn-Spectre.” I bore it—bore it like a man— This agonizing witticism! And nothing could be sweeter than My temper, till the Ghost began Some most provoking criticism. “Cooks need not be indulged in waste; Yet still you’d better teach them Dishes should have some sort of taste. Pray, why are all the cruets placed Where nobody can reach them? “That man of yours will never earn His living as a waiter! Is that queer thing supposed to burn? (It’s far too dismal a concern To call a Moderator). p. 23“The duck was tender, but the peas Were very much too old: And just remember, if you please, The next time you have toasted cheese, Don’t let them send it cold. “You’d find the bread improved, I think, By getting better flour: And have you anything to drink That looks a little less like ink, And isn’t quite so sour?” Then, peering round with curious eyes, He muttered “Goodness gracious!” And so went on to criticise— “Your room’s an inconvenient size: It’s neither snug nor spacious. “That narrow window, I expect, Serves but to let the dusk in—” “But please,” said I, “to recollect ’Twas fashioned by an architect Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!” p. 24“I don’t care who he was, Sir, or On whom he pinned his faith! Constructed by whatever law, So poor a job I never saw, As I’m a living Wraith! “What a re-markable cigar! How much are they a dozen?” I growled “No matter what they are! You’re getting as familiar As if you were my cousin! “Now that’s a thing I will not stand, And so I tell you flat.” “Aha,” said he, “we’re getting grand!” (Taking a bottle in his hand) “I’ll soon arrange for that!” And here he took a careful aim, And gaily cried “Here goes!” I tried to dodge it as it came, But somehow caught it, all the same, Exactly on my nose. p. 25And I remember nothing more That I can clearly fix, Till I was sitting on the floor, Repeating “Two and five are four, But five and two are six.” What really passed I never learned, Nor guessed: I only know That, when at last my sense returned, The lamp, neglected, dimly burned— The fire was getting low— Through driving mists I seemed to see A Thing that smirked and smiled: And found that he was giving me A lesson in Biography, As if I were a child. p. 26CANTO IV Hys Nouryture “Oh, when I was a little Ghost, A merry time had we! Each seated on his favourite post, We chumped and chawed the buttered toast They gave us for our tea.” We chumped and chawed the buttered toast p. 27“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 Ghosteses’ were set ‘On posteses,’ you know, and ate Their ‘buttered toasteses.’ “I have the book; so if you doubt it—” I turned to search the shelf. “Don’t stir!” he cried. “We’ll do without it: I now remember all about it; I wrote the thing myself. “It came out in a ‘Monthly,’ or At least my agent said it did: Some literary swell, who saw It, thought it seemed adapted for The Magazine he edited. p. 28“My father was a Brownie, Sir; My mother was a Fairy. The notion had occurred to her, The children would be happier, If they were taught to vary. “The notion soon became a craze; And, when it once began, she Brought us all out in different ways— One was a Pixy, two were Fays, Another was a Banshee; “The Fetch and Kelpie went to school And gave a lot of trouble; Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul, And then two Trolls (which broke the rule), A Goblin, and a Double— “(If that’s a snuff-box on the shelf,” He added with a yawn, “I’ll take a pinch)—next came an Elf, And then a Phantom (that’s myself), And last, a Leprechaun. p. 29 I stood and watched them in the hall “One day, some Spectres chanced to call, Dressed in the usual white: I stood and watched them in the hall, And couldn’t make them out at all, They seemed so strange a sight. “I wondered what on earth they were, That looked all head and sack; But Mother told me not to stare, And then she twitched me by the hair, And punched me in the back. “Since then I’ve often wished that I Had been a Spectre born. p. 30But what’s the use?” (He heaved a sigh.) “They are the ghost-nobility, And look on us with scorn. “My phantom-life was soon begun: When I was barely six, I went out with an older one— And just at first I thought it fun, And learned a lot of tricks. “I’ve haunted dungeons, castles, towers— Wherever I was sent: I’ve often sat and howled for hours, Drenched to the skin with driving showers, Upon a battlement. “It’s quite old-fashioned now to groan When you begin to speak: This is the newest thing in tone—” And here (it chilled me to the bone) He gave an awful squeak. “Perhaps,” he added, “to your ear That sounds an easy thing? p. 31Try it yourself, my little dear! It took me something like a year, With constant practising. “And when you’ve learned to squeak, my man, And caught the double sob, You’re pretty much where you began: Just try and gibber if you can! That’s something like a job! “I’ve tried it, and can only say I’m sure you couldn’t do it, e- ven if you practised night and day, Unless you have a turn that way, And natural ingenuity. “Shakspeare I think it is who treats Of Ghosts, in days of old, Who ‘gibbered in the Roman streets,’ Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets— They must have found it cold. “I’ve often spent ten pounds on stuff, In dressing as a Double; p. 32But, though it answers as a puff, It never has effect enough To make it worth the trouble. In dressing as a Double “Long bills soon quenched the little thirst I had for being funny. The setting-up is always worst: Such heaps of things you want at first, One must be made of money! p. 33“For instance, take a Haunted Tower, With skull, cross-bones, and sheet; Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour, Condensing lens of extra power, And set of chains complete: “What with the things you have to hire— The fitting on the robe— And testing all the coloured fire— The outfit of itself would tire The patience of a Job! “And then they’re so fastidious, The Haunted-House Committee: I’ve often known them make a fuss Because a Ghost was French, or Russ, Or even from the City! “Some dialects are objected to— For one, the Irish brogue is: And then, for all you have to do, One pound a week they offer you, And find yourself in Bogies!” p. 34CANTO V Byckerment “Don’t they consult the ‘Victims,’ though?” I said. “They should, by rights, Give them a chance—because, you know, The tastes of people differ so, Especially in Sprites.” The Phantom shook his head and smiled. “Consult them? Not a bit! ’Twould be a job to drive one wild, To satisfy one single child— There’d be no end to it!” “Of course you can’t leave children free,” Said I, “to pick and choose: But, in the case of men like me, I think ‘Mine Host’ might fairly be Allowed to state his views.” p. 35He said “It really wouldn’t pay— Folk are so full of fancies. We visit for a single day, And whether then we go, or stay, Depends on circumstances. “And, though we don’t consult ‘Mine Host’ Before the thing’s arranged, Still, if he often quits his post, Or is not a well-mannered Ghost, Then you can have him changed. “But if the host’s a man like you— I mean a man of sense; And if the house is not too new—” “Why, what has that,” said I, “to do With Ghost’s convenience?” “A new house does not suit, you know— It’s such a job to trim it: But, after twenty years or so, The wainscotings begin to go, So twenty is the limit.” “To trim” was not a phrase I could Remember having heard: p. 36“Perhaps,” I said, “you’ll be so good As tell me what is understood Exactly by that word?” The wainscotings begin to go “It means the loosening all the doors,” The Ghost replied, and laughed: “It means the drilling holes by scores In all the skirting-boards and floors, To make a thorough draught. p. 37“You’ll sometimes find that one or two Are all you really need To let the wind come whistling through— But here there’ll be a lot to do!” I faintly gasped “Indeed! “If I’d been rather later, I’ll Be bound,” I added, trying (Most unsuccessfully) to smile, “You’d have been busy all this while, Trimming and beautifying?” “Why, no,” said he; “perhaps I should Have stayed another minute— But still no Ghost, that’s any good, Without an introduction would Have ventured to begin it. “The proper thing, as you were late, Was certainly to go: But, with the roads in such a state, I got the Knight-Mayor’s leave to wait For half an hour or so.” p. 38“Who’s the Knight-Mayor?” I cried. Instead Of answering my question, “Well, if you don’t know that,” he said, “Either you never go to bed, Or you’ve a grand digestion! “He goes about and sits on folk That eat too much at night: His duties are to pinch, and poke, And squeeze them till they nearly choke.” (I said “It serves them right!”) “And folk who sup on things like these—” He muttered, “eggs and bacon— Lobster—and duck—and toasted cheese— If they don’t get an awful squeeze, I’m very much mistaken! “He is immensely fat, and so Well suits the occupation: In point of fact, if you must know, We used to call him years ago, The Mayor and Corporation! p. 39 He goes about and sits on folk p. 40“The day he was elected Mayor I know that every Sprite meant To vote for me, but did not dare— He was so frantic with despair And furious with excitement. He ran to tell the King “When it was over, for a whim, He ran to tell the King; And being the reverse of slim, p. 41A two-mile trot was not for him A very easy thing. “So, to reward him for his run (As it was baking hot, And he was over twenty stone), The King proceeded, half in fun, To knight him on the spot.” “’Twas a great liberty to take!” (I fired up like a rocket). “He did it just for punning’s sake: ‘The man,’ says Johnson, ‘that would make A pun, would pick a pocket!’” “A man,” said he, “is not a King.” I argued for a while, And did my best to prove the thing— The Phantom merely listening With a contemptuous smile. At last, when, breath and patience spent, I had recourse to smoking— “Your aim,” he said, “is excellent: p. 42But—when you call it argument— Of course you’re only joking?” The phantom sitting on chair Stung by his cold and snaky eye, I roused myself at length To say “At least I do defy The veriest sceptic to deny That union is strength!” p. 43“That’s true enough,” said he, “yet stay—” I listened in all meekness— “Union is strength, I’m bound to say; In fact, the thing’s as clear as day; But onions are a weakness.” p. 44CANTO VI Dyscomfyture As one who strives a hill to climb, Who never climbed before: Who finds it, in a little time, Grow every moment less sublime, And votes the thing a bore: Yet, having once begun to try, Dares not desert his quest, But, climbing, ever keeps his eye On one small hut against the sky Wherein he hopes to rest: Who climbs till nerve and force are spent, With many a puff and pant: Who still, as rises the ascent, In language grows more violent, Although in breath more scant: Who, climbing, gains at length the place That crowns the upward track. p. 45And, entering with unsteady pace, Receives a buffet in the face That lands him on his back: Decorative border of man climbing hall And feels himself, like one in sleep, Glide swiftly down again, A helpless weight, from steep to steep, Till, with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain— So I, that had resolved to bring Conviction to a ghost, And found it quite a different thing From any human arguing, Yet dared not quit my post p. 46But, keeping still the end in view To which I hoped to come, I strove to prove the matter true By putting everything I knew Into an axiom: Commencing every single phrase With ‘therefore’ or ‘because,’ I blindly reeled, a hundred ways, About the syllogistic maze, Unconscious where I was. Quoth he “That’s regular clap-trap: Don’t bluster any more. Now do be cool and take a nap! Such a ridiculous old chap Was never seen before! “You’re like a man I used to meet, Who got one day so furious In arguing, the simple heat Scorched both his slippers off his feet!” I said “That’s very curious!” p. 47 Scorched both his slippers off his feet p. 48“Well, it is curious, I agree, And sounds perhaps like fibs: But still it’s true as true can be— As sure as your name’s Tibbs,” said he. I said “My name’s not Tibbs.” “Not Tibbs!” he cried—his tone became A shade or two less hearty— “Why, no,” said I. “My proper name Is Tibbets—” “Tibbets?” “Aye, the same.” “Why, then YOU’RE NOT THE PARTY!” With that he struck the board a blow That shivered half the glasses. “Why couldn’t you have told me so Three quarters of an hour ago, You prince of all the asses? “To walk four miles through mud and rain, To spend the night in smoking, And then to find that it’s in vain— And I’ve to do it all again— It’s really too provoking! p. 49“Don’t talk!” he cried, as I began To mutter some excuse. “Who can have patience with a man p. 50That’s got no more discretion than An idiotic goose? To walk four miles through mud and rain “To keep me waiting here, instead Of telling me at once That this was not the house!” he said. “There, that’ll do—be off to bed! Don’t gape like that, you dunce!” “It’s very fine to throw the blame On me in such a fashion! Why didn’t you enquire my name The very minute that you came?” I answered in a passion. “Of course it worries you a bit To come so far on foot— But how was I to blame for it?” “Well, well!” said he. “I must admit That isn’t badly put. “And certainly you’ve given me The best of wine and victual— p. 51Excuse my violence,” said he, “But accidents like this, you see, They put one out a little. “’Twas my fault after all, I find— Shake hands, old Turnip-top!” The name was hardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop. “Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! When I am gone, perhaps They’ll send you some inferior Sprite, Who’ll keep you in a constant fright And spoil your soundest naps. “Tell him you’ll stand no sort of trick; Then, if he leers and chuckles, You just be handy with a stick (Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles! “Then carelessly remark ‘Old coon! Perhaps you’re not aware p. 52That, if you don’t behave, you’ll soon Be chuckling to another tune— And so you’d best take care!’ “That’s the right way to cure a Sprite Of such like goings-on— But gracious me! It’s getting light! Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!” A nod, and he was gone. The ghost p. 53CANTO VII Sad Souvenaunce Or can I have been drinking “What’s this?” I pondered. “Have I slept? Or can I have been drinking?” But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking. “No need for Bones to hurry so!” I sobbed. “In fact, I doubt p. 54If it was worth his while to go— And who is Tibbs, I’d like to know, To make such work about? “If Tibbs is anything like me, It’s possible,” I said, “He won’t be over-pleased to be Dropped in upon at half-past three, After he’s snug in bed. “And if Bones plagues him anyhow— Squeaking and all the rest of it, As he was doing here just now— I prophesy there’ll be a row, And Tibbs will have the best of it!” And Tibbs will have the best of it Then, as my tears could never bring The friendly Phantom back, It seemed to me the proper thing To mix another glass, and sing The following Coronach. ‘And art thou gone, beloved Ghost? Best of Familiars! p. 56Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast, Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast, My meerschaum and cigars! The hues of life are dull and gray, The sweets of life insipid, When thou, my charmer, art away— Old Brick, or rather, let me say, Old Parallelepiped!’ Instead of singing Verse the Third, I ceased—abruptly, rather: But, after such a splendid word I felt that it would be absurd To try it any farther. So with a yawn I went my way To seek the welcome downy, And slept, and dreamed till break of day Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay And Leprechaun and Brownie! For years I’ve not been visited By any kind of Sprite; p. 57Yet still they echo in my head, Those parting words, so kindly said, “Old Turnip-top, good-night!” The ghost p. 58ECHOES Lady Clara Vere de Vere Was eight years old, she said: Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread. She took her little porringer: Of me she shall not win renown: For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down. “Sisters and brothers, little Maid? There stands the Inspector at thy door: Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.” “Kind words are more than coronets,” She said, and wondering looked at me: “It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.” p. 59A SEA DIRGE The sea, beach and children There are certain things—as, a spider, a ghost, The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three— That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most Is a thing they call the Sea. p. 60Pour some salt water over the floor— Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be: Suppose it extended a mile or more, That’s very like the Sea. Beat a dog till it howls outright— Cruel, but all very well for a spree: Suppose that he did so day and night, That would be like the Sea. I had a vision of nursery-maids; Tens of thousands passed by me— All leading children with wooden spades, And this was by the Sea. Who invented those spades of wood? Who was it cut them out of the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could— Or one that loved the Sea. It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float With ‘thoughts as boundless, and souls as free’: But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat, How do you like the Sea? p. 61 And this was by the sea p. 62There is an insect that people avoid (Whence is derived the verb ‘to flee’). Where have you been by it most annoyed? In lodgings by the Sea. If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, A decided hint of salt in your tea, And a fishy taste in the very eggs— By all means choose the Sea. And if, with these dainties to drink and eat, You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, And a chronic state of wet in your feet, Then—I recommend the Sea. For I have friends who dwell by the coast— Pleasant friends they are to me! It is when I am with them I wonder most That anyone likes the Sea. They take me a walk: though tired and stiff, To climb the heights I madly agree; And, after a tumble or so from the cliff, They kindly suggest the Sea. p. 63I try the rocks, and I think it cool That they laugh with such an excess of glee, As I heavily slip into every pool That skirts the cold cold Sea. As I heavily slip into every pool p. 64Ye Carpette Knyghte I have a horse—a ryghte good horse— Ne doe Y envye those Who scoure ye playne yn headye course Tyll soddayne on theyre nose They lyghte wyth unexpected force Yt ys—a horse of clothes. I have a saddel—“Say’st thou soe? Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?” I sayde not that—I answere “Noe”— Yt lacketh such, I woote: Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe! Parte of ye fleecye brute. I have a bytte—a ryghte good bytte— As shall bee seene yn tyme. Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte; Yts use ys more sublyme. Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt? Yt ys—thys bytte of rhyme. p. 65 I have a horse p. 66HIAWATHA’S PHOTOGRAPHING [In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of ‘The Song of Hiawatha.’ Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.] From his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood, Made of sliding, folding rosewood; Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; p. 67But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the Second Book of Euclid. The camera This he perched upon a tripod— Crouched beneath its dusky cover— Stretched his hand, enforcing silence— Said, “Be motionless, I beg you!” Mystic, awful was the process. p. 68All the family in order Sat before him for their pictures: Each in turn, as he was taken, Volunteered his own suggestions, His ingenious suggestions. First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And the corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die ill tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn’t help it. First the Governor, the Father Next, his better half took courage; She would have her picture taken. She came dressed beyond description, p. 70Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress. Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a bouquet Rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she was sitting, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkey in the forest. “Am I sitting still?” she asked him. “Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it came into the picture?” And the picture failed completely. Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curves of beauty, Curves pervading all his figure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centered in the breast-pin, Centered in the golden breast-pin. He had learnt it all from Ruskin (Author of ‘The Stones of Venice,’ ‘Seven Lamps of Architecture,’ ‘Modern Painters,’ and some others); p. 72And perhaps he had not fully Understood his author’s meaning; But, whatever was the reason, All was fruitless, as the picture Ended in an utter failure. Next to him the eldest daughter Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little, Only asked if he would take her With her look of ‘passive beauty.’ Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils. Hiawatha, when she asked him, Took no notice of the question, Looked as if he hadn’t heard it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it ‘didn’t matter,’ Bit his lip and changed the subject. Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely. So in turn the other sisters. Last, the youngest son was taken Last, the youngest son was taken: Very rough and thick his hair was, Very round and red his face was, Very dusty was his jacket, Very fidgety his manner. And his overbearing sisters Called him names he disapproved of: Called him Johnny, ‘Daddy’s Darling,’ Called him Jacky, ‘Scrubby School-boy.’ And, so awful was the picture, In comparison the others Seemed, to one’s bewildered fancy, To have partially succeeded. Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, (‘Grouped’ is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would have it Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness. Then they joined and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of. ‘Giving one such strange expressions— Sullen, stupid, pert expressions. Really any one would take us (Any one that did not know us) For the most unpleasant people!’ (Hiawatha seemed to think so, Seemed to think it not unlikely). All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hiawatha’s patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party. Neither did he leave them slowly, With the calm deliberation, The intense deliberation Of a photographic artist: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mighty hurry, Stating that he would not stand it, Stating in emphatic language What he’d be before he’d stand it. p. 77Hurriedly he packed his boxes: Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes: Hurriedly he took his ticket: Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha. Thus departed Hiawatha p. 78MELANCHOLETTA With saddest music all day long She soothed her secret sorrow: At night she sighed “I fear ’twas wrong Such cheerful words to borrow. Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song I’ll sing to thee to-morrow.” I thanked her, but I could not say That I was glad to hear it: I left the house at break of day, And did not venture near it Till time, I hoped, had worn away Her grief, for nought could cheer it! At night she signed My dismal sister! Couldst thou know The wretched home thou keepest! p. 80Thy brother, drowned in daily woe, Is thankful when thou sleepest; For if I laugh, however low, When thou’rt awake, thou weepest! I took my sister t’other day (Excuse the slang expression) To Sadler’s Wells to see the play In hopes the new impression Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay Effect some slight digression. I asked three gay young dogs from town To join us in our folly, Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown My sister’s melancholy: The lively Jones, the sportive Brown, And Robinson the jolly. The maid announced the meal in tones That I myself had taught her, Meant to allay my sister’s moans Like oil on troubled water: p. 81I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones, And begged him to escort her. Vainly he strove, with ready wit, To joke about the weather— To ventilate the last ‘on dit’— To quote the price of leather— She groaned “Here I and Sorrow sit: Let us lament together!” I urged “You’re wasting time, you know: Delay will spoil the venison.” “My heart is wasted with my woe! There is no rest—in Venice, on The Bridge of Sighs!” she quoted low From Byron and from Tennyson. I need not tell of soup and fish In solemn silence swallowed, The sobs that ushered in each dish, And its departure followed, Nor yet my suicidal wish To be the cheese I hollowed. p. 82Some desperate attempts were made To start a conversation; “Madam,” the sportive Brown essayed, “Which kind of recreation, Hunting or fishing, have you made Your special occupation?” Her lips curved downwards instantly, As if of india-rubber. “Hounds in full cry I like,” said she: (Oh how I longed to snub her!) “Of fish, a whale’s the one for me, It is so full of blubber!” The night’s performance was “King John.” “It’s dull,” she wept, “and so-so!” Awhile I let her tears flow on, She said they soothed her woe so! At length the curtain rose upon ‘Bombastes Furioso.’ In vain we roared; in vain we tried To rouse her into laughter: p. 83Her pensive glances wandered wide From orchestra to rafter— “Tier upon tier!” she said, and sighed; And silence followed after. Sighing at the table p. 84A VALENTINE [Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn’t seem to miss him if he stayed away.] And cannot pleasures, while they last, Be actual unless, when past, They leave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting? And cannot friends be firm and fast, And yet bear parting? And must I then, at Friendship’s call, Calmly resign the little all (Trifling, I grant, it is and small) I have of gladness, And lend my being to the thrall Of gloom and sadness? p. 85And think you that I should be dumb, And full dolorum omnium, Excepting when you choose to come And share my dinner? At other times be sour and glum And daily thinner? Must he then only live to weep, Who’d prove his friendship true and deep By day a lonely shadow creep, At night-time languish, Oft raising in his broken sleep The moan of anguish? The lover, if for certain days His fair one be denied his gaze, Sinks not in grief and wild amaze, But, wiser wooer, He spends the time in writing lays, And posts them to her. And if the verse flow free and fast, Till even the poet is aghast, p. 86A touching Valentine at last The post shall carry, When thirteen days are gone and past Of February. Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet, In desert waste or crowded street, Perhaps before this week shall fleet, Perhaps to-morrow. I trust to find your heart the seat Of wasting sorrow. p. 87THE THREE VOICES The First Voice He trilled a carol fresh and free, He laughed aloud for very glee: There came a breeze from off the sea: There came a breeze from off the sea p. 88It passed athwart the glooming flat— It fanned his forehead as he sat— It lightly bore away his hat, All to the feet of one who stood Like maid enchanted in a wood, Frowning as darkly as she could. With huge umbrella, lank and brown, Unerringly she pinned it down, Right through the centre of the crown. Then, with an aspect cold and grim, Regardless of its battered rim, She took it up and gave it him. A while like one in dreams he stood, Then faltered forth his gratitude In words just short of being rude: For it had lost its shape and shine, And it had cost him four-and-nine, And he was going out to dine. p. 89 Unerringly she pinned it down p. 90“To dine!” she sneered in acid tone. “To bend thy being to a bone Clothed in a radiance not its own!” The tear-drop trickled to his chin: There was a meaning in her grin That made him feel on fire within. “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.’” He moaned: he knew not what to say. The thought “That I could get away!” Strove with the thought “But I must stay. “To dine!” she shrieked in dragon-wrath. “To swallow wines all foam and froth! To simper at a table-cloth! p. 91“Say, can thy noble spirit stoop To join the gormandising troup Who find a solace in the soup? “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 willing 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 semi-human shape Suggestive of the man-like Ape.” p. 92“In all such theories,” said he, “One fixed exception there must be. That is, the Present Company.” Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark: He, aiming blindly in the dark, With random shaft had pierced the mark. She felt that her defeat was plain, Yet madly strove with might and main To get the upper hand again. Fixing her eyes upon the beach, As though unconscious of his speech, She said “Each gives to more than each.” He could not answer yea or nay: He faltered “Gifts may pass away.” Yet knew not what he meant to say. “If that be so,” she straight replied, “Each heart with each doth coincide. What boots it? For the world is wide.” p. 93 He faltered “Gifts may pass away” p. 94“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!” He felt it was his turn to speak, And, with a shamed and crimson cheek, Moaned “This is harder than Bezique!” But when she asked him “Wherefore so?” He felt his very whiskers glow, And frankly owned “I do not know.” p. 95 This is harder than Bezique! p. 96While, like broad waves of golden grain, Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, His colour came and went again. Pitying his obvious distress, Yet with a tinge of bitterness, She said “The More exceeds the Less.” “A truth of such undoubted weight,” He urged, “and so extreme in date, It were superfluous to state.” Roused into sudden passion, she In tone of cold malignity: “To others, yea: but not to thee.” But when she saw him quail and quake, And when he urged “For pity’s sake!” Once more in gentle tones she spake. “Thought in the mind doth still abide That is by Intellect supplied, And within that Idea doth hide: p. 97“And he, that yearns the truth to know, Still further inwardly may go, And find Idea from Notion flow: “And thus the chain, that sages sought, Is to a glorious circle wrought, For Notion hath its source in Thought.” So passed they on with even pace: Yet gradually one might trace A shadow growing on his face. A shadow growing on his face p. 98The Second Voice They walked beside the wave-worn beach They walked beside the wave-worn beach; Her tongue was very apt to teach, And now and then he did beseech She would abate her dulcet tone, Because the talk was all her own, And he was dull as any drone. p. 99She urged “No cheese is made of chalk”: And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, Tuned to the footfall of a walk. Her voice was very full and rich, And, when at length she asked him “Which?” It mounted to its highest pitch. He a bewildered answer gave, Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, Lost in the echoes of the cave. He answered her he knew not what: Like shaft from bow at random shot, He spoke, but she regarded not. She waited not for his reply, But with a downward leaden eye Went on as if he were not by Sound argument and grave defence, Strange questions raised on “Why?” and “Whence?” And wildly tangled evidence. p. 100When he, with racked and whirling brain, Feebly implored her to explain, She simply said it all again. Wrenched with an agony intense, He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, And careless of all consequence: “Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent— Abstract—that is—an Accident— Which we—that is to say—I meant—” When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, At length his speech was somewhat hushed, She looked at him, and he was crushed. It needed not her calm reply: She fixed him with a stony eye, And he could neither fight nor fly. While she dissected, word by word, His speech, half guessed at and half heard, As might a cat a little bird. p. 101 He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense p. 102Then, having wholly overthrown His views, and stripped them to the bone, Proceeded to unfold her own. “Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss Of other thoughts no thought but this, Harmonious dews of sober bliss? “What boots it? Shall his fevered eye Through towering nothingness descry The grisly phantom hurry by? “And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air; See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare And redden in the dusky glare? “The meadows breathing amber light, The darkness toppling from the height, The feathery train of granite Night? “Shall he, grown gray among his peers, Through the thick curtain of his tears Catch glimpses of his earlier years, p. 103 Shall Man be Man? p. 104“And hear the sounds he knew of yore, Old shufflings on the sanded floor, Old knuckles tapping at the door? “Yet still before him as he flies One pallid form shall ever rise, And, bodying forth in glassy eyes “The vision of a vanished good, Low peering through the tangled wood, Shall freeze the current of his blood.” Still from each fact, with skill uncouth And savage rapture, like a tooth She wrenched some slow reluctant truth. Till, like a silent water-mill, When summer suns have dried the rill, She reached a full stop, and was still. Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, As when the loaded omnibus Has reached the railway terminus: p. 105When, for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine’s stifled beat, The velvet tread of porters’ feet. With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved her lips without a sound, And every now and then she frowned. He gazed upon the sleeping sea, And joyed in its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she To muse a little space did seem, Then, like the echo of a dream, Harked back upon her threadbare theme. Still an attentive ear he lent But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent. He marked the ripple on the sand: The even swaying of her hand Was all that he could understand. p. 106He saw in dreams a drawing-room, Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom, Waiting—he thought he knew for whom: He saw them drooping here and there, Each feebly huddled on a chair, In attitudes of blank despair: Oysters were not more mute than they, For all their brains were pumped away, And they had nothing more to say— Save one, who groaned “Three hours are gone!” Who shrieked “We’ll wait no longer, John! Tell them to set the dinner on!” The vision passed: the ghosts were fled: He saw once more that woman dread: He heard once more the words she said. He left her, and he turned aside: He sat and watched the coming tide Across the shores so newly dried. p. 107 He sat and watched the coming tide p. 108He wondered at the waters clear, The breeze that whispered in his ear, The billows heaving far and near, And why he had so long preferred To hang upon her every word: “In truth,” he said, “it was absurd.” He sits p. 109The Third Voice Quick tears were raining down his face Not long this transport held its place: Within a little moment’s space Quick tears were raining down his face His heart stood still, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemed to hear and not to hear. p. 110“Tears kindle not the doubtful spark. If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark.” “Her speech,” he said, “hath caused this pain. Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main, “Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book.” Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more than said, Soundless as ghost’s intended tread: “If thou art duller than before, Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? Why not endure, expecting more?” “Rather than that,” he groaned aghast, “I’d writhe in depths of cavern vast, Some loathly vampire’s rich repast.” p. 111 He groaned aghast p. 112“’Twere hard,” it answered, “themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings thy scant intelligence.” “Not so,” he urged, “nor once alone: But there was something in her tone That chilled me to the very bone. “Her style was anything but clear, And most unpleasantly severe; Her epithets were very queer. “And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise; I did not dare to criticise; “Nor did I leave her, till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent.” A little whisper inly slid, “Yet truth is truth: you know you did.” A little wink beneath the lid. p. 113And, sickened with excess of dread, Prone to the dust he bent his head, And lay like one three-quarters dead The whisper left him—like a breeze Lost in the depths of leafy trees— Left him by no means at his ease. Once more he weltered in despair, With hands, through denser-matted hair, More tightly clenched than then they were. When, bathed in Dawn of living red, Majestic frowned the mountain head, “Tell me my fault,” was all he said. When, at high Noon, the blazing sky Scorched in his head each haggard eye, Then keenest rose his weary cry. And when at Eve the unpitying sun Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, “Alack,” he sighed, “what have I done?” p. 114 Tortured, unaided, and alone p. 115But saddest, darkest was the sight, When the cold grasp of leaden Night Dashed him to earth, and held him tight. Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders were silence to his groan, Bagpipes sweet music to its tone: “What? Ever thus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Mystery profound Pursue me like a sleepless hound, “With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I broke of laws?” The whisper to his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadow of forgotten dream, The whisper trembling in the wind: “Her fate with thine was intertwined,” So spake it in his inner mind: p. 116 a scared dullard, gibbering low p. 117“Each orbed on each a baleful star: Each proved the other’s blight and bar: Each unto each were best, most far: “Yea, each to each was worse than foe: Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, And she, an avalanche of woe!” p. 118TÈMA CON VARIAZIÒNI [Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed “setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase. For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison—whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!”—yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also— p. 119I never loved a dear Gazelle— Nor anything that cost me much: High prices profit those who sell, But why should I be fond of such? To glad me with his soft black eye My son comes trotting home from school; He’s had a fight but can’t tell why— He always was a little fool! But, when he came to know me well, He kicked me out, her testy Sire: And when I stained my hair, that Belle Might note the change, and thus admire And love me, it was sure to dye A muddy green or staring blue: Whilst one might trace, with half an eye, The still triumphant carrot through. p. 120A GAME OF FIVES Five little girls 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! p. 121 Now tell me which you mean p. 122Five 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”! p. 123POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR Child on old man’s knee “How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? p. 124You told me once ‘the very wish Partook of the sublime.’ Then tell me how! Don’t put me off With your ‘another time’!” The old man smiled to see him, To hear his sudden sally; He liked the lad to speak his mind Enthusiastically; And thought “There’s no hum-drum in him, Nor any shilly-shally.” “And would you be a poet Before you’ve been to school? Ah, well! I hardly thought you So absolute a fool. First learn to be spasmodic— A very simple rule. “For first you write a sentence, And then you chop it small; Then mix the bits, and sort them out Just as they chance to fall: p. 125The order of the phrases makes No difference at all. “Then, if you’d be impressive, Remember what I say, That abstract qualities begin With capitals alway: The True, the Good, the Beautiful— Those are the things that pay! “Next, when you are describing A shape, or sound, or tint; Don’t state the matter plainly, But put it in a hint; And learn to look at all things With a sort of mental squint.” “For instance, if I wished, Sir, Of mutton-pies to tell, Should I say ‘dreams of fleecy flocks Pent in a wheaten cell’?” “Why, yes,” the old man said: “that phrase Would answer very well. p. 126“Then fourthly, there are epithets That suit with any word— As well as Harvey’s Reading Sauce With fish, or flesh, or bird— Of these, ‘wild,’ ‘lonely,’ ‘weary,’ ‘strange,’ Are much to be preferred.” “And will it do, O will it do To take them in a lump— As ‘the wild man went his weary way To a strange and lonely pump’?” “Nay, nay! You must not hastily To such conclusions jump. The wild man went his weary way “Such epithets, like pepper, Give zest to what you write; And, if you strew them sparely, They whet the appetite: But if you lay them on too thick, You spoil the matter quite! “Last, as to the arrangement: Your reader, you should show him, p. 128Must take what information he Can get, and look for no im- mature disclosure of the drift And purpose of your poem. “Therefore, to test his patience— How much he can endure— Mention no places, names, or dates, And evermore be sure Throughout the poem to be found Consistently obscure. “First fix upon the limit To which it shall extend: Then fill it up with ‘Padding’ (Beg some of any friend): Your great Sensation-stanza You place towards the end.” “And what is a Sensation, Grandfather, tell me, pray? I think I never heard the word So used before to-day: p. 129Be kind enough to mention one ‘Exempli gratiâ.’” And the old man, looking sadly Across the garden-lawn, Where here and there a dew-drop Yet glittered in the dawn, Said “Go to the Adelphi, And see the ‘Colleen Bawn.’ “The word is due to Boucicault— The theory is his, Where Life becomes a Spasm, And History a Whiz: If that is not Sensation, I don’t know what it is. “Now try your hand, ere Fancy Have lost its present glow—” “And then,” his grandson added, “We’ll publish it, you know: Green cloth—gold-lettered at the back— In duodecimo!” p. 130Then proudly smiled that old man To see the eager lad Rush madly for his pen and ink And for his blotting-pad— But, when he thought of publishing, His face grew stern and sad. His face grew stern and sad p. 131SIZE AND TEARS When on the sandy shore I sit When on the sandy shore I sit, Beside the salt sea-wave, And fall into a weeping fit Because I dare not shave— p. 132A little whisper at my ear Enquires the reason of my fear. I answer “If that ruffian Jones Should recognise me here, He’d bellow out my name in tones Offensive to the ear: He chaffs me so on being stout (A thing that always puts me out).” Ah me! I see him on the cliff! Farewell, farewell to hope, If he should look this way, and if He’s got his telescope! To whatsoever place I flee, My odious rival follows me! For every night, and everywhere, I meet him out at dinner; And when I’ve found some charming fair, And vowed to die or win her, The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout) Is sure to come and cut me out! p. 133 He’s thin and I am stout p. 134The girls (just like them!) all agree To praise J. Jones, Esquire: I ask them what on earth they see About him to admire? They cry “He is so sleek and slim, It’s quite a treat to look at him!” They vanish in tobacco smoke, Those visionary maids— I feel a sharp and sudden poke Between the shoulder-blades— “Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!” (I told you he would find me out!) “My growth is not your business, Sir!” “No more it is, my boy! But if it’s yours, as I infer, Why, Brown, I give you joy! A man, whose business prospers so, Is just the sort of man to know! “It’s hardly safe, though, talking here— I’d best get out of reach: p. 135For such a weight as yours, I fear, Must shortly sink the beach!”— Insult me thus because I’m stout! I vow I’ll go and call him out! For such a weight as yours . . . p. 136ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN Ay, ’twas here, on this spot, In that summer of yore, Atalanta did not Vote my presence a bore, Nor reply to my tenderest talk “She had heard all that nonsense before.” She’d the brooch I had bought And the necklace and sash on, And her heart, as I thought, Was alive to my passion; And she’d done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion. I had been to the play With my pearl of a Peri— But, for all I could say, She declared she was weary, p. 137That “the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn’t abide that Dundreary.” On this spot . . . Then I thought “Lucky boy! ’Tis for you that she whimpers!” And I noted with joy Those sensational simpers: And I said “This is scrumptious!”—a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers. p. 138And I vowed “’Twill be said I’m a fortunate fellow, When the breakfast is spread, When the topers are mellow, When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!” O that languishing yawn! O those eloquent eyes! I was drunk with the dawn Of a splendid surmise— I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs. Then I whispered “I see The sweet secret thou keepest. And the yearning for ME That thou wistfully weepest! And the question is ‘License or Banns?’, though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest.” p. 139“Be my Hero,” said I, “And let me be Leander!” But I lost her reply— Something ending with “gander”— For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand her. p. 140THE LANG COORTIN’ The ladye she stood at her lattice high, Wi’ her doggie at her feet; Thorough the lattice she can spy The passers in the street, “There’s one that standeth at the door, And tirleth at the pin: Now speak and say, my popinjay, If I sall let him in.” Then up and spake the popinjay That flew abune her head: “Gae let him in that tirls the pin: He cometh thee to wed.” O when he cam’ the parlour in, A woeful man was he! p. 141“And dinna ye ken your lover agen, Sae well that loveth thee?” The popinjay “And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir, That have been sae lang away? And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir? Ye never telled me sae.” Said—“Ladye dear,” and the salt, salt tear Cam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek, “I have sent the tokens of my love This many and many a week. p. 142“O didna ye get the rings, Ladye, The rings o’ the gowd sae fine? I wot that I have sent to thee Four score, four score and nine.” “They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye. “Wow, they were flimsie things!” Said—“that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to howd, It is made o’ thae self-same rings.” “And didna ye get the locks, the locks, The locks o’ my ain black hair, p. 143Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box, Whilk I sent by the carrier?” “They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye; “And I prithee send nae mair!” Said—“that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s head, It is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ hair.” “And didna ye get the letter, Ladye, Tied wi’ a silken string, Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie, A message of love to bring?” “It cam’ to me frae the far countrie Wi’ its silken string and a’; But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid, “Sae I gar’d them tak’ it awa’.” “O ever alack that ye sent it back, It was written sae clerkly and well! Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought, I must even say it mysel’.” Then up and spake the popinjay, Sae wisely counselled he. “Now say it in the proper way: Gae doon upon thy knee!” The lover he turned baith red and pale, Went doon upon his knee: “O Ladye, hear the waesome tale That must be told to thee! p. 144“For five lang years, and five lang years, I coorted thee by looks; By nods and winks, by smiles and tears, As I had read in books. “For ten lang years, O weary hours! I coorted thee by signs; By sending game, by sending flowers, By sending Valentines. “For five lang years, and five lang years, I have dwelt in the far countrie, Till that thy mind should be inclined Mair tenderly to me. “Now thirty years are gane and past, I am come frae a foreign land: I am come to tell thee my love at last— O Ladye, gie me thy hand!” The ladye she turned not pale nor red, But she smiled a pitiful smile: “Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” she said “Takes a lang and a weary while!” p. 145 And out and laughed the popinjay p. 146And out and laughed the popinjay, A laugh of bitter scorn: “A coortin’ done in sic’ a way, It ought not to be borne!” Wi’ that the doggie barked aloud, And up and doon he ran, And tugged and strained his chain o’ gowd, All for to bite the man. “O hush thee, gentle popinjay! O hush thee, doggie dear! There is a word I fain wad say, It needeth he should hear!” Aye louder screamed that ladye fair To drown her doggie’s bark: Ever the lover shouted mair To make that ladye hark: Shrill and more shrill the popinjay Upraised his angry squall: I trow the doggie’s voice that day Was louder than them all! p. 147 O hush thee, gentle gentle popinjay! p. 148The serving-men and serving-maids Sat by the kitchen fire: They heard sic’ a din the parlour within As made them much admire. Out spake the boy in buttons (I ween he wasna thin), “Now wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay this deadlie din?” And they have taen a kerchief, Casted their kevils in, For wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay that deadlie din. When on that boy the kevil fell To stay the fearsome noise, “Gae in,” they cried, “whate’er betide, Thou prince of button-boys!” Syne, he has taen a supple cane To swinge that dog sae fat: The doggie yowled, the doggie howled The louder aye for that. p. 149 The doggie ceased his noise p. 150Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane— The doggie ceased his noise, And followed doon the kitchen stair That prince of button-boys! Then sadly spake that ladye fair, Wi’ a frown upon her brow: “O dearer to me is my sma’ doggie Than a dozen sic’ as thou! “Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears: Nae use at all to fret: Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years, Ye may bide a wee langer yet!” Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor And tirlëd at the pin: Sadly went he through the door Where sadly he cam’ in. “O gin I had a popinjay To fly abune my head, To tell me what I ought to say, I had by this been wed. p. 151“O gin I find anither ladye,” He said wi’ sighs and tears, “I wot my coortin’ sall not be Anither thirty years “For gin I find a ladye gay, Exactly to my taste, I’ll pop the question, aye or nay, In twenty years at maist.” Sadly went he through the door p. 152FOUR RIDDLES [These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades. No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration—and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic a connected poem instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopædia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross “lights.” No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of “Hamlet.” In this case the first stanza describes the two main words. No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert’s play of “Pygmalion and Galatea.” The three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”] p. 153I There was an ancient City, stricken down With a strange frenzy, and for many a day They paced from morn to eve the crowded town, And danced the night away. I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad: They pointed to a building gray and tall, And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad, And then you’ll see it all.” Yet what are all such gaieties to me Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds? x2 + 7x + 53 = 11/3 p. 154But something whispered “It will soon be done: Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile: Endure with patience the distasteful fun For just a little while!” A change came o’er my Vision—it was night: We clove a pathway through a frantic throng: The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright: The chariots whirled along. Within a marble hall a river ran— A living tide, half muslin and half cloth: And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan, Yet swallowed down her wrath; And here one offered to a thirsty fair (His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful) p. 155Some frozen viand (there were many there), A tooth-ache in each spoonful. There comes a happy pause, for human strength Will not endure to dance without cessation; And every one must reach the point at length Of absolute prostration. At such a moment ladies learn to give, To partners who would urge them over-much, A flat and yet decided negative— Photographers love such. There comes a welcome summons—hope revives, And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken: Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives Dispense the tongue and chicken. p. 156Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again: And all is tangled talk and mazy motion— Much like a waving field of golden grain, Or a tempestuous ocean. And thus they give the time, that Nature meant For peaceful sleep and meditative snores, To ceaseless din and mindless merriment And waste of shoes and floors. And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers, That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads, They doom to pass in solitude the hours, Writing acrostic-ballads. How late it grows! The hour is surely past That should have warned us with its double knock? p. 157The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last— “Oh, Uncle, what’s o’clock?” The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks. It may mean much, but how is one to know? He opens his mouth—yet out of it, methinks, No words of wisdom flow. II Empress of Art, for thee I twine This wreath with all too slender skill. Forgive my Muse each halting line, And for the deed accept the will! O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim, Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love? p. 158Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him, By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above? And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame, Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone: And these wild words of fury but proclaim A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone! But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown, Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see! “Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan, “Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!” A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile! p. 159And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar? And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile? Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers: In holy silence wait the appointed days, And weep away the leaden-footed hours. III. The air is bright with hues of light And rich with laughter and with singing: Young hearts beat high in ecstasy, And banners wave, and bells are ringing: But silence falls with fading day, And there’s an end to mirth and play. Ah, well-a-day p. 160Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones! The kettle sings, the firelight dances. Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught That fills the soul with golden fancies! For Youth and Pleasance will not stay, And ye are withered, worn, and gray. Ah, well-a-day! O fair cold face! O form of grace, For human passion madly yearning! O weary air of dumb despair, From marble won, to marble turning! “Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray. “We cannot let thee pass away!” Ah, well-a-day! IV. My First is singular at best: More plural is my Second: My Third is far the pluralest— So plural-plural, I protest It scarcely can be reckoned! p. 161My First is followed by a bird: My Second by believers In magic art: my simple Third Follows, too often, hopes absurd And plausible deceivers. My First to get at wisdom tries— A failure melancholy! My Second men revered as wise: My Third from heights of wisdom flies To depths of frantic folly. My First is ageing day by day: My Second’s age is ended: My Third enjoys an age, they say, That never seems to fade away, Through centuries extended. My Whole? I need a poet’s pen To paint her myriad phases: The monarch, and the slave, of men— A mountain-summit, and a den Of dark and deadly mazes— p. 162A flashing light—a fleeting shade— Beginning, end, and middle Of all that human art hath made Or wit devised! Go, seek her aid, If you would read my riddle! p. 163FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET [Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”] Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack, Ye little men of little souls! And bid them huddle at your back— Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals! Fill all the air with hungry wails— “Reward us, ere we think or write! Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails To sate the swinish appetite!” And, where great Plato paced serene, Or Newton paused with wistful eye, Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean And Babel-clamour of the sty p. 164Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise: We will not rob them of their due, Nor vex the ghosts of other days By naming them along with you. They sought and found undying fame: They toiled not for reward nor thanks: Their cheeks are hot with honest shame For you, the modern mountebanks! Who preach of Justice—plead with tears That Love and Mercy should abound— While marking with complacent ears The moaning of some tortured hound: Who prate of Wisdom—nay, forbear, Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath, Trampling, with heel that will not spare, The vermin that beset her path! Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms, Ye idols of a petty clique: Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes, And make your penny-trumpets squeak. p. 165 Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms p. 166Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds Of learning from a nobler time, And oil each other’s little heads With mutual Flattery’s golden slime: And when the topmost height ye gain, And stand in Glory’s ether clear, And grasp the prize of all your pain— So many hundred pounds a year— Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled! Sing Pæans for a victory won! Ye tapers, that would light the world, And cast a shadow on the Sun— Who still shall pour His rays sublime, One crystal flood, from East to West, When ye have burned your little time And feebly flickered into rest! ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHANTASMAGORIA*** ***** This file should be named 651-h.htm or 651-h.zip****** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/5/651 ... ... ... ===== Rhyme? And Reason? ===== The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhyme? And Reason?, by Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Rhyme? And Reason? Author: Lewis Carroll Illustrator: Arthur B. Frost Release Date: August 30, 2010 [EBook #33582] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYME? AND REASON? *** Produced by Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. RHYME? AND REASON? “UPON A BATTLEMENT.” [See p. 30. RHYME? AND REASON? BY LEWIS CARROLL WITH SIXTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR B. FROST AND NINE BY HENRY HOLIDAY I have had nor rhyme nor reason PRICE SEVEN SHILLINGS London MACMILLAN AND CO. 1883 [All Rights Reserved] London: R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor BREAD STREET HILL, E.C. Inscribed to a dear Child: in memory of golden summer hours and whispers of a summer sea. 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 one loves to tell. Rude scoffer of the seething outer strife, Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright, Deem, if thou wilt, 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! [Of the following poems, Echoes, A Game of Fives, the last three of the Four Riddles, and Fame’s Penny-Trumpet, are here published for the first time. The others have all appeared before, as have also the illustrations to The Hunting of the Snark.] CONTENTS. PAGE Phantasmagoria, in Seven Cantos:— I. The Trystyng 1 II. Hys Fyve Rules 10 III. Scarmoges 18 IV. Hys Nouryture 26 V. Byckerment 34 VI. Dyscomfyture 44 VII. Sad Souvenaunce 53 Echoes 58 A Sea Dirge 59 Ye Carpette Knyghte 64 Hiawatha’s Photographing 66 Melancholetta 78 A Valentine 84 The Three Voices: The First Voice 87 The Second Voice 98 The Third Voice 109 Tèma Con Variazióni 118 A Game of Fives 120 Poeta fit, non nascitur 123 The Hunting of the Snark, an Agony in Eight Fits:— I. The Landing 134 II. The Bellman’s Speech 142 III. The Baker’s Tale 148 IV. The Hunting 153 V. The Beaver’s Lesson 159 VI. The Barrister’s Dream 167 VII. The Banker’s Fate 173 VIII. The Vanishing 177 Size and Tears 181 Atalanta in Camden Town 186 The Lang Coortin’ 190 Four Riddles 202 Fame’s Penny-Trumpet 211 [Pg 1] PHANTASMAGORIA. CANTO I. The Trystyng. One winter night, at half-past nine, Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy, I had come home, too late to dine, And supper, with cigars and wine, Was waiting in the study. There was a strangeness in the room, And Something white and wavy Was standing near me in the gloom— I took it for the carpet-broom Left by that careless slavey. [Pg 2] But presently the Thing began To shiver and to sneeze: On which I said “Come, come, my man! That’s a most inconsiderate plan. Less noise there, if you please!” [Pg 3] “I’ve caught a cold,” the Thing replies, “Out there upon the landing.” I turned to look in some surprise, And there, before my very eyes, A little Ghost was standing! He trembled when he caught my eye, And got behind a chair. “How came you here,” I said, “and why? I never saw a thing so shy. Come out! Don’t shiver there!” He said “I’d gladly tell you how, And also tell you why; But” (here he gave a little bow) “You’re in so bad a temper now, You’d think it all a lie. “And as to being in a fright, Allow me to remark That Ghosts have just as good a right, In every way, to fear the light, As Men to fear the dark.” [Pg 4] “No plea,” said I, “can well excuse Such cowardice in you: For Ghosts can visit when they choose, Whereas we Humans ca’n’t refuse To grant the interview.” He said “A flutter of alarm Is not unnatural, is it? I really feared you meant some harm: But, now I see that you are calm, Let me explain my visit. “Houses are classed, I beg to state, According to the number Of Ghosts that they accommodate: (The Tenant merely counts as weight, With Coals and other lumber). “This is a ‘one-ghost’ house, and you When you arrived last summer, May have remarked a Spectre who Was doing all that Ghosts can do To welcome the new-comer. [Pg 5] “In Villas this is always done— However cheaply rented: For, though of course there’s less of fun When there is only room for one, Ghosts have to be contented. “That Spectre left you on the Third— Since then you’ve not been haunted: For, as he never sent us word, ’Twas quite by accident we heard That any one was wanted. “A Spectre has first choice, by right, In filling up a vacancy; Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite— If all these fail them, they invite The nicest Ghoul that they can see. “The Spectres said the place was low, And that you kept bad wine: So, as a Phantom had to go, And I was first, of course, you know, I couldn’t well decline.” [Pg 6] “No doubt,” said I, “they settled who Was fittest to be sent: Yet still to choose a brat like you, To haunt a man of forty-two, Was no great compliment!” “I’m not so young, Sir,” he replied, “As you might think. The fact is, In caverns by the water-side, And other places that I’ve tried, I’ve had a lot of practice: “But I have never taken yet A strict domestic part, And in my flurry I forget The Five Good Rules of Etiquette We have to know by heart.” My sympathies were warming fast Towards the little fellow: He was so utterly aghast At having found a Man at last, And looked so scared and yellow. [Pg 7] “IN CAVERNS BY THE WATER-SIDE” [Pg 8] “At least,” I said, “I’m glad to find A Ghost is not a dumb thing! But pray sit down: you’ll feel inclined (If, like myself, you have not dined) To take a snack of something: “Though, certainly, you don’t appear A thing to offer food to! And then I shall be glad to hear— If you will say them loud and clear— The Rules that you allude to.” “Thanks! You shall hear them by and by This is a piece of luck!” “What may I offer you?” said I. “Well, since you are so kind, I’ll try A little bit of duck. “One slice! And may I ask you for Another drop of gravy?” I sat and looked at him in awe, For certainly I never saw A thing so white and wavy. [Pg 9] And still he seemed to grow more white, More vapoury, and wavier— Seen in the dim and flickering light, As he proceeded to recite His “Maxims of Behaviour.” [Pg 10] CANTO II. Hys Fyve Rules. “My First—but don’t suppose,” he said, “I’m setting you a riddle— Is—if your Victim be in bed, Don’t touch the curtains at his head, But take them in the middle, “And wave them slowly in and out, While drawing them asunder; And in a minute’s time, no doubt, He’ll raise his head and look about With eyes of wrath and wonder. “And here you must on no pretence Make the first observation. Wait for the Victim to commence: No Ghost of any common sense Begins a conversation. [Pg 11] “If he should say ‘How came you here?’ (The way that you began, Sir,) In such a case your course is clear— ‘On the bat’s back, my little dear!’ Is the appropriate answer. “If after this he says no more, You’d best perhaps curtail your Exertions—go and shake the door, And then, if he begins to snore, You’ll know the thing’s a failure. [Pg 12] “By day, if he should be alone— At home or on a walk— You merely give a hollow groan, To indicate the kind of tone In which you mean to talk. “But if you find him with his friends, The thing is rather harder. In such a case success depends On picking up some candle-ends, Or butter, in the larder. “With this you make a kind of slide (It answers best with suet), On which you must contrive to glide, And swing yourself from side to side— One soon learns how to do it. “The Second tells us what is right In ceremonious calls:— ‘First burn a blue or crimson light’ (A thing I quite forgot to-night), ‘Then scratch the door or walls.’” [Pg 13] “AND SWING YOURSELF FROM SIDE TO SIDE” [Pg 14] I said “You’ll visit here no more, If you attempt the Guy. I’ll have no bonfires on my floor— And, as for scratching at the door, I’d like to see you try!” “The Third was written to protect The interests of the Victim, And tells us, as I recollect, To treat him with a grave respect, And not to contradict him.” “That’s plain,” said I, “as Tare and Tret, To any comprehension: I only wish some Ghosts I’ve met Would not so constantly forget The maxim that you mention!” “Perhaps,” he said, “you first transgressed The laws of hospitality: All Ghosts instinctively detest The Man that fails to treat his guest With proper cordiality. [Pg 15] “If you address a Ghost as ‘Thing!’ Or strike him with a hatchet, He is permitted by the King To drop all formal parleying— And then you’re sure to catch it! [Pg 16] “The Fourth prohibits trespassing Where other Ghosts are quartered: And those convicted of the thing (Unless when pardoned by the King) Must instantly be slaughtered. “That simply means ‘be cut up small’: Ghosts soon unite anew: The process scarcely hurts at all— Not more than when you’re what you call ‘Cut up’ by a Review. “The Fifth is one you may prefer That I should quote entire:— The King must be addressed as ‘Sir.’ This, from a simple courtier, Is all the Laws require: “But, should you wish to do the thing With out-and-out politeness, Accost him as ‘My Goblin King!’ And always use, in answering, The phrase ‘Your Royal Whiteness!’ [Pg 17] “I’m getting rather hoarse, I fear, After so much reciting: So, if you don’t object, my dear, We’ll try a glass of bitter beer— I think it looks inviting.” [Pg 18] CANTO III. Scarmoges. “And did you really walk,” said I, “On such a wretched night? I always fancied Ghosts could fly— If not exactly in the sky, Yet at a fairish height.” “It’s very well,” said he, “for Kings To soar above the earth: But Phantoms often find that wings— Like many other pleasant things— Cost more than they are worth. “Spectres of course are rich, and so Can buy them from the Elves: But we prefer to keep below— They’re stupid company, you know. For any but themselves: [Pg 19] “For, though they claim to be exempt From pride, they treat a Phantom As something quite beneath contempt— Just as no Turkey ever dreamt Of noticing a Bantam.” [Pg 20] “They seem too proud,” said I, “to go To houses such as mine. Pray, how did they contrive to know So quickly that ‘the place was low,’ And that I ‘kept bad wine’?” “Inspector Kobold came to you—” The little Ghost began. Here I broke in—“Inspector who? Inspecting Ghosts is something new! Explain yourself my man!” “His name is Kobold,” said my guest: “One of the Spectre order: You’ll very often see him dressed In a yellow gown, a crimson vest, And a night-cap with a border. “He tried the Brocken business first, But caught a sort of chill; So came to England to be nursed, And here it took the form of thirst, Which he complains of still. [Pg 21] “AND HERE IT TOOK THE FORM OF THIRST” [Pg 22] “Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound, Warms his old bones like nectar: And as the inns, where it is found, Are his especial hunting-ground, We call him the Inn-Spectre.” I bore it—bore it like a man— This agonizing witticism! And nothing could be sweeter than My temper, till the Ghost began Some most provoking criticism. “Cooks need not be indulged in waste; Yet still you’d better teach them Dishes should have some sort of taste. Pray, why are all the cruets placed Where nobody can reach them? “That man of yours will never earn His living as a waiter! Is that queer thing supposed to burn? (It’s far too dismal a concern To call a Moderator). [Pg 23] “The duck was tender, but the peas Were very much too old: And just remember, if you please, The next time you have toasted cheese, Don’t let them send it cold. “You’d find the bread improved, I think, By getting better flour: And have you anything to drink That looks a little less like ink, And isn’t quite so sour?” Then, peering round with curious eyes, He muttered “Goodness gracious!” And so went on to criticise— “Your room’s an inconvenient size: It’s neither snug nor spacious. “That narrow window, I expect, Serves but to let the dusk in—” “But please,” said I, “to recollect ’Twas fashioned by an architect Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!” [Pg 24] “I don’t care who he was, Sir, or On whom he pinned his faith! Constructed by whatever law, So poor a job I never saw, As I’m a living Wraith! “What a re-markable cigar! How much are they a dozen?” I growled “No matter what they are! You’re getting as familiar As if you were my cousin! “Now that’s a thing I will not stand, And so I tell you flat.” “Aha,” said he, “we’re getting grand!” (Taking a bottle in his hand) “I’ll soon arrange for that!” And here he took a careful aim, And gaily cried “Here goes!” I tried to dodge it as it came, But somehow caught it, all the same, Exactly on my nose. [Pg 25] And I remember nothing more That I can clearly fix, Till I was sitting on the floor, Repeating “Two and five are four, But five and two are six.” What really passed I never learned, Nor guessed: I only know That, when at last my sense returned, The lamp, neglected, dimly burned— The fire was getting low— Through driving mists I seemed to see A Thing that smirked and smiled: And found that he was giving me A lesson in Biography, As if I were a child. [Pg 26] CANTO IV. Hys Nouryture. “Oh, when I was a little Ghost, A merry time had we! Each seated on his favourite 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 [Pg 27]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 Ghosteses’ were set ‘On posteses,’ you know, and ate Their ‘buttered toasteses.’ “I have the book; so, if you doubt it—” I turned to search the shelf. “Don’t stir!” he cried. “We’ll do without it; I now remember all about it; I wrote the thing myself. “It came out in a ‘Monthly,’ or At least my agent said it did: Some literary swell, who saw It, thought it seemed adapted for The Magazine he edited. “My father was a Brownie, Sir; My mother was a Fairy. [Pg 28]The notion had occurred to her, The children would be happier, If they were taught to vary. “The notion soon became a craze; And, when it once began, she Brought us all out in different ways— One was a Pixy, two were Fays, Another was a Banshee; “The Fetch and Kelpie went to school, And gave a lot of trouble; Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul, And then two Trolls (which broke the rule), A Goblin, and a Double— “(If that’s a snuff-box on the shelf,” He added with a yawn, “I’ll take a pinch)—next came an Elf, And then a Phantom (that’s myself), And last, a Leprechaun. “One day, some Spectres chanced to call, Dressed in the usual white: [Pg 29]I stood and watched them in the hall, And couldn’t make them out at all, They seemed so strange a sight. “I wondered what on earth they were, That looked all head and sack; But Mother told me not to stare, And then she twitched me by the hair, And punched me in the back. “Since then I’ve often wished that I Had been a Spectre born. But what’s the use?” (He heaved a sigh). “They are the ghost-nobility, And look on us with scorn. “My phantom-life was soon begun: When I was barely six, I went out with an older one— And just at first I thought it fun, And learned a lot of tricks. [Pg 30] “I’ve haunted dungeons, castles, towers— Wherever I was sent: I’ve often sat and howled for hours, Drenched to the skin with driving showers, Upon a battlement. “It’s quite old-fashioned now to groan When you begin to speak: This is the newest thing in tone—” And here (it chilled me to the bone) He gave an awful squeak. “Perhaps,” he added, “to your ear That sounds an easy thing? Try it yourself, my little dear! It took me something like a year, With constant practising. “And when you’ve learned to squeak, my man And caught the double sob, You’re pretty much where you began: Just try and gibber if you can! That’s something like a job! [Pg 31] “I’ve tried it, and can only say I’m sure you couldn’t do it, e- ven if you practised night and day, Unless you have a turn that way, And natural ingenuity. “Shakspeare I think it is who treats Of Ghosts, in days of old, Who ‘gibbered in the Roman streets,’ Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets— They must have found it cold. “I’ve often spent ten pounds on stuff, In dressing as a Double; But, though it answers as a puff, It never has effect enough To make it worth the trouble. “Long bills soon quenched the little thirst I had for being funny. The setting-up is always worst: Such heaps of things you want at first, One must be made of money! [Pg 32] “For instance, take a Haunted Tower, With skull, cross-bones, and sheet; Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour, Condensing lens of extra power, And set of chains complete: “What with the things you have to hire— The fitting on the robe— And testing all the coloured fire— [Pg 33]The outfit of itself would tire The patience of a Job! “And then they’re so fastidious, The Haunted-House Committee: I’ve often known them make a fuss Because a Ghost was French, or Russ, Or even from the City! “Some dialects are objected to— For one, the Irish brogue is: And then, for all you have to do, One pound a week they offer you, And find yourself in Bogies!” [Pg 34] CANTO V. Byckerment. “Don’t they consult the ‘Victims,’ though?” I said. “They should, by rights, Give them a chance—because, you know, The tastes of people differ so, Especially in Sprites.” The Phantom shook his head and smiled. “Consult them? Not a bit! ’Twould be a job to drive one wild, To satisfy one single child— There’d be no end to it!” “Of course you can’t leave children free,” Said I, “to pick and choose: But, in the case of men like me, I think ‘Mine Host’ might fairly be Allowed to state his views.” [Pg 35] He said “It really wouldn’t pay— Folk are so full of fancies. We visit for a single day, And whether then we go, or stay, Depends on circumstances. “And, though we don’t consult ‘Mine Host’ Before the thing’s arranged, Still, if he often quits his post, Or is not a well-mannered Ghost, Then you can have him changed. “But if the host’s a man like you— I mean a man of sense; And if the house is not too new—” “Why, what has that,” said I, “to do With Ghost’s convenience?” “A new house does not suit, you know— It’s such a job to trim it: But, after twenty years or so, The wainscotings begin to go, So twenty is the limit.” [Pg 36] “To trim” was not a phrase I could Remember having heard: “Perhaps,” I said, “you’ll be so good As tell me what is understood Exactly by that word?” “It means the loosening all the doors,” The Ghost replied, and laughed: “It means the drilling holes by scores In all the skirting-boards and floors, To make a thorough draught. [Pg 37] “You’ll sometimes find that one or two Are all you really need To let the wind come whistling through— But here there’ll be a lot to do!” I faintly gasped “Indeed! “If I’d been rather later, I’ll Be bound,” I added, trying (Most unsuccessfully) to smile, “You’d have been busy all this while, Trimming and beautifying?” “Why, no,” said he; “perhaps I should Have stayed another minute— But still no Ghost, that’s any good, Without an introduction would Have ventured to begin it. “The proper thing, as you were late, Was certainly to go: But, with the roads in such a state, I got the Knight-Mayor’s leave to wait For half an hour or so.” [Pg 38] “Who’s the Knight-Mayor?” I cried. Instead Of answering my question, “Well! If you don’t know that,” he said, “Either you never go to bed, Or you’ve a grand digestion! “He goes about and sits on folk That eat too much at night: His duties are to pinch, and poke, And squeeze them till they nearly choke.” (I said “It serves them right!”) “And folk that sup on things like these—” He muttered, “eggs and bacon— Lobster—and duck—and toasted cheese— If they don’t get an awful squeeze, I’m very much mistaken! “He is immensely fat, and so Well suits the occupation: In point of fact, if you must know, We used to call him, years ago, The Mayor and Corporation! [Pg 39] “HE GOES ABOUT AND SITS ON FOLK” [Pg 40] “The day he was elected Mayor I know that every Sprite meant To vote for me, but did not dare— He was so frantic with despair And furious with excitement. “When it was over, for a whim, He ran to tell the King; And being the reverse of slim, [Pg 41]A two-mile trot was not for him A very easy thing. “So, to reward him for his run (As it was baking hot, And he was over twenty stone), The King proceeded, half in fun, To knight him on the spot.” “’Twas a great liberty to take!” (I fired up like a rocket). “He did it just for punning’s sake: ‘The man,’ says Johnson, ‘that would make A pun, would pick a pocket!’” “A man,” said he, “is not a King.” I argued for a while, And did my best to prove the thing— The Phantom merely listening With a contemptuous smile. At last, when, breath and patience spent, I had recourse to smoking— “Your aim,” he said, “is excellent: [Pg 42]But—when you call it argument— Of course you’re only joking?” Stung by his cold and snaky eye, I roused myself at length To say “At least I do defy The veriest sceptic to deny That union is strength!” [Pg 43] “That’s true enough,” said he, “yet stay—” I listened in all meekness— “Union is strength, I’m bound to say; In fact, the thing’s as clear as day; But onions—are a weakness.” [Pg 44] CANTO VI. Dyscomfyture. As one who strives a hill to climb, Who never climbed before: Who finds it, in a little time, Grow every moment less sublime, And votes the thing a bore: Yet, having once begun to try, Dares not desert his quest, But, climbing, ever keeps his eye On one small hut against the sky, Wherein he hopes to rest: Who climbs till nerve and force are spent, With many a puff and pant: Who still, as rises the ascent, In language grows more violent, Although in breath more scant: [Pg 45] Who, climbing, gains at length the place That crowns the upward track; And, entering with unsteady pace, Receives a buffet in the face That lands him on his back: And feels himself, like one in sleep, Glide swiftly down again, A helpless weight, from steep to steep, Till, with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain— So I, that had resolved to bring Conviction to a ghost, And found it quite a different thing From any human arguing, Yet dared not quit my post [Pg 46] But, keeping still the end in view To which I hoped to come, I strove to prove the matter true By putting everything I knew Into an axiom: Commencing every single phrase With ‘therefore’ or ‘because,’ I blindly reeled, a hundred ways, About the syllogistic maze, Unconscious where I was. Quoth he “That’s regular clap-trap: Don’t bluster any more. Now do be cool and take a nap! Such a ridiculous old chap Was never seen before! “You’re like a man I used to meet, Who got one day so furious In arguing, the simple heat Scorched both his slippers off his feet!” I said “That’s very curious!” [Pg 47] “SCORCHED BOTH HIS SLIPPERS OFF HIS FEET” [Pg 48] “Well, it is curious, I agree, And sounds perhaps like fibs: But still it’s true as true can be— As sure as your name’s Tibbs,” said he. I said “My name’s not Tibbs.” “Not Tibbs!” he cried—his tone became A shade or two less hearty— “Why, no,” said I. “My proper name Is Tibbets—” “Tibbets?” “Aye, the same.” “Why, then YOU’RE NOT THE PARTY!” With that he struck the board a blow That shivered half the glasses. “Why couldn’t you have told me so Three quarters of an hour ago, You prince of all the asses? “To walk four miles through mud and rain, To spend the night in smoking, And then to find that it’s in vain— And I’ve to do it all again— It’s really too provoking! [Pg 49] “Don’t talk!” he cried, as I began To mutter some excuse. “Who can have patience with a man That’s got no more discretion than An idiotic goose? [Pg 50] “To keep me waiting here, instead Of telling me at once That this was not the house!” he said. “There, that’ll do—be off to bed! Don’t gape like that, you dunce!” “It’s very fine to throw the blame On me in such a fashion! Why didn’t you enquire my name The very minute that you came?” I answered in a passion. “Of course it worries you a bit To come so far on foot— But how was I to blame for it?” “Well, well!” said he. “I must admit That isn’t badly put. “And certainly you’ve given me The best of wine and victual— Excuse my violence,” said he, “But accidents like this, you see, They put one out a little. [Pg 51] “’Twas my fault after all, I find— Shake hands, old Turnip-top!” The name was hardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop. “Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! When I am gone, perhaps They’ll send you some inferior Sprite, Who’ll keep you in a constant fright And spoil your soundest naps. “Tell him you’ll stand no sort of trick; Then, if he leers and chuckles, You just be handy with a stick (Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles! “Then carelessly remark ‘Old coon! Perhaps you’re not aware That, if you don’t behave, you’ll soon Be chuckling to another tune— And so you’d best take care!’ [Pg 52] “That’s the right way to cure a Sprite Of such-like goings-on— But gracious me! It’s getting light! Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!” A nod, and he was gone. [Pg 53] CANTO VII. Sad Souvenaunce. “What’s this?” I pondered. “Have I slept? Or can I have been drinking?” But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking. “No need for Bones to hurry so!” I sobbed. “In fact, I doubt [Pg 54]If it was worth his while to go— And who is Tibbs, I’d like to know, To make such work about? “If Tibbs is anything like me, It’s possible,” I said, “He won’t be over-pleased to be Dropped in upon at half-past three, After he’s snug in bed. “And if Bones plagues him anyhow— Squeaking and all the rest of it, As he was doing here just now— I prophesy there’ll be a row, And Tibbs will have the best of it!” Then, as my tears could never bring The friendly Phantom back, It seemed to me the proper thing To mix another glass, and sing The following Coronach. [Pg 55] “AND TIBBS WILL HAVE THE BEST OF IT” [Pg 56] ‘And art thou gone, beloved Ghost? Best of Familiars! Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast, Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast, My meerschaum and cigars! ‘The hues of life are dull and gray, The sweets of life insipid, When thou, my charmer, art away— Old Brick, or rather, let me say, Old Parallelepiped!’ Instead of singing Verse the Third, I ceased—abruptly, rather: But, after such a splendid word, I felt that it would be absurd To try it any farther. So with a yawn I went my way To seek the welcome downy, And slept, and dreamed till break of day Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay And Leprechaun and Brownie! For years I’ve not been visited By any kind of Sprite; [Pg 57]Yet still they echo in my head, Those parting words, so kindly said, “Old Turnip-top, good-night!” [Pg 58] ECHOES. Lady Clara Vere de Vere Was eight years old, she said: Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread. She took her little porringer: Of me she shall not win renown: For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down. “Sisters and brothers, little Maid? There stands the Inspector at thy door: Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.” “Kind words are more than coronets,” She said, and wondering looked at me: “It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.” [Pg 59] A SEA DIRGE. There are certain things—as, a spider, a ghost, The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three— That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most Is a thing they call the Sea. [Pg 60] Pour some salt water over the floor— Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be: Suppose it extended a mile or more, That’s very like the Sea. Beat a dog till it howls outright— Cruel, but all very well for a spree: Suppose that he did so day and night, That would be like the Sea. I had a vision of nursery-maids; Tens of thousands passed by me— All leading children with wooden spades, And this was by the Sea. Who invented those spades of wood? Who was it cut them out of the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could— Or one that loved the Sea. It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float With ‘thoughts as boundless, and souls as free’: But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat, How do you like the Sea? [Pg 61] “AND THIS WAS BY THE SEA” [Pg 62] There is an insect that people avoid (Whence is derived the verb ‘to flee’). Where have you been by it most annoyed? In lodgings by the Sea. If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, A decided hint of salt in your tea, And a fishy taste in the very eggs— By all means choose the Sea. And if, with these dainties to drink and eat, You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, And a chronic state of wet in your feet, Then—I recommend the Sea. For I have friends who dwell by the coast— Pleasant friends they are to me! It is when I am with them I wonder most That any one likes the Sea. They take me a walk: though tired and stiff, To climb the heights I madly agree; And, after a tumble or so from the cliff, They kindly suggest the Sea. [Pg 63] I try the rocks, and I think it cool That they laugh with such an excess of glee, As I heavily slip into every pool That skirts the cold cold Sea. [Pg 64] Ye Carpette Knyghte. I have a horse—a ryghte goode horse— Ne doe I envye those Who scoure ye playne yn headye course Tyll soddayne on theyre nose They lyghte wyth unexpected force— Yt ys—a horse of clothes. I have a saddel—“Say’st thou soe? Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?” I sayde not that—I answere “Noe”— Yt lacketh such, I woote: Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe! Parte of ye fleecye brute. I have a bytte—a ryghte good bytte— As shall bee seene yn tyme. Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte; Yts use ys more sublyme. Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt? Yt ys—thys bytte of rhyme. [Pg 65] “I HAVE A HORSE” [Pg 66] HIAWATHA’S PHOTOGRAPHING. [In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of ‘The Song of Hiawatha.’ Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.] From his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood, Made of sliding, folding rosewood; Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, [Pg 67]Like a complicated figure In the Second Book of Euclid. This he perched upon a tripod— Crouched beneath its dusky cover— Stretched his hand, enforcing silence— Said “Be motionless, I beg you!” Mystic, awful was the process. All the family in order Sat before him for their pictures: Each in turn, as he was taken, [Pg 68]Volunteered his own suggestions, His ingenious suggestions. First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And the corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die in tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn’t help it. Next, his better half took courage; She would have her picture taken. She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress. [Pg 69] “FIRST THE GOVERNOR, THE FATHER” [Pg 70] Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a bouquet Rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she was sitting, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkey in the forest. “Am I sitting still?” she asked him. “Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it come into the picture?” And the picture failed completely. Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curves of beauty, Curves pervading all his figure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centered in the breast-pin, Centered in the golden breast-pin. He had learnt it all from Ruskin (Author of ‘The Stones of Venice,’ ‘Seven Lamps of Architecture,’ ‘Modern Painters,’ and some others); And perhaps he had not fully Understood his author’s meaning; But, whatever was the reason, All was fruitless, as the picture Ended in an utter failure. [Pg 71] “NEXT THE SON, THE STUNNING-CANTAB” [Pg 72] Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little, Only asked if he would take her With her look of ‘passive beauty.’ Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils. Hiawatha, when she asked him, Took no notice of the question, Looked as if he hadn’t heard it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it ‘didn’t matter,’ Bit his lip and changed the subject. Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely. So in turn the other sisters. [Pg 73] “NEXT TO HIM THE ELDEST DAUGHTER” [Pg 74] Last, the youngest son was taken: Very rough and thick his hair was, Very round and red his face was, Very dusty was his jacket, Very fidgety his manner. And his overbearing sisters Called him names he disapproved of: Called him Johnny, ‘Daddy’s Darling,’ Called him Jacky, ‘Scrubby School-boy.’ And, so awful was the picture, In comparison the others Seemed, to one’s bewildered fancy, To have partially succeeded. Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, (‘Grouped’ is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would have it, Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness. [Pg 75] “LAST, THE YOUNGEST SON WAS TAKEN” [Pg 76] Then they joined and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of. Giving one such strange expressions— Sullen, stupid, pert expressions. Really any one would take us (Any one that did not know us) For the most unpleasant people!’ (Hiawatha seemed to think so, Seemed to think it not unlikely). All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hiawatha’s patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party. Neither did he leave them slowly, With the calm deliberation, The intense deliberation Of a photographic artist: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mighty hurry, Stating that he would not stand it, [Pg 77]Stating in emphatic language What he’d be before he’d stand it. Hurriedly he packed his boxes: Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes: Hurriedly he took his ticket: Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha. [Pg 78] MELANCHOLETTA. With saddest music all day long She soothed her secret sorrow: At night she sighed “I fear ’twas wrong Such cheerful words to borrow. Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song I’ll sing to thee to-morrow.” I thanked her, but I could not say That I was glad to hear it: I left the house at break of day, And did not venture near it Till time, I hoped, had worn away Her grief, for nought could cheer it! [Pg 79] “AT NIGHT SHE SIGHED” [Pg 80] My dismal sister! Couldst thou know The wretched home thou keepest! Thy brother, drowned in daily woe, Is thankful when thou sleepest; For if I laugh, however low, When thou’rt awake, thou weepest! I took my sister t’other day (Excuse the slang expression) To Sadler’s Wells to see the play, In hopes the new impression Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay Effect some slight digression. I asked three gay young dogs from town To join us in our folly, Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown My sister’s melancholy: The lively Jones, the sportive Brown, And Robinson the jolly. The maid announced the meal in tones That I myself had taught her, Meant to allay my sister’s moans Like oil on troubled water: [Pg 81]I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones, And begged him to escort her. Vainly he strove, with ready wit, To joke about the weather— To ventilate the last ‘on dit’— To quote the price of leather— She groaned “Here I and Sorrow sit: Let us lament together!” I urged “You’re wasting time, you know: Delay will spoil the venison.” “My heart is wasted with my woe! There is no rest—in Venice, on The Bridge of Sighs!” she quoted low From Byron and from Tennyson. I need not tell of soup and fish In solemn silence swallowed, The sobs that ushered in each dish, And its departure followed, Nor yet my suicidal wish To be the cheese I hollowed. [Pg 82] Some desperate attempts were made To start a conversation; “Madam,” the sportive Brown essayed, “Which kind of recreation, Hunting or fishing, have you made Your special occupation?” Her lips curved downwards instantly, As if of india-rubber. “Hounds in full cry I like,” said she: (Oh how I longed to snub her!) “Of fish, a whale’s the one for me, It is so full of blubber!” The night’s performance was “King John.” “It’s dull,” she wept, “and so-so!” A while I let her tears flow on, She said they soothed her woe so! At length the curtain rose upon ‘Bombastes Furioso.’ In vain we roared; in vain we tried To rouse her into laughter: [Pg 83]Her pensive glances wandered wide From orchestra to rafter— “Tier upon tier!” she said, and sighed; And silence followed after. [Pg 84] A VALENTINE. [Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn’t seem to miss him if he stayed away.] And cannot pleasures, while they last, Be actual unless, when past, They leave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting? And cannot friends be firm and fast, And yet bear parting? And must I then, at Friendship’s call, Calmly resign the little all (Trifling, I grant, it is and small) I have of gladness, [Pg 85]And lend my being to the thrall Of gloom and sadness? And think you that I should be dumb, And full dolorum omnium, Excepting when you choose to come And share my dinner? At other times be sour and glum And daily thinner? Must he then only live to weep, Who’d prove his friendship true and deep? By day a lonely shadow creep, At night-time languish, Oft raising in his broken sleep The moan of anguish? The lover, if for certain days His fair one be denied his gaze, Sinks not in grief and wild amaze, But, wiser wooer, He spends the time in writing lays, And posts them to her. [Pg 86] And if the verse flow free and fast, Till even the poet is aghast, A touching Valentine at last The post shall carry, When thirteen days are gone and past Of February. Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet, In desert waste or crowded street, Perhaps before this week shall fleet, Perhaps to-morrow, I trust to find your heart the seat Of wasting sorrow. [Pg 87] THE THREE VOICES. The First Voice. He trilled a carol fresh and free: He laughed aloud for very glee: There came a breeze from off the sea: [Pg 88] It passed athwart the glooming flat— It fanned his forehead as he sat— It lightly bore away his hat, All to the feet of one who stood Like maid enchanted in a wood, Frowning as darkly as she could. With huge umbrella, lank and brown, Unerringly she pinned it down, Right through the centre of the crown. Then, with an aspect cold and grim, Regardless of its battered rim, She took it up and gave it him. A while like one in dreams he stood, Then faltered forth his gratitude In words just short of being rude: For it had lost its shape and shine, And it had cost him four-and-nine, And he was going out to dine. [Pg 89] “UNERRINGLY SHE PINNED IT DOWN.” [Pg 90] “To dine!” she sneered in acid tone. “To bend thy being to a bone Clothed in a radiance not its own!” The tear-drop trickled to his chin: There was a meaning in her grin That made him feel on fire within. “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.’” He moaned: he knew not what to say. The thought “That I could get away!” Strove with the thought “But I must stay.” “To dine!” she shrieked in dragon-wrath. “To swallow wines all foam and froth! To simper at a table-cloth! [Pg 91] “Say, can thy noble spirit stoop To join the gormandising troop Who find a solace in the soup? “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 semi-human shape Suggestive of the man-like Ape.” [Pg 92] “In all such theories,” said he, “One fixed exception there must be. That is, the Present Company.” Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark: He, aiming blindly in the dark, With random shaft had pierced the mark. She felt that her defeat was plain, Yet madly strove with might and main To get the upper hand again. Fixing her eyes upon the beach, As though unconscious of his speech, She said “Each gives to more than each.” He could not answer yea or nay: He faltered “Gifts may pass away.” Yet knew not what he meant to say. “If that be so,” she straight replied, “Each heart with each doth coincide. What boots it? For the world is wide.” [Pg 93] “HE FALTERED ‘GIFTS MAY PASS AWAY.’” [Pg 94] “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!” He felt it was his turn to speak, And, with a shamed and crimson cheek, Moaned “This is harder than Bezique!” But when she asked him “Wherefore so?” He felt his very whiskers glow, And frankly owned “I do not know.” [Pg 95] “THIS IS HARDER THAN BEZIQUE!” [Pg 96] While, like broad waves of golden grain, Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, His colour came and went again. Pitying his obvious distress, Yet with a tinge of bitterness, She said “The More exceeds the Less.” “A truth of such undoubted weight,” He urged, “and so extreme in date, It were superfluous to state.” Roused into sudden passion, she In tone of cold malignity: “To others, yea: but not to thee.” But when she saw him quail and quake, And when he urged “For pity’s sake!” Once more in gentle tone she spake. “Thought in the mind doth still abide: That is by Intellect supplied, And within that Idea doth hide: [Pg 97] “And he, that yearns the truth to know, Still further inwardly may go, And find Idea from Notion flow: “And thus the chain, that sages sought, Is to a glorious circle wrought, For Notion hath its source in Thought.” So passed they on with even pace: Yet gradually one might trace A shadow growing on his face. [Pg 98] The Second Voice. They walked beside the wave-worn beach; Her tongue was very apt to teach, And now and then he did beseech She would abate her dulcet tone, Because the talk was all her own, And he was dull as any drone. [Pg 99] She urged “No cheese is made of chalk”: And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, Tuned to the footfall of a walk. Her voice was very full and rich, And, when at length she asked him “Which?” It mounted to its highest pitch. He a bewildered answer gave, Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, Lost in the echoes of the cave. He answered her he knew not what: Like shaft from bow at random shot, He spoke, but she regarded not. She waited not for his reply, But with a downward leaden eye Went on as if he were not by: Sound argument and grave defence, Strange questions raised on “Why?” and “Whence?” And wildly tangled evidence. [Pg 100] When he, with racked and whirling brain, Feebly implored her to explain, She simply said it all again. Wrenched with an agony intense, He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, And careless of all consequence: “Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent— Abstract—that is—an Accident— Which we—that is to say—I meant—” When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, At length his speech was somewhat hushed, She looked at him, and he was crushed. It needed not her calm reply: She fixed him with a stony eye, And he could neither fight nor fly, While she dissected, word by word, His speech, half guessed at and half heard, As might a cat a little bird. [Pg 101] “HE SPAKE, NEGLECTING SOUND AND SENSE.” [Pg 102] Then, having wholly overthrown His views, and stripped them to the bone, Proceeded to unfold her own. “Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss Of other thoughts no thought but this, Harmonious dews of sober bliss? “What boots it? Shall his fevered eye Through towering nothingness descry The grisly phantom hurry by? “And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air; See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare And redden in the dusky glare? “The meadows breathing amber light, The darkness toppling from the height, The feathery train of granite Night? “Shall he, grown gray among his peers, Through the thick curtain of his tears Catch glimpses of his earlier years, [Pg 103] “SHALL MAN BE MAN?” [Pg 104] “And hear the sounds he knew of yore, Old shufflings on the sanded floor, Old knuckles tapping at the door? “Yet still before him as he flies One pallid form shall ever rise, And, bodying forth in glassy eyes “The vision of a vanished good, Low peering through the tangled wood, Shall freeze the current of his blood.” Still from each fact, with skill uncouth And savage rapture, like a tooth She wrenched some slow reluctant truth. Till, like a silent water-mill, When summer suns have dried the rill, She reached a full stop, and was still. Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, As when the loaded omnibus Has reached the railway terminus: [Pg 105] When, for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine’s stifled beat, The velvet tread of porters’ feet. With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved her lips without a sound, And every now and then she frowned. He gazed upon the sleeping sea, And joyed in its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she To muse a little space did seem, Then, like the echo of a dream, Harped back upon her threadbare theme. Still an attentive ear he lent But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent. He marked the ripple on the sand: The even swaying of her hand Was all that he could understand. [Pg 106] He saw in dreams a drawing-room, Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom, Waiting—he thought he knew for whom: He saw them drooping here and there, Each feebly huddled on a chair, In attitudes of blank despair: Oysters were not more mute than they, For all their brains were pumped away, And they had nothing more to say— Save one, who groaned “Three hours are gone!” Who shrieked “We’ll wait no longer, John! Tell them to set the dinner on!” The vision passed: the ghosts were fled: He saw once more that woman dread: He heard once more the words she said. He left her, and he turned aside: He sat and watched the coming tide Across the shores so newly dried. [Pg 107] “HE SAT AND WATCHED THE COMING TIDE” [Pg 108] He wondered at the waters clear, The breeze that whispered in his ear, The billows heaving far and near, And why he had so long preferred To hang upon her every word: “In truth,” he said, “it was absurd.” [Pg 109] The Third Voice. Not long this transport held its place: Within a little moment’s space Quick tears were raining down his face. His heart stood still, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemed to hear and not to hear. [Pg 110] “Tears kindle not the doubtful spark. If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark.” “Her speech,” he said, “hath caused this pain. Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main, “Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book.” Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more than said, Soundless as ghost’s intended tread: “If thou art duller than before, Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? Why not endure, expecting more?” “Rather than that,” he groaned aghast, “I’d writhe in depths of cavern vast, Some loathly vampire’s rich repast.” [Pg 111] “HE GROANED AGHAST” [Pg 112] “’Twere hard,” it answered, “themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings thy scant intelligence.” “Not so,” he urged, “nor once alone: But there was something in her tone That chilled me to the very bone. “Her style was anything but clear, And most unpleasantly severe; Her epithets were very queer. “And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise; I did not dare to criticise; “Nor did I leave her, till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent.” A little whisper inly slid, “Yet truth is truth: you know you did.” A little wink beneath the lid. [Pg 113] And, sickened with excess of dread, Prone to the dust he bent his head, And lay like one three-quarters dead. The whisper left him—like a breeze Lost in the depths of leafy trees— Left him by no means at his ease. Once more he weltered in despair, With hands, through denser-matted hair, More tightly clenched than then they were. When, bathed in Dawn of living red, Majestic frowned the mountain head, “Tell me my fault,” was all he said. When, at high Noon, the blazing sky Scorched in his head each haggard eye, Then keenest rose his weary cry. And when at Eve the unpitying sun Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, “Alack,” he sighed, “what have I done?” [Pg 114] “TORTURED, UNAIDED, AND ALONE” [Pg 115] But saddest, darkest was the sight, When the cold grasp of leaden Night Dashed him to earth, and held him tight. Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders were silence to his groan, Bagpipes sweet music to its tone: “What? Ever thus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Mystery profound Pursue me like a sleepless hound, “With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I broke of laws?” The whisper to his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadow of forgotten dream, The whisper trembling in the wind: “Her fate with thine was intertwined,” So spake it in his inner mind: [Pg 116] “A SCARED DULLARD, GIBBERING LOW” [Pg 117] “Each orbed on each a baleful star: Each proved the other’s blight and bar: Each unto each were best, most far: “Yea, each to each was worse than foe: Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, And she, an avalanche of woe!” [Pg 118] TÈMA CON VARIAZIÓNI. [Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed “setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase. For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison—whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!”—yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also—— [Pg 119] I never loved a dear Gazelle— Nor anything that cost me much: High prices profit those who sell, But why should I be fond of such? To glad me with his soft black eye My son comes trotting home from school; He’s had a fight, but can’t tell why— He always was a little fool! But, when he came to know me well, He kicked me out, her testy Sire: And when I stained my hair, that Belle, Might note the change, and thus admire And love me, it was sure to dye A muddy green or staring blue: Whilst one might trace, with half an eye, The still triumphant carrot through. [Pg 120] 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!” [Pg 121] “NOW TELL ME WHICH YOU MEAN!” [Pg 122] 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”! [Pg 123] POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR. “How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? [Pg 124]You told me once ‘the very wish Partook of the sublime.’ Then tell me how! Don’t put me off With your ‘another time’!” The old man smiled to see him, To hear his sudden sally; He liked the lad to speak his mind Enthusiastically; And thought “There’s no hum-drum in him, Nor any shilly-shally.” “And would you be a poet Before you’ve been to school? Ah, well! I hardly thought you So absolute a fool. First learn to be spasmodic— A very simple rule. “For first you write a sentence, And then you chop it small; Then mix the bits, and sort them out Just as they chance to fall: [Pg 125]The order of the phrases makes No difference at all. “Then, if you’d be impressive, Remember what I say, That abstract qualities begin With capitals alway: The True, the Good, the Beautiful— Those are the things that pay! “Next, when you are describing A shape, or sound, or tint; Don’t state the matter plainly, But put it in a hint; And learn to look at all things With a sort of mental squint.” “For instance, if I wished, Sir, Of mutton-pies to tell, Should I say ‘dreams of fleecy flocks Pent in a wheaten cell’?” “Why, yes,” the old man said: “that phrase Would answer very well. [Pg 126] “Then fourthly, there are epithets That suit with any word— As well as Harvey’s Reading Sauce With fish, or flesh, or bird— Of these, ‘wild,’ ‘lonely,’ ‘weary,’ ‘strange,’ Are much to be preferred.” “And will it do, O will it do To take them in a lump— As ‘the wild man went his weary way To a strange and lonely pump’?” “Nay, nay! You must not hastily To such conclusions jump. “Such epithets, like pepper, Give zest to what you write; And, if you strew them sparely, They whet the appetite: But if you lay them on too thick, You spoil the matter quite! [Pg 127] “THE WILD MAN WENT HIS WEARY WAY” [Pg 128] “Last, as to the arrangement: Your reader, you should show him, Must take what information he Can get, and look for no im- mature disclosure of the drift And purpose of your poem. “Therefore, to test his patience— How much he can endure— Mention no places, names, or dates, And evermore be sure Throughout the poem to be found Consistently obscure. “First fix upon the limit To which it shall extend: Then fill it up with ‘Padding’ (Beg some of any friend): Your great Sensation-stanza You place towards the end.” “And what is a Sensation, Grandfather, tell me, pray? I think I never heard the word So used before to-day: [Pg 129]Be kind enough to mention one ‘Exempli gratiâ.’” And the old man, looking sadly Across the garden-lawn, Where here and there a dew-drop Yet glittered in the dawn, Said “Go to the Adelphi, And see the ‘Colleen Bawn.’ “The word is due to Boucicault— The theory is his, Where Life becomes a Spasm, And History a Whiz: If that is not Sensation, I don’t know what it is. “Now try your hand, ere Fancy Have lost its present glow—” “And then,” his grandson added, “We’ll publish it, you know: Green cloth—gold-lettered at the back— In duodecimo!” [Pg 130] Then proudly smiled that old man To see the eager lad Rush madly for his pen and ink And for his blotting-pad— But, when he thought of publishing, His face grew stern and sad. [Pg 131] THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK, An Agony in Eight Fits. PREFACE. If—and the thing is wildly possible—the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p. 144) “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 this 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. [Pg 132]The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished; and it more than once 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[1] used to stand by with tears in his eyes: he knew it was all wrong, but alas! Rule 42 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 backwards. As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the Jabberwock, let me take this opportunity of answering a question that has often been asked me, how to pronounce “slithy toves.” The “i” in “slithy” is long, as in “writhe”; and “toves” is pronounced so as to rhyme with “groves.” Again, the first “o” in “borogoves” is pronounced like the “o” in “borrow.” I have heard people try to give it the sound of the “o” in “worry.” Such is Human Perversity. [Pg 133]This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard words in that poem. Humpty-Dumpty’s theory, of two meanings packed into one word like a portmanteau, seems to me the right explanation for all. For instance, take the two words “fuming” and “furious.” Make up your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If your thoughts incline ever so little towards “fuming,” you will say “fuming-furious”; if they turn, by even a hair’s breadth towards “furious,” you will say “furious-fuming”; but if you have that rarest of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say “frumious.” Supposing that, when Pistol uttered the well-known words— “Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die!” Justice Shallow had felt certain that it was either William or Richard, but had not been able to settle which, so that he could not possibly say either name before the other, can it be doubted that, rather than die, he would have gasped out “Rilchiam!” [Pg 134] Fit the First. THE LANDING. “Just the place for a Snark!” the Bellman cried, As he landed his crew with care; Supporting each man on the top of the tide By a finger entwined in his hair. “Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew. Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice: What I tell you three times is true.” The crew was complete: it included a Boots— A maker of Bonnets and Hoods— A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes— And a Broker, to value their goods. [Pg 135] “SUPPORTING EACH MAN ON THE TOP OF THE TIDE” [Pg 136] A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense, Might perhaps have won more than his share— But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense, Had the whole of their cash in his care. There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck, Or would sit making lace in the bow: And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck, Though none of the sailors knew how. There was one who was famed for the number of things He forgot when he entered the ship: His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings, And the clothes he had bought 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. [Pg 137] “HE HAD WHOLLY FORGOTTEN HIS NAME” [Pg 138] 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 hyænas, 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. [Pg 139] The last of the crew needs especial remark, Though he looked an incredible dunce: He had just one idea—but, that one being “Snark,” The good Bellman engaged him at once. He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared, When the ship had been sailing a week, He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared, And was almost too frightened to speak: But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone, There was only one Beaver on board; And that was a tame one he had of his own, Whose death would be deeply deplored. The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark, Protested, with tears in its eyes, That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark Could atone for that dismal surprise! It strongly advised that the Butcher should be Conveyed in a separate ship: But the Bellman declared that would never agree With the plans he had made for the trip: [Pg 140] “THE BEAVER KEPT LOOKING THE OPPOSITE WAY” [Pg 141] Navigation was always a difficult art, Though with only one ship and one bell: And he feared he must really decline, for his part, Undertaking another as well. The Beaver’s best course was, no doubt, to procure A second-hand dagger-proof coat— So the Baker advised it—and next, to insure Its life in some Office of note: This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire (On moderate terms), or for sale, Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire, And one Against Damage From Hail. Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day, Whenever the Butcher was by, The Beaver kept looking the opposite way, And appeared unaccountably shy. [Pg 142] Fit the Second. THE BELLMAN’S SPEECH. 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! [Pg 143] OCEAN-CHART. [Pg 144] “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!” This was charming, no doubt: but they shortly found out That the Captain they trusted so well Had only one notion for crossing the ocean, And that was to tingle his bell. He was thoughtful and grave—but the orders he gave Were enough to bewilder a crew. When he cried “Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!” What on earth was the helmsman to do? Then 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.” But the principal failing occurred in the sailing, And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed, [Pg 145]Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East, That the ship would not travel due West! 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. The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low, And repeated in musical tone Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe— But the crew would do nothing but groan. He served out some grog with a liberal hand, And bade them sit down on the beach: And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand, As he stood and delivered his speech. “Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears! (They were all of them fond of quotations: So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers While he served out additional rations). [Pg 146] “We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks, (Four weeks to the month you may mark), But never as yet (’tis your Captain who speaks) Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark! “We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days, (Seven days to the week I allow), But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze, We have never beheld till now! “Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again The five unmistakable marks By which you may know, wheresoever you go, The warranted genuine Snarks. “Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp: Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, With a flavour of Will-o-the wisp. “Its habit of getting up late you’ll agree That it carries too far, when I say That it frequently breakfasts at five o’clock tea, And dines on the following day. [Pg 147] “The third is its slowness in taking a jest. Should you happen to venture on one, It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed: And it always looks grave at a pun. “The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines, Which it constantly carries about, And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes— A sentiment open to doubt. “The fifth is ambition. It next will be right To describe each particular batch: Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite, From those that have whiskers, and scratch. “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. [Pg 148] Fit the Third. 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. When at length he sat up and was able to speak, His sad story he offered to tell; And the Bellman cried “Silence! Not even a shriek!” And excitedly tingled his bell. There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream; Scarcely even a howl or a groan, As the man they called “Ho!” told his story of woe In an antediluvian tone. [Pg 149] “My father and mother were honest, though poor—” “Skip all that!” cried the Bellman in haste. “If it once becomes dark, there’s no chance of a Snark— We have hardly a minute to waste!” “I skip forty years,” said the Baker, in tears, “And proceed without further remark To the day when you took me aboard of your ship To help you in hunting the Snark. “A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) Remarked, when I bade him farewell—” “Oh, skip your dear uncle!” the Bellman exclaimed, As he angrily tingled his bell. “He remarked to me then,” said that mildest of men, “‘If your Snark be a Snark, that is right: Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greens And it’s handy for striking a light. “‘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—’” [Pg 150] (“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!’ “It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, When I think of my uncle’s last words: And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl Brimming over with quivering curds! “It is this, it is this—” “We have had that before!” The Bellman indignantly said. And the Baker replied “Let me say it once more. It is this, it is this that I dread! “I engage with the Snark—every night after dark— In a dreamy delirious fight: I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, And I use it for striking a light: [Pg 151] “BUT OH, BEAMISH NEPHEW, BEWARE OF THE DAY” [Pg 152] “But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, In a moment (of this I am sure), I shall softly and suddenly vanish away— And the notion I cannot endure!” [Pg 153] Fit the Fourth. THE HUNTING. The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow. “If only you’d spoken before! It’s excessively awkward to mention it now, With the Snark, so to speak, at the door! “We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe, If you never were met with again— But surely, my man, when the voyage began, You might have suggested it then? “It’s excessively awkward to mention it now— As I think I’ve already remarked.” And the man they called “Hi!” replied, with a sigh, “I informed you the day we embarked. [Pg 154] “You may charge me with murder—or want of sense— (We are all of us weak at times): But the slightest approach to a false pretence Was never among my crimes! “I said it in Hebrew—I said it in Dutch— I said it in German and Greek: But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much) That English is what you speak!” “’Tis a pitiful tale,” said the Bellman, whose face Had grown longer at every word: “But, now that you’ve stated the whole of your case, More debate would be simply absurd. “The rest of my speech” (he explained to his men) “You shall hear when I’ve leisure to speak it. But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again! ’Tis your glorious duty to seek it! “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! [Pg 155] “TO PURSUE IT WITH FORKS AND HOPE.” [Pg 156] “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! “For England expects—I forbear to proceed: ’Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite: And you’d best be unpacking the things that you need To rig yourselves out for the fight.” Then the Banker endorsed a blank cheque (which he crossed), And changed his loose silver for notes: The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair, And shook the dust out of his coats: The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a spade— Each working the grindstone in turn: But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed No interest in the concern: Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride, And vainly proceeded to cite [Pg 157]A number of cases, in which making laces Had been proved an infringement of right. The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned A novel arrangement of bows: While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand Was chalking the tip of his nose. But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine, With yellow kid gloves and a ruff— Said he felt it exactly like going to dine, Which the Bellman declared was all “stuff.” “Introduce me, now there’s a good fellow,” he said, “If we happen to meet it together!” And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head, Said “That must depend on the weather.” The Beaver went simply galumphing about, At seeing the Butcher so shy: And even the Baker, though stupid and stout, Made an effort to wink with one eye. [Pg 158] “Be a man!” cried the Bellman in wrath, as he heard The Butcher beginning to sob. “Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird, We shall need all our strength for the job!” [Pg 159] Fit the Fifth. THE BEAVER’S LESSON. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan For making a separate sally; And had fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, A dismal and desolate valley. But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred: It had chosen the very same place: Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word, The disgust that appeared in his face. [Pg 160] Each thought he was thinking of nothing but “Snark” And the glorious work of the day; And each tried to pretend that he did not remark That the other was going that way. But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, And the evening got darker and colder, Till (merely from nervousness, not from good will) They marched along shoulder to shoulder. Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, And they knew that some danger was near: The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, And even the Butcher felt queer. He thought of his childhood, left far far behind— That blissful and innocent state— The sound so exactly recalled to his mind A pencil that squeaks on a slate! “’Tis the voice of the Jubjub!” he suddenly cried. (This man, that they used to call “Dunce.”) “As the Bellman would tell you,” he added with pride, “I have uttered that sentiment once.” [Pg 161] “’Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat; You will find I have told it you twice. ’Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete, If only I’ve stated it thrice.” The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care, Attending to every word: But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair, When the third repetition occurred. It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, It had somehow contrived to lose count, And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains By reckoning up the amount. “Two added to one—if that could but be done,” It said, “with one’s fingers and thumbs!” Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, It had taken no pains with its sums. “The thing can be done,” said the Butcher, “I think. The thing must be done, I am sure. The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, The best there is time to procure.” [Pg 162] The Beaver brought paper, portfolio, pens, And ink in unfailing supplies: While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, And watched them with wondering eyes. So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, As he wrote with a pen in each hand, And explained all the while in a popular style Which the Beaver could well understand. “Taking Three as the subject to reason about— A convenient number to state— We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out By One Thousand diminished by Eight. “The result we proceed to divide, as you see, By Nine-Hundred-and-Ninety-and-Two: Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be Exactly and perfectly true. “The method employed I would gladly explain, While I have it so clear in my head, If I had but the time and you had but the brain— But much yet remains to be said. [Pg 163] “THE BEAVER BROUGHT PAPER, PORTFOLIO, PENS” [Pg 164] “In one moment I’ve seen what has hitherto been Enveloped in absolute mystery, And without extra charge I will give you at large A Lesson in Natural History.” In his genial way he proceeded to say (Forgetting all laws of propriety, And that giving instruction, without introduction, Would have caused quite a thrill in Society), “As to temper the Jubjub’s a desperate bird, Since it lives in perpetual passion: Its taste in costume is entirely absurd— It is ages ahead of the fashion: “But it knows any friend it has met once before: It never will look at a bribe: And in charity-meetings it stands at the door, And collects—though it does not subscribe. “Its flavour when cooked is more exquisite far Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs: (Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, And some, in mahogany kegs:) [Pg 165] “You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue: You condense it with locusts and tape: Still keeping one principal object in view— To preserve its symmetrical shape.” The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, But he felt that the Lesson must end, And he wept with delight in attempting to say He considered the Beaver his friend: 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. They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned (For a moment) with noble emotion, Said “This amply repays all the wearisome days We have spent on the billowy ocean!” Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became, Have seldom if ever been known; In winter or summer, ’twas always the same— You could never meet either alone. [Pg 166] And when quarrels arose—as one frequently finds Quarrels will, spite of every endeavour— The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds, And cemented their friendship for ever! [Pg 167] Fit the Sixth. THE BARRISTER’S DREAM. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. But the Barrister, weary of proving in vain That the Beaver’s lace-making was wrong, Fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain That his fancy had dwelt on so long. He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy Court, Where the Snark, with a glass in its eye, Dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig On the charge of deserting its sty. [Pg 168] “‘YOU MUST KNOW—’ SAID THE JUDGE: BUT THE SNARK EXCLAIMED ‘FUDGE!’” [Pg 169] The Witnesses proved, without error or flaw, That the sty was deserted when found: And the Judge kept explaining the state of the law In a soft under-current of sound. The indictment had never been clearly expressed, And it seemed that the Snark had begun, And had spoken three hours, before any one guessed What the pig was supposed to have done. The Jury had each formed a different view (Long before the indictment was read), And they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew One word that the others had said. “You must know—” said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed “Fudge! That statute is obsolete quite! Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends On an ancient manorial right. “In the matter of Treason the pig would appear To have aided, but scarcely abetted: [Pg 170]While the charge of Insolvency fails, it is clear, If you grant the plea ‘never indebted.’ “The fact of Desertion I will not dispute: But its guilt, as I trust, is removed (So far as relates to the costs of this suit) By the Alibi which has been proved. “My poor client’s fate now depends on your votes.” Here the speaker sat down in his place, And directed the Judge to refer to his notes And briefly to sum up the case. But the Judge said he never had summed up before; So the Snark undertook it instead, And summed it so well that it came to far more Than the Witnesses ever had said! When the verdict was called for, the Jury declined, As the word was so puzzling to spell; But they ventured to hope that the Snark wouldn’t mind Undertaking that duty as well. [Pg 171] So the Snark found the verdict, although, as it owned, It was spent with the toils of the day: When it said the word “GUILTY!” the Jury all groaned And some of them fainted away. Then the Snark pronounced sentence, the Judge being quite Too nervous to utter a word: When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night, And the fall of a pin might be heard. “Transportation for life” was the sentence it gave, “And then to be fined forty pound.” The Jury all cheered, though the Judge said he feared That the phrase was not legally sound. But their wild exultation was suddenly checked When the jailer informed them, with tears, Such a sentence would have not the slightest effect, As the pig had been dead for some years. The Judge left the Court, looking deeply disgusted: But the Snark, though a little aghast, [Pg 172]As the lawyer to whom the defence was intrusted, Went bellowing on to the last. Thus the Barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed To grow every moment more clear: Till he woke to the knell of a furious bell, Which the Bellman rang close at his ear. [Pg 173] Fit the Seventh. THE BANKER’S FATE. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new It was matter for general remark, Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view In his zeal to discover the Snark. But while he was seeking with thimbles and care, A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair, For he knew it was useless to fly. [Pg 174] He offered large discount—he offered a cheque (Drawn “to bearer”) for seven-pounds-ten: But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck And grabbed at the Banker again. Without rest or pause—while those frumious jaws Went savagely snapping around— He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped, Till fainting he fell to the ground. The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared Led on by that fear-stricken yell: And the Bellman remarked “It is just as I feared!” And solemnly tolled on his bell. He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace The least likeness to what he had been: While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white— A wonderful thing to be seen! [Pg 175] “SO GREAT WAS HIS FRIGHT THAT HIS WAISTCOAT TURNED WHITE.” [Pg 176] To the horror of all who were present that day, He uprose in full evening dress, And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say What his tongue could no longer express. Down he sank in a chair—ran his hands through his hair— And chanted in mimsiest tones Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity, While he rattled a couple of bones. “Leave him here to his fate—it is getting so late!” The Bellman exclaimed in a fright. “We have lost half the day. Any further delay, And we sha’n’t catch a Snark before night!” [Pg 177] Fit the Eighth. THE VANISHING. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. They shuddered to think that the chase might fail, And the Beaver, excited at last, Went bounding along on the tip of its tail, For the daylight was nearly past. “There is Thingumbob shouting!” the Bellman said. “He is shouting like mad, only hark! He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head, He has certainly found a Snark!” [Pg 178] They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed “He was always a desperate wag!” They beheld him—their Baker—their hero unnamed— On the top of a neighbouring crag, Erect and sublime, for one moment of time. In the next, that wild figure they saw (As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm, While they waited and listened in awe. “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. [Pg 179] “THEN, SILENCE” [Pg 180] 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. [Pg 181] SIZE AND TEARS. When on the sandy shore I sit, Beside the salt sea-wave, And fall into a weeping fit Because I dare not shave— A little whisper at my ear Enquires the reason of my fear. [Pg 182] I answer “If that ruffian Jones Should recognise me here, He’d bellow out my name in tones Offensive to the ear: He chaffs me so on being stout (A thing that always puts me out).” Ah me! I see him on the cliff! Farewell, farewell to hope, If he should look this way, and if He’s got his telescope! To whatsoever place I flee, My odious rival follows me! For every night, and everywhere, I meet him out at dinner; And when I’ve found some charming fair, And vowed to die or win her, The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout) Is sure to come and cut me out! [Pg 183] “HE’S THIN AND I AM STOUT” [Pg 184] The girls (just like them!) all agree To praise J. Jones, Esquire: I ask them what on earth they see About him to admire? They cry “He is so sleek and slim, It’s quite a treat to look at him!” They vanish in tobacco smoke, Those visionary maids— I feel a sharp and sudden poke Between the shoulder-blades— “Why, Brown, my boy! You’re growing stout!” (I told you he would find me out!) “My growth is not your business, Sir!” “No more it is, my boy! But if it’s yours, as I infer, Why, Brown, I give you joy! A man, whose business prospers so, Is just the sort of man to know! “It’s hardly safe, though, talking here— I’d best get out of reach: For such a weight as yours, I fear, Must shortly sink the beach!”— [Pg 185] Insult me thus because I’m stout! I vow I’ll go and call him out! [Pg 186] ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN. Ay, ’twas here, on this spot, In that summer of yore, Atalanta did not Vote my presence a bore, Nor reply to my tenderest talk “She had heard all that nonsense before.” She’d the brooch I had bought And the necklace and sash on, And her heart, as I thought, Was alive to my passion; And she’d done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion. [Pg 187] I had been to the play With my pearl of a Peri— But, for all I could say, She declared she was weary, That “the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn’t abide that Dundreary.” Then I thought “’Tis for me That she whines and she whimpers!” And it soothed me to see Those sensational simpers, [Pg 188]And I said “This is scrumptious!”—a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers. And I vowed “’Twill be said I’m a fortunate fellow, When the breakfast is spread, When the topers are mellow, When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!” O that languishing yawn! O those eloquent eyes! I was drunk with the dawn Of a splendid surmise— I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs. And I whispered “’Tis time! Is not Love at its deepest? Shall we squander Life’s prime, While thou waitest and weepest? Let us settle it, License or Banns?—though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest.” [Pg 189] “Ah, my Hero,” said I, “Let me be thy Leander!” But I lost her reply— Something ending with “gander”— For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand her. [Pg 190] THE LANG COORTIN’. The ladye she stood at her lattice high, Wi’ her doggie at her feet; Thorough the lattice she can spy The passers in the street. “There’s one that standeth at the door, And tirleth at the pin: Now speak and say, my popinjay, If I sall let him in.” Then up and spake the popinjay That flew abune her head: “Gae let him in that tirls the pin: He cometh thee to wed.” O when he cam’ the parlour in, [Pg 191]A woeful man was he! “And dinna ye ken your lover agen, Sae well that loveth thee?” “And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir, That have been sae lang away? And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir? Ye never telled me sae.” Said—“Ladye dear,” and the salt, salt tear Cam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek, “I have sent thee tokens of my love This many and many a week. [Pg 192] “O didna ye get the rings, Ladye, The rings o’ the gowd sae fine? I wot that I have sent to thee Four score, four score and nine.” “They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye. “Wow, they were flimsie things!” Said—“that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to howd, It is made o’ thae self-same rings.” “And didna ye get the locks, the locks, The locks o’ my ain black hair, Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box, Whilk I sent by the carrier?” “They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye; “And I prithee send nae mair!” Said—“that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s head, It is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ hair.” “And didna ye get the letter, Ladye, Tied wi’ a silken string, Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie, A message of love to bring?” [Pg 193] “It cam’ to me frae the far countrie Wi’ its silken string and a’; But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid, “Sae I gar’d them tak’ it awa’.” “O ever alack that ye sent it back, It was written sae clerkly and well! Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought, I must even say it mysel’.” Then up and spake the popinjay, Sae wisely counselled he. “Now say it in the proper way: Gae doon upon thy knee!” The lover he turned baith red and pale, Went doon upon his knee: “O Ladye, hear the waesome tale That must be told to thee! “For five lang years, and five lang years, I coorted thee by looks; By nods and winks, by smiles and tears, As I had read in books. [Pg 194] “For ten lang years, O weary hours! I coorted thee by signs; By sending game, by sending flowers, By sending Valentines. “For five lang years, and five lang years, I have dwelt in the far countrie, Till that thy mind should be inclined Mair tenderly to me. “Now thirty years are gane and past, I am come frae a foreign land: I am come to tell thee my love at last— O Ladye, gie me thy hand!” The ladye she turned not pale nor red, But she smiled a pitiful smile: “Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” she said “Takes a lang and a weary while!” And out and laughed the popinjay, A laugh of bitter scorn: “A coortin’ done in sic’ a way, It ought not to be borne!” [Pg 195] “AND OUT AND LAUGHED THE POPINJAY” [Pg 196] Wi’ that the doggie barked aloud, And up and doon he ran, And tugged and strained his chain o’ gowd, All for to bite the man. “O hush thee, gentle popinjay! O hush thee, doggie dear! There is a word I fain wad say, It needeth he should hear!” Aye louder screamed that ladye fair To drown her doggie’s bark: Ever the lover shouted mair To make that ladye hark: Shrill and more shrill the popinjay Upraised his angry squall: I trow the doggie’s voice that day Was louder than them all! The serving-men and serving-maids Sat by the kitchen fire: They heard sic’ a din the parlour within As made them much admire. [Pg 197] “O HUSH THEE, GENTLE POPINJAY!” [Pg 198] Out spake the boy in buttons (I ween he wasna thin), “Now wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay this deadlie din?” And they have taen a kerchief, Casted their kevils in, For wha should tae the parlour gae, And stay that deadlie din. When on that boy the kevil fell To stay the fearsome noise, “Gae in,” they cried, “whate’er betide, Thou prince of button-boys!” Syne, he has taen a supple cane To swinge that dog sae fat: The doggie yowled, the doggie howled The louder aye for that. Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane— The doggie ceased his noise, And followed doon the kitchen stair That prince of button-boys! [Pg 199] “THE DOGGIE CEASED HIS NOISE” [Pg 200] Then sadly spake that ladye fair, Wi’ a frown upon her brow: “O dearer to me is my sma’ doggie Than a dozen sic’ as thou! “Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears: Nae use at all to fret: Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years, Ye may bide a wee langer yet!” Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor And tirlëd at the pin: Sadly went he through the door Where sadly he cam’ in. “O gin I had a popinjay To fly abune my head, To tell me what I ought to say, I had by this been wed. “O gin I find anither ladye,” He said wi’ sighs and tears, “I wot my coortin’ sall not be Anither thirty years: [Pg 201] “For gin I find a ladye gay, Exactly to my taste, I’ll pop the question, aye or nay, In twenty years at maist.” [Pg 202] FOUR RIDDLES. [These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades. No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration—and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic a connected poem instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopædia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross “lights.” No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of “Hamlet.” In this case the first stanza describes the two main words. No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert’s play of “Pygmalion and Galatea.” The three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”] I. There was an ancient City, stricken down With a strange frenzy, and for many a day They paced from morn to eve the crowded town, And danced the night away. [Pg 203] I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad: They pointed to a building gray and tall, And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad, And then you’ll see it all.” Yet what are all such gaieties to me Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds? x2 + 7x + 53 = 11/3. But something whispered “It will soon be done: Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile: Endure with patience the distasteful fun For just a little while!” A change came o’er my Vision—it was night: We clove a pathway through a frantic throng: The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright: The chariots whirled along. Within a marble hall a river ran— A living tide, half muslin and half cloth: And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan, Yet swallowed down her wrath; [Pg 204] And here one offered to a thirsty fair (His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful) Some frozen viand (there were many there), A tooth-ache in each spoonful. There comes a happy pause, for human strength Will not endure to dance without cessation; And every one must reach the point at length Of absolute prostration. At such a moment ladies learn to give, To partners who would urge them over-much, A flat and yet decided negative— Photographers love such. There comes a welcome summons—hope revives, And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken: Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives Dispense the tongue and chicken. Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again: And all is tangled talk and mazy motion— Much like a waving field of golden grain, Or a tempestuous ocean. [Pg 205] And thus they give the time, that Nature meant For peaceful sleep and meditative snores, To ceaseless din and mindless merriment And waste of shoes and floors. And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers, That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads, They doom to pass in solitude the hours, Writing acrostic-ballads. How late it grows! The hour is surely past That should have warned us with its double-knock? The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last— “Oh, Uncle, what’s o’clock?” The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks. It may mean much, but how is one to know? He opes his mouth—yet out of it, methinks, No words of wisdom flow. [Pg 206] II. Empress of Art, for thee I twine This wreath with all too slender skill. Forgive my Muse each halting line, And for the deed accept the will! O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim, Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love? Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him, By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above? And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame, Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone: And these wild words of fury but proclaim A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone! But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown, Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see! “Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan, “Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!” [Pg 207] A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile! And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar? And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile? Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers: In holy silence wait the appointed days, And weep away the leaden-footed hours. III. The air is bright with hues of light And rich with laughter and with singing: Young hearts beat high in ecstasy, And banners wave, and bells are ringing: But silence falls with fading day, And there’s an end to mirth and play. Ah, well-a-day! Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones! The kettle sings, the firelight dances. [Pg 208]Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught That fills the soul with golden fancies! For Youth and Pleasance will not stay, And ye are withered, worn, and gray. Ah, well-a-day! O fair cold face! O form of grace, For human passion madly yearning! O weary air of dumb despair, From marble won, to marble turning! “Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray. “We cannot let thee pass away!” Ah, well-a-day! IV. My First is singular at best: More plural is my Second: My Third is far the pluralest— So plural-plural, I protest It scarcely can be reckoned! [Pg 209] My First is followed by a bird: My Second by believers In magic art: my simple Third Follows, too often, hopes absurd And plausible deceivers. My First to get at wisdom tries— A failure melancholy! My Second men revered as wise: My Third from heights of wisdom flies To depths of frantic folly. My First is ageing day by day: My Second’s age is ended: My Third enjoys an age, they say, That never seems to fade away, Through centuries extended. My Whole? I need a poet’s pen To paint her myriad phases: The monarch, and the slave, of men— A mountain-summit, and a den Of dark and deadly mazes— [Pg 210] A flashing light—a fleeting shade— Beginning, end, and middle Of all that human art hath made Or wit devised! Go, seek her aid, If you would read my riddle! [Pg 211] FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET. [Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”] Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack, Ye little men of little souls! And bid them huddle at your back— Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals! Fill all the air with hungry wails— “Reward us, ere we think or write! Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails To sate the swinish appetite!” And, where great Plato paced serene, Or Newton paused with wistful eye, Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean And Babel-clamour of the sty! [Pg 212] Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise: We will not rob them of their due, Nor vex the ghosts of other days By naming them along with you. They sought and found undying fame: They toiled not for reward nor thanks: Their cheeks are hot with honest shame For you, the modern mountebanks! Who preach of Justice—plead with tears That Love and Mercy should abound— While marking with complacent ears The moaning of some tortured hound: Who prate of Wisdom—nay, forbear, Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath, Trampling, with heel that will not spare, The vermin that beset her path! Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms, Ye idols of a petty clique: Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes, And make your penny-trumpets squeak: [Pg 213] “GO, THRONG EACH OTHER’S DRAWING-ROOMS” [Pg 214] Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds Of learning from a nobler time, And oil each other’s little heads With mutual Flattery’s golden slime: And when the topmost height ye gain, And stand in Glory’s ether clear, And grasp the prize of all your pain— So many hundred pounds a year— Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled! Sing Pæans for a victory won! Ye tapers, that would light the world, And cast a shadow on the Sun— Who still shall pour His rays sublime, One crystal flood, from East to West, When ye have burned your little time And feebly flickered into rest! THE END. [TURN OVER. WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL. ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With Forty-two Illustrations by Tenniel. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Seventy-first Thousand. TRANSLATIONS OF THE SAME—into French, by Henri Bué—into German, by Antonie Zimmermann—and into Italian, by T. Pietrocòla Rossetti—with Tenniel’s Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. each. THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With Fifty Illustrations by Tenniel. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Fifty-second Thousand. RHYME? AND REASON? With Sixty-five Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and Nine by Henry Holiday. (This book is a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portion of “Phantasmagoria and other Poems,” and of “The Hunting of the Snark.” Mr. Frost’s pictures are new.) Crown 8vo, cloth, coloured edges, price 7s. N.B. In selling the above-mentioned books to the Trade, Messrs. Macmillan and Co. will abate 2d. in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per cent. discount for payment within six months, and 10 per cent. for cash. In selling them to the Public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent. discount. Mr. Lewis Carroll, having been requested to allow “An Easter Greeting” (a leaflet, addressed to children, and frequently given with his books) to be sold separately, has arranged with Messrs. HARRISON, of 59, Pall Mall, who will supply a single copy for 1d., or 12 for 9d., or 100 for 5s. MACMILLAN & CO., LONDON. LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS. Footnote: [1] This office was usually undertaken by the Boots, who found in it a refuge from the Baker’s constant complaints about the insufficient blacking of his three pair of boots. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhyme? And Reason?, by Lewis Carroll *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYME? AND REASON? *** ===== Life and Letters ===== The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll Author: Stuart Dodgson Collingwood Release Date: March 6, 2004 [EBook #11483] Original URL: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/11483/11483-h/11483-h.htm Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE OF LEWIS CARROLL *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Gundry and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LEWIS CARROLL (REV. C. L. DODGSON) BY STUART DODGSON COLLINGWOOD B.A. CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD Illustrated PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO. NEW YORK, MDCCCXCIX TO THE CHILD FRIENDS OF LEWIS CARROLL AND TO ALL WHO LOVE HIS WRITINGS THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED Frontispiece Lewis Carroll. Frontispiece. CONTENTS PREFACE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS CHAPTER I (1832—1850) Lewis Carroll's forebears—The Bishop of Elphin—Murder of Captain Dodgson—Daresbury—Living in "Wonderland"—Croft—Boyish amusements—His first school-Latin verses—A good report—He goes to Rugby—The Rectory Umbrella—"A Lay of Sorrow " CHAPTER II (1850—1860) Matriculation at Christ Church—Death of Mrs. Dodgson—The Great Exhibition—University and College Honours—A wonderful year—A theatrical treat—Misch-Masch—The Train—College Rhymes—His nom de plume—"Dotheboys Hall"—Alfred Tennyson—Ordination—Sermons—A visit to Farringford—"Where does the day begin?"—The Queen visits Oxford CHAPTER III (1861—1867) Jowett—Index to "In Memoriam"—The Tennysons—The beginning of "Alice"—Tenniel—Artistic friends—"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"—"Bruno's Revenge"—Tour with Dr. Liddon—Cologne—Berlin architecture—The "Majesty of Justice"—Peterhof—Moscow—A Russian wedding—Nijni—The Troitska Monastery—"Hieroglyphic" writing—Giessen CHAPTER IV (1868—1876) Death of Archdeacon Dodgson—Lewis Carroll's rooms at Christ Church—"Phantasmagoria"—Translations of "Alice"—"Through the Looking-Glass"—"Jabberwocky" in Latin—C.S. Calverley—"Notes by an Oxford Chiel"—Hatfield—Vivisection—"The Hunting of the Snark" CHAPTER V (1877—1883) Dramatic tastes—Miss Ellen Terry—"Natural Science at Oxford"—Mr. Dodgson as an artist—Miss E.G. Thomson—The drawing of children—A curious dream—"The Deserted Parks"—"Syzygies"—Circus children—Row-loving undergraduates—A letter to The Observer—Resignation of the Lectureship—He is elected Curator of the Common Room—Dream-music. CHAPTER VI (1883—1887) "The Profits of Authorship"—"Rhyme? and Reason?"—The Common Room Cat—Visit to Jersey—Purity of elections—Parliamentary Representation—Various literary projects—Letters to Miss E. Rix—Being happy—"A Tangled Tale"—Religious arguments—The "Alice" Operetta—"Alice's Adventures Underground"—"The Game of Logic"—Mr. Harry Furniss. CHAPTER VII (1888—1891) A systematic life—"Memoria Technica"—Mr. Dodgson's shyness—"A Lesson in Latin"—The "Wonderland" Stamp-Case—"Wise Words about Letter-Writing"—Princess Alice—"Sylvie and Bruno"—"The night cometh"—"The Nursery 'Alice'"—Coventry Patmore—Telepathy—Resignation of Dr. Liddell—A letter about Logic. CHAPTER VIII (1892—1896) Mr. Dodgson resigns the Curatorship—Bazaars—He lectures to children—A mechanical "Humpty Dumpty"—A logical controversy—Albert Chevalier—"Sylvie and Bruno Concluded"—"Pillow Problems"—Mr. Dodgson's generosity—College services—Religious difficulties—A village sermon—Plans for the future—Reverence—"Symbolic Logic" CHAPTER IX (1897—1898) Logic-lectures—Irreverent anecdotes—Tolerance of his religious views—A mathematical discovery—"The Little Minister"—Sir George Baden-Powell—Last illness—"Thy will be done"—"Wonderland" at last!—Letters from friends—"Three Sunsets"—"Of such is the kingdom of Heaven" CHAPTER X CHILD FRIENDS Mr. Dodgson's fondness for children—Miss Isabel Standen—Puzzles—"Me and Myself"—A double acrostic—"Father William"—Of drinking healths—Kisses by post—Tired in the face—The unripe plum—Eccentricities—"Sylvie and Bruno"— Mr. Dodgson is going on well" CHAPTER XI THE SAME—continued. Books for children—"The Lost Plum-Cake"—"An Unexpected Guest"—Miss Isa Bowman—Interviews—"Matilda Jane"—Miss Edith Rix—Miss Kathleen Eschwege BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX FOOTNOTES PREFACE It is with no undue confidence that I have accepted the invitation of the brothers and sisters of Lewis Carroll to write this Memoir. I am well aware that the path of the biographer is beset with pitfalls, and that, for him, suppressio veri is almost necessarily suggestio falsi—the least omission may distort the whole picture. To write the life of Lewis Carroll as it should be written would tax the powers of a man of far greater experience and insight than I have any pretension to possess, and even he would probably fail to represent adequately such a complex personality. At least I have done my best to justify their choice, and if in any way I have wronged my uncle's memory, unintentionally, I trust that my readers will pardon me. My task has been a delightful one. Intimately as I thought I knew Mr. Dodgson during his life, I seem since his death to have become still better acquainted with him. If this Memoir helps others of his admirers to a fuller knowledge of a man whom to know was to love, I shall not have written in vain. I take this opportunity of thanking those who have so kindly assisted me in my work, and first I must mention my old schoolmaster, the Rev. Watson Hagger, M.A., to whom my readers are indebted for the portions of this book dealing with Mr. Dodgson's mathematical works. I am greatly indebted to Mr. Dodgson's relatives, and to all those kind friends of his and others who have aided me, in so many ways, in my difficult task. In particular, I may mention the names of H.R.H. the Duchess of Albany; Miss Dora Abdy; Mrs. Egerton Allen; Rev. F. H. Atkinson; Sir G. Baden-Powell, M.P.; Mr. A. Ball; Rev. T. Vere Bayne; Mrs. Bennie; Miss Blakemore; the Misses Bowman; Mrs. Boyes; Mrs. Bremer; Mrs. Brine; Miss Mary Brown; Mrs. Calverley; Miss Gertrude Chataway; Mrs. Chester; Mr. J. C. Cropper; Mr. Robert Davies; Miss Decima Dodgson; the Misses Dymes; Mrs. Eschwege; Mrs. Fuller; Mr. Harry Furniss; Rev. C. A. Goodhart; Mrs. Hargreaves; Miss Rose Harrison; Mr. Henry Holiday; Rev. H. Hopley; Miss Florence Jackson; Rev. A. Kingston; Mrs. Kitchin; Mrs. Freiligrath Kroeker; Mr. F. Madan; Mrs. Maitland; Miss M. E. Manners; Miss Adelaide Paine; Mrs. Porter; Miss Edith Rix; Rev. C. J. Robinson, D.D.; Mr. S. Rogers; Mrs. Round; Miss Isabel Standen; Mr. L. Sergeant; Miss Gaynor Simpson; Mrs. Southwall; Sir John Tenniel; Miss E. Gertrude Thomson; Mrs. Woodhouse; and Mrs. Wyper. For their help in the work of compiling the Bibliographical chapter and some other parts of the book, my thanks are due to Mr. E. Baxter, Oxford; the Controller of the University Press, Oxford; Mr. A. J. Lawrence, Rugby; Messrs. Macmillan and Co., London; Mr. James Parker, Oxford; and Messrs. Ward, Lock and Co., London. In the extracts which I have given from Mr. Dodgson's Journal and Correspondence it will be noticed that Italics have been somewhat freely employed to represent the words which he underlined. The use of Italics was so marked a feature of his literary style, as any one who has read his books must have observed, that without their aid the rhetorical effect, which he always strove to produce, would have been seriously marred. S. DODGSON COLLINGWOOD GUILDFORD, September, 1898. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS LEWIS CARROLL — Frontispiece From a photograph. ARCHDEACON DODGSON AS A YOUNG MAN From a miniature, painted about 1826. DARESBURY PARSONAGE, LEWIS CARROLL'S BIRTHPLACE From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. LEWIS CARROLL, AGED 8 From a silhouette. MRS. DODGSON, LEWIS CARROLL'S MOTHER From a silhouette. CROFT RECTORY; ARCHDEACON DODGSON AND FAMILY IN FOREGROUND From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1856. TOY STATION IN GARDEN AT CROFT From a photograph. ARCHBISHOP TAIT From a photograph by Elliott and Fry. "THE ONLY SISTER WHO WOULD WRITE TO HER BROTHER" From a drawing by Lewis Carroll. "THE AGE OF INNOCENCE". From a drawing by Lewis Carroll. "THE SCANTY MEAL" From a drawing by Lewis Carroll. "THE FIRST EARRING" From a drawing by Lewis Carroll. ILLUSTRATIONS TO "LAYS OF SORROW," NO. 2 From drawings by Lewis Carroll. EXTERIOR OF CHRIST CHURCH From a photograph. GRAVE OF ARCHDEACON AND MRS. DODGSON IN CROFT CHURCHYARD From a photograph. LEWIS CARROLL, AGED 23 From a photograph. ARCHDEACON DODGSON From a photograph. ARCHBISHOP LONGLEY From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. "ALAS! WHAT BOOTS—" From a drawing by Lewis Carroll. ALFRED TENNYSON From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1857. THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1875. BISHOP WILBERFORCE From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1860. ALICE LIDDELL AS "THE BEGGAR-CHILD" From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1858. SKETCH FROM ST. LEONARD'S CONCERT-ROOM From a drawing by Lewis Carroll. GEORGE MACDONALD AND HIS DAUGHTER LILY From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1863. MRS. ROSSETTI AND HER CHILDREN, DANTE GABRIEL, CHRISTINA, AND WILLIAM From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1863. LORINA, ALICE, AND EDITH LIDDELL From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. GEORGE MACDONALD From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1870. J. SANT, R.A. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1866. HOLMAN HUNT From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1860. SIR JOHN MILLAIS From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1865. CHARLOTTE M. YONGE From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1866. CANON LIDDON From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1867. "INSTANCE OF HIEROGLYPHIC WRITING OF THE DATE 1867" From a sketch by Lewis Carroll. SIR JOHN TENNIEL From a photograph by Bassano. LEWIS CARROLL'S STUDY AT CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD From a photograph. PROFESSOR FARADAY From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1860. JUSTICE DENMAN From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1873. LORD SALISBURY AND HIS TWO SONS From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1870. FACSIMILE OF A LETTER FROM SIR JOHN TENNIEL TO LEWIS CARROLL, DATED JUNE 1, 1870 JOHN RUSKIN From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1875. HENRY HOLIDAY IN HIS STUDIO From a photograph. LEWIS CARROLL From a photograph. ELLEN TERRY From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. TOM TAYLOR From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1863. KATE TERRY From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1865. MISS E. GERTRUDE THOMSON From a photograph. DR. LIDDELL From a photograph by Hill & Saunders. "RESPONSIONS" From a photograph by A.T. Shrimpton. DREAMLAND. Song. Words by LEWIS CARROLL. Music by C.E. HUTCHINSON. H. FURNISS From a photograph. "BALBUS AND THE DRAGON" From a crayon drawing by the Rev. H.C. Gaye. MEDLEY OF TENNIEL'S ILLUSTRATIONS IN "ALICE" From an etching by Miss Whitehead. FACSIMILE OF A LETTER FROM H. FURNISS TO LEWIS CARROLL, DATED AUGUST 23, 1886. SYLVIE AND BRUNO From a drawing by Henry Holiday. FACSIMILE OF PROGRAMME OF "ALICE IN WONDERLAND" PRODUCED AT THE ROYAL GLOBE THEATRE, DECEMBER 26, 1888. "THE MAD TEA PARTY" From a photograph by Elliott and Fry. THE LATE DUKE OF ALBANY From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1875. THE DEAN OF CHRIST CHURCH From a photograph by Hill & Saunders. THE MECHANICAL "HUMPTY DUMPTY" From a photograph. LEWIS CARROLL From a photograph. THE CHESTNUTS, GUILDFORD From a photograph. LEWIS CARROLL'S GRAVE From a photograph. LORINA AND ALICE LIDDELL From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. ALICE LIDDELL From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. XIE KITCHIN From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. XIE KITCHIN AS A CHINAMAN From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. ALICE AND THE DORMOUSE From a photograph by Elliott and Fry. FACSIMILE OF A "LOOKING-GLASS" LETTER FROM LEWIS CARROLL TO MISS EDITH BALL ARTHUR HUGHES AND HIS DAUGHTER AGNES From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1863. "WHAT I LOOK LIKE WHEN I'M LECTURING" From a drawing by Lewis Carroll. CHAPTER I (1832—1850.) Lewis Carroll's forebears—The Bishop of Elphin—Murder of Captain Dodgson—Daresbury—Living in "Wonderland"—Croft—Boyish amusements—His first school-Latin verses—A good report—He goes to Rugby—The Rectory Umbrella—"A Lay of Sorrow." 465.png ARCHDEACON DODGSON AS A YOUNG MAN The Dodgsons appear to have been for a long time connected with the north of England, and until quite recently a branch of the family resided at Stubb Hall, near Barnard Castle. In the early part of the last century a certain Rev. Christopher Dodgson held a living in Yorkshire. His son, Charles, also took Holy Orders, and was for some time tutor to a son of the then Duke of Northumberland. In 1762 his patron presented him to the living of Elsdon, in Northumberland, by no means a desirable cure, as Mr. Dodgson discovered. The following extracts from his letters to various members of the Percy family are interesting as giving some idea of the life of a rural clergyman a hundred years ago: I am obliged to you for promising to write to me, but don't give yourself the trouble of writing to this place, for 'tis almost impossible to receive 'em, without sending a messenger 16 miles to fetch 'em. 'Tis impossible to describe the oddity of my situation at present, which, however, is not void of some pleasant circumstances. A clogmaker combs out my wig upon my curate's head, by way of a block, and his wife powders it with a dredging-box. The vestibule of the castle (used as a temporary parsonage) is a low stable; above it the kitchen, in which are two little beds joining to each other. The curate and his wife lay in one, and Margery the maid in the other. I lay in the parlour between two beds to keep me from being frozen to death, for as we keep open house the winds enter from every quarter, and are apt to sweep into bed to me. Elsdon was once a market town as some say, and a city according to others; but as the annals of the parish were lost several centuries ago, it is impossible to determine what age it was either the one or the other. There are not the least traces of the former grandeur to be found, whence some antiquaries are apt to believe that it lost both its trade and charter at the Deluge. ... There is a very good understanding between the parties [he is speaking of the Churchmen and Presbyterians who lived in the parish], for they not only intermarry with one another, but frequently do penance together in a white sheet, with a white wand, barefoot, and in the coldest season of the year. I have not finished the description for fear of bringing on a fit of the ague. Indeed, the ideas of sensation are sufficient to starve a man to death, without having recourse to those of reflection. If I was not assured by the best authority on earth that the world is to be destroyed by fire, I should conclude that the day of destruction is at hand, but brought on by means of an agent very opposite to that of heat. I have lost the use of everything but my reason, though my head is entrenched in three night-caps, and my throat, which is very bad, is fortified by a pair of stockings twisted in the form of a cravat. As washing is very cheap, I wear two shirts at a time, and, for want of a wardrobe, I hang my great coat upon my own back, and generally keep on my boots in imitation of my namesake of Sweden. Indeed, since the snow became two feet deep (as I wanted a 'chaappin of Yale' from the public-house), I made an offer of them to Margery the maid, but her legs are too thick to make use of them, and I am told that the greater part of my parishioners are not less substantial, and notwithstanding this they are remarkable for agility. In course of time this Mr. Dodgson became Bishop of Ossory and Ferns, and he was subsequently translated to the see of Elphin. He was warmly congratulated on this change in his fortunes by George III., who said that he ought indeed to be thankful to have got away from a palace where the stabling was so bad. The Bishop had four children, the eldest of whom, Elizabeth Anne, married Charles Lutwidge, of Holmrook, in Cumberland. Two of the others died almost before they had attained manhood. Charles, the eldest son, entered the army, and rose to the rank of captain in the 4th Dragoon Guards. He met with a sad fate while serving his king and country in Ireland. One of the Irish rebels who were supposed to have been concerned in the murder of Lord Kilwarden offered to give himself up to justice if Captain Dodgson would come alone and at night to take him. Though he fully realised the risk, the brave captain decided to trust himself to the honour of this outlaw, as he felt that no chance should be missed of effecting so important a capture. Having first written a letter of farewell to his wife, he set out on the night of December 16, 1803, accompanied by a few troopers, for the meeting-place—an old hut that stood a mile or so from Phillipstown, in King's County. In accordance with the terms of the agreement, he left his men a few hundred yards from the hut to await his return, and advanced alone through the night. A cowardly shot from one of the windows of the cottage ended his noble life, and alarmed the troopers, who, coming up in haste, were confronted with the dead body of their leader. The story is told that on the same night his wife heard two shots fired, and made inquiry about it, but could find out nothing. Shortly afterwards the news came that her husband had been killed just at that time. Captain Dodgson left two sons behind him—Hassard, who, after a brilliant career as a special pleader, became a Master of the Court of Common Pleas, and Charles, the father of the subject of this Memoir. Charles, who was the elder of the two, was born in the year 1800, at Hamilton, in Lanarkshire. He adopted the clerical profession, in which he rose to high honours. He was a distinguished scholar, and took a double first at Christ Church, Oxford. Although in after life mathematics were his favourite pursuit, yet the fact that he translated Tertullian for the "Library of the Fathers" is sufficient evidence that he made good use of his classical education. In the controversy about Baptismal Regeneration he took a prominent part, siding on the question with the Tractarians, though his views on some other points of Church doctrine were less advanced than those of the leaders of the Oxford movement. He was a man of deep piety and of a somewhat reserved and grave disposition, which, however, was tempered by the most generous charity, so that he was universally loved by the poor. In moments of relaxation his wit and humour were the delight of his clerical friends, for he had the rare power of telling anecdotes effectively. His reverence for sacred things was so great that he was never known to relate a story which included a jest upon words from the Bible. In 1830 he married his cousin, Frances Jane Lutwidge, by whom he had eleven children, all of whom, except Lewis Carroll, survive. His wife, in the words of one who had the best possible opportunities for observing her character, was "one of the sweetest and gentlest women that ever lived, whom to know was to love. The earnestness of her simple faith and love shone forth in all she did and said; she seemed to live always in the conscious presence of God. It has been said by her children that they never in all their lives remember to have heard an impatient or harsh word from her lips." It is easy to trace in Lewis Carroll's character the influence of that most gentle of mothers; though dead she still speaks to us in some of the most beautiful and touching passages of his works. Not so long ago I had a conversation with an old friend of his; one of the first things she said to me was, "Tell me about his mother." I complied with her request as well as I was able, and, when I had finished my account of Mrs. Dodgson's beautiful character, she said, "Ah, I knew it must have been so; I felt sure he must have had a good mother." On January 27, 1832, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was born at Daresbury, of which parish his father was then incumbent. The village of Daresbury is about seven miles from Warrington; its name is supposed to be derived from a word meaning oak, and certainly oaks are very plentiful in the neighbourhood. A canal passes through an outlying part of the parish. The bargemen who frequented this canal were a special object of Mr. Dodgson's pastoral care. Once, when walking with Lord Francis Egerton, who was a large landowner in the district, he spoke of his desire to provide some sort of religious privileges for them. "If I only had £100," he said, "I would turn one of those barges into a chapel," and, at his companion's request, he described exactly how he would have the chapel constructed and furnished. A few weeks later he received a letter from Lord Francis to tell him that his wish was fulfilled, and that the chapel was ready. In this strange church, which is believed to have been the first of its kind, Mr. Dodgson conducted service and preached every Sunday evening! 467.png DARESBURY PARSONAGE The parsonage is situated a mile and a half from the village, on the glebe-farm, having been erected by a former incumbent, who, it was said, cared more for the glebe than the parish. Here it was that Charles spent the first eleven years of his life—years of complete seclusion from the world, for even the passing of a cart was a matter of great interest to the children. Lewis Carroll, aged 8 Lewis Carroll, aged 8 In this quiet home the boy invented the strangest diversions for himself; he made pets of the most odd and unlikely animals, and numbered certain snails and toads among his intimate friends. He tried also to encourage civilised warfare among earthworms, by supplying them with small pieces of pipe, with which they might fight if so disposed. His notions of charity at this early age were somewhat rudimentary; he used to peel rushes with the idea that the pith would afterwards "be given to the poor," though what possible use they could put it to he never attempted to explain. Indeed he seems at this time to have actually lived in that charming "Wonderland" which he afterwards described so vividly; but for all that he was a thorough boy, and loved to climb the trees and to scramble about in the old marl-pits. One of the few breaks in this very uneventful life was a holiday spent with the other members of his family in Beaumaris. The journey took three days each way, for railroads were then almost unknown; and whatever advantages coaching may have had over travelling in trains, speed was certainly not one of them. Mr. Dodgson from the first used to take an active part in his son's education, and the following anecdote will show that he had at least a pupil who was anxious to learn. One day, when Charles was a very small boy, he came up to his father and showed him a book of logarithms, with the request, "Please explain." Mr. Dodgson told him that he was much too young to understand anything about such a difficult subject. The child listened to what his father said, and appeared to think it irrelevant, for he still insisted, "But, please, explain!" Mrs. Dodgson Mrs Dodgson. On one occasion Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson went to Hull, to pay a visit to the latter's father, who had been seriously ill. From Hull Mrs. Dodgson wrote to Charles, and he set much store by this letter, which was probably one of the first he had received. He was afraid that some of his little sisters would mess it, or tear it up, so he wrote upon the back, "No one is to touch this note, for it belongs to C. L. D."; but, this warning appearing insufficient, he added, "Covered with slimy pitch, so that they will wet their fingers." The precious letter ran as follows:— My dearest Charlie, I have used you rather ill in not having written to you sooner, but I know you will forgive me, as your Grandpapa has liked to have me with him so much, and I could not write and talk to him comfortably. All your notes have delighted me, my precious children, and show me that you have not quite forgotten me. I am always thinking of you, and longing to have you all round me again more than words can tell. God grant that we may find you all well and happy on Friday evening. I am happy to say your dearest Papa is quite well—his cough is rather tickling, but is of no consequence. It delights me, my darling Charlie, to hear that you are getting on so well with your Latin, and that you make so few mistakes in your Exercises. You will be happy to hear that your dearest Grandpapa is going on nicely—indeed I hope he will soon be quite well again. He talks a great deal and most kindly about you all. I hope my sweetest Will says "Mama" sometimes, and that precious Tish has not forgotten. Give them and all my other treasures, including yourself, 1,000,000,000 kisses from me, with my most affectionate love. I am sending you a shabby note, but I cannot help it. Give my kindest love to Aunt Dar, and believe me, my own dearest Charlie, to be your sincerely affectionate MAMA. Among the few visitors who disturbed the repose of Daresbury Parsonage was Mr. Durnford, afterwards Bishop of Chichester, with whom Mr. Dodgson had formed a close friendship. Another was Mr. Bayne, at that time head-master of Warrington Grammar School, who used occasionally to assist in the services at Daresbury. His son, Vere, was Charles's playfellow; he is now a student of Christ Church, and the friendship between him and Lewis Carroll lasted without interruption till the death of the latter. The memory of his birthplace did not soon fade from Charles's mind; long afterwards he retained pleasant recollections of its rustic beauty. For instance, his poem of "The Three Sunsets," which first appeared in 1860 in All the Year Round, begins with the following stanzas, which have been slightly altered in later editions:— I watch the drowsy night expire, And Fancy paints at my desire Her magic pictures in the fire. An island farm, 'mid seas of corn, Swayed by the wandering breath of morn, The happy spot where I was born. Though nearly all Mr. Dodgson's parishioners at Daresbury have passed away, yet there are still some few left who speak with loving reverence of him whose lips, now long silenced, used to speak so kindly to them; whose hands, long folded in sleep, were once so ready to alleviate their wants and sorrows. In 1843 Sir Robert Peel presented him to the Crown living of Croft, a Yorkshire village about three miles south of Darlington. This preferment made a great change in the life of the family; it opened for them many more social opportunities, and put an end to that life of seclusion which, however beneficial it may be for a short time, is apt, if continued too long, to have a cramping and narrowing influence. The river Tees is at Croft the dividing line between Yorkshire and Durham, and on the middle of the bridge which there crosses it is a stone which shows where the one county ends and the other begins. "Certain lands are held in this place," says Lewis in his "Topographical Dictionary," "by the owner presenting on the bridge, at the coming of every new Bishop of Durham, an old sword, pronouncing a legendary address, and delivering the sword to the Bishop, who returns it immediately." The Tees is subject to extraordinary floods, and though Croft Church stands many feet above the ordinary level of the river, and is separated from it by the churchyard and a field, yet on one occasion the church itself was flooded, as was attested by water-marks on the old woodwork several feet from the floor, still to be seen when Mr. Dodgson was incumbent. This church, which is dedicated to St. Peter, is a quaint old building with a Norman porch, the rest of it being of more modern construction. It contains a raised pew, which is approached by a winding flight of stairs, and is covered in, so that it resembles nothing so much as a four-post bedstead. This pew used to belong to the Milbanke family, with which Lord Byron was connected. Mr. Dodgson found the chancel-roof in so bad a state of repair that he was obliged to take it down, and replace it by an entirely new one. The only village school that existed when he came to the place was a sort of barn, which stood in a corner of the churchyard. During his incumbency a fine school-house was erected. Several members of his family used regularly to help in teaching the children, and excellent reports were obtained. The Rectory is close to the church, and stands in the middle of a beautiful garden. The former incumbent had been an enthusiastic horticulturist, and the walls of the kitchen garden were covered with luxuriant fruit-trees, while the greenhouses were well stocked with rare and beautiful exotics. Among these was a specimen of that fantastic cactus, the night-blowing Cereus, whose flowers, after an existence of but a few hours, fade with the waning sun. On the day when this occurred large numbers of people used to obtain Mr. Dodgson's leave to see the curiosity. CROFT RECTORY CROFT RECTORY Near the Rectory is a fine hotel, built when Croft was an important posting-station for the coaches between London and Edinburgh, but in Mr. Dodgson's time chiefly used by gentlemen who stayed there during the hunting season. The village is renowned for its baths and medicinal waters. The parish of Croft includes the outlying hamlets of Halnaby, Dalton, and Stapleton, so that the Rector's position is by no means a sinecure. Within the village is Croft Hall, the old seat of the Chaytors; but during Mr. Dodgson's incumbency the then Sir William Chaytor built and lived at Clervaux Castle, calling it by an old family name. Shortly after accepting the living of Croft, Mr. Dodgson was appointed examining chaplain to the Bishop of Ripon; subsequently he was made Archdeacon of Richmond and one of the Canons of Ripon Cathedral. Charles was at this time very fond of inventing games for the amusement of his brothers and sisters; he constructed a rude train out of a wheelbarrow, a barrel and a small truck, which used to convey passengers from one "station" in the Rectory garden to another. At each of these stations there was a refreshment-room, and the passengers had to purchase tickets from him before they could enjoy their ride. The boy was also a clever conjuror, and, arrayed in a brown wig and a long white robe, used to cause no little wonder to his audience by his sleight-of-hand. With the assistance of various members of the family and the village carpenter, he made a troupe of marionettes and a small theatre for them to act in. He wrote all the plays himself the most popular being "The Tragedy of King John"—and he was very clever at manipulating the innumerable strings by which the movements of his puppets were regulated. One winter, when the snow lay thick upon the lawn, he traced upon it a maze of such hopeless intricacy as almost to put its famous rival at Hampton Court in the shade. TOY STATION IN GARDEN AT CROFT. TOY STATION IN GARDEN AT CROFT. When he was twelve years old his father sent him to school at Richmond, under Mr. Tate, a worthy son of that well-known Dr. Tate who had made Richmond School so famous. I am able to give his earliest impressions of school-life in his own words, for one of his first letters home has been fortunately preserved. It is dated August 5th, and is addressed to his two eldest sisters. A boy who has ten brothers and sisters can scarcely be expected to write separate letters to each of them. My dear Fanny and Memy,—I hope you are all getting on well, as also the sweet twins, the boys I think that I like the best, are Harry Austin, and all the Tates of which there are 7 besides a little girl who came down to dinner the first day, but not since, and I also like Edmund Tremlet, and William and Edward Swire, Tremlet is a sharp little fellow about 7 years old, the youngest in the school, I also like Kemp and Mawley. The rest of the boys that I know are Bertram, Harry and Dick Wilson, and two Robinsons, I will tell you all about them when I return. The boys have played two tricks upon me which were these—they first proposed to play at "King of the Cobblers" and asked if I would be king, to which I agreed. Then they made me sit down and sat (on the ground) in a circle round me, and told me to say "Go to work" which I said, and they immediately began kicking me and knocking me on all sides. The next game they proposed was "Peter, the red lion," and they made a mark on a tombstone (for we were playing in the churchyard) and one of the boys walked with his eyes shut, holding out his finger, trying to touch the mark; then a little boy came forward to lead the rest and led a good many very near the mark; at last it was my turn; they told me to shut my eyes well, and the next minute I had my finger in the mouth of one of the boys, who had stood (I believe) before the tombstone with his mouth open. For 2 nights I slept alone, and for the rest of the time with Ned Swire. The boys play me no tricks now. The only fault (tell Mama) that there has been was coming in one day to dinner just after grace. On Sunday we went to church in the morning, and sat in a large pew with Mr. Fielding, the church we went to is close by Mr. Tate's house, we did not go in the afternoon but Mr. Tate read a discourse to the boys on the 5th commandment. We went to church again in the evening. Papa wished me to tell him all the texts I had heard preached upon, please to tell him that I could not hear it in the morning nor hardly one sentence of the sermon, but the one in the evening was I Cor. i. 23. I believe it was a farewell sermon, but I am not sure. Mrs. Tate has looked through my clothes and left in the trunk a great many that will not be wanted. I have had 3 misfortunes in my clothes etc. 1st, I cannot find my tooth-brush, so that I have not brushed my teeth for 3 or 4 days, 2nd, I cannot find my blotting paper, and 3rd, I have no shoe-horn. The chief games are, football, wrestling, leap frog, and fighting. Excuse bad writing. Yr affec' brother Charles. To SKEFF [a younger brother, aged six]. My dear Skeff,—Roar not lest thou be abolished. Yours, etc.,——. The discomforts which he, as a "new boy," had to put up with from his school-mates affected him as they do not, unfortunately, affect most boys, for in later school days he was famous as a champion of the weak and small, while every bully had good reason to fear him. Though it is hard for those who have only known him as the gentle and retiring don to believe it, it is nevertheless true that long after he left school his name was remembered as that of a boy who knew well how to use his fists in defence of a righteous cause. As was the custom at that time, Charles began to compose Latin verses at a very early age, his first copy being dated November 25, 1844. The subject was evening, and this is how he treated it:— Phoebus aqua splendet descendens, æquora tingens Splendore aurato. Pervenit umbra solo. Mortales lectos quærunt, et membra relaxant Fessa labore dies; cuncta per orbe silet. Imperium placidum nunc sumit Phoebe corusca. Antris procedunt sanguine ore feræ. These lines the boy solemnly copied into his Diary, apparently in the most blissful ignorance of the numerous mistakes they contained. The next year he wrote a story which appeared in the school magazine. It was called "The Unknown One," so it was probably of the sensational type in which small boys usually revel. Though Richmond School, as it was in 1844, may not compare favourably in every respect with a modern preparatory school, where supervision has been so far "reduced to the absurd" that the unfortunate masters hardly get a minute to themselves from sunrise till long after sunset, yet no better or wiser men than those of the school of Mr. Tate are now to be found. Nor, I venture to think, are the results of the modern system more successful than those of the old one. Charles loved his "kind old schoolmaster," as he affectionately calls him, and surely to gain the love of the boys is the main battle in school-management. The impression he made upon his instructors may be gathered from the following extracts from Mr. Tate's first report upon him: Sufficient opportunities having been allowed me to draw from actual observation an estimate of your son's character and abilities, I do not hesitate to express my opinion that he possesses, along with other and excellent natural endowments, a very uncommon share of genius. Gentle and cheerful in his intercourse with others, playful and ready in conversation, he is capable of acquirements and knowledge far beyond his years, while his reason is so clear and so jealous of error, that he will not rest satisfied without a most exact solution of whatever appears to him obscure. He has passed an excellent examination just now in mathematics, exhibiting at times an illustration of that love of precise argument, which seems to him natural. I must not omit to set off against these great advantages one or two faults, of which the removal as soon as possible is desirable, tho' I am prepared to find it a work of time. As you are well aware, our young friend, while jealous of error, as I said above, where important faith or principles are concerned, is exceedingly lenient towards lesser frailties—and, whether in reading aloud or metrical composition, frequently sets at nought the notions of Virgil or Ovid as to syllabic quantity. He is moreover marvellously ingenious in replacing the ordinary inflexions of nouns and verbs, as detailed in our grammars, by more exact analogies, or convenient forms of his own devising. This source of fault will in due time exhaust itself, though flowing freely at present.... You may fairly anticipate for him a bright career. Allow me, before I close, one suggestion which assumes for itself the wisdom of experience and the sincerity of the best intention. You must not entrust your son with a full knowledge of his superiority over other boys. Let him discover this as he proceeds. The love of excellence is far beyond the love of excelling; and if he should once be bewitched into a mere ambition to surpass others I need not urge that the very quality of his knowledge would be materially injured, and that his character would receive a stain of a more serious description still.... And again, when Charles was leaving Richmond, he wrote: "Be assured that I shall always feel a peculiar interest in the gentle, intelligent, and well-conducted boy who is now leaving us." ARCHBISHOP TAIT. ARCHBISHOP TAIT. Although his father had been a Westminster boy, Charles was, for some reason or other, sent to Rugby. The great Arnold, who had, one might almost say, created Rugby School, and who certainly had done more for it than all his predecessors put together, had gone to his rest, and for four years the reins of government had been in the firm hands of Dr. Tait, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. He was Headmaster during the whole of the time Charles was at Rugby, except the last year, during which Dr. Goulburn held that office. Charles went up in February, 1846, and he must have found his new life a great change from his quiet experiences at Richmond. Football was in full swing, and one can imagine that to a new boy "Big-side" was not an unalloyed delight. Whether he distinguished himself as a "dropper," or ever beat the record time in the "Crick" run, I do not know. Probably not; his abilities did not lie much in the field of athletics. But he got on capitally with his work, and seldom returned home without one or more prizes. Moreover, he conducted himself so well that he never had to enter that dreaded chamber, well known to some Rugbeians, which is approached by a staircase that winds up a little turret, and wherein are enacted scenes better imagined than described. A schoolboy's letter home is not, usually, remarkable for the intelligence displayed in it; as a rule it merely leads up with more or less ingenuity to the inevitable request for money contained in the postscript. Some of Charles's letters were of a different sort, as the following example shows: Yesterday evening I was walking out with a friend of mine who attends as mathematical pupil Mr. Smythies the second mathematical master; we went up to Mr. Smythies' house, as he wanted to speak to him, and he asked us to stop and have a glass of wine and some figs. He seems as devoted to his duty as Mr. Mayor, and asked me with a smile of delight, "Well Dodgson I suppose you're getting well on with your mathematics?" He is very clever at them, though not equal to Mr. Mayor, as indeed few men are, Papa excepted.... I have read the first number of Dickens' new tale, "Davy Copperfield." It purports to be his life, and begins with his birth and childhood; it seems a poor plot, but some of the characters and scenes are good. One of the persons that amused me was a Mrs. Gummidge, a wretched melancholy person, who is always crying, happen what will, and whenever the fire smokes, or other trifling accident occurs, makes the remark with great bitterness, and many tears, that she is a "lone lorn creetur, and everything goes contrairy with her." I have not yet been able to get the second volume Macaulay's "England" to read. I have seen it however and one passage struck me when seven bishops had signed the invitation to the pretender, and King James sent for Bishop Compton (who was one of the seven) and asked him "whether he or any of his ecclesiastical brethren had anything to do with it?" He replied, after a moment's thought "I am fully persuaded your majesty, that there is not one of my brethren who is not as innocent in the matter as myself." This was certainly no actual lie, but certainly, as Macaulay says, it was very little different from one. The Mr. Mayor who is mentioned in this letter formed a very high opinion of his pupil's ability, for in 1848 he wrote to Archdeacon Dodgson: "I have not had a more promising boy at his age since I came to Rugby." Dr. Tait speaks no less warmly:— My dear Sir,—I must not allow your son to leave school without expressing to you the very high opinion I entertain of him. I fully coincide in Mr. Cotton's estimate both of his abilities and upright conduct. His mathematical knowledge is great for his age, and I doubt not he will do himself credit in classics. As I believe I mentioned to you before, his examination for the Divinity prize was one of the most creditable exhibitions I have ever seen. During the whole time of his being in my house, his conduct has been excellent. Believe me to be, My dear Sir, Yours very faithfully, A.C. TAIT. Public school life then was not what it is now; the atrocious system then in vogue of setting hundreds of lines for the most trifling offences made every day a weariness and a hopeless waste of time, while the bad discipline which was maintained in the dormitories made even the nights intolerable—especially for the small boys, whose beds in winter were denuded of blankets that the bigger ones might not feel cold. Charles kept no diary during his time at Rugby; but, looking back upon it, he writes in 1855:— During my stay I made I suppose some progress in learning of various kinds, but none of it was done con amore, and I spent an incalculable time in writing out impositions—this last I consider one of the chief faults of Rugby School. I made some friends there, the most intimate being Henry Leigh Bennett (as college acquaintances we find fewer common sympathies, and are consequently less intimate)—but I cannot say that I look back upon my life at a Public School with any sensations of pleasure, or that any earthly considerations would induce me to go through my three years again. When, some years afterwards, he visited Radley School, he was much struck by the cubicle system which prevails in the dormitories there, and wrote in his Diary, "I can say that if I had been thus secure from annoyance at night, the hardships of the daily life would have been comparative trifles to bear." The picture on page 32 was, I believe, drawn by Charles while he was at Rugby in illustration of a letter received from one of his sisters. Halnaby, as I have said before, was an outlying district of Croft parish. During his holidays he used to amuse himself by editing local magazines. Indeed, they might be called very local magazines, as their circulation was confined to the inmates of Croft Rectory. The first of these, Useful and Instructive Poetry, was written about 1845. It came to an untimely end after a six months' run, and was followed at varying intervals by several other periodicals, equally short-lived. In 1849 or 1850, The Rectory Umbrella began to appear. As the editor was by this time seventeen or eighteen years old, it was naturally of a more ambitious character than any of its precursors. It contained a serial story of the most thrilling interest, entitled, "The Walking-Stick of Destiny," some meritorious poetry, a few humorous essays, and several caricatures of pictures in the Vernon Gallery. Three reproductions of these pictures follow, with extracts from the Umbrella descriptive of them. 048.png [Illustration: The only sister who would write to her brother, though the table had just "folded down"! The other sisters are depicted "sternly resolved to set off to Halnaby & the Castle," tho' it is yet "early, early morning"—Rembrondt.] THE VERNON GALLERY. The Age of Innocence "The Age of Innocence." As our readers will have seen by the preceding page, we have commenced engraving the above series of pictures. "The Age of Innocence," by Sir J. Reynolds, representing a young Hippopotamus seated under a shady tree, presents to the contemplative mind a charming union of youth and innocence. EDITOR. "The Scanty Meal." "The Scanty Meal." We have been unusually[001] successful in our second engraving from the Vernon Gallery. The picture is intended, as our readers will perceive, to illustrate the evils of homoeopathy.[002] This idea is well carried out through the whole picture. The thin old lady at the head of the table is in the painter's best style; we almost fancy we can trace in the eye of the other lady a lurking suspicion that her glasses are not really in fault, and that the old gentleman has helped her to nothing instead of a nonillionth.[003] Her companion has evidently got an empty glass in his hand; the two children in front are admirably managed, and there is a sly smile on the footman's face, as if he thoroughly enjoyed either the bad news he is bringing or the wrath of his mistress. The carpet is executed with that elaborate care for which Mr. Herring is so famed, and the picture on the whole is one of his best. The First Ear-ring [Illustration: SIR D. WILKIE PAINTER THE FIRST EARRING. W. GREATBACH ENGRAVER. from the picture in the Vernon Gallery] "The First Ear-ring" The scene from which this excellent picture is painted is taken from a passage in the autobiography[004] of the celebrated Sir William Smith[005] of his life when a schoolboy: we transcribe the passage: "One day Bill Tomkins[006] and I were left alone in the house, the old doctor being out; after playing a number of pranks Bill laid me a bet of sixpence that I wouldn't pour a bottle of ink over the doctor's cat. I did it, but at that moment old Muggles came home, and caught me by the ear as I attempted to run away. My sensations at the moment I shall never forget; on that occasion I received my first ear-ring.[007] The only remark Bill made to me, as he paid me the money afterwards was, 'I say, didn't you just howl jolly!'" The engraving is an excellent copy of the picture. The best thing in the Rectory Umbrella was a parody on Lord Macaulay's style in the "Lays of Ancient Rome"; Charles had a special aptitude for parody, as is evidenced by several of the best-known verses in his later books. LAYS OF SORROW. No. 2. 053.png Fair stands the ancient[008] Rectory, The Rectory of Croft, The sun shines bright upon it, The breezes whisper soft. From all the house and garden Its inhabitants come forth, And muster in the road without, And pace in twos and threes about, The children of the North. Some are waiting in the garden, Some are waiting at the door, And some are following behind, And some have gone before. But wherefore all this mustering? 053b.png Wherefore this vast array? A gallant feat of horsemanship Will be performed to-day. To eastward and to westward, The crowd divides amain, Two youths are leading on the steed, Both tugging at the rein; And sorely do they labour, For the steed[009] is very strong, And backward moves its stubborn feet, And backward ever doth retreat, And drags its guides along. And now the knight hath mounted, Before the admiring band, Hath got the stirrups on his feet. The bridle in his hand. Yet, oh! beware, sir horseman! And tempt thy fate no more, For such a steed as thou hast got, Was never rid before! 054a.png The rabbits[010] bow before thee. And cower in the straw; The chickens[011] are submissive, And own thy will for law; Bullfinches and canary Thy bidding do obey; And e'en the tortoise in its shell Doth never say thee nay. 054b.png But thy steed will hear no master, Thy steed will bear no stick, And woe to those that beat her, And woe to those that kick![012] For though her rider smite her, As hard as he can hit, And strive to turn her from the yard, She stands in silence, pulling hard Against the pulling bit. 055a.png And now the road to Dalton Hath felt their coming tread, The crowd are speeding on before, And all have gone ahead. Yet often look they backward, And cheer him on, and bawl, For slower still, and still more slow, That horseman and that charger go, And scarce advance at all. And now two roads to choose from Are in that rider's sight: In front the road to Dalton, 055b.png And New Croft upon the right. "I can't get by!" he bellows, "I really am not able! Though I pull my shoulder out of joint, I cannot get him past this point, For it leads unto his stable!" Then out spake Ulfrid Longbow,[013] A valiant youth was he, "Lo! I will stand on thy right hand And guard the pass for thee!" 055c.png And out spake fair Flureeza,[014] His sister eke was she, "I will abide on thy other side, And turn thy steed for thee!" 056a.png And now commenced a struggle Between that steed and rider, For all the strength that he hath left 056b.png Doth not suffice to guide her. Though Ulfrid and his sister Have kindly stopped the way, And all the crowd have cried aloud, "We can't wait here all day!" Round turned he as not deigning Their words to understand, But he slipped the stirrups from his feet 057a.png The bridle from his hand, And grasped the mane full lightly, And vaulted from his seat, And gained the road in triumph,[015] And stood upon his feet. All firmly till that moment Had Ulfrid Longbow stood, And faced the foe right valiantly, As every warrior should. But when safe on terra firma His brother he did spy, "What did you do that for?" he cried, Then unconcerned he stepped aside And let it canter by. 057b.png They gave him bread and butter,[016] 058a.png That was of public right, As much as four strong rabbits, Could munch from morn to night, For he'd done a deed of daring, And faced that savage steed, And therefore cups of coffee sweet, And everything that was a treat, Were but his right and meed. And often in the evenings, When the fire is blazing bright, When books bestrew the table And moths obscure the light,058b.png When crying children go to bed, A struggling, kicking load; 058c.png We'll talk of Ulfrid Longbow's deed, How, in his brother's utmost need, Back to his aid he flew with speed, And how he faced the fiery steed, And kept the New Croft Road. CHAPTER II (1850—1860.) Matriculation at Christ Church—Death of Mrs. Dodgson—The Great Exhibition—University and College Honours—A wonderful year—A theatrical treat—Misch-Masch—The Train—College Rhymes—His nom de plume—"Dotheboys Hall"—Alfred Tennyson—Ordination—Sermons—A visit to Farringford—"Where does the day begin?"—The Queen visits Oxford. We have traced in the boyhood of Lewis Carroll the beginnings of those characteristic traits which afterwards, more fully developed, gave him so distinguished a position among his contemporaries. We now come to a period of his life which is in some respects necessarily less interesting. We all have to pass through that painful era of self-consciousness which prefaces manhood, that time when we feel so deeply, and are so utterly unable to express to others, or even to define clearly to ourselves, what it is we do feel. The natural freedom of childhood is dead within us; the conventional freedom of riper years is struggling to birth, and its efforts are sometimes ludicrous to an unsympathetic observer. In Lewis Carroll's mental attitude during this critical period there was always a calm dignity which saved him from these absurdities, an undercurrent of consciousness that what seemed so great to him was really very little. On May 23, 1850, he matriculated at Christ Church, the venerable college which had numbered his father's among other illustrious names. A letter from Dr. Jelf, one of the canons of Christ Church, to Archdeacon Dodgson, written when the former heard that his old friend's son was coming up to "the House," contains the following words: "I am sure I express the common feeling of all who remember you at Christ Church when I say that we shall rejoice to see a son of yours worthy to tread in your footsteps." 472.png EXTERIOR OF CHRIST CHURCH Lewis Carroll came into residence on January 24, 1851. From that day to the hour of his death—a period of forty-seven years—he belonged to "the House," never leaving it for any length of time, becoming almost a part of it. I, for one, can hardly imagine it without him. Though technically "in residence," he had not rooms of his own in College during his first term. The "House" was very full; and had it not been for one of the tutors, the Rev. J. Lew, kindly lending him one of his own rooms, he would have had to take lodgings in the town. The first set of rooms he occupied was in Peckwater Quadrangle, which is annually the scene of a great bonfire on Guy Fawkes' Day, and, generally speaking, is not the best place for a reading man to live in. In those days the undergraduates dining in hall were divided into "messes." Each mess consisted of about half a dozen men, who had a table to themselves. Dinner was served at five, and very indifferently served, too; the dishes and plates were of pewter, and the joint was passed round, each man cutting off what he wanted for himself. In Mr. Dodgson's mess were Philip Pusey, the late Rev. G. C. Woodhouse, and, among others, one who still lives in "Alice in Wonderland" as the "Hatter." Only a few days after term began, Mrs. Dodgson died suddenly at Croft. The shock was a terrible one to the whole family, and especially to her devoted husband. I have come across a delightful and most characteristic letter from Dr. Pusey—a letter full of the kindest and truest sympathy with the Archdeacon in his bereavement. The part of it which bears upon Mrs. Dodgson's death I give in full:— My dear Friend, I hear and see so little and so few persons, that I had not heard of your sorrow until your to-day's letter; and now I but guess what it was: only your language is that of the very deepest. I have often thought, since I had to think of this, how, in all adversity, what God takes away He may give us back with increase. One cannot think that any holy earthly love will cease, when we shall "be like the Angels of God in Heaven." Love here must shadow our love there, deeper because spiritual, without any alloy from our sinful nature, and in the fulness of the love of God. But as we grow here by God's grace will be our capacity for endless love. So, then, if by our very sufferings we are purified, and our hearts enlarged, we shall, in that endless bliss, love more those whom we loved here, than if we had never had that sorrow, never been parted.... 473.png GRAVE OF ARCHDEACON AND MRS. DODGSON IN CROFT CHURCHYARD. Lewis Carroll was summoned home to attend the funeral—a sad interlude amidst the novel experiences of a first term at College. The Oxford of 1851 was in many ways quite unlike the Oxford of 1898. The position of the undergraduates was much more similar to that of schoolboys than is now the case; they were subject to the same penalties—corporal punishment, even, had only just gone out of vogue!—and were expected to work, and to work hard. Early rising then was strictly enforced, as the following extract from one of his letters will show:— I am not so anxious as usual to begin my personal history, as the first thing I have to record is a very sad incident, namely, my missing morning chapel; before, however, you condemn me, you must hear how accidental it was. For some days now I have been in the habit of, I will not say getting up, but of being called at a quarter past six, and generally managing to be down soon after seven. In the present instance I had been up the night before till about half-past twelve, and consequently when I was called I fell asleep again, and was thunderstruck to find on waking that it was ten minutes past eight. I have had no imposition, nor heard anything about it. It is rather vexatious to have happened so soon, as I had intended never to be late. 474.png LEWIS CARROLL, AGED 23. It was therefore obviously his custom to have his breakfast before going to chapel. I wonder how many undergraduates of the present generation follow the same hardy rule! But then no "impositions" threaten the modern sluggard, even if he neglects chapel altogether. During the Long Vacation he visited the Great Exhibition, and wrote his sister Elizabeth a long account of what he had seen:— I think the first impression produced on you when you get inside is one of bewilderment. It looks like a sort of fairyland. As far as you can look in any direction, you see nothing but pillars hung about with shawls, carpets, &c., with long avenues of statues, fountains, canopies, etc., etc., etc. The first thing to be seen on entering is the Crystal Fountain, a most elegant one about thirty feet high at a rough guess, composed entirely of glass and pouring down jets of water from basin to basin; this is in the middle of the centre nave, and from it you can look down to either end, and up both transepts. The centre of the nave mostly consists of a long line of colossal statues, some most magnificent. The one considered the finest, I believe, is the Amazon and Tiger. She is sitting on horseback, and a tiger has fastened on the neck of the horse in front. You have to go to one side to see her face, and the other to see the horse's. The horse's face is really wonderful, expressing terror and pain so exactly, that you almost expect to hear it scream.... There are some very ingenious pieces of mechanism. A tree (in the French Compartment) with birds chirping and hopping from branch to branch exactly like life. The bird jumps across, turns round on the other branch, so as to face back again, settles its head and neck, and then in a few moments jumps back again. A bird standing at the foot of the tree trying to eat a beetle is rather a failure; it never succeeds in getting its head more than a quarter of an inch down, and that in uncomfortable little jerks, as if it was choking. I have to go to the Royal Academy, so must stop: as the subject is quite inexhaustible, there is no hope of ever coming to a regular finish. On November 1st he won a Boulter scholarship, and at the end of the following year obtained First Class Honours in Mathematics and a Second in Classical Moderations. On Christmas Eve he was made a Student on Dr. Pusey's nomination, for at that time the Dean and Canons nominated to Studentships by turn. The only conditions on which these old Studentships were held were that the Student should remain unmarried, and should proceed to Holy Orders. No statute precisely defined what work was expected of them, that question being largely left to their own discretion. The eight Students at the bottom of the list that is to say, the eight who had been nominated last—had to mark, by pricking on weekly papers called "the Bills," the attendance at morning and evening chapel. They were allowed to arrange this duty among themselves, and, if it was neglected, they were all punished. This long—defunct custom explains an entry in Lewis Carroll's Diary for October 15, 1853, "Found I had got the prickbills two hundred lines apiece, by not pricking in in the morning," which, I must confess, mystified me exceedingly at first. Another reference to College impositions occurs further on in his Diary, at a time when he was a Lecturer: "Spoke to the Dean about F—, who has brought an imposition which his tutor declares is not his own writing, after being expressly told to write it himself." The following is an extract from his father's letter of congratulation, on his being nominated for the Studentship:— My dearest Charles,—The feelings of thankfulness and delight with which I have read your letter just received, I must leave to your conception; for they are, I assure you, beyond my expression; and your affectionate heart will derive no small addition of joy from thinking of the joy which you have occasioned to me, and to all the circle of your home. I say "you have occasioned," because, grateful as I am to my old friend Dr. Pusey for what he has done, I cannot desire stronger evidence than his own words of the fact that you have won, and well won, this honour for yourself, and that it is bestowed as a matter of justice to you, and not of kindness to me. You will be interested in reading extracts from his two letters to me—the first written three years ago in answer to one from me, in which I distinctly told him that I neither asked nor expected that he should serve me in this matter, unless my son should fairly reach the standard of merit by which these appointments were regulated. In reply he says— "I thank you for the way in which you put the application to me. I have now, for nearly twenty years, not given a Studentship to any friend of my own, unless there was no very eligible person in the College. I have passed by or declined the sons of those to whom I was personally indebted for kindness. I can only say that I shall have very great pleasure, if circumstances permit me to nominate your son." In his letter received this morning he says— "I have great pleasure in telling you that I have been enabled to recommend your son for a Studentship this Christmas. It must be so much more satisfactory to you that he should be nominated thus, in consequence of the recommendation of the College. One of the Censors brought me to-day five names; but in their minds it was plain that they thought your son on the whole the most eligible for the College. It has been very satisfactory to hear of your son's uniform steady and good conduct." The last clause is a parallel to your own report, and I am glad that you should have had so soon an evidence so substantial of the truth of what I have so often inculcated, that it is the "steady, painstaking, likely-to-do-good" man, who in the long run wins the race against those who now and then give a brilliant flash and, as Shakespeare says, "straight are cold again." 475.png ARCHDEACON DODGSON. In 1853 Archdeacon Dodgson was collated and installed as one of the Canons of Ripon Cathedral. This appointment necessitated a residence of three months in every year at Ripon, where Dr. Erskine was then Dean. A certain Miss Anderson, who used to stay at the Deanery, had very remarkable "clairvoyant" powers; she was able—it was averred—by merely holding in her hand a folded paper containing some words written by a person unknown to her, to describe his or her character. In this way, at what precise date is uncertain, she dictated the following description of Lewis Carroll: "Very clever head; a great deal of number; a great deal of imitation; he would make a good actor; diffident; rather shy in general society; comes out in the home circle; rather obstinate; very clever; a great deal of concentration; very affectionate; a great deal of wit and humour; not much eventuality (or memory of events); fond of deep reading; imaginative, fond, of reading poetry; may compose." Those who knew him well will agree that this was, at any rate, a remarkable coincidence. 476.png ARCHBISHOP LONGLEY. Longley, afterwards Primate, was then Bishop of Ripon. His charming character endeared him to the Archdeacon and his family, as to every one else who saw much of him. He was one of the few men whose faces can truly be called beautiful; it was a veil through which a soul, all gentleness and truth, shone brightly. In the early part of 1854 Mr. Dodgson was reading hard for "Greats." For the last three weeks before the examination he worked thirteen hours a day, spending the whole night before the viva voce over his books. But philosophy and history were not very congenial subjects to him, and when the list was published his name was only in the third class. He spent the Long Vacation at Whitby, reading Mathematics with Professor Price. His work bore good fruit, for in October he obtained First Class Honours in the Final Mathematical School. "I am getting quite tired of being congratulated on various subjects," he writes; "there seems to be no end of it. If I had shot the Dean I could hardly have had more said about it." In another letter dated December 13th, he says: Enclosed you will find a list which I expect you to rejoice over considerably; it will take me more than a day to believe it, I expect—I feel at present very like a child with a new toy, but I daresay I shall be tired of it soon, and wish to be Pope of Rome next.... I have just been to Mr. Price to see how I did in the papers, and the result will I hope be gratifying to you. The following were the sums total for each in the First Class, as nearly as I can remember:— Dodgson ... ... ... 279 Bosanquet ... ... ... 261 Cookson ... ... ... 254 Fowler ... ... ... 225 Ranken ... ... ... 213 He also said he never remembered so good a set of men in. All this is very satisfactory. I must also add (this is a very boastful letter) that I ought to get the senior scholarship next term.... One thing more I will add, to crown all, and that is, I find I am the next First Class Mathematical Student to Faussett (with the exception of Kitchin who has given up Mathematics), so that I stand next (as Bosanquet is going to leave) for the Lectureship. On December 18th he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts, and on October 15, 1855, he was made a "Master of the House," in honour of the appointment of the new Dean (Dr. Liddell) who succeeded Dean Gaisford. To be made Master of the House means that a man has all the privileges of a Master of Arts within the walls of Christ Church. But he must be of a certain number of terms' standing, and be admitted in due form by the Vice-Chancellor, before he is a Master of Arts of the University. In this wider sense Mr. Dodgson did not take his Master's degree until 1857. This is anticipating events, and there is much to tell of the year 1855, which was a very eventful one for him. On February 15th he was made Sub-Librarian. "This will add £35 to my income," he writes, "not much towards independence." For he was most anxious to have a sufficient income to make him his own master, that he might enter on the literary and artistic career of which he was already dreaming. On May 14th he wrote in his Diary: "The Dean and Canons have been pleased to give me one of the Bostock scholarships, said to be worth £20 a year—this very nearly raises my income this year to independence. Courage!" His college work, during 1855, was chiefly taking private pupils, but he had, in addition, about three and a half hours a day of lecturing during the last term of the year. He did not, however, work as one of the regular staff of lecturers until the next year. From that date his work rapidly increased, and he soon had to devote regularly as much as seven hours a day to delivering lectures, to say nothing of the time required for preparing them. The following extract from his Journal, June 22, 1855, will serve to show his early love for the drama. The scene is laid at the Princess' Theatre, then at the height of its glory:— The evening began with a capital farce, "Away with Melancholy," and then came the great play, "Henry VIII.," the greatest theatrical treat I ever had or ever expect to have. I had no idea that anything so superb as the scenery and dresses was ever to be seen on the stage. Kean was magnificent as Cardinal Wolsey, Mrs. Kean a worthy successor to Mrs. Siddons as Queen Catherine, and all the accessories without exception were good—but oh, that exquisite vision of Queen Catherine's! I almost held my breath to watch: the illusion is perfect, and I felt as if in a dream all the time it lasted. It was like a delicious reverie, or the most beautiful poetry. This is the true end and object of acting—to raise the mind above itself, and out of its petty cares. Never shall I forget that wonderful evening, that exquisite vision—sunbeams broke in through the roof, and gradually revealed two angel forms, floating in front of the carved work on the ceiling: the column of sunbeams shone down upon the sleeping queen, and gradually down it floated, a troop of angelic forms, transparent, and carrying palm branches in their hands: they waved these over the sleeping queen, with oh! such a sad and solemn grace. So could I fancy (if the thought be not profane) would real angels seem to our mortal vision, though doubtless our conception is poor and mean to the reality. She in an ecstasy raises her arms towards them, and to sweet slow music, they vanish as marvellously as they came. Then the profound silence of the audience burst at once into a rapture of applause; but even that scarcely marred the effect of the beautiful sad waking words of the Queen, "Spirits of peace, where are ye?" I never enjoyed anything so much in my life before; and never felt so inclined to shed tears at anything fictitious, save perhaps at that poetical gem of Dickens, the death of little Paul. On August 21st he received a long letter from his father, full of excellent advice on the importance to a young man of saving money:— I will just sketch for you [writes the Archdeacon] a supposed case, applicable to your own circumstances, of a young man of twenty-three, making up his mind to work for ten years, and living to do it, on an Income enabling him to save £150 a year—supposing him to appropriate it thus:— £ s. d. Invested at 4 per cent. ... ... 100 0 0 Life Insurance of £1,500 ... 29 15 0 Books, besides those bought in ordinary course ... ... ... 20 5 0 _____________ £150 0 0 Suppose him at the end of the ten years to get a Living enabling him to settle, what will be the result of his savings:— 1. A nest egg of £1,220 ready money, for furnishing and other expenses. 2. A sum of £1,500 secured at his death on payment of a very much smaller annual Premium than if he had then begun to insure it. 3. A useful Library, worth more than £200, besides the books bought out of his current Income during the period.... The picture on the opposite page is one of Mr. Dodgson's illustrations in Misch-Masch, a periodical of the nature of The Rectory Umbrella, except that it contained printed stories and poems by the editor, cut out of the various newspapers to which he had contributed them. Of the comic papers of that day Punch, of course, held the foremost place, but it was not without rivals; there was a certain paper called Diogenes, then very near its end, which imitated Punch's style, and in 1853 the proprietor of The Illustrated News, at that time one of the most opulent publishers in London, started The Comic Times. A capable editor was found in Edmund Yates; "Phiz" and other well-known artists and writers joined the staff, and 100,000 copies of the first number were printed. 079.png STUDIES FROM ENGLISH POETS II "Alas! What Boots" Milton's Lucidas. Among the contributors was Frank Smedley, author of "Frank Fairleigh." Though a confirmed invalid, and condemned to spend most of his days on a sofa, Mr. Smedley managed to write several fine novels, full of the joy of life, and free from the least taint of discontent or morbid feeling. He was one of those men—one meets them here and there—whose minds rise high above their bodily infirmities; at moments of depression, which come to them as frequently, if not more frequently, than to other men, they no doubt feel their weakness, and think themselves despised, little knowing that we, the stronger ones in body, feel nothing but admiration as we watch the splendid victory of the soul over its earthly companion which their lives display. It was through Frank Smedley that Mr. Dodgson became one of the contributors to The Comic Times. Several of his poems appeared in it, and Mr. Yates wrote to him in the kindest manner, expressing warm approval of them. When The Comic Times changed hands in 1856, and was reduced to half its size, the whole staff left it and started a new venture, The Train. They were joined by Sala, whose stories in Household Words were at that time usually ascribed by the uninitiated to Charles Dickens. Mr. Dodgson's contributions to The Train included the following: "Solitude" (March, 1856); "Novelty and Romancement" (October, 1856); "The Three Voices" (November, 1856); "The Sailor's Wife" (May, 1857); and last, but by no means least, "Hiawatha's Photographing" (December, 1857). All of these, except "Novelty and Romancement," have since been republished in "Rhyme? and Reason?" and "Three Sunsets." The last entry in Mr. Dodgson's Diary for this year reads as follows:— I am sitting alone in my bedroom this last night of the old year, waiting for midnight. It has been the most eventful year of my life: I began it a poor bachelor student, with no definite plans or expectations; I end it a master and tutor in Ch. Ch., with an income of more than £300 a year, and the course of mathematical tuition marked out by God's providence for at least some years to come. Great mercies, great failings, time lost, talents misapplied—such has been the past year. His Diary is full of such modest depreciations of himself and his work, interspersed with earnest prayers (too sacred and private to be reproduced here) that God would forgive him the past, and help him to perform His holy will in the future. And all the time that he was thus speaking of himself as a sinner, and a man who was utterly falling short of his aim, he was living a life full of good deeds and innumerable charities, a life of incessant labour and unremitting fulfilment of duty. So, I suppose, it is always with those who have a really high ideal; the harder they try to approach it the more it seems to recede from them, or rather, perhaps, it is impossible to be both "the subject and spectator" of goodness. As Coventry Patmore wrote:— Become whatever good you see; Nor sigh if, forthwith, fades from view The grace of which you may not be The Subject and spectator too. The reading of "Alton Locke" turned his mind towards social subjects. "If the book were but a little more definite," he writes, "it might stir up many fellow-workers in the same good field of social improvement. Oh that God, in His good providence, may make me hereafter such a worker! But alas, what are the means? Each one has his own nostrum to propound, and in the Babel of voices nothing is done. I would thankfully spend and be spent so long as I were sure of really effecting something by the sacrifice, and not merely lying down under the wheels of some irresistible Juggernaut." He was for some time the editor of College Rhymes, a Christ Church paper, in which his poem, "A Sea Dirge" (afterwards republished in "Phantasmagoria," and again in "Rhyme? and Reason?"), first appeared. The following verses were among his contributions to the same magazine:— I painted her a gushing thing, With years perhaps a score I little thought to find they were At least a dozen more; My fancy gave her eyes of blue, A curly auburn head: I came to find the blue a green, The auburn turned to red. She boxed my ears this morning, They tingled very much; I own that I could wish her A somewhat lighter touch; And if you were to ask me how Her charms might be improved, I would not have them added to, But just a few removed! She has the bear's ethereal grace, The bland hyena's laugh, The footstep of the elephant, The neck of the giraffe; I love her still, believe me, Though my heart its passion hides; "She is all my fancy painted her," But oh! how much besides! It was when writing for The Train that he first felt the need of a pseudonym. He suggested "Dares" (the first syllable of his birthplace) to Edmund Yates, but, as this did not meet with his editor's approval, he wrote again, giving a choice of four names, (1) Edgar Cuthwellis, (2) Edgar U. C. Westhall, (3) Louis Carroll, and (4) Lewis Carroll. The first two were formed from the letters of his two Christian names, Charles Lutwidge; the others are merely variant forms of those names—Lewis = Ludovicus = Lutwidge; Carroll = Carolus = Charles. Mr. Yates chose the last, and thenceforward it became Mr. Dodgson's ordinary nom de plume . The first occasion on which he used it was, I believe, when he wrote "The Path of Roses," a poem which appeared in The Train in May, 1856. On June 16th he again visited the Princess's Theatre. This time the play was "A Winter's Tale," and he "especially admired the acting of the little Mamillius, Ellen Terry, a beautiful little creature, who played with remarkable ease and spirit." During the Long Vacation he spent a few weeks in the English Lake District. In spite of the rain, of which he had his full share, he managed to see a good deal of the best scenery, and made the ascent of Gable in the face of an icy gale, which laid him up with neuralgia for some days. He and his companions returned to Croft by way of Barnard Castle, as he narrates in his Diary:— We set out by coach for Barnard Castle at about seven, and passed over about forty miles of the dreariest hill-country I ever saw; the climax of wretchedness was reached in Bowes, where yet stands the original of "Dotheboys Hall"; it has long ceased to be used as a school, and is falling into ruin, in which the whole place seems to be following its example—the roofs are falling in, and the windows broken or barricaded—the whole town looks plague-stricken. The courtyard of the inn we stopped at was grown over with weeds, and a mouthing idiot lolled against the corner of the house, like the evil genius of the spot. Next to a prison or a lunatic asylum, preserve me from living at Bowes! Although he was anything but a sportsman, he was interested in the subject of betting, from a mathematical standpoint solely, and in 1857 he sent a letter to Bell's Life, explaining a method by which a betting man might ensure winning over any race. The system was either to back every horse, or to lay against every horse, according to the way the odds added up. He showed his scheme to a sporting friend, who remarked, "An excellent system, and you're bound to win—if only you can get people to take your bets." In the same year he made the acquaintance of Tennyson, whose writings he had long intensely admired. He thus describes the poet's appearance:— 477.png ALFRED TENNYSON. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). A strange shaggy-looking man; his hair, moustache, and beard looked wild and neglected; these very much hid the character of the face. He was dressed in a loosely fitting morning coat, common grey flannel waistcoat and trousers, and a carelessly tied black silk neckerchief. His hair is black; I think the eyes too; they are keen and restless—nose aquiline—forehead high and broad—both face and head are fine and manly. His manner was kind and friendly from the first; there is a dry lurking humour in his style of talking. I took the opportunity [he goes on to say] of asking the meaning of two passages in his poems, which have always puzzled me: one in "Maud"— Strange that I hear two men Somewhere talking of me; Well, if it prove a girl, my boy Will have plenty; so let it be. He said it referred to Maud, and to the two fathers arranging a match between himself and her. The other was of the poet— Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He said that he was quite willing it should bear any meaning the words would fairly bear; to the best of his recollection his meaning when he wrote it was "the hate of the quality hate, &c.," but he thought the meaning of "the quintessence of hatred" finer. He said there had never been a poem so misunderstood by the "ninnies of critics" as "Maud." During an evening spent at Tent Lodge Tennyson remarked, on the similarity of the monkey's skull to the human, that a young monkey's skull is quite human in shape, and gradually alters—the analogy being borne out by the human skull being at first more like the statues of the gods, and gradually degenerating into human; and then, turning to Mrs. Tennyson, "There, that's the second original remark I've made this evening!" Mr. Dodgson saw a great deal of the Tennysons after this, and photographed the poet himself and various members of his family. In October he made the acquaintance of John Ruskin, who in after years was always willing to assist him with his valuable advice on any point of artistic criticism. Mr. Dodgson was singularly fortunate in his friends; whenever he was in difficulties on any technical matters, whether of religion, law, medicine, art, or whatever it might be, he always had some one especially distinguished in that branch of study whose aid he could seek as a friend. In particular, the names of Canon King (now Bishop of Lincoln), and Sir James Paget occur to me; to the latter Mr. Dodgson addressed many letters on questions of medicine and surgery—some of them intricate enough, but never too intricate to weary the unfailing patience of the great surgeon. A note in Mr. Dodgson's Journal, May 9, 1857, describes his introduction to Thackeray:— 478.png THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). I breakfasted this morning with Fowler of Lincoln to meet Thackeray (the author), who delivered his lecture on George III. in Oxford last night. I was much pleased with what I saw of him; his manner is simple and unaffected; he shows no anxiety to shine in conversation, though full of fun and anecdote when drawn out. He seemed delighted with the reception he had met with last night: the undergraduates seem to have behaved with most unusual moderation. The next few years of his life passed quietly, and without any unusual events to break the monotony of college routine. He spent his mornings in the lecture-rooms, his afternoons in the country or on the river—he was very fond of boating—and his evenings in his room, reading and preparing for the next day's work. But in spite of all this outward calm of life, his mind was very much exercised on the subject of taking Holy Orders. Not only was this step necessary if he wished to retain his Studentship, but also he felt that it would give him much more influence among the undergraduates, and thus increase his power of doing good. On the other hand, he was not prepared to live the life of almost puritanical strictness which was then considered essential for a clergyman, and he saw that the impediment of speech from which he suffered would greatly interfere with the proper performance of his clerical duties. 479.png BISHOP WILBERFORCE. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). The Bishop of Oxford, Dr. Wilberforce, had expressed the opinion that the "resolution to attend theatres or operas was an absolute disqualification for Holy Orders," which discouraged him very much, until it transpired that this statement was only meant to refer to the parochial clergy. He discussed the matter with Dr. Pusey, and with Dr. Liddon. The latter said that "he thought a deacon might lawfully, if he found himself unfit for the work, abstain from direct ministerial duty." And so, with many qualms about his own unworthiness, he at last decided to prepare definitely for ordination. On December 22, 1861, he was ordained deacon by the Bishop of Oxford. He never proceeded to priest's orders, partly, I think, because he felt that if he were to do so it would be his duty to undertake regular parochial work, and partly on account of his stammering. He used, however, to preach not unfrequently, and his sermons were always delightful to listen to, his extreme earnestness being evident in every word. "He knew exactly what he wished to say" (I am quoting from an article in The Guardian), "and completely forgot his audience in his anxiety to explain his point clearly. He thought of the subject only, and the words came of themselves. Looking straight in front of him he saw, as it were, his argument mapped out in the form of a diagram, and he set to work to prove it point by point, under its separate heads, and then summed up the whole." One sermon which he preached in the University Church, on Eternal Punishment, is not likely to be soon forgotten by those who heard it. I, unfortunately, was not of that number, but I can well imagine how his clear-cut features would light up as he dwelt lovingly upon the mercy of that Being whose charity far exceeds "the measure of man's mind." It is hardly necessary to say that he himself did not believe in eternal punishment, or any other scholastic doctrine that contravenes the love of God. He disliked being complimented on his sermons, but he liked to be told of any good effects that his words had had upon any member of the congregation. "Thank you for telling me that fact about my sermon," he wrote to one of his sisters, who told him of some such good fruit that one of his addresses had borne. "I have once or twice had such information volunteered; and it is a great comfort—and a kind of thing that is really good for one to know. It is not good to be told (and I never wish to be told), 'Your sermon was so beautiful.' We shall not be concerned to know, in the Great Day, whether we have preached beautiful sermons, but whether they were preached with the one object of serving God." He was always ready and willing to preach at the special service for College servants, which used to be held at Christ Church every Sunday evening; but best of all he loved to preach to children. Some of his last sermons were delivered at Christ Church, Eastbourne (the church he regularly attended during the Long Vacation), to a congregation of children. On those occasions he told them an allegory—Victor and Arnion, which he intended to publish in course of time—putting all his heart into the work, and speaking with such deep feeling that at times he was almost unable to control his emotion as he told them of the love and compassion of the Good Shepherd. I have dwelt at some length on this side of his life, for it is, I am sure, almost ignored in the popular estimate of him. He was essentially a religious man in the best sense of the term, and without any of that morbid sentimentality which is too often associated with the word; and while his religion consecrated his talents, and raised him to a height which without it he could never have reached, the example of such a man as he was, so brilliant, so witty, so successful, and yet so full of faith, consecrates the very conception of religion, and makes it yet more beautiful. On April 13, 1859, he paid another visit to Tennyson, this time at Farringford. After dinner we retired for about an hour to the smoking-room, where I saw the proof-sheets of the "King's Idylls," but he would not let me read them. He walked through the garden with me when I left, and made me remark an effect produced on the thin white clouds by the moon shining through, which I had not noticed—a ring of golden light at some distance off the moon, with an interval of white between—this, he says, he has alluded to in one of his early poems ("Margaret," vol. i.), "the tender amber." I asked his opinion of Sydney Dobell—he agrees with me in liking "Grass from the Battlefield," and thinks him a writer of genius and imagination, but extravagant. 480.png ALICE LIDDELL AS BEGGAR-CHILD. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). On another occasion he showed the poet a photograph which he had taken of Miss Alice Liddell as a beggar-child, and which Tennyson said was the most beautiful photograph he had ever seen. Tennyson told us he had often dreamed long passages of poetry, and believed them to be good at the time, though he could never remember them after waking, except four lines which he dreamed at ten years old:— May a cock sparrow Write to a barrow? I hope you'll excuse My infantile muse; —which, as an unpublished fragment of the Poet Laureate, may be thought interesting, but not affording much promise of his after powers. He also told us he once dreamed an enormously long poem about fairies, which began with very long lines that gradually got shorter, and ended with fifty or sixty lines of two syllables each! On October 17, 1859, the Prince of Wales came into residence at Christ Church. The Dean met him at the station, and all the dons assembled in Tom Quadrangle to welcome him. Mr. Dodgson, as usual, had an eye to a photograph, in which hope, however, he was doomed to disappointment. His Royal Highness was tired of having his picture taken. During his early college life he used often to spend a few days at Hastings, with his mother's sisters, the Misses Lutwidge. In a letter written from their house to his sister Mary, and dated April 11, 1860, he gives an account of a lecture he had just heard:— I am just returned from a series of dissolving views on the Arctic regions, and, while the information there received is still fresh in my mind, I will try to give you some of it. In the first place, you may not know that one of the objects of the Arctic expeditions was to discover "the intensity of the magnetic needle." He [the lecturer] did not tell us, however, whether they had succeeded in discovering it, or whether that rather obscure question is still doubtful. One of the explorers, Baffin, "though he did not suffer all the hardships the others did, yet he came to an untimely end (of course one would think in the Arctic regions), for instance (what follows being, I suppose, one of the untimely ends he came to), being engaged in a war of the Portuguese against the Prussians, while measuring the ground in front of a fortification, a cannon-ball came against him, with the force with which cannon-balls in that day did come, and killed him dead on the spot." How many instances of this kind would you demand to prove that he did come to an untimely end? One of the ships was laid up three years in the ice, during which time, he told us, "Summer came and went frequently." This, I think, was the most remarkable phenomenon he mentioned in the whole lecture, and gave me quite a new idea of those regions. 098.png On Tuesday I went to a concert at St. Leonard's. On the front seat sat a youth about twelve years of age, of whom the enclosed is a tolerably accurate sketch. He really was, I think, the ugliest boy I ever saw. I wish I could get an opportunity of photographing him. The following note occurs in his Journal for May 6th:— A Christ Church man, named Wilmot, who is just returned from the West Indies, dined in Hall. He told us some curious things about the insects in South America—one that he had himself seen was a spider charming a cockroach with flashes of light; they were both on the wall, the spider about a yard the highest, and the light was like a glow-worm, only that it came by flashes and did not shine continuously; the cockroach gradually crawled up to it, and allowed itself to be taken and killed. 481.png GEORGE MACDONALD AND HIS DAUGHTER LILY. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). A few months afterwards, when in town and visiting Mr. Munroe's studio, he found there two of the children of Mr. George Macdonald, whose acquaintance he had already made: "They were a girl and boy, about seven and six years old—I claimed their acquaintance, and began at once proving to the boy, Greville, that he had better take the opportunity of having his head changed for a marble one. The effect was that in about two minutes they had entirely forgotten that I was a total stranger, and were earnestly arguing the question as if we were old acquaintances." Mr. Dodgson urged that a marble head would not have to be brushed and combed. At this the boy turned to his sister with an air of great relief, saying, "Do you hear that, Mary? It needn't be combed!" And the narrator adds, "I have no doubt combing, with his great head of long hair, like Hallam Tennyson's, was the misery of his life. His final argument was that a marble head couldn't speak, and as I couldn't convince either that he would be all the better for that, I gave in." In November he gave a lecture at a meeting of the Ashmolean Society on "Where does the Day begin?" The problem, which was one he was very fond of propounding, may be thus stated: If a man could travel round the world so fast that the sun would be always directly above his head, and if he were to start travelling at midday on Tuesday, then in twenty-four hours he would return to his original point of departure, and would find that the day was now called Wednesday—at what point of his journey would the day change its name? The difficulty of answering this apparently simple question has cast a gloom over many a pleasant party. On December 12th he wrote in his Diary:— Visit of the Queen to Oxford, to the great surprise of everybody, as it had been kept a secret up to the time. She arrived in Christ Church about twelve, and came into Hall with the Dean, where the Collections were still going on, about a dozen men being in Hall. The party consisted of the Queen, Prince Albert, Princess Alice and her intended husband, the Prince of Hesse-Darmstadt, the Prince of Wales, Prince Alfred, and suite. They remained a minute or two looking at the pictures, and the Sub-Dean was presented: they then visited the Cathedral and Library. Evening entertainment at the Deanery, tableaux vivants . I went a little after half-past eight, and found a great party assembled—the Prince had not yet come. He arrived before nine, and I found an opportunity of reminding General Bruce of his promise to introduce me to the Prince, which he did at the next break in the conversation H.R.H. was holding with Mrs. Fellowes. He shook hands very graciously, and I began with a sort of apology for having been so importunate about the photograph. He said something of the weather being against it, and I asked if the Americans had victimised him much as a sitter; he said they had, but he did not think they had succeeded well, and I told him of the new American process of taking twelve thousand photographs in an hour. Edith Liddell coming by at the moment, I remarked on the beautiful tableau which the children might make: he assented, and also said, in answer to my question, that he had seen and admired my photographs of them. I then said that I hoped, as I had missed the photograph, he would at least give me his autograph in my album, which he promised to do. Thinking I had better bring the talk to an end, I concluded by saying that, if he would like copies of any of my photographs, I should feel honoured by his accepting them; he thanked me for this, and I then drew back, as he did not seem inclined to pursue the conversation. A few days afterwards the Prince gave him his autograph, and also chose a dozen or so of his photograph (sic). 482.png MRS. ROSSETTI AND HER CHILDREN DANTE GABRIEL, CHRISTINA, AND WILLIAM. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). CHAPTER III (1861—1867) Jowett—Index to "In Memoriam"—The Tennysons—The beginning of "Alice"—Tenniel—Artistic friends—"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"—"Bruno's Revenge"—Tour with Dr. Liddon—Cologne—Berlin architecture—The "Majesty of Justice"—Peterhof—Moscow—A Russian wedding—Nijni—The Troitska Monastery—"Hieroglyphic" writing—Giessen. It is my aim in this Memoir to let Mr. Dodgson tell his own story as much as possible. In order to effect this object I have drawn largely upon his Diary and correspondence. Very few men have left behind them such copious information about their lives as he has; unfortunately it is not equally copious throughout, and this fact must be my apology for the somewhat haphazard and disconnected way in which parts of this book are written. That it is the best which, under the circumstances, I have been able to do needs, I hope, no saying, but the circumstances have at times been too strong for me. Though in later years Mr. Dodgson almost gave up the habit of dining out, at this time of his life he used to do it pretty frequently, and several of the notes in his Diary refer to after-dinner and Common Room stories. The two following extracts will show the sort of facts he recorded:— January 2, 1861.—Mr. Grey (Canon) came to dine and stay the night. He told me a curious old custom of millers, that they place the sails of the mill as a Saint Andrew's Cross when work is entirely suspended, thus x, but in an upright cross, thus +, if they are just going to resume work. He also mentioned that he was at school with Dr. Tennyson (father of the poet), and was a great favourite of his. He remembers that Tennyson used to do his school-translations in rhyme. May 9th.—Met in Common Room Rev. C.F. Knight, and the Hon'ble. F.J. Parker, both of Boston, U.S. The former gave an amusing account of having seen Oliver Wendell Holmes in a fishmonger's, lecturing extempore on the head of a freshly killed turtle, whose eyes and jaws still showed muscular action: the lecture of course being all "cram," but accepted as sober earnest by the mob outside. Old Oxford men will remember the controversies that raged from about 1860 onwards over the opinions of the late Dr. Jowett. In my time the name "Jowett" only represented the brilliant translator of Plato, and the deservedly loved master of Balliol, whose sermons in the little College Chapel were often attended by other than Balliol men, and whose reputation for learning was expressed in the well-known verse of "The Masque of Balliol":— First come I, my name is Jowett. There's no knowledge but I know it; I am Master of this College; What I don't know isn't knowledge. But in 1861 he was anything but universally popular, and I am afraid that Mr. Dodgson, nothing if not a staunch Conservative, sided with the majority against him. Thus he wrote in his Diary:— November 20th.—Promulgation, in Congregation, of the new statute to endow Jowett. The speaking took up the whole afternoon, and the two points at issue, the endowing a Regius Professorship, and the countenancing Jowett's theological opinions, got so inextricably mixed up that I rose to beg that they might be kept separate. Once on my feet, I said more than I at first meant, and defied them ever to tire out the opposition by perpetually bringing the question on (Mem.: if I ever speak again I will try to say no more than I had resolved before rising). This was my first speech in Congregation. At the beginning of 1862 an "Index to In Memoriam," compiled by Mr. Dodgson and his sisters, was published by Moxon. Tennyson had given his consent, and the little book proved to be very useful to his admirers. On January 27th Morning Prayer was for the first time read in English at the Christ Church College Service. On the same day Mr. Dodgson moved over into new rooms, as the part of the College where he had formerly lived (Chaplain's Quadrangle) was to be pulled down. During the Easter Vacation he paid another visit to the Tennysons, which he describes as follows:— After luncheon I went to the Tennysons, and got Hallam and Lionel to sign their names in my album. Also I made a bargain with Lionel, that he was to give me some MS. of his verses, and I was to send him some of mine. It was a very difficult bargain to make; I almost despaired of it at first, he put in so many conditions—first, I was to play a game of chess with him; this, with much difficulty, was reduced to twelve moves on each side; but this made little difference, as I check-mated him at the sixth move. Second, he was to be allowed to give me one blow on the head with a mallet (this he at last consented to give up). I forget if there were others, but it ended in my getting the verses, for which I have written out "The Lonely Moor" for him. Mr. Dodgson took a great interest in occult phenomena, and was for some time an enthusiastic member of the "Psychical Society." It was his interest in ghosts that led to his meeting with the artist Mr. Heaphy, who had painted a picture of a ghost which he himself had seen. I quote the following from a letter to his sister Mary:— During my last visit to town, I paid a very interesting visit to a new artist, Mr. Heaphy. Do you remember that curious story of a ghost lady (in Household Words or All the Year Round), who sat to an artist for her picture; it was called "Mr. H.'s Story," and he was the writer.... He received me most kindly, and we had a very interesting talk about the ghost, which certainly is one of the most curious and inexplicable stories I ever heard. He showed me her picture (life size), and she must have been very lovely, if it is like her (or like it, which ever is the correct pronoun).... Mr. Heaphy showed me a most interesting collection of drawings he has made abroad; he has been about, hunting up the earliest and most authentic pictures of our Saviour, some merely outlines, some coloured pictures. They agree wonderfully in the character of the face, and one, he says, there is no doubt was done before the year 150.... I feel sure from his tone that he is doing this in a religious spirit, and not merely as an artist. On July 4, 1862, there is a very important entry: "I made an expedition up the river to Godstow with the three Liddells; we had tea on the bank there, and did not reach Christ Church till half-past eight." 483.png LORINA, ALICE, AND EDITH LIDDELL. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). On the opposite page he added, somewhat later, "On which occasion I told them the fairy-tale of 'Alice's Adventures Underground,' which I undertook to write out for Alice." These words need to be supplemented by the verses with which he prefaced the "Wonderland":— All in the golden afternoon Full leisurely we glide; For both our oars, with little skill, By little arms are plied, While little hands make vain pretence Our wanderings to guide. Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour, Beneath such dreamy weather, To beg a tale of breath too weak To stir the tiniest feather! Yet what can one poor voice avail Against three tongues together? Imperious Prima flashes forth Her edict "to begin it"— In gentler tones Secunda hopes "There will be nonsense in it!" While Tertia interrupts the tale Not more than once a minute. Anon, to sudden silence won, In fancy they pursue The dream-child moving through a land Of wonders wild and new, In friendly chat with bird or beast— And half believe it true. And ever, as the story drained The wells of fancy dry, And faintly strove that weary one To put the subject by, "The rest next time"—"It is next time!" The happy voices cry. Thus grew the tale of Wonderland: Thus slowly, one by one, Its quaint events were hammered out— And now the tale is done, And home we steer, a merry crew, Beneath the setting sun. "Alice" herself (Mrs. Reginald Hargreaves) has given an account of the scene, from which what follows is quoted:— Most of Mr. Dodgson's stories were told to us on river expeditions to Nuneham or Godstow, near Oxford. My eldest sister, now Mrs. Skene, was "Prima," I was "Secunda," and "Tertia" was my sister Edith. I believe the beginning of "Alice" was told one summer afternoon when the sun was so burning that we had landed in the meadows down the river, deserting the boat to take refuge in the only bit of shade to be found, which was under a new-made hayrick. Here from all three came the old petition of "Tell us a story," and so began the ever-delightful tale. Sometimes to tease us—and perhaps being really tired—Mr. Dodgson would stop suddenly and say, "And that's all till next time." "Ah, but it is next time," would be the exclamation from all three; and after some persuasion the story would start afresh. Another day, perhaps, the story would begin in the boat, and Mr. Dodgson, in the middle of telling a thrilling adventure, would pretend to go fast asleep, to our great dismay. "Alice's Adventures Underground" was the original name of the story; later on it became "Alice's Hour in Elfland." It was not until June 18, 1864, that he finally decided upon "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." The illustrating of the manuscript book gave him some trouble. He had to borrow a "Natural History" from the Deanery to learn the correct shapes of some of the strange animals with which Alice conversed; the Mock Turtle he must have evolved out of his inner consciousness, for it is, I think, a species unknown to naturalists. He was lucky enough during the course of the year to see a ceremony which is denied to most Oxford men. When degrees are given, any tradesman who has been unable to get his due from an undergraduate about to be made a Bachelor of Arts is allowed, by custom, to pluck the Proctor's gown as he passes, and then to make his complaint. This law is more honoured in the breach than in the observance; but, on the occasion of this visit of Mr. Dodgson's to Convocation, the Proctor's gown was actually plucked—on account of an unfortunate man who had gone through the Bankruptcy Court. 484.png GEORGE MACDONALD. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). When he promised to write out "Alice" for Miss Liddell he had no idea of publication; but his friend, Mr. George Macdonald, to whom he had shown the story, persuaded him to submit it to a publisher. Messrs. Macmillan agreed to produce it, and as Mr. Dodgson had not sufficient faith in his own artistic powers to venture to allow his illustrations to appear, it was necessary to find some artist who would undertake the work. By the advice of Tom Taylor he approached Mr. Tenniel, who was fortunately well disposed, and on April 5, 1864, the final arrangements were made. The following interesting account of a meeting with Mr. Dodgson is from the pen of Mrs. Bennie, wife of the Rector of Glenfield, near Leicester:— Some little time after the publication of "Alice's Adventures" we went for our summer holiday to Whitby. We were visiting friends, and my brother and sister went to the hotel. They soon after asked us to dine with them there at the table d'hôte. I had on one side of me a gentleman whom I did not know, but as I had spent a good deal of time travelling in foreign countries, I always, at once, speak to any one I am placed next. I found on this occasion I had a very agreeable neighbour, and we seemed to be much interested in the same books, and politics also were touched on. After dinner my sister and brother rather took me to task for talking so much to a complete stranger. I said. "But it was quite a treat to talk to him and to hear him talk. Of one thing I am quite sure, he is a genius." My brother and sister, who had not heard him speak, again laughed at me, and said, "You are far too easily pleased." I, however, maintained my point, and said what great delight his conversation had given me, and how remarkably clever it had been. Next morning nurse took out our two little twin daughters in front of the sea. I went out a short time afterwards, looked for them, and found them seated with my friend of the table d'hôte between them, and they were listening to him, open-mouthed, and in the greatest state of enjoyment, with his knee covered with minute toys. I, seeing their great delight, motioned to him to go on; this he did for some time. A most charming story he told them about sea-urchins and Ammonites. When it was over, I said, "You must be the author of 'Alice's Adventures.'" He laughed, but looked astonished, and said, "My dear Madam, my name is Dodgson, and 'Alice's Adventures' was written by Lewis Carroll." I replied, "Then you must have borrowed the name, for only he could have told a story as you have just done." After a little sparring he admitted the fact, and I went home and proudly told my sister and brother how my genius had turned out a greater one than I expected. They assured me I must be mistaken, and that, as I had suggested it to him, he had taken advantage of the idea, and said he was what I wanted him to be. A few days after some friends came to Whitby who knew his aunts, and confirmed the truth of his statement, and thus I made the acquaintance of one whose friendship has been the source of great pleasure for nearly thirty years. He has most generously sent us all his books, with kind inscriptions, to "Minnie and Doe," whom he photographed, but would not take Canon Bennie or me; he said he never took portraits of people of more than seventeen years of age until they were seventy. He visited us, and we often met him at Eastbourne, and his death was indeed a great loss after so many happy years of friendship with one we so greatly admired and loved. He spent a part of the Long Vacation at Freshwater, taking great interest in the children who, for him, were the chief attraction of the seaside. Every morning four little children dressed in yellow go by from the front down to the beach: they go by in a state of great excitement, brandishing wooden spades, and making strange noises; from that moment they disappear entirely—they are never to be seen on the beach. The only theory I can form is, that they all tumble into a hole somewhere, and continue excavating therein during the day: however that may be, I have once or twice come across them returning at night, in exactly the same state of excitement, and seemingly in quite as great a hurry to get home as they were before to get out. The evening noises they make sound to me very much like the morning noises, but I suppose they are different to them, and contain an account of the day's achievements. 485.png J. SANT. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). His enthusiasm for photography, and his keen appreciation of the beautiful, made him prefer the society of artists to that of any other class of people. He knew the Rossettis intimately, and his Diary shows him to have been acquainted with Millais, Holman Hunt, Sant, Westmacott, Val Prinsep, Watts, and a host of others. Arthur Hughes painted a charming picture to his order ("The Lady with the Lilacs") which used to hang in his rooms at Christ Church. The Andersons were great friends of his, Mrs. Anderson being one of his favourite child-painters. Those who have visited him at Oxford will remember a beautiful girl's head, painted by her from a rough sketch she had once made in a railway carriage of a child who happened to be sitting opposite her. 486.png HOLMAN HUNT. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). His own drawings were in no way remarkable. Ruskin, whose advice he took on his artistic capabilities, told him that he had not enough talent to make it worth his while to devote much time to sketching, but every one who saw his photographs admired them. Considering the difficulties of the "wet process," and the fact that he had a conscientious horror of "touching up" his negatives, the pictures he produced are quite wonderful. Some of them were shown to the Queen, who said that she admired them very much, and that they were "such as the Prince would have appreciated very highly, and taken much pleasure in." On July 4, 1865, exactly three years after the memorable row up the river, Miss Alice Liddell received the first presentation copy of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland": the second was sent to Princess Beatrice. 487.png SIR JOHN MILLAIS. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). The first edition, which consisted of two thousand copies, was condemned by both author and illustrator, for the pictures did not come out well. All purchasers were accordingly asked to return their copies, and to send their names and addresses; a new edition was prepared, and distributed to those who had sent back their old copies, which the author gave away to various homes and hospitals. The substituted edition was a complete success, "a perfect piece of artistic printing," as Mr. Dodgson called it. He hardly dared to hope that more than two thousand copies would be sold, and anticipated a considerable loss over the book. His surprise was great when edition after edition was demanded, and when he found that "Alice," far from being a monetary failure, was bringing him in a very considerable income every year. A rough comparison between "Alice's Adventures Underground" and the book in its completed form, shows how slight were the alterations that Lewis Carroll thought it necessary to make. The "Wonderland" is somewhat longer, but the general plan of the book, and the simplicity of diction, which is one of its principal charms, are unchanged. His memory was so good that I believe the story as he wrote it down was almost word for word the same that he had told in the boat. The whole idea came like an inspiration into his mind, and that sort of inspiration does not often come more than once in a lifetime. Nothing which he wrote afterwards had anything like the same amount of freshness, of wit, of real genius. The "Looking-Glass" most closely approached it in these qualities, but then it was only the following out of the same idea. The most ingenuous comparison of the two books I have seen was the answer of a little girl whom Lewis Carroll had asked if she had read them: "Oh yes, I've read both of them, and I think," (this more slowly and thoughtfully) "I think 'Through the Looking-Glass' is more stupid than 'Alice's Adventures.' Don't you think so?" The critics were loud in their praises of "Alice"; there was hardly a dissentient voice among them, and the reception which the public gave the book justified their opinion. So recently as July, 1898, the Pall Mall Gazette conducted an inquiry into the popularity of children's books. "The verdict is so natural that it will surprise no normal person. The winner is 'Alice in Wonderland'; 'Through the Looking-Glass' is in the twenty, but much lower down." 490.png SIR JOHN TENNIEL. From a photograph by Bassano. "Alice" has been translated into French, German, Italian, and Dutch, while one poem, "Father William," has even been turned into Arabic. Several plays have been based upon it; lectures have been given, illustrated by magic-lantern slides of Tenniel's pictures, which have also adorned wall-papers and biscuit-boxes. Mr. Dodgson himself designed a very ingenious "Wonderland" stamp-case; there has been an "Alice" birthday-book; at schools, children have been taught to read out of "Alice," while the German edition, shortened and simplified for the purpose, has also been used as a lesson-book. With the exception of Shakespeare's plays, very few, if any, books are so frequently quoted in the daily Press as the two "Alices." 488.png C. M. YONGE. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). In 1866 Mr. Dodgson was introduced to Miss Charlotte M. Yonge, whose novels had long delighted him. "It was a pleasure I had long hoped for," he says, "and I was very much pleased with her cheerful and easy manners—the sort of person one knows in a few minutes as well as many in many years." In 1867 he contributed a story to Aunt Judy's Magazine called "Bruno's Revenge," the charming little idyll out of which "Sylvie and Bruno" grew. The creation of Bruno was the only act of homage Lewis Carroll ever paid to boy-nature, for which, as a rule, he professed an aversion almost amounting to terror. Nevertheless, on the few occasions on which I have seen him in the company of boys, he seemed to be thoroughly at his ease, telling them stories and showing them puzzles. I give an extract from Mrs. Gatty's letter, acknowledging the receipt of "Bruno's Revenge" for her magazine:— I need hardly tell you that the story is delicious. It is beautiful and fantastic and childlike, and I cannot sufficiently thank you. I am so proud for Aunt Judy that you have honoured her by sending it here, rather than to the Cornhill, or one of the grander Magazines. To-morrow I shall send the Manuscript to London probably; to-day I keep it to enjoy a little further, and that the young ladies may do so too. One word more. Make this one of a series. You may have great mathematical abilities, but so have hundreds of others. This talent is peculiarly your own, and as an Englishman you are almost unique in possessing it. If you covet fame, therefore, it will be (I think) gained by this. Some of the touches are so exquisite, one would have thought nothing short of intercourse with fairies could have put them into your head. Somewhere about this time he was invited to witness a rehearsal of a children's play at a London theatre. As he sat in the wings, chatting to the manager, a little four-year-old girl, one of the performers, climbed up on his knee, and began talking to him. She was very anxious to be allowed to play the principal part (Mrs. Mite), which had been assigned to some other child. "I wish I might act Mrs. Mite," she said; "I know all her part, and I'd get an encore for every word." During the year he published his book on "Determinants." To those accustomed to regard mathematics as the driest of dry subjects, and mathematicians as necessarily devoid of humour, it seems scarcely credible that "An Elementary Treatise on Determinants," and "Alice in Wonderland" were written by the same author, and it came quite as a revelation to the undergraduate who heard for the first time that Mr. Dodgson of Christ Church and Lewis Carroll were identical. The book in question, admirable as it is in many ways, has not commanded a large sale. The nature of the subject would be against it, as most students whose aim is to get as good a place as possible in the class lists cannot afford the luxury of a separate work, and have to be content with the few chapters devoted to "Determinants" in works on Higher Algebra or the Theory of Equations, supplemented by references to Mr. Dodgson's work which can be found in the College libraries. The general acceptance of the book would be rather restricted by the employment of new words and symbols, which, as the author himself felt, "are always a most unwelcome addition to a science already burdened with an enormous vocabulary." But the work itself is largely original, and its arrangement and style are, perhaps, as attractive as the nature of the subject will allow. Such a book as this has little interest for the general reader, yet, amongst the leisured few who are able to read mathematics for their own sake, the treatise has found warm admirers. 489.png DR. LIDDON. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll). In the Summer Vacation of 1867 he went for a tour on the Continent, accompanied by Dr. Liddon, whom I have already mentioned as having been one of his most intimate friends at this time. During the whole of this tour Mr. Dodgson kept a diary, more with the idea that it would help him afterwards to remember what he had seen than with any notion of publication. However, in later years it did occur to him that others might be interested in his impressions and experiences, though he never actually took any steps towards putting them before the public. Perhaps he was wise, for a traveller's diary always contains much information that can be obtained just as well from any guide-book. In the extracts which I reproduce here, I hope that I have not retained anything which comes under that category. July 12th.—The Sultan and I arrived in London almost at the same time, but in different quarters—my point of entry being Paddington, and his Charing Cross. I must admit that the crowd was greatest at the latter place. Mr. Dodgson and Dr. Liddon met at Dover, and passed the night at one of the hotels there:— July 13th.—We breakfasted, as agreed, at eight, or at least we then sat down and nibbled bread and butter till such time as the chops should be done, which great event took place about 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 side-boards 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.... The pen refuses to describe the sufferings of some of the passengers during our smooth trip of ninety minutes: my own sensations were those of extreme surprise, and a little indignation, at there being no other sensations—it was not for that I paid my money.... We landed at Calais in the usual swarm of friendly natives, offering services and advice of all kinds; to all such remarks I returned one simple answer, Non! It was probably not strictly applicable in all cases, but it answered the purpose of getting rid of them; one by one they left me, echoing the Non! in various tones, but all expressive of disgust. At Cologne began that feast of beautiful things which his artistic temperament fitted him so well to enjoy. Though the churches he visited and the ceremonies he witnessed belonged to a religious system widely different from his own, the largeness and generosity of his mind always led him to insist upon that substratum of true devotion—to use a favourite word of his—which underlies all forms of Christianity. We spent an hour in the cathedral, which I will not attempt to describe further than by saying it was the most beautiful of all churches I have ever seen or can imagine. If one could imagine the spirit of devotion embodied in any material form, it would be in such a building. In spite of all the wealth of words that has been expended upon German art, he found something new to say on this most fertile subject:— 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. He never missed an opportunity of studying the foreign drama, which was most praiseworthy, as he knew very little German and not a word of Russ:— At the hotel [at Danzig] was a green parrot on a stand; we addressed it as "Pretty Poll," and it put its head on one side and thought about it, but wouldn't commit itself to any statement. The waiter came up to inform us of the reason of its silence: "Er spricht nicht Englisch; er spricht nicht Deutsch." It appeared that the unfortunate bird could speak nothing but Mexican! Not knowing a word of that language, we could only pity it. July 23rd.—We strolled about and bought a few photographs, and at 11.39 left for Königsberg. 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 an escape. July 25th.—In the evening I visited the theatre at Königsberg, which was fairly good in every way, and very good in the singing and some of the acting. The play was "Anno 66," but I could only catch a few words here and there, so have very little idea of the plot. One of the characters was a correspondent of an English newspaper. This singular being came on in the midst of a soldiers' bivouac before Sadowa, dressed very nearly in white—a very long frock-coat, and a tall hat on the back of his head, both nearly white. He said "Morning" as a general remark, when he first came on, but afterwards talked what I suppose was broken German. He appeared to be regarded as a butt by the soldiers, and ended his career by falling into a drum. From Königsberg the travellers went on to St. Petersburg, where they stayed several days, exploring the wonderful city and its environs:— There is a fine equestrian statue of Peter the Great near the Admiralty. The lower part is not a pedestal, but left shapeless and rough like a real rock. The horse is rearing, and has a serpent coiled about its hind feet, on which, I think, it is treading. If this had been put up in Berlin, Peter would no doubt have been actively engaged in killing the monster, but here he takes no notice of it; in fact, the killing theory is not recognised. We found two colossal figures of lions, which are so painfully mild that each of them is rolling a great ball about like a kitten. Aug. 1st.—About half-past ten Mr. Merrilies called for us, and with really remarkable kindness gave up his day to taking us down to Peterhof, a distance of about twenty miles, and showing us over the place. We went by steamer down the tideless, saltless Gulf of Finland; the first peculiarity extends through the Baltic, and the second through a great part of it. The piece we crossed, some fifteen miles from shore to shore, is very shallow, in many parts only six or eight feet deep, and every winter it is entirely frozen over with ice two feet thick, and when this is covered with snow it forms a secure plain, which is regularly used for travelling on, though the immense distance, without means of food or shelter, is dangerous for poorly clad foot passengers. Mr. Merrilies told us of a friend of his who, in crossing last winter, passed the bodies of eight people who had been frozen. We had a good view, on our way, of the coast of Finland, and of Kronstadt. When we landed at Peterhof, we found Mr. Muir's carriage waiting for us, and with its assistance, getting out every now and then to walk through portions where it could not go, we went over the grounds of two imperial palaces, including many little summer-houses, each of which would make a very good residence in itself, as, though small, they were fitted up and adorned in every way that taste could suggest or wealth achieve. For varied beauty and perfect combination of nature and art, I think the gardens eclipse those of Sans Souci. At every corner, or end of an avenue or path, where a piece of statuary could be introduced with effect, there one was sure to find one, in bronze or in white marble; many of the latter had a sort of circular niche built behind, with a blue background to throw the figure into relief. Here we found a series of shelving ledges made of stone, with a sheet of water gliding down over them; here a long path, stretching down slopes and flights of steps, and arched over all the way with trellises and creepers; here a huge boulder, hewn, just as it lay, into the shape of a gigantic head and face, with mild, sphinx-like eyes, as if some buried Titan were struggling to free himself; here a fountain, so artfully formed of pipes set in circles, each set shooting the water higher than those outside, as to form a solid pyramid of glittering spray; here a lawn, seen through a break in the woods below us, with threads of scarlet geraniums running over it, and looking in the distance like a huge branch of coral; and here and there long avenues of trees, lying in all directions, sometimes three or four together side by side, and sometimes radiating like a star, and stretching away into the distance till the eye was almost weary of following them. All this will rather serve to remind me, than to convey any idea, of what we saw. But the beauties of Peterhof were quite eclipsed by the Oriental splendours of Moscow, which naturally made a great impression upon a mind accustomed to the cold sublimity of Gothic architecture at Oxford. We gave five or six hours to a stroll through this wonderful city, a city of white houses and green roofs, of conical towers that rise one out of another like a foreshortened telescope; of bulging gilded domes, in which you see, as in a looking-glass, distorted pictures of the city; of churches which look, outside, like bunches of variegated cactus (some branches crowned with green prickly buds, others with blue, and others with red and white) and which, inside, are hung all round with eikons and lamps, and lined with illuminated pictures up to the very roof; and, finally, of pavement that goes up and down like a ploughed field, and drojky—drivers who insist on being paid thirty per cent. extra to-day, "because it is the Empress's birthday." ... Aug. 5th.—After dinner we went by arrangement to Mr. Penny, and accompanied him to see a Russian wedding. It was a most interesting ceremony. There was a large choir, from the cathedral, who sang a long and beautiful anthem before the service began; and the deacon (from the Church of the Assumption) delivered several recitative portions of the service in the most magnificent bass voice I ever heard, rising gradually (I should say by less than half a note at a time if that is possible), and increasing in volume of sound as he rose in the scale, until his final note rang through the building like a chorus of many voices. I could not have conceived that one voice could have produced such an effect. One part of the ceremony, the crowning the married couple, was very nearly grotesque. Two gorgeous golden crowns were brought in, which the officiating priest first waved before them, and then placed on their heads—or rather the unhappy bridegroom had to wear his, but the bride, having prudently arranged her hair in a rather complicated manner with a lace veil, could not have hers put on, but had it held above her by a friend. The bridegroom, in plain evening dress, crowned like a king, holding a candle, and with a face of resigned misery, would have been pitiable if he had not been so ludicrous. When the people had gone, we were invited by the priests to see the east end of the church, behind the golden gates, and were finally dismissed with a hearty shake of the hand and the "kiss of peace," of which even I, though in lay costume, came in for a share. One of the objects of the tour was to see the fair at Nijni Novgorod, and here the travellers arrived on August 6th, after a miserable railway journey. Owing to the breaking down of a bridge, the unfortunate passengers had been compelled to walk a mile through drenching rain. 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. We spent most of the afternoon wandering through the fair, and buying eikons, &c. It was a wonderful place. Besides there being distinct quarters for the Persians, the Chinese, and others, we were constantly meeting strange beings with unwholesome complexions and unheard-of costumes. The Persians, with their gentle, intelligent faces, the long eyes set wide apart, the black hair, and yellow-brown skin, crowned with a black woollen fez something like a grenadier, were about the most picturesque we met. But all the novelties of the day were thrown into the shade by our adventure at sunset, when we came upon the Tartar mosque (the only one in Nijni) exactly as one of the officials came out on the roof to utter the muezzin cry, or call to prayers. Even if it had been in no way singular in itself, it would have been deeply interesting from its novelty and uniqueness, but the cry itself was quite unlike anything I have ever heard before. The beginning of each sentence was uttered in a rapid monotone, and towards the end it rose gradually till it ended in a prolonged, shrill wail, which floated overhead through the still air with an indescribably sad and ghostlike effect; heard at night, it would have thrilled one like the cry of the Banshee. This reminds one of the wonderful description in Mr. Kipling's "City of Dreadful Night." It is not generally known that Mr. Dodgson was a fervent admirer of Mr. Kipling's works; indeed during the last few years of his life I think he took more pleasure in his tales than in those of any other modern author. Dr. Liddon's fame as a preacher had reached the Russian clergy, with the result that he and Mr. Dodgson found many doors open to them which are usually closed to travellers in Russia. After their visit to Nijni Novgorod they returned to Moscow, whence, escorted by Bishop Leonide, Suffragan Bishop of Moscow, they made an expedition to the Troitska Monastery. August 12th.—A most interesting day. We breakfasted at half-past five, and soon after seven left by railway, in company with Bishop Leonide and Mr. Penny, for Troitska Monastery. We found the Bishop, in spite of his limited knowledge of English, a very conversational and entertaining fellow-traveller. The service at the cathedral had already begun when we reached it, and the Bishop took us in with him, through a great crowd which thronged the building, into a side room which opened into the chancel, where we remained during the service, and enjoyed the unusual privilege of seeing the clergy communicate—a ceremony for which the doors of the chancel are always shut, and the curtains drawn, so that the congregation never witness it. It was a most elaborate ceremony, full of crossings, and waving of incense before everything that was going to be used, but also clearly full of much deep devotion.... In the afternoon we went down to the Archbishop's palace, and were presented to him by Bishop Leonide. The Archbishop could only talk Russian, so that the conversation between him and Liddon (a most interesting one, which lasted more than an hour) was conducted in a very original fashion—the Archbishop making a remark in Russian, which was put into English by the Bishop; Liddon then answered the remark in French, and the Bishop repeated his answer in Russian to the Archbishop. So that a conversation, entirely carried on between two people, required the use of three languages! The Bishop had kindly got one of the theological students, who could talk French, to conduct us about, which he did most zealously, taking us, among other things, to see the subterranean cells of the hermits, in which some of them live for many years. We were shown the doors of two of the inhabited ones; it was a strange and not quite comfortable feeling, in a dark narrow passage where each had to carry a candle, to be shown the low narrow door of a little cellar, and to know that a human being was living within, with only a small lamp to give him light, in solitude and silence day and night. His experiences with an exorbitant drojky—driver at St. Petersburg are worthy of record. They remind one of a story which he himself used to tell as having happened to a friend of his at Oxford. The latter had driven up in a cab to Tom Gate, and offered the cabman the proper fare, which was, however, refused with scorn. After a long altercation he left the irate cabman to be brought to reason by the porter, a one-armed giant of prodigious strength. When he was leaving college, he stopped at the gate to ask the porter how he had managed to dispose of the cabman. "Well, sir," replied that doughty champion, "I could not persuade him to go until I floored him." After a hearty breakfast I left Liddon to rest and write letters, and went off shopping, &c., beginning with a call on Mr. Muir at No. 61, Galerne Ulitsa. I took a drojky to the house, having first bargained with the driver for thirty kopecks; he wanted forty to begin with. When we got there we had a little scene, rather a novelty in my experience of drojky—driving. The driver began by saying "Sorok" (forty) as I got out; this was a warning of the coming storm, but I took no notice of it, but quietly handed over the thirty. He received them with scorn and indignation, and holding them out in his open hand, delivered an eloquent discourse in Russian, of which sorok was the leading idea. A woman, who stood by with a look of amusement and curiosity, perhaps understood him. I didn't, but simply held out my hand for the thirty, returned them to the purse and counted out twenty-five instead. In doing this I felt something like a man pulling the string of a shower-bath—and the effect was like it—his fury boiled over directly, and quite eclipsed all the former row. I told him in very bad Russian that I had offered thirty once, but wouldn't again; but this, oddly enough, did not pacify him. Mr. Muir's servant told him the same thing at length, and finally Mr. Muir himself came out and gave him the substance of it sharply and shortly—but he failed to see it in a proper light. Some people are very hard to please. When staying at a friend's house at Kronstadt he wrote:— Liddon had surrendered his overcoat early in the day, and when going we found it must be recovered from the waiting-maid, who only talked 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. 140.png At Warsaw they made a short stay, putting up at the Hotel d'Angleterre:— Our passage is inhabited by a tall and very friendly grey-hound, who walks in whenever the door is opened for a second or two, and who for some time threatened to make the labour of the servant, who was bringing water for a bath, of no effect, by drinking up the water as fast as it was brought. From Warsaw they went on to Leipzig, and thence to Giessen, where they arrived on September 4th. 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. Sept. 5th.—At midday we reached Ems, after a journey eventless, but through a very interesting country-valleys winding away in all directions among hills clothed with trees to the very top, and white villages nestling away wherever there was a comfortable corner to hide in. The trees were so small, so uniform in colour, and so continuous, that they gave to the more distant hills something of the effect of banks covered with moss. The really unique feature of the scenery was the way in which the old castles seemed to grow, rather than to have been built, on the tops of the rocky promontories that showed their heads here and there among the trees. I have never seen architecture that seemed so entirely in harmony with the spirit of the place. By some subtle instinct the old architects seem to have chosen both form and colour, the grouping of the towers with their pointed spires, and the two neutral tints, light grey and brown, on the walls and roof, so as to produce buildings which look as naturally fitted to the spot as the heath or the harebells. And, like the flowers and the rocks, they seemed instinct with no other meaning than rest and silence. And with these beautiful words my extracts from the Diary may well conclude. Lewis Carroll's mind was completely at one with Nature, and in her pleasant places of calm and infinite repose he sought his rest—and has found it. CHAPTER IV (1868—1876) Death of Archdeacon Dodgson—Lewis Carroll's rooms at Christ Church—"Phantasmagoria"—Translations of "Alice"—"Through the Looking-Glass"—"Jabberwocky" in Latin—C.S. Calverley—"Notes by an Oxford Chiel"—Hatfield—Vivisection—"The Hunting of the Snark." The success of "Alice in Wonderland" tempted Mr. Dodgson to make another essay in the same field of literature. His idea had not yet been plagiarised, as it was afterwards, though the book had of course been parodied, a notable instance being "Alice in Blunderland," which appeared in Punch. It was very different when he came to write "Sylvie and Bruno"; the countless imitations of the two "Alice" books which had been foisted upon the public forced him to strike out in a new line. Long before the publication of his second tale, people had heard that Lewis Carroll was writing again, and the editor of a well-known magazine had offered him two guineas a page, which was a high rate of pay in those days, for the story, if he would allow it to appear in serial form. The central idea was, as every one knows, the adventures of a little girl who had somehow or other got through a looking-glass. The first difficulty, however, was to get her through, and this question exercised his ingenuity for some time, before it was satisfactorily solved. The next thing was to secure Tenniel's services again. At first it seemed that he was to be disappointed in this matter; Tenniel was so fully occupied with other work that there seemed little hope of his being able to undertake any more. He then applied to Sir Noel Paton, with whose fairy-pictures he had fallen in love; but the artist was ill, and wrote in reply, "Tenniel is the man." In the end Tenniel consented to undertake the work, and once more author and artist settled down to work together. Mr. Dodgson was no easy man to work with; no detail was too small for his exact criticism. "Don't give Alice so much crinoline," he would write, or "The White Knight must not have whiskers; he must not be made to look old"—such were the directions he was constantly giving. On June 21st Archdeacon Dodgson died, after an illness of only a few days' duration. Lewis Carroll was not summoned until too late, for the illness took a sudden turn for the worse, and he was unable to reach his father's bedside before the end had come. This was a terrible shock to him; his father had been his ideal of what a Christian gentleman should be, and it seemed to him at first as if a cloud had settled on his life which could never be dispelled. Two letters of his, both of them written long after the sad event, give one some idea of the grief which his father's death, and all that it entailed, caused him. The first was written long afterwards, to one who had suffered a similar bereavement. In this letter he said:— We are sufficiently old friends, I feel sure, for me to have no fear that I shall seem intrusive in writing about your great sorrow. The greatest blow that has ever fallen on my life was the death, nearly thirty years ago, of my own dear father; so, in offering you my sincere sympathy, I write as a fellow-sufferer. And I rejoice to know that we are not only fellow-sufferers, but also fellow-believers in the blessed hope of the resurrection from the dead, which makes such a parting holy and beautiful, instead of being merely a blank despair. The second was written to a young friend, Miss Edith Rix, who had sent him an illuminated text: My dear Edith,—I can now tell you (what I wanted to do when you sent me that text-card, but felt I could not say it to two listeners, as it were) why that special card is one I like to have. That text is consecrated for me by the memory of one of the greatest sorrows I have known—the death of my dear father. In those solemn days, when we used to steal, one by one, into the darkened room, to take yet another look at the dear calm face, and to pray for strength, the one feature in the room that I remember was a framed text, illuminated by one of my sisters, "Then are they glad, because they are at rest; and so he bringeth them into the haven where they would be!" That text will always have, for me, a sadness and a sweetness of its own. Thank you again for sending it me. Please don't mention this when we meet. I can't talk about it. Always affectionately yours, C. L. DODGSON. The object of his edition of Euclid Book V., published during the course of the year, was to meet the requirements of the ordinary Pass Examination, and to present the subject in as short and simple a form as possible. Hence the Theory of Incommensurable Magnitudes was omitted, though, as the author himself said in the Preface, to do so rendered the work incomplete, and, from a logical point of view, valueless. He hinted pretty plainly his own preference for an equivalent amount of Algebra, which would be complete in itself. It is easy to understand this preference in a mind so strictly logical as his. So far as the object of the book itself is concerned, he succeeded admirably; the propositions are clearly and beautifully worked out, and the hints on proving Propositions in Euclid Book V., are most useful. 492.png PROF. FARADAY. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. In November he again moved into new rooms at Christ Church; the suite which he occupied from this date to the end of his life was one of the best in the College. Situated at the north-west corner of Tom Quad, on the first floor of the staircase from the entrance to which the Junior Common Room is now approached, they consist of four sitting-rooms and about an equal number of bedrooms, besides rooms for lumber, &c. From the upper floor one can easily reach the flat college roof. Mr. Dodgson saw at once that here was the very place for a photographic studio, and he lost no time in obtaining the consent of the authorities to erect one. Here he took innumerable photographs of his friends and their children, as indeed he had been doing for some time under less favourable conditions. One of his earliest pictures is an excellent likeness of Professor Faraday. His study was characteristic of the man; oil paintings by A. Hughes, Mrs. Anderson, and Heaphy proclaimed his artistic tastes; nests of pigeon-holes, each neatly labelled, showed his love of order; shelves, filled with the best books on every subject that interested him, were evidence of his wide reading. His library has now been broken up and, except for a few books retained by his nearest relatives, scattered to the winds; such dispersions are inevitable, but they are none the less regrettable. It always seems to me that one of the saddest things about the death of a literary man is the fact that the breaking-up of his collection of books almost invariably follows; the building up of a good library, the work of a lifetime, has been so much labour lost, so far as future generations are concerned. Talent, yes, and genius too, are displayed not only in writing books but also in buying them, and it is a pity that the ruthless hammer of the auctioneer should render so much energy and skill fruitless. 491.png LEWIS CARROLL'S STUDY AT CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD. Lewis Carroll's dining-room has been the scene of many a pleasant little party, for he was very fond of entertaining. In his Diary, each of the dinners and luncheons that he gave is recorded by a small diagram, which shows who his guests were, and their several positions at the table. He kept a menu book as well, that the same people might not have the same dishes too frequently. He sometimes gave large parties, but his favourite form of social relaxation was a dîner à deux. 493.png JUSTICE DENMAN. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. At the beginning of 1869 his "Phantasmagoria," a collection of poems grave and gay, was published by Macmillan. Upon the whole he was more successful in humorous poetry, but there is an undeniable dignity and pathos in his more serious verses. He gave a copy to Mr. Justice Denman, with whom he afterwards came to be very well acquainted, and who appreciated the gift highly. "I did not lay down the book," he wrote, "until I had read them [the poems] through; and enjoyed many a hearty laugh, and something like a cry or two. Moreover, I hope to read them through (as the old man said) 'again and again.'" It had been Lewis Carroll's intention to have "Phantasmagoria" illustrated, and he had asked George du Maurier to undertake the work; but the plan fell through. In his letter to du Maurier, Mr. Dodgson had made some inquiries about Miss Florence Montgomery, the authoress of "Misunderstood." In reply du Maurier said, "Miss Florence Montgomery is a very charming and sympathetic young lady, the daughter of the admiral of that ilk. I am, like you, a very great admirer of "Misunderstood," and cried pints over it. When I was doing the last picture I had to put a long white pipe in the little boy's mouth until it was finished, so as to get rid of the horrible pathos of the situation while I was executing the work. In reading the book a second time (knowing the sad end of the dear little boy), the funny parts made me cry almost as much as the pathetic ones." A few days after the publication of "Phantasmagoria," Lewis Carroll sent the first chapter of his new story to the press. "Behind the Looking-Glass and what Alice saw there" was his original idea for its title; it was Dr. Liddon who suggested the name finally adopted. During this year German and French translations of "Alice in Wonderland" were published by Macmillan; the Italian edition appeared in 1872. Henri Bué, who was responsible for the French version, had no easy task to perform. In many cases the puns proved quite untranslatable; while the poems, being parodies on well-known English pieces, would have been pointless on the other side of the Channel. For instance, the lines beginning, "How doth the little crocodile" are a parody on "How doth the little busy bee," a song which a French child has, of course, never heard of. In this case Bué gave up the idea of translation altogether, and, instead, parodied La Fontaine's "Maître Corbeau" as follows:— Maître Corbeau sur un arbre perché Faisait son nid entre des branches; Il avait relevé ses manches, Car il était très affairé. Maître Renard par là passant, Lui dit: "Descendez donc, compère; Venez embrasser votre frère!" Le Corbeau, le reconnaissant, Lui répondit en son ramage!— "Fromage." The dialogue in which the joke occurs about "tortoise" and "taught us" ("Wonderland," p. 142) is thus rendered:— "La maîtresse était une vieille tortue; nous l'appelions chélonée." "Et pourquoi l'appeliez-vous chélonée, si ce n'était pas son nom?" "Parcequ'on ne pouvait s'empêcher de s'écrier en la voyant: Quel long nez!" dit la Fausse-Tortue d'un ton fâché; "vous êtes vraiment bien bornée!" At two points, however, both M. Bué and Miss Antonie Zimmermann, who translated the tale into German, were fairly beaten: the reason for the whiting being so called, from its doing the boots and shoes, and for no wise fish going anywhere without a porpoise, were given up as untranslatable. 494.png LORD SALISBURY AND HIS TWO SONS. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. At the beginning of 1870 Lord Salisbury came up to Oxford to be installed as Chancellor of the University. Dr. Liddon introduced Mr. Dodgson to him, and thus began a very pleasant acquaintance. Of course he photographed the Chancellor and his two sons, for he never missed an opportunity of getting distinguished people into his studio. In December, seven "Puzzles from Wonderland" appeared in Mrs. Gatty's paper, Aunt Judy's Magazine. They had originally been written for the Cecil children, with whom Lewis Carroll was already on the best terms. Meanwhile "Through the Looking-Glass" was steadily progressing—not, however, without many little hitches. One question which exercised Mr. Dodgson very much was whether the picture of the Jabberwock would do as a frontispiece, or whether it would be too frightening for little children. On this point he sought the advice of about thirty of his married lady friends, whose experiences with their own children would make them trustworthy advisers; and in the end he chose the picture of the White Knight on horseback. In 1871 the book appeared, and was an instantaneous success. Eight thousand of the first edition had been taken up by the booksellers before Mr. Dodgson had even received his own presentation copies. The compliments he received upon the "Looking-Glass" would have been enough to turn a lesser man's head, but he was, I think, proof against either praise or blame. I can say with a clear head and conscience [wrote Henry Kingsley] that your new book is the finest thing we have had since "Martin Chuzzlewit." ... I can only say, in comparing the new "Alice" with the old, "this is a more excellent song than the other." It is perfectly splendid, but you have, doubtless, heard that from other quarters. I lunch with Macmillan habitually, and he was in a terrible pickle about not having printed enough copies the other day. Jabberwocky[017] was at once recognised as the best and most original thing in the book, though one fair correspondent of The Queen declared that it was a translation from the German! The late Dean of Rochester, Dr. Scott, writes about it to Mr. Dodgson as follows:— Are we to suppose, after all, that the Saga of Jabberwocky is one of the universal heirlooms which the Aryan race at its dispersion carried with it from the great cradle of the family? You must really consult Max Müller about this. It begins to be probable that the origo originalissima may be discovered in Sanscrit, and that we shall by and by have a Iabrivokaveda . The hero will turn out to be the Sun-god in one of his Avatars; and the Tumtum tree the great Ash Ygdrasil of the Scandinavian mythology. In March, 1872, the late Mr. A.A. Vansittart, of Trinity College, Cambridge, translated the poem into Latin elegiacs. His rendering was printed, for private circulation only, I believe, several years later, but will probably be new to most of my readers. A careful comparison with the original shows the wonderful fidelity of this translation:— "MORS IABROCHII" Coesper[018] erat: tunc lubriciles[019] ultravia circum Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi; Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu; Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae. O fuge Iabrochium, sanguis meus![020] Ille recurvis Unguibus, estque avidis dentibus ille minax. Ububae fuge cautus avis vim, gnate! Neque unquam Faedarpax contra te frumiosus eat! Vorpali gladio juvenis succingitur: hostis Manxumus ad medium quaeritur usque diem: Jamque via fesso, sed plurima mente prementi, Tumtumiae frondis suaserat umbra moram. Consilia interdum stetit egnia[021] mente revolvens: At gravis in densa fronde susuffrus[022] erat, Spiculaque[023] ex oculis jacientis flammea, tulscam Per silvam venit burbur?[024] Iabrochii! Vorpali, semel atque iterum collectus in ictum, Persnicuit gladio persnacuitque puer: Deinde galumphatus, spernens informe cadaver, Horrendum monstri rettulit ipse caput. Victor Iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis, Rursus in amplexus, o radiose, meos! O frabiose dies! CALLO clamateque CALLA! Vix potuit laetus chorticulare pater. Coesper erat: tunc lubriciles ultravia circum Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi; Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu; Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae. A.A.V. JABBERWOCKY. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that scratch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe. The story, as originally written, contained thirteen chapters, but the published book consisted of twelve only. The omitted chapter introduced a wasp, in the character of a judge or barrister, I suppose, since Mr. Tenniel wrote that "a wasp in a wig is altogether beyond the appliances of art." Apart from difficulties of illustration, the "wasp" chapter was not considered to be up to the level of the rest of the book, and this was probably the principal reason of its being left out. "It is a curious fact," wrote Mr. Tenniel some years later, when replying to a request of Lewis Carroll's that he would illustrate another of his books, "that with 'Through the Looking-Glass' the faculty of making drawings for book illustration departed from me, and, notwithstanding all sorts of tempting inducements, I have done nothing in that direction since." 163.png 164.png 165.png Facsimile of a letter from Sir John Tenniel to Lewis Carroll, June 1, 1870. "Through the Looking Glass" has recently appeared in a solemn judgment of the House of Lords. In Eastman Photographic Materials Company v. Comptroller General of Patents, Designs, and Trademarks (1898), the question for decision was, What constitutes an invented word? A trademark that consists of or contains an invented word or words is capable of registration. "Solio" was the word in issue in the case. Lord Macnaghten in his judgment said, when alluding to the distinguishing characteristics of an invented word: I do not think that it is necessary that it should be wholly meaningless. To give an illustration: your lordships may remember that in a book of striking humour and fancy, which was in everybody's hands when it was first published, there is a collection of strange words where "there are" (to use the language of the author) "two meanings packed up into one word." No one would say that those were not invented words. Still they contain a meaning—a meaning is wrapped up in them if you can only find it out. Before I leave the subject of the "Looking-Glass," I should like to mention one or two circumstances in connection with it which illustrate his reverence for sacred things. In his original manuscript the bad-tempered flower (pp. 28—33) was the passion-flower; the sacred origin of the name never struck him, until it was pointed out to him by a friend, when he at once changed it into the tiger-lily. Another friend asked him if the final scene was based upon the triumphal conclusion of "Pilgrim's Progress." He repudiated the idea, saying that he would consider such trespassing on holy ground as highly irreverent. He seemed never to be satisfied with the amount of work he had on hand, and in 1872 he determined to add to his other labours by studying anatomy and physiology. Professor Barclay Thompson supplied him with a set of bones, and, having purchased the needful books, he set to work in good earnest. His mind was first turned to acquiring medical knowledge by his happening to be at hand when a man was seized with an epileptic fit. He had prevented the poor creature from falling, but was utterly at a loss what to do next. To be better prepared on any future occasion, he bought a little manual called "What to do in Emergencies." In later years he was constantly buying medical and surgical works, and by the end of his life he had a library of which no doctor need have been ashamed. There were only two special bequests in his will, one of some small keepsakes to his landlady at Eastbourne, Mrs. Dyer, and the other of his medical books to my brother. Whenever a new idea presented itself to his mind he used to make a note of it; he even invented a system by which he could take notes in the dark, if some happy thought or ingenious problem suggested itself to him during a sleepless night. Like most men who systematically overtax their brains, he was a poor sleeper. He would sometimes go through a whole book of Euclid in bed; he was so familiar with the bookwork that he could actually see the figures before him in the dark, and did not confuse the letters, which is perhaps even more remarkable. Most of his ideas were ingenious, though many were entirely useless from a practical point of view. For instance, he has an entry in his Diary on November 8, 1872: "I wrote to Calverley, suggesting an idea (which I think occurred to me yesterday) of guessing well-known poems as acrostics, and making a collection of them to hoax the public." Calverley's reply to this letter was as follows:— My dear Sir,—I have been laid up (or laid down) for the last few days by acute lumbago, or I would have written before. It is rather absurd that I was on the point of propounding to you this identical idea. I realised, and I regret to add revealed to two girls, a fortnight ago, the truth that all existing poems were in fact acrostics; and I offered a small pecuniary reward to whichever would find out Gray's "Elegy" within half an hour! But it never occurred to me to utilise the discovery, as it did to you. I see that it might be utilised, now you mention it—and I shall instruct these two young women not to publish the notion among their friends. This is the way Mr. Calverley treated Kirke White's poem "To an early Primrose." "The title," writes C.S.C. "might either be ignored or omitted. Possibly carpers might say that a primrose was not a rose." Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Wild Was nursed in whistling storms Rose And cradled in the winds! Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, W a R Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone I ncognit O Thy tender elegance. So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head L owlines S Obscure and unobserved. While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear D isciplin E Serene the ills of life. In the course of their correspondence Mr. Calverley wrote a Shakespearian sonnet, the initial letters of which form the name of William Herbert; and a parody entitled "The New Hat." I reproduce them both. When o'er the world Night spreads her mantle dun, In dreams, my love, I see those stars, thine eyes, Lighting the dark: but when the royal sun Looks o'er the pines and fires the orient skies, I bask no longer in thy beauty's ray, And lo! my world is bankrupt of delight. Murk night seemed lately fair-complexioned day; Hope-bringing day now seems most doleful night. End, weary day, that art no day to me! Return, fair night, to me the best of days! But O my rose, whom in my dreams I see, Enkindle with like bliss my waking gaze! Replete with thee, e'en hideous night grows fair: Then what would sweet morn be, if thou wert there? THE NEW HAT. My boots had been wash'd, well wash'd, by a shower; But little I car'd about that: What I felt was the havoc a single half-hour Had made with my beautiful Hat. For the Boot, tho' its lustre be dimm'd, shall assume New comeliness after a while; But no art may restore its original bloom, When once it hath fled, to the Tile. I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay And a brown) trotted off with a clatter; The driver look'd round in his humorous way, And said huskily, "Who is your hatter?" I was pleased that he'd noticed its shape and its shine; And, as soon as we reached the "Old Druid," I begged him to drink to its welfare and mine In a glass of my favourite fluid. A gratified smile sat, I own, on my lips When the barmaid exclaimed to the master, (He was standing inside with his hands on his hips), "Just look at that gentleman's castor." I laughed, when an organman paus'd in mid-air— ('Twas an air that I happened to know, By a great foreign maestro)—expressly to stare At ze gent wiz ze joli chapeau . Yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears! How rife with results is a day! That Hat might, with care, have adorned me for years; But one show'r wash'd its beauty away. How I lov'd thee, my Bright One! I pluck in remorse My hands from my pockets and wring 'em: Oh, why did not I, dear, as a matter of course, Ere I purchas'd thee purchase a gingham? C.S. CALVERLEY. Mr. Dodgson spent the last night of the old year (1872) at Hatfield, where he was the guest of Lord Salisbury. There was a large party of children in the house, one of them being Princess Alice, to whom he told as much of the story of "Sylvie and Bruno" as he had then composed. While the tale was in progress Lady Salisbury entered the room, bringing in some new toy or game to amuse her little guests, who, with the usual thoughtlessness of children, all rushed off and left Mr. Dodgson. But the little Princess, suddenly appearing to remember that to do so might perhaps hurt his feelings, sat down again by his side. He read the kind thought which prompted her action, and was much pleased by it. As Mr. Dodgson knew several members of the Punch staff, he used to send up any little incidents or remarks that particularly amused him to that paper. He even went so far as to suggest subjects for cartoons, though I do not know if his ideas were ever carried out. One of the anecdotes he sent to Punch was that of a little boy, aged four, who after having listened with much attention to the story of Lot's wife, asked ingenuously, "Where does salt come from that's not made of ladies?" This appeared on January 3, 1874. The following is one of several such little anecdotes jotted down by Lewis Carroll for future use: Dr. Paget was conducting a school examination, and in the course of his questions he happened to ask a small child the meaning of "Average." He was utterly bewildered by the reply, "The thing that hens lay on," until the child explained that he had read in a book that hens lay on an average so many eggs a year. 495.png JOHN RUSKIN. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. Among the notable people whom he photographed was John Ruskin, and, as several friends begged him for copies, he wrote to ask Mr. Ruskin's leave. The reply was, "Buy Number 5 of Fors Clavigera for 1871, which will give you your answer." This was not what Mr. Dodgson wanted, so he wrote back, "Can't afford ten-pence!" Finally Mr. Ruskin gave his consent. About this time came the anonymous publication of "Notes by an Oxford Chiel," a collection of papers written on various occasions, and all of them dealing with Oxford controversies. Taking them in order, we have first "The New Method of Evaluation as applied to pi," first published by Messrs. Parker in 1865, which had for its subject the controversy about the Regius Professorship of Greek. One extract will be sufficient to show the way in which the affair was treated: "Let U = the University, G = Greek, and P = Professor. Then G P = Greek Professor; let this be reduced to its lowest terms and call the result J [i.e., Jowett]." The second paper is called "The Dynamics of a Parti-cle," and is quite the best of the series; it is a geometrical treatment of the contest between Mr. Gathorne Hardy and Mr. Gladstone for the representation of the University. Here are some of the "Definitions" with which the subject was introduced:— Plain Superficiality is the character of a speech, in which any two points being taken, the speaker is found to lie wholly with regard to those two points. Plain Anger is the inclination of two voters to one another, who meet together, but whose views are not in the same direction. When two parties, coming together, feel a Right Anger, each is said to be complimentary to the other, though, strictly speaking, this is very seldom the case. A surd is a radical whose meaning cannot be exactly ascertained. As the "Notes of an Oxford Chiel" has been long out of print, I will give a few more extracts from this paper:— On Differentiation. The effect of Differentiation on a Particle is very remarkable, the first differential being frequently of greater value than the original particle, and the second of less enlightenment. For example, let L = "Leader", S = "Saturday", and then LS = "Leader in the Saturday" (a particle of no assignable value). Differentiating once, we get L.S.D., a function of great value. Similarly it will be found that, by taking the second Differential of an enlightened Particle (i.e., raising it to the Degree D.D.), the enlightenment becomes rapidly less. The effect is much increased by the addition of a C: in this case the enlightenment often vanishes altogether, and the Particle becomes Conservative. PROPOSITIONS. PROP. I. PR. To find the value of a given Examiner. Example.—A takes in ten books in the Final Examination and gets a 3rd class; B takes in the Examiners, and gets a 2nd. Find the value of the Examiners in terms of books. Find also their value in terms in which no Examination is held. PROP. II. PR. To estimate Profit and Loss. Example.—Given a Derby Prophet, who has sent three different winners to three different betting-men, and given that none of the three horses are placed. Find the total loss incurred by the three men (a) in money, (b) in temper. Find also the Prophet. Is this latter usually possible? PROP. IV. TH. The end (i.e., "the product of the extremes") justifies (i.e., "is equal to"—see Latin "aequus") the means. No example is appended to this Proposition, for obvious reasons. PROP. V. PR. To continue a given series. Example.—A and B, who are respectively addicted to Fours and Fives, occupy the same set of rooms, which is always at Sixes and Sevens. Find the probable amount of reading done by A and B while the Eights are on. The third paper was entitled "Facts, Figures, and Fancies." The best thing in it was a parody on "The Deserted Village," from which an extract will be found in a later chapter. There was also a letter to the Senior Censor of Christ Church, in burlesque of a similar letter in which the Professor of Physics met an offer of the Clarendon Trustees by a detailed enumeration of the requirements in his own department of Natural Science. Mr. Dodgson's letter deals with the imaginary requirements of the Mathematical school:— Dear Senior Censor,—In a desultory conversation on a point connected with the dinner at our high table, you incidentally remarked to me that lobster-sauce, "though a necessary adjunct to turbot, was not entirely wholesome!" It is entirely unwholesome. I never ask for it without reluctance: I never take a second spoonful without a feeling of apprehension on the subject of a possible nightmare. This naturally brings me to the subject of Mathematics, and of the accommodation provided by the University for carrying on the calculations necessary in that important branch of Science. As Members of Convocation are called upon (whether personally, or, as is less exasperating, by letter) to consider the offer of the Clarendon Trustees, as well as every other subject of human, or inhuman, interest, capable of consideration, it has occurred to me to suggest for your 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 for students 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 attached 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, &c., which affect the features during severe mathematical operations. May I trust that you will give your immediate attention to this most important subject? Believe me, Sincerely yours, Mathematicus. Next came "The New Belfry of Christ Church, Oxford; a Monograph by D.C.L." On the title-page was a neatly drawn square—the figure of Euclid I. 46—below which was written "East view of the New Belfry, Christ Church, as seen from the meadow." The new belfry is fortunately a thing of the past, and its insolent hideousness no longer defaces Christ Church, but while it lasted it was no doubt an excellent target for Lewis Carroll's sarcasm. His article on it is divided into thirteen chapters. Three of them are perhaps worth quoting:— §1. On the etymological significance of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The word "Belfry" is derived from the French bel, "beautiful, becoming, meet," and from the German frei, "free unfettered, secure, safe." Thus, the word is strictly equivalent to "meat-safe," to which the new Belfry bears a resemblance so perfect as almost to amount to coincidence. §4. On the chief architectural merit of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. Its chief merit is its simplicity—a simplicity so pure, so profound, in a word, so simple, that no other word will fitly describe it. The meagre outline, and baldness of detail, of the present Chapter, are adopted in humble imitation of this great feature. §5. On the other architectural merits of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The Belfry has no other architectural merits. "The Vision of the Three T's" followed. It also was an attack on architectural changes in Christ Church; the general style was a parody of the "Compleat Angler." Last of all came "The Blank Cheque, a Fable," in reference to the building of the New Schools, for the expenses of which it was actually proposed (in 1874), to sign a blank cheque before any estimate had been made, or any plan laid before the University, and even before a committee had been elected to appoint an architect for the work. At the end of 1874 Mr. Dodgson was again at Hatfield, where he told the children the story of Prince Uggug, which was afterwards made a part of "Sylvie and Bruno," though at that time it seems to have been a separate tale. But "Sylvie and Bruno," in this respect entirely unlike "Alice in Wonderland," was the result of notes taken during many years; for while he was thinking out the book he never neglected any amusing scraps of childish conversation or funny anecdotes about children which came to his notice. It is this fact which gives such verisimilitude to the prattle of Bruno; childish talk is a thing which a grown-up person cannot possibly invent. He can only listen to the actual things the children say, and then combine what he has heard into a connected narrative. During 1875 Mr. Dodgson wrote an article on "Some Popular Fallacies about Vivisection," which was refused by the Pall Mall Gazette, the editor saying that he had never heard of most of them; on which Mr. Dodgson plaintively notes in his Diary that seven out of the thirteen fallacies dealt with in his essay had appeared in the columns of the Pall Mall Gazette. Ultimately it was accepted by the editor of The Fortnightly Review. Mr. Dodgson had a peculiar horror of vivisection. I was once walking in Oxford with him when a certain well-known professor passed us. "I am afraid that man vivisects," he said, in his gravest tone. Every year he used to get a friend to recommend him a list of suitable charities to which he should subscribe. Once the name of some Lost Dogs' Home appeared in this list. Before Mr. Dodgson sent his guinea he wrote to the secretary to ask whether the manager of the Home was in the habit of sending dogs that had to be killed to physiological laboratories for vivisection. The answer was in the negative, so the institution got the cheque. He did not, however, advocate the total abolition of vivisection—what reasonable man could?—but he would have liked to see it much more carefully restricted by law. An earlier letter of his to the Pall Mall Gazette on the same subject is sufficiently characteristic to deserve a place here. Be it noted that he signed it "Lewis Carroll," in order that whatever influence or power his writings had gained him might tell in the controversy. VIVISECTION AS A SIGN OF THE TIMES. To the Editor of the "Pall Mall Gazette." Sir,—The letter which appeared in last week's Spectator, and which must have saddened the heart of every one who read it, seems to suggest a question which has not yet been asked or answered with sufficient clearness, and that is, How far may vivisection be regarded as a sign of the times, and a fair specimen of that higher civilisation which a purely secular State education is to give us? In that much-vaunted panacea for all human ills we are promised not only increase of knowledge, but also a higher moral character; any momentary doubt on this point which we may feel is set at rest at once by quoting the great crucial instance of Germany. The syllogism, if it deserves the name, is usually stated thus: Germany has a higher scientific education than England; Germany has a lower average of crime than England; ergo, a scientific education tends to improve moral conduct. Some old-fashioned logician might perhaps whisper to himself, "Praemissis particularibus nihil probatur," but such a remark, now that Aldrich is out of date, would only excite a pitying smile. May we, then, regard the practice of vivisection as a legitimate fruit, or as an abnormal development, of this higher moral character? Is the anatomist, who can contemplate unmoved the agonies he is inflicting for no higher purpose than to gratify a scientific curiosity, or to illustrate some well-established truth, a being higher or lower, in the scale of humanity, than the ignorant boor whose very soul would sicken at the horrid sight? For if ever there was an argument in favour of purely scientific education more cogent than another, it is surely this (a few years back it might have been put into the mouth of any advocate of science; now it reads like the merest mockery): "What can teach the noble quality of mercy, of sensitiveness to all forms of suffering, so powerfully as the knowledge of what suffering really is? Can the man who has once realised by minute study what the nerves are, what the brain is, and what waves of agony the one can convey to the other, go forth and wantonly inflict pain on any sentient being?" A little while ago we should have confidently replied, "He cannot do it"; in the light of modern revelations we must sorrowfully confess "He can." And let it never be said that this is done with serious forethought of the balance of pain and gain; that the operator has pleaded with himself, "Pain is indeed an evil, but so much suffering may fitly be endured to purchase so much knowledge." When I hear of one of these ardent searchers after truth giving, not a helpless dumb animal, to whom he says in effect, "You shall suffer that I may know," but his own person to the probe and to the scalpel, I will believe in him as recognising a principle of justice, and I will honour him as acting up to his principles. "But the thing cannot be!" cries some amiable reader, fresh from an interview with that most charming of men, a London physician. "What! Is it possible that one so gentle in manner, so full of noble sentiments, can be hardhearted? The very idea is an outrage to common sense!" And thus we are duped every day of our lives. Is it possible that that bank director, with his broad honest face, can be meditating a fraud? That the chairman of that meeting of shareholders, whose every tone has the ring of truth in it, can hold in his hand a "cooked" schedule of accounts? That my wine merchant, so outspoken, so confiding, can be supplying me with an adulterated article? That the schoolmaster, to whom I have entrusted my little boy, can starve or neglect him? How well I remember his words to the dear child when last we parted. "You are leaving your friends," he said, "but you will have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers!" For all such rose-coloured dreams of the necessary immunity from human vices of educated men the facts in last week's Spectator have a terrible significance. "Trust no man further than you can see him," they seem to say. "Qui vult decipi, decipiatur." Allow me to quote from a modern writer a few sentences bearing on this subject:— "We are at present, legislature and nation together, eagerly pushing forward schemes which proceed on the postulate that conduct is determined, not by feelings, but by cognitions. For what else is the assumption underlying this anxious urging-on of organisations for teaching? What is the root-notion common to Secularists and Denominationalists but the notion that spread of knowledge is the one thing needful for bettering behaviour? Having both swallowed certain statistical fallacies, there has grown up in them the belief that State education will check ill-doing.... This belief in the moralising effects of intellectual culture, flatly contradicted by facts, is absurd a priori.... This faith in lesson-books and readings is one of the superstitions of the age.... Not by precept, though heard daily; not by example, unless it is followed; but only by action, often caused by the related feeling, can a moral habit be formed. And yet this truth, which mental science clearly teaches, and which is in harmony with familiar sayings, is a truth wholly ignored in current educational fanaticisms." There need no praises of mine to commend to the consideration of all thoughtful readers these words of Herbert Spencer. They are to be found in "The Study of Sociology" (pp. 36l—367). Let us, however, do justice to science. It is not so wholly wanting as Mr. Herbert Spencer would have us believe in principles of action—principles by which we may regulate our conduct in life. I myself once heard an accomplished man of science declare that his labours had taught him one special personal lesson which, above all others, he had laid to heart. A minute study of the nervous system, and of the various forms of pain produced by wounds had inspired in him one profound resolution; and that was—what think you?—never, under any circumstances, to adventure his own person into the field of battle! I have somewhere read in a book—a rather antiquated book, I fear, and one much discredited by modern lights—the words, "the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now." Truly we read these words with a new meaning in the present day! "Groan and travail" it undoubtedly does still (more than ever, so far as the brute creation is concerned); but to what end? Some higher and more glorious state? So one might have said a few years back. Not so in these days. The telos teleion of secular education, when divorced from religious or moral training, is—I say it deliberately—the purest and most unmitigated selfishness. The world has seen and tired of the worship of Nature, of Reason, of Humanity; for this nineteenth century has been reserved the development of the most refined religion of all—the worship of Self. For that, indeed, is the upshot of it all. The enslavement of his weaker brethren—"the labour of those who do not enjoy, for the enjoyment of those who do not labour"—the degradation of woman—the torture of the animal world—these are the steps of the ladder by which man is ascending to his higher civilisation. Selfishness is the key-note of all purely secular education; and I take vivisection to be a glaring, a wholly unmistakable case in point. And let it not be thought that this is an evil that we can hope to see produce the good for which we are asked to tolerate it, and then pass away. It is one that tends continually to spread. And if it be tolerated or even ignored now, the age of universal education, when the sciences, and anatomy among them, shall be the heritage of all, will be heralded by a cry of anguish from the brute creation that will ring through the length and breadth of the land! This, then, is the glorious future to which the advocate of secular education may look forward: the dawn that gilds the horizon of his hopes! An age when all forms of religious thought shall be things of the past; when chemistry and biology shall be the ABC of a State education enforced on all; when vivisection shall be practised in every college and school; and when the man of science, looking forth over a world which will then own no other sway than his, shall exult in the thought that he has made of this fair green earth, if not a heaven for man, at least a hell for animals. I am, sir, Your obedient servant, Lewis Carroll. February 10th. On March 29, 1876, "The Hunting of the Snark" was published. Mr. Dodgson gives some interesting particulars of its evolution. The first idea for the poem was the line "For the Snark was a Boojum, you see," which came into his mind, apparently without any cause, while he was taking a country walk. The first complete verse which he composed was the one which stands last in the poem:— 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. 496.png HENRY HOLIDAY IN HIS STUDIO. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. The illustrations were the work of Mr. Henry Holiday, and they are thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of the poem. Many people have tried to show that "The Hunting of the Snark" was an allegory; some regarding it as being a burlesque upon the Tichborne case, and others taking the Snark as a personification of popularity. Lewis Carroll always protested that the poem had no meaning at all. As to the meaning of the Snark [he wrote to a friend in America], I'm very much afraid I didn't mean anything but nonsense. 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'm 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 in beautifully in many ways—particularly about the bathing-machines: when the 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. Mr. H. Holiday, in a very interesting article on "The Snark's Significance" (Academy, January 29, 1898), quoted the inscription which Mr. Dodgson had written in a vellum-bound, presentation-copy of the book. It is so characteristic that I take the liberty of reproducing it here:— Presented to Henry Holiday, most patient of artists, by Charles L. Dodgson, most exacting, but not most ungrateful of authors, March 29, 1876. A little girl, to whom Mr. Dodgson had given a copy of the "Snark," managed to get the whole poem off by heart, and insisted on reciting, it from beginning to end during a long carriage-drive. Her friends, who, from the nature of the case, were unable to escape, no doubt wished that she, too, was a Boojum. During the year, the first public dramatic representation of "Alice in Wonderland" was given at the Polytechnic, the entertainment taking the form of a series of tableaux, interspersed with appropriate readings and songs. Mr. Dodgson exercised a rigid censorship over all the extraneous matter introduced into the performance, and put his veto upon a verse in one of the songs, in which the drowning of kittens was treated from the humorous point of view, lest the children in the audience might learn to think lightly of death in the case of the lower animals. CHAPTER V (1877—1883) Dramatic tastes—Miss Ellen Terry—"Natural Science at Oxford"—Mr. Dodgson as an artist—Miss E. G. Thomson—The drawing of children—A curious dream—"The Deserted Parks"—"Syzygies"—Circus children—Row-loving undergraduates—A letter to The Observer—Resignation of the Lectureship—He is elected Curator of the Common Room—Dream-music. 497.png LEWIS CARROLL. From a photograph. Mr. Dodgson's love of the drama was not, as I have shown, a taste which he acquired in later years. From early college days he never missed anything which he considered worth seeing at the London theatres. I believe he used to reproach himself—unfairly, I think—with spending too much time on such recreations. For a man who worked so hard and so incessantly as he did; for a man to whom vacations meant rather a variation of mental employment than absolute rest of mind, the drama afforded just the sort of relief that was wanted. His vivid imagination, the very earnestness and intensity of his character enabled him to throw himself utterly into the spirit of what he saw upon the stage, and to forget in it all the petty worries and disappointments of life. The old adage says that a man cannot burn the candle at both ends; like most proverbs, it is only partially true, for often the hardest worker is the man who enters with most zest into his recreations, and this was emphatically the case with Mr. Dodgson. Walter Pater, in his book on the Renaissance, says (I quote from rough notes only), "A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy? To burn always with this hard gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life." Here we have the truer philosophy, here we have the secret of Lewis Carroll's life. He never wasted time on social formalities; he refused to fulfil any of those (so called) duties which involve ineffable boredom, and so his mind was always fresh and ready. He said in one of his letters that he hoped that in the next world all knowledge would not be given to us suddenly, but that we should gradually grow wiser, for the acquiring knowledge was to him the real pleasure. What is this but a paraphrase of another of Pater's thoughts, "Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself is the end." And so, times without number, he allowed himself to be carried away by emotion as he saw life in the mirror of the stage; but, best of all, he loved to see the acting of children, and he generally gave copies of his books to any of the little performers who specially pleased him. On January 13, 1877, he wrote in his Diary:— Went up to town for the day, and took E— with me to the afternoon pantomime at the Adelphi, "Goody Two-Shoes," acted entirely by children. It was a really charming performance. Little Bertie Coote, aged ten, was clown—a wonderfully clever little fellow; and Carrie Coote, about eight, was Columbine, a very pretty graceful little thing. In a few years' time she will be just the child to act "Alice," if it is ever dramatised. The harlequin was a little girl named Gilchrist, one of the most beautiful children, in face and figure, that I have ever seen. I must get an opportunity of photographing her. Little Bertie Coote, singing "Hot Codlings," was curiously like the pictures of Grimaldi. It need hardly be said that the little girl was Miss Constance Gilchrist. Mr. Dodgson sent her a copy of "Alice in Wonderland," with a set of verses on her name. Many people object altogether to children appearing on the stage; it is said to be bad for their morals as well as for their health. A letter which Mr. Dodgson once wrote in the St. James's Gazette contains a sufficient refutation of the latter fancy:— I spent yesterday afternoon at Brighton, where for five hours I enjoyed the society of three exceedingly happy and healthy little girls, aged twelve, ten, and seven. I think that any one who could have seen the vigour of life in those three children—the intensity with which they enjoyed everything, great or small, that came in their way—who could have watched the younger two running races on the Pier, or have heard the fervent exclamation of the eldest at the end of the afternoon, "We have enjoyed ourselves!" would have agreed with me that here, at least, there was no excessive "physical strain," nor any imminent danger of "fatal results"! A drama, written by Mr. Savile Clarke, is now being played at Brighton, and in this (it is called "Alice in Wonderland") all three children have been engaged. They had been acting every night this week, and twice on the day before I met them, the second performance lasting till half-past ten at night, after which they got up at seven next morning to bathe! That such (apparently) severe work should co-exist with blooming health and buoyant spirits seems at first sight a paradox; but I appeal to any one who has ever worked con amore at any subject whatever to support me in the assertion that, when you really love the subject you are working at, the "physical strain" is absolutely nil; it is only when working "against the grain" that any strain is felt, and I believe the apparent paradox is to be explained by the fact that a taste for acting is one of the strongest passions of human nature, that stage-children show it nearly from infancy, and that, instead of being miserable drudges who ought to be celebrated in a new "Cry of the Children," they simply rejoice in their work "even as a giant rejoiceth to run his course." Mr. Dodgson's general views on the mission of the drama are well shown by an extract from a circular which he sent to many of his friends in 1882:— The stage (as every playgoer can testify) is an engine of incalculable power for influencing society; and every effort to purify and ennoble its aims seems to me to deserve all the countenance that the great, and all the material help that the wealthy, can give it; while even those who are neither great nor wealthy may yet do their part, and help to— "Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be." I do not know if Mr. Dodgson's suggested amendment of some lines in the "Merchant of Venice" was ever carried out, but it further illustrates the serious view he took of this subject. The hint occurs in a letter to Miss Ellen Terry, which runs as follows:— 498.png ELLEN TERRY. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. You gave me a treat on Saturday such as I have very seldom had in my life. You must be weary by this time of hearing your own praises, so I will only say that Portia was all I could have imagined, and more. And Shylock is superb—especially in the trial-scene. Now I am going to be very bold, and make a suggestion, which I do hope you will think well enough of to lay it before Mr. Irving. I want to see that clause omitted (in the sentence on Shylock)— That, for this favour, He presently become a Christian; It is a sentiment that is entirely horrible and revolting to the feelings of all who believe in the Gospel of Love. Why should our ears be shocked by such words merely because they are Shakespeare's? In his day, when it was held to be a Christian's duty to force his belief on others by fire and sword—to burn man's body in order to save his soul—the words probably conveyed no shock. To all Christians now (except perhaps extreme Calvinists) the idea of forcing a man to abjure his religion, whatever that religion may be, is (as I have said) simply horrible. I have spoken of it as a needless outrage on religious feeling: but surely, being so, it is a great artistic mistake. Its tendency is directly contrary to the spirit of the scene. We have despised Shylock for his avarice, and we rejoice to see him lose his wealth: we have abhorred him for his bloodthirsty cruelty, and we rejoice to see him baffled. And now, in the very fulness of our joy at the triumph of right over wrong, we are suddenly called on to see in him the victim of a cruelty a thousand times worse than his own, and to honour him as a martyr. This, I am sure, Shakespeare never meant. Two touches only of sympathy does he allow us, that we may realise him as a man, and not as a demon incarnate. "I will not pray with you"; "I had it of Leah, when I was a bachelor." But I am sure he never meant our sympathies to be roused in the supreme moment of his downfall, and, if he were alive now, I believe he would cut out those lines about becoming a Christian. No interpolation is needed—(I should not like to suggest the putting in a single word that is not Shakespeare's)—I would read the speech thus:— That lately stole his daughter: Provided that he do record a gift, Here in the court, &c. And I would omit Gratiano's three lines at Shylock's exit, and let the text stand:— Duke: "Get thee gone, but do it." (Exit Shylock.) The exit, in solemn silence, would be, if possible, even grander than it now is, and would lose nothing by the omission of Gratiano's flippant jest.... 500.png TOM TAYLOR. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. On January 16th he saw "New Men and Old Acres" at the Court Theatre. The two authors of the pieces, Dubourg and Tom Taylor, were great friends of his. "It was a real treat," he writes, "being well acted in every detail. Ellen Terry was wonderful, and I should think unsurpassable in all but the lighter parts." Mr. Dodgson himself had a strong wish to become a dramatic author, but, after one or two unsuccessful attempts to get his plays produced, he wisely gave up the idea, realising that he had not the necessary constructive powers. The above reference to Miss Ellen Terry's acting is only one out of a countless number; the great actress and he were excellent friends, and she did him many a kindness in helping on young friends of his who had taken up the stage as a profession. 523.png KATE TERRY. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. She and her sister, Miss Kate Terry, were among the distinguished people whom he photographed. The first time he saw the latter actress was, I think, in 1858, when she was playing in "The Tempest" at the Princess's. "The gem of the piece," he writes, "was the exquisitely graceful and beautiful Ariel, Miss Kate Terry. Her appearance as a sea-nymph was one of the most beautiful living pictures I ever saw, but this, and every other one in my recollection (except Queen Katherine's dream), were all outdone by the concluding scene, where Ariel is left alone, hovering over the wide ocean, watching the retreating ship. It is an innovation on Shakespeare, but a worthy one, and the conception of a true poet." Mr. Dodgson was a frequent contributor to the daily Press. As a rule his letters appeared in the St. James's Gazette, for the editor, Mr. Greenwood, was a friend of his, but the following sarcastic epistle was an exception:— NATURAL SCIENCE AT OXFORD. To the Editor of the "Pall Mall Gazette." Sir,—There is no one of the many ingenious appliances of mechanical science that is more appreciated or more successfully employed than the wedge; so subtle and imperceptible are the forces needed for the insertion of its "thin end," so astounding the results which its "thick end" may ultimately produce. Of the former process we shall see a beautiful illustration in a Congregation to be holden at Oxford on the 24th inst., when it will be proposed to grant, to those who have taken the degrees of bachelor and master in Natural Science only, the same voting powers as in the case of the "M.A." degree. This means the omission of one of the two classical languages, Latin and Greek, from what has been hitherto understood as the curriculum of an Oxford education. It is to this "thin end" of the wedge that I would call the attention of our non-residents, and of all interested in Oxford education, while the "thick end" is still looming in the distance. But why fear a "thick end" at all? I shall be asked. Has Natural Science shown any such tendency, or given any reason to fear that such a concession would lead to further demands? In answer to that question, let me sketch, in dramatic fashion, the history of her recent career in Oxford. In the dark ages of our University (some five-and-twenty years ago), while we still believed in classics and mathematics as constituting a liberal education, Natural Science sat weeping at our gates. "Ah, let me in!" she moaned; "why cram reluctant youth with your unsatisfying lore? Are they not hungering for bones; yea, panting for sulphuretted hydrogen?" We heard and we pitied. We let her in and housed her royally; we adorned her palace with re-agents and retorts, and made it a very charnel-house of bones, and we cried to our undergraduates, "The feast of Science is spread! Eat, drink, and be happy!" But they would not. They fingered the bones, and thought them dry. They sniffed at the hydrogen, and turned away. Yet for all that Science ceased not to cry, "More gold, more gold!" And her three fair daughters, Chemistry, Biology, and Physics (for the modern horse-leech is more prolific than in the days of Solomon), ceased not to plead, "Give, give!" And we gave; we poured forth our wealth like water (I beg her pardon, like H2O), and we could not help thinking there was something weird and uncanny in the ghoul-like facility with which she absorbed it. The curtain rises on the second act of the drama. Science is still weeping, but this time it is for lack of pupils, not of teachers or machinery. "We are unfairly handicapped!" she cries. "You have prizes and scholarships for classics and mathematics, and you bribe your best students to desert us. Buy us some bright, clever boys to teach, and then see what we can do!" Once more we heard and pitied. We had bought her bones; we bought her boys. And now at last her halls were filled—not only with teachers paid to teach, but also with learners paid to learn. And we have not much to complain of in results, except that perhaps she is a little too ready to return on our hands all but the "honour-men"—all, in fact, who really need the helping hand of an educator. "Here, take back your stupid ones!" she cries. "Except as subjects for the scalpel (and we have not yet got the Human Vivisection Act through Parliament) we can do nothing with them!" The third act of the drama is yet under rehearsal; the actors are still running in and out of the green-room, and hastily shuffling on their new and ill-fitting dresses; but its general scope is not far to seek. At no distant day our once timid and tearful guest will be turning up her nose at the fare provided for her. "Give me no more youths to teach," she will say; "but pay me handsomely, and let me think. Plato and Aristotle were all very well in their way; Diogenes and his tub for me!" The allusion is not inappropriate. There can be little doubt that some of the researches conducted by that retiring philosopher in the recesses of that humble edifice were strictly scientific, embracing several distinct branches of entomology. I do not mean, of course, that "research" is a new idea in Oxford. From time immemorial we have had our own chosen band of researchers (here called "professors"), who have advanced the boundaries of human knowledge in many directions. True, they are not left so wholly to themselves as some of these modern thinkers would wish to be, but are expected to give some few lectures, as the outcome of their "research" and the evidence of its reality, but even that condition has not always been enforced—for instance, in the case of the late Professor of Greek, Dr. Gaisford, the University was too conscious of the really valuable work he was doing in philological research to complain that he ignored the usual duties of the chair and delivered no lectures. And, now, what is the "thick end" of the wedge? It is that Latin and Greek may both vanish from our curriculum; that logic, philosophy, and history may follow; and that the destinies of Oxford may some day be in the hands of those who have had no education other than "scientific." And why not? I shall be asked. Is it not as high a form of education as any other? That is a matter to be settled by facts. I can but offer my own little item of evidence, and leave it to others to confirm or to refute. It used once to be thought indispensable for an educated man that he should be able to write his own language correctly, if not elegantly; it seems doubtful how much longer this will be taken as a criterion. Not so many years ago I had the honour of assisting in correcting for the press some pages of the Anthropological Review, or some such periodical. I doubt not that the writers were eminent men in their own line; that each could triumphantly prove, to his own satisfaction, the unsoundness of what the others had advanced; and that all would unite in declaring that the theories of a year ago were entirely exploded by the latest German treatise; but they were not able to set forth these thoughts, however consoling in themselves, in anything resembling the language of educated society. In all my experience, I have never read, even in the "local news" of a country paper, such slipshod, such deplorable English. I shall be told that I am ungenerous in thus picking out a few unfavourable cases, and that some of the greatest minds of the day are to be found in the ranks of science. I freely admit that such may be found, but my contention is that they made the science, not the science them; and that in any line of thought they would have been equally distinguished. As a general principle, I do not think that the exclusive study of any one subject is really education; and my experience as a teacher has shown me that even a considerable proficiency in Natural Science, taken alone, is so far from proving a high degree of cultivation and great natural ability that it is fully compatible with general ignorance and an intellect quite below par. Therefore it is that I seek to rouse an interest, beyond the limits of Oxford, in preserving classics as an essential feature of a University education. Nor is it as a classical tutor (who might be suspected of a bias in favour of his own subject) that I write this. On the contrary, it is as one who has taught science here for more than twenty years (for mathematics, though good-humouredly scorned by the biologists on account of the abnormal certainty of its conclusions, is still reckoned among the sciences) that I beg to sign myself,—Your obedient servant, Charles L. Dodgson, Mathematical Lecturer of Christ Church, Oxford. May 17th. I give the above letter because I think it amusing; it must not be supposed that the writer's views on the subject remained the same all through his life. He was a thorough Conservative, and it took a long time to reconcile him to any new departure. In a political discussion with a friend he once said that he was "first an Englishman, and then a Conservative," but however much a man may try to put patriotism before party, the result will be but partially successful, if patriotism would lead him into opposition to the mental bias which has originally made him either a Conservative or a Radical. He took, of course, great pleasure in the success of his books, as every author must; but the greatest pleasure of all to him was to know that they had pleased others. Notes like the following are frequent in his Diary: "June 25th.—Spent the afternoon in sending off seventy circulars to Hospitals, offering copies of 'Alice' and the 'Looking-Glass' for sick children." He well deserved the name which one of his admirers gave him—"The man who loved little children." In April, 1878, he saw a performance of "Olivia" at the Court Theatre. "The gem of the piece is Olivia herself, acted by Ellen Terry with a sweetness and pathos that moved some of the audience (nearly including myself) to tears. Her leave-taking was exquisite; and when, in her exile, she hears that her little brother had cried at the mention of her name, her exclamation 'Pet!' was tenderness itself. Altogether, I have not had a greater dramatic treat for a long time. Dies cretâ notandus." I see that I have marked for quotation the following brief entries in the Diary:— Aug. 4th (at Eastbourne).—Went, morning and evening, to the new chapel-of-ease belonging to S. Saviour's. It has the immense advantage of not being crowded; but this scarcely compensates for the vile Gregorian chants, which vex and weary one's ear. Aug. 17th.—A very inquisitive person, who had some children with her, found out my name, and then asked me to shake hands with her child, as an admirer of my books: this I did, unwisely perhaps, as I have no intention of continuing the acquaintance of a "Mrs. Leo Hunter." Dec. 23rd.—I have been making a plan for work next term, of this kind: Choose a subject (e.g., "Circulation," "Journeys of S. Paul," "English Counties") for each week. On Monday write what I know about it; during week get up subject; on Saturday write again; put the two papers away, and six months afterwards write again and compare. As an artist, Mr. Dodgson possessed an intense natural appreciation of the beautiful, an abhorrence of all that is coarse and unseemly which might almost be called hyper-refinement, a wonderfully good eye for form, and last, but not least, the most scrupulous conscientiousness about detail. On the other hand his sense of colour was somewhat imperfect, and his hand was almost totally untrained, so that while he had all the enthusiasm of the true artist, his work always had the defects of an amateur. 501.png MISS E. GERTRUDE THOMSON. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. In 1878 some drawings of Miss E. Gertrude Thomson's excited his keen admiration, and he exerted himself to make her acquaintance. Their first meeting is described so well by Miss Thomson herself in The Gentlewoman for January 29, 1898, that I cannot do better than quote the description of the scene as given there:— It was at the end of December, 1878, that a letter, written in a singularly legible and rather boyish-looking hand, came to me from Christ Church, Oxford, signed "C. L. Dodgson." The writer said that he had come across some fairy designs of mine, and he should like to see some more of my work. By the same post came a letter from my London publisher (who had supplied my address) telling me that the "Rev. C. L. Dodgson" was "Lewis Carroll." "Alice in Wonderland" had long been one of my pet books, and as one regards a favourite author as almost a personal friend, I felt less restraint than one usually feels in writing to a stranger, though I carefully concealed my knowledge of his identity, as he had not chosen to reveal it. This was the beginning of a frequent and delightful correspondence, and as I confessed to a great love for fairy lore of every description, he asked me if I would accept a child's fairy-tale book he had written, called "Alice in Wonderland." I replied that I knew it nearly all off by heart, but that I should greatly prize a copy given to me by himself. By return came "Alice," and "Through the Looking-Glass," bound most luxuriously in white calf and gold. And this is the graceful and kindly note that came with them: "I am now sending you 'Alice,' and the 'Looking-Glass' as well. There is an incompleteness about giving only one, and besides, the one you bought was probably in red and would not match these. If you are at all in doubt as to what to do with the (now) superfluous copy, let me suggest your giving it to some poor sick child. I have been distributing copies to all the hospitals and convalescent homes I can hear of, where there are sick children capable of reading them, and though, of course, one takes some pleasure in the popularity of the books elsewhere, it is not nearly so pleasant a thought to me as that they may be a comfort and relief to children in hours of pain and weariness. Still, no recipient can be more appropriate than one who seems to have been in fairyland herself, and to have seen, like the 'weary mariners' of old— 'Between the green brink and the running foam White limbs unrobed in a crystal air, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold.'" "Do you ever come to London?" he asked in another letter; "if so, will you allow me to call upon you?" Early in the summer I came up to study, and I sent him word that I was in town. One night, coming into my room, after a long day spent at the British Museum, in the half-light I saw a card lying on the table. "Rev. C. L. Dodgson." Bitter, indeed, was my disappointment at having missed him, but just as I was laying it sadly down I spied a small T.O. in the corner. On the back I read that he couldn't get up to my rooms early or late enough to find me, so would I arrange to meet him at some museum or gallery the day but one following? I fixed on South Kensington Museum, by the "Schliemann" collection, at twelve o'clock. A little before twelve I was at the rendezvous, and then the humour of the situation suddenly struck me, that I had not the ghost of an idea what he was like, nor would he have any better chance of discovering me! The room was fairly full of all sorts and conditions, as usual, and I glanced at each masculine figure in turn, only to reject it as a possibility of the one I sought. Just as the big clock had clanged out twelve, I heard the high vivacious voices and laughter of children sounding down the corridor. At that moment a gentleman entered, two little girls clinging to his hands, and as I caught sight of the tall slim figure, with the clean-shaven, delicate, refined face, I said to myself, "That's Lewis Carroll." He stood for a moment, head erect, glancing swiftly over the room, then, bending down, whispered something to one of the children; she, after a moment's pause, pointed straight at me. Dropping their hands he came forward, and with that winning smile of his that utterly banished the oppressive sense of the Oxford don, said simply, "I am Mr. Dodgson; I was to meet you, I think?" To which I as frankly smiled, and said, "How did you know me so soon?" "My little friend found you. I told her I had come to meet a young lady who knew fairies, and she fixed on you at once. But I knew you before she spoke." This acquaintance ripened into a true, artistic friendship, which lasted till Mr. Dodgson's death. In his first letter to Miss Thomson he speaks of himself as one who for twenty years had found his one amusement in photographing from life—especially photographing children; he also said that he had made attempts ("most unsuccessfully") at drawing them. When he got to know her more intimately, he asked her to criticise his work, and when she wrote expressing her willingness to do so, he sent her a pile of sketch-books, through which she went most carefully, marking the mistakes, and criticising, wherever criticism seemed to be necessary. After this he might often have been seen in her studio, lying flat on his face, and drawing some child-model who had been engaged for his especial benefit. "I love the effort to draw," he wrote in one of his letters to her, "but I utterly fail to please even my own eye—tho' now and then I seem to get somewhere near a right line or two, when I have a live child to draw from. But I have no time left now for such things. In the next life, I do hope we shall not only see lovely forms, such as this world does not contain, but also be able to draw them." But while he fully recognised the limits of his powers, he had great faith in his own critical judgment; and with good reason, for his perception of the beautiful in contour and attitude and grouping was almost unerring. All the drawings which Miss Thomson made for his "Three Sunsets" were submitted to his criticism, which descended to the smallest details. He concludes a letter to her, which contained the most elaborate and minute suggestions for the improvement of one of these pictures, with the following words: "I make all these suggestions with diffidence, feeling that I have really no right at all, as an amateur, to criticise the work of a real artist." The following extract from another letter to Miss Thomson shows that seeking after perfection, that discontent with everything short of the best, which was so marked a feature of his character. She had sent him two drawings of the head of some child-friend of his:— Your note is a puzzle—you say that "No. 2 would have been still more like if the paper had been exactly the same shade—but I'd no more at hand of the darker colour." Had I given you the impression that I was in a hurry, and was willing to have No. 2 less good than it might be made, so long as I could have it quick? If I did, I'm very sorry: I never meant to say a word like it: and, if you had written "I could make it still more like, on darker paper; but I've no more at hand. How long can you wait for me to get some?" I should have replied, "Six weeks, or six months, if you prefer it!" I have already spoken of his love of nature, as opposed to the admiration for the morbid and abnormal. "I want you," he writes to Miss Thomson, "to do my fairy drawings from life. They would be very pretty, no doubt, done out of your own head, but they will be ten times as valuable if done from life. Mr. Furniss drew the pictures of 'Sylvie' from life. Mr. Tenniel is the only artist, who has drawn for me, who resolutely refused to use a model, and declared he no more needed one than I should need a multiplication-table to work a mathematical problem!" On another occasion he urges the importance of using models, in order to avoid the similarity of features which would otherwise spoil the pictures: "Cruikshank's splendid illustrations were terribly spoiled by his having only one pretty female face in them all. Leech settled down into two female faces. Du Maurier, I think, has only one, now. All the ladies, and all the little girls in his pictures look like twin sisters." It is interesting to know that Sir Noel Paton and Mr. Walter Crane were, in Lewis Carroll's opinion, the most successful drawers of children: "There are but few artists who seem to draw the forms of children con amore. Walter Crane is perhaps the best (always excepting Sir Noel Paton): but the thick outlines, which he insists on using, seem to take off a good deal from the beauty of the result." He held that no artist can hope to effect a higher type of beauty than that which life itself exhibits, as the following words show:— I don't quite understand about fairies losing "grace," if too like human children. Of course I grant that to be like some actual child is to lose grace, because no living child is perfect in form: many causes have lowered the race from what God made it. But the perfect human form, free from these faults, is surely equally applicable to men, and fairies, and angels? Perhaps that is what you mean—that the Artist can imagine, and design, more perfect forms than we ever find in life? I have already referred several times to Miss Ellen Terry as having been one of Mr. Dodgson's friends, but he was intimate with the whole family, and used often to pay them a visit when he was in town. On May 15, 1879, he records a very curious dream which he had about Miss Marion ("Polly") Terry:— Last night I had a dream which I record as a curiosity, so far as I know, in the literature of dreams. I was staying, with my sisters, in some suburb of London, and had heard that the Terrys were staying near us, so went to call, and found Mrs. Terry at home, who told us that Marion and Florence were at the theatre, "the Walter House," where they had a good engagement. "In that case," I said, "I'll go on there at once, and see the performance—and may I take Polly with me?" "Certainly," said Mrs. Terry. And there was Polly, the child, seated in the room, and looking about nine or ten years old: and I was distinctly conscious of the fact, yet without any feeling of surprise at its incongruity, that I was going to take the child Polly with me to the theatre, to see the grown-up Polly act! Both pictures—Polly as a child, and Polly as a woman, are, I suppose, equally clear in my ordinary waking memory: and it seems that in sleep I had contrived to give the two pictures separate individualities. Of all the mathematical books which Mr. Dodgson wrote, by far the most elaborate, if not the most original, was "Euclid and His Modern Rivals." The first edition was issued in 1879, and a supplement, afterwards incorporated into the second edition, appeared in 1885. This book, as the author says, has for its object to furnish evidence (1) that it is essential for the purposes of teaching or examining in Elementary Geometry to employ one text—book only; (2) that there are strong a priori reasons for retaining in all its main features, and especially in its sequence and numbering of Propositions, and in its treatment of Parallels, the Manual of Euclid; and (3) that no sufficient reasons have yet been shown for abandoning it in favour of any one of the modern Manuals which have been offered as substitutes. The book is written in dramatic form, and relieved throughout by many touches in the author's happiest vein, which make it delightful not only to the scientific reader, but also to any one of average intelligence with the slightest sense of humour. Whether the conclusions are accepted in their entirety or not, it is certain that the arguments are far more effective than if the writer had presented them in the form of an essay. Mr. Dodgson had a wide experience as a teacher and examiner, so that he knew well what he was writing about, and undoubtedly the appearance of this book has done very much to stay the hand of the innovator. The scene opens in a College study-time, midnight. Minos, an examiner, is discovered seated between two immense piles of manuscripts. He is driven almost to distraction in his efforts to mark fairly the papers sent up, by reason of the confusion caused through the candidates offering various substitutes for Euclid. Rhadamanthus, another equally distracted examiner, comes to his room. The two men consult together for a time, and then Rhadamanthus retires, and Minos falls asleep. Hereupon the Ghost of Euclid appears, and discusses with Minos the reasons for retaining his Manual as a whole, in its present order and arrangement. As they are mainly concerned with the wants of beginners, their attention is confined to Books I. and II. We must be content with one short extract from the dialogue:— Euclid.—It is, I think, a friend of yours who has amused himself by tabulating the various Theorems which might be enunciated on the single subject of Pairs of Lines. How many did he make them out to be? Minos.—About two hundred and fifty, I believe. Euclid.—At that rate there would probably be within the limit of my First Book—how many? Minos.—A thousand at least. Euclid.—What a popular school-book it will be! How boys will bless the name of the writer who first brings out the complete thousand! With a view to discussing and criticising his various modern rivals, Euclid promises to send to Minos the ghost of a German Professor (Herr Niemand) who "has read all books, and is ready to defend any thesis, true or untrue." "A charming companion!" as Minos drily remarks. This brings us to Act II., in which the Manuals which reject Euclid's treatment of Parallels are dealt with one by one. Those Manuals which adopt it are reserved for Act III., Scene i.; while in Scene ii., "The Syllabus of the Association for the Improvement of Geometrical Teaching," and Wilson's "Syllabus," come under review. Only one or two extracts need be given, which, it is hoped, will suffice to illustrate the character and style of the book: Act II., Scene v.—Niemand and Minos are arguing for and against Henrici's "Elementary Geometry." Minos.—I haven't quite done with points yet. I find an assertion that they never jump. Do you think that arises from their having "position," which they feel might be compromised by such conduct? Niemand.—I cannot tell without hearing the passage read. Minos.—It is this: "A point, in changing its position on a curve, passes in moving from one position to another through all intermediate positions. It does not move by jumps." Niemand.—That is quite true. Minos.—Tell me then—is every centre of gravity a point? Niemand.—Certainly. Minos.—Let us now consider the centre of gravity of a flea. Does it— Niemand (indignantly).—Another word, and I shall vanish! I cannot waste a night on such trivialities. Minos.—I can't resist giving you just one more tit-bit—the definition of a square at page 123: "A quadrilateral which is a kite, a symmetrical trapezium, and a parallelogram is a square!" And now, farewell, Henrici: "Euclid, with all thy faults, I love thee still!" Again, from Act II., Scene vi.:— Niemand.—He (Pierce, another "Modern Rival,") has a definition of direction which will, I think, be new to you. (Reads.) "The direction of a line in any part is the direction of a point at that part from the next preceding point of the line!" Minos.—That sounds mysterious. Which way along a line are "preceding" points to be found? Niemand.—Both ways. He adds, directly afterwards, "A line has two different directions," &c. Minos.—So your definition needs a postscript.... But there is yet another difficulty. How far from a point is the "next" point? Niemand.—At an infinitely small distance, of course. You will find the matter fully discussed in my work on the Infinitesimal Calculus. Minos.—A most satisfactory answer for a teacher to make to a pupil just beginning Geometry! In Act IV. Euclid reappears to Minos, "followed by the ghosts of Archimedes, Pythagoras, &c., who have come to see fair play." Euclid thus sums up his case:— "'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,' and all respectable ghosts ought to be going home. Let me carry with me the hope that I have convinced you of the necessity of retaining my order and numbering, and my method of treating Straight Lines, Angles, Right Angles, and (most especially) Parallels. Leave me these untouched, and I shall look on with great contentment while other changes are made—while my proofs are abridged and improved—while alternative proofs are appended to mine—and while new Problems and Theorems are interpolated. In all these matters my Manual is capable of almost unlimited improvement." In Appendices I. and II. Mr. Dodgson quotes the opinions of two eminent mathematical teachers, Mr. Todhunter and Professor De Morgan, in support of his argument. Before leaving this subject I should like to refer to a very novel use of Mr. Dodgson's book—its employment in a school. Mr. G. Hopkins, Mathematical Master in the High School at Manchester, U.S., and himself the author of a "Manual of Plane Geometry," has so employed it in a class of boys aged from fourteen or fifteen upwards. He first called their attention to some of the more prominent difficulties relating to the question of Parallels, put a copy of Euclid in their hands, and let them see his treatment of them, and after some discussion placed before them Mr. Dodgson's "Euclid and His Modern Rivals" and "New Theory of Parallels." Perhaps it is the fact that American boys are sharper than English, but at any rate the youngsters are reported to have read the two books with an earnestness and a persistency that were as gratifying to their instructor as they were complimentary to Mr. Dodgson. In June of the same year an entry in the Diary refers to a proposal in Convocation to allow the University Club to have a cricket-ground in the Parks. This had been proposed in 1867, and then rejected. Mr. Dodgson sent round to the Common Rooms copies of a poem on "The Deserted Parks," which had been published by Messrs. Parker in 1867, and which was afterwards included in "Notes by an Oxford Chiel." I quote the first few lines:— Museum! loveliest building of the plain Where Cherwell winds towards the distant main; How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared the scene! How often have I paused on every charm,— The rustic couple walking arm in arm, The groups of trees, with seats beneath the shade For prattling babes and whisp'ring lovers made, The never-failing brawl, the busy mill, Where tiny urchins vied in fistic skill. (Two phrases only have that dusky race Caught from the learned influence of the place; Phrases in their simplicity sublime, "Scramble a copper!" "Please, sir, what's the time?") These round thy walks their cheerful influence shed; These were thy charms—but all these charms are fled, Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And rude pavilions sadden all thy green; One selfish pastime grasps the whole domain, And half a faction swallows up the plain; Adown thy glades, all sacrificed to cricket, The hollow-sounding bat now guards the wicket; Sunk are thy mounds in shapeless level all, Lest aught impede the swiftly rolling ball; And trembling, shrinking from the fatal blow, Far, far away thy hapless children go. Ill fares the place, to luxury a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and minds decay: Athletic sports may flourish or may fade, Fashion may make them, even as it has made; But the broad Parks, the city's joy and pride, When once destroyed can never be supplied! Readers of "Sylvie and Bruno" will remember the way in which the invisible fairy-children save the drunkard from his evil life, and I have always felt that Mr. Dodgson meant Sylvie to be something more than a fairy—a sort of guardian angel. That such an idea would not have been inconsistent with his way of looking at things is shown by the following letter: Ch. Ch., July, 1879. My dear Ethel,—I have been long intending to answer your letter of April 11th, chiefly as to your question in reference to Mrs. N—'s letter about the little S—s [whose mother had recently died]. You say you don't see "how they can be guided aright by their dead mother, or how light can come from her." Many people believe that our friends in the other world can and do influence us in some way, and perhaps even "guide" us and give us light to show us our duty. My own feeling is, it may be so: but nothing has been revealed about it. That the angels do so is revealed, and we may feel sure of that; and there is a beautiful fancy (for I don't think one can call it more) that "a mother who has died leaving a child behind her in this world, is allowed to be a sort of guardian angel to that child." Perhaps Mrs. N— believes that. Here are two other entries in the Diary:— Aug. 26th.—Worked from about 9.45 to 6.45, and again from 10.15 to 11.45 (making 101/2 hours altogether) at an idea which occurred to me of finding limits for pi by elementary trigonometry, for the benefit of the circle-squarers. Dec. 12th.—Invented a new way of working one word into another. I think of calling the puzzle "syzygies." I give the first three specimens:— MAN } permanent } entice } Send MAN on ICE. ICE. } ACRE } sacred } credentials } RELY on ACRE. entirely } RELY } PRISM } prismatic } dramatic } Prove PRISM to be ODIOUS. melodrama } melodious } ODIOUS. } In February, 1880, Mr. Dodgson proposed to the Christ Church "Staff-salaries Board," that as his tutorial work was lighter he should have £200 instead of £300 a year. It is not often that a man proposes to cut down his own salary, but the suggestion in this case was intended to help the College authorities in the policy of retrenchment which they were trying to carry out. May 24th.—Percival, President of Trin. Coll., who has Cardinal Newman as his guest, wrote to say that the Cardinal would sit for a photo, to me, at Trinity. But I could not take my photography there and he couldn't come to me: so nothing came of it. Aug. 19th. [At Eastbourne].—Took Ruth and Maud to the Circus (Hutchinson and Tayleure's—from America). I made friends with Mr. Tayleure, who took me to the tents of horses, and the caravan he lived in. And I added to my theatrical experiences by a chat with a couple of circus children—Ada Costello, aged 9, and Polly (Evans, I think), aged 13. I found Ada in the outer tent, with the pony on which she was to perform—practising vaulting on to it, varied with somersaults on the ground. I showed her my wire puzzle, and ultimately gave it her, promising a duplicate to Polly. Both children seemed bright and happy, and they had pleasant manners. Sept. 2nd.—Mrs. H— took me to Dr. Bell's (the old homoeopathic doctor) to hear Lord Radstock speak about "training children." It was a curious affair. First a very long hymn; then two very long extempore prayers (not by Lord R—), which were strangely self-sufficient and wanting in reverence. Lord R—'s remarks were commonplace enough, though some of his theories were new, but, I think, not true—e.g., that encouraging emulation in schoolboys, or desiring that they should make a good position in life, was un-Christian. I escaped at the first opportunity after his speech, and went down on the beach, where I made acquaintance with a family who were banking up with sand the feet and legs of a pretty little girl perched on a sand-castle. I got her father to make her stand to be drawn. Further along the beach a merry little mite began pelting me with sand; so I drew her too. Nov. 16th.—Thought of a plan for simplifying money-orders, by making the sender fill up two duplicate papers, one of which he hands in to be transmitted by the postmaster—it containing a key—number which the receiver has to supply in his copy to get the money. I think of suggesting this, and my plan for double postage on Sunday, to the Government. Dec. 19th.—The idea occurred to me that a game might be made of letters, to be moved about on a chess-board till they form words. A little book, published during this year, "Alice (a dramatic version of Lewis Carroll's 'Alice'), and other Fairy Tales for Children," by Mrs. Freiligrath-Kroeker, was very successful, and, I understand, still has a regular sale. Mr. Dodgson most gladly gave his consent to the dramatisation of his story by so talented an authoress, and shortly afterwards Mrs. Kroeker brought out "Through the Looking-Glass" in a similar form. Jan. 17, 1881.—To the Lyceum to see "The Cup" and "The Corsican Brothers." The first is exquisitely put on, and Ellen Terry as Camma is the perfection of grace, and Irving as the villain, and Mr. Terriss as the husband, were very good. But the piece wants substance. Jan. 19th.—Tried to go to Oxford, but the line is blocked near Didcot, so stayed another night in town. The next afternoon the line was reported clear, but the journey took 5 hours! On the day before the Dean of Ch. Ch. and his family were snowed up for 21 hours near Radley. March 27th.—Went to S. Mary's and stayed for Holy Communion, and, as Ffoulkes was alone, I mustered up courage to help him. I read the exhortation, and was pleased to find I did not once hesitate. I think I must try preaching again soon, as he has often begged me to do. April 16th.—Mr. Greenwood approves my theory about general elections, and wants me to write on it in the St. James's Gazette. (The letter appeared on May 5, 1881.) May 14th.—Took the longest walk (I believe) I have ever done—round by Dorchester, Didcot and Abingdon—27 miles—took 8 hours—no blisters, I rejoice to find, and I feel very little tired. May 26th.—The row-loving men in College are beginning to be troublesome again, and last night some 30 or 40 of them, aided by out-College men, made a great disturbance, and regularly defied the Censors. I have just been with the other Tutors into Hall, and heard the Dean make an excellent speech to the House. Some two or three will have to go down, and twelve or fifteen others will be punished in various ways. (A later note says): The punishments had to be modified—it turned out that the disturbers were nearly all out-College men. Mr. Dodgson sent a letter to The Observer on this subject:— Sir,—Your paper of May 29th contains a leading article on Christ Church, resting on so many mis-statements of fact that I venture to appeal to your sense of justice to allow me, if no abler writer has addressed you on the subject, an opportunity of correcting them. It will, I think, be found that in so doing I shall have removed the whole foundation on which the writer has based his attack on the House, after which I may contentedly leave the superstructure to take care of itself. "Christ Church is always provoking the adverse criticism of the outer world." The writer justifies this rather broad generalisation by quoting three instances of such provocation, which I will take one by one. At one time we are told that "The Dean ... neglects his functions, and spends the bulk of his time in Madeira." The fact is that the Dean's absence from England more than twenty years ago during two successive winters was a sad necessity, caused by the appearance of symptoms of grave disease, from which he has now, under God's blessing, perfectly recovered. The second instance occurred eleven years ago, when some of the undergraduates destroyed some valuable statuary in the Library. Here the writer states that the Dean first announced that criminal proceedings would be taken, and then, on discovering that the offenders were "highly connected," found himself "converted to the opinion that mercy is preferable to stern justice, and charity to the strict letter of the law." The facts are that the punishment awarded to the offenders was deliberated on and determined on by the Governing Body, consisting of the Dean, the Canons, and some twenty Senior Students; that their deliberations were most assuredly in no way affected by any thoughts of the offenders being "highly connected"; and that, when all was over, we had the satisfaction of seeing ourselves roundly abused in the papers on both sides, and charged with having been too lenient, and also with having been too severe. The third instance occurred the other night. Some undergraduates were making a disturbance, and the Junior Censor "made his appearance in person upon the scene of riot," and "was contumeliously handled." Here the only statement of any real importance, the alleged assault by Christ Church men on the Junior Censor, is untrue. The fact is that nearly all the disturbers were out-College men, and, though it is true that the Censor was struck by a stone thrown from a window, the unenviable distinction of having thrown it belongs to no member of the House. I doubt if we have one single man here who would be capable of so base and cowardly an act. The writer then gives us a curious account of the present constitution of the House. The Dean, whom he calls "the right reverend gentleman," is, "in a kind of way, master of the College. The Canons, in a vague kind of way, are supposed to control the College." The Senior Students "dare not call their souls their own," and yet somehow dare "to vent their wrath" on the Junior Students. His hazy, mental picture of the position of the Canons may be cleared up by explaining to him that the "control" they exercise is neither more nor less than that of any other six members of the Governing Body. The description of the Students I pass over as not admitting any appeal to actual facts. The truth is that Christ Church stands convicted of two unpardonable crimes—being great, and having a name. Such a place must always expect to find itself "a wide mark for scorn and jeers"—a target where the little and the nameless may display their skill. Only the other day an M.P., rising to ask a question about Westminster School, went on to speak of Christ Church, and wound up with a fierce attack on the ancient House. Shall we blame him? Do we blame the wanton schoolboy, with a pebble in his hand, all powerless to resist the alluring vastness of a barndoor? The essence of the article seems to be summed up in the following sentence: "At Christ Church all attempts to preserve order by the usual means have hitherto proved uniformly unsuccessful, and apparently remain equally fruitless." It is hard for one who, like myself, has lived here most of his life, to believe that this is seriously intended as a description of the place. However, as general statements can only be met by general statements, permit me, as one who has lived here for thirty years and has taught for five-and-twenty, to say that in my experience order has been the rule, disorder the rare exception, and that, if the writer of your leading article has had an equal amount of experience in any similar place of education, and has found a set of young men more gentlemanly, more orderly, and more pleasant in every way to deal with, than I have found here, I cannot but think him an exceptionally favoured mortal.—Yours, &c. Charles l. Dodgson, Student and Mathematical Lecturer of Christ Church. In July began an amusing correspondence between Mr. Dodgson and a "circle-squarer," which lasted several months. Mr. Dodgson sent the infatuated person, whom we will call Mr. B—, a proof that the area of a circle is less than 3.15 the square of the radius. Mr. B—replied, "Your proof is not in accordance with Euclid, it assumes that a circle may be considered as a rectangle, and that two right lines can enclose a space." He returned the proof, saying that he could not accept any of it as elucidating the exact area of a circle, or as Euclidean. As Mr. Dodgson's method involved a slight knowledge of trigonometry, and he had reason to suspect that Mr. B—was entirely ignorant of that subject, he thought it worth while to put him to the test by asking him a few questions upon it, but the circle-squarer, with commendable prudence, declined to discuss anything not Euclidean. Mr. Dodgson then wrote to him, "taking leave of the subject, until he should be willing to enlarge his field of knowledge to the elements of Algebraical Geometry." Mr. B—replied, with unmixed contempt, "Algebraical Geometry is all moon-shine." He preferred "weighing cardboard" as a means of ascertaining exact truth in mathematical research. Finally he suggested that Mr. Dodgson might care to join in a prize-competition to be got up among the followers of Euclid, and as he apparently wished him to understand that he (Mr. B—) did not think much of his chances of getting a prize, Mr. Dodgson considered that the psychological moment for putting an end to the correspondence had arrived. Meanwhile he was beginning to feel his regular College duties a terrible clog upon his literary work. The Studentship which he held was not meant to tie him down to lectures and examinations. Such work was very well for a younger man; he could best serve "the House" by his literary fame. July 14th.—Came to a more definite decision than I have ever yet done—that it is about time to resign the Mathematical Lectureship. My chief motive for holding on has been to provide money for others (for myself, I have been many years able to retire), but even the £300 a year I shall thus lose I may fairly hope to make by the additional time I shall have for book-writing. I think of asking the G.B. (Governing Body) next term to appoint my successor, so that I may retire at the end of the year, when I shall be close on fifty years old, and shall have held the Lectureship for exactly 26 years. (I had the Honourmen for the last two terms of 1855, but was not full Lecturer till Hilary, 1856.) Oct. 18th.—I have just taken an important step in life, by sending to the Dean a proposal to resign the Mathematical Lectureship at the end of this year. I shall now have my whole time at my own disposal, and, if God gives me life and continued health and strength, may hope, before my powers fail, to do some worthy work in writing—partly in the cause of mathematical education, partly in the cause of innocent recreation for children, and partly, I hope (though so utterly unworthy of being allowed to take up such work) in the cause of religious thought. May God bless the new form of life that lies before me, that I may use it according to His holy will! Oct. 21st.—I had a note in the evening from the Dean, to say that he had seen the Censors on the subject of my proposed resignation at the end of the year, and that arrangements should be made, as far as could be done, to carry out my wishes; and kindly adding an expression of regret at losing my services, but allowing that I had "earned a right to retirement." So my Lectureship seems to be near its end. Nov. 30th.—I find by my Journal that I gave my first Euclid Lecture in the Lecture-room on Monday, January 28, 1856. It consisted of twelve men, of whom nine attended. This morning, I have given what is most probably my last: the lecture is now reduced to nine, of whom all attended on Monday: this morning being a Saint's Day, the attendance was voluntary, and only two appeared—E.H. Morris, and G. Lavie. I was Lecturer when the father of the latter took his degree, viz., in 1858. There is a sadness in coming to the end of anything in life. Man's instincts cling to the Life that will never end. May 30, 1882.—Called on Mrs. R—. During a good part of the evening I read The Times, while the party played a round game of spelling words—a thing I will never join in. Rational conversation and good music are the only things which, to me, seem worth the meeting for, for grown-up people. June 1st.—Went out with Charsley, and did four miles on one of his velocimans, very pleasantly. The velociman was an early and somewhat cumbrous form of tricycle; Mr. Dodgson made many suggestions for its improvement. He never attempted to ride a bicycle, however, but, in accordance with his own dictum, "In youth, try a bicycle, in age, buy a tricycle," confined himself to the three-wheeled variety. Nov. 8th.—Whitehead, of Trinity, told us a charming story in Common Room of a father and son. They came up together: the son got into a College—the father had to go to New Inn Hall: the son passed Responsions, while his father had to put off: finally, the father failed in Mods and has gone down: the son will probably take his degree, and may then be able to prepare his father for another try. Among the coloured cartoons in Shrimpton's window at Oxford there used to be, when I was up, a picture which I think referred to this story. 503.png OXFORD TYPES. From a photograph by A.T. Shrimpton.. Nov. 23rd.—Spent two hours "invigilating" in the rooms of W.J. Grant (who has broken his collar-bone, and is allowed to do his Greats papers in this way) while he dictated his answers to another undergraduate, Pakenham, who acted as scribe. Nov. 24th.—Dined with Fowler (now President of C.C.C.) in hall, to meet Ranken. Both men are now mostly bald, with quite grey hair: yet how short a time it seems since we were undergraduates together at Whitby! (in 1854). Dec 8th.—A Common Room Meeting. Fresh powers were given to the Wine Committee, and then a new Curator elected. I was proposed by Holland, and seconded by Harcourt, and accepted office with no light heart: there will be much trouble and thought needed to work it satisfactorily, but it will take me out of myself a little, and so may be a real good—my life was tending to become too much that of a selfish recluse. During this year he composed the words of a song, "Dreamland." The air was dreamed by his friend, the late Rev. C. E. Hutchinson, of Chichester. The history of the dream is here given in the words of the dreamer:— I found myself seated, with many others, in darkness, in a large amphitheatre. Deep stillness prevailed. A kind of hushed expectancy was upon us. We sat awaiting I know not what. Before us hung a vast and dark curtain, and between it and us was a kind of stage. Suddenly an intense wish seized me to look upon the forms of some of the heroes of past days. I cannot say whom in particular I longed to behold, but, even as I wished, a faint light flickered over the stage, and I was aware of a silent procession of figures moving from right to left across the platform in front of me. As each figure approached the left-hand corner it turned and gazed at me, and I knew (by what means I cannot say) its name. One only I recall—Saint George; the light shone with a peculiar blueish lustre on his shield and helmet as he turned and slowly faced me. The figures were shadowy, and floated like mist before me; as each one disappeared an invisible choir behind the curtain sang the "Dream music." I awoke with the melody ringing in my ears, and the words of the last line complete—"I see the shadows falling, and slowly pass away." The rest I could not recall. 238.png DREAMLAND. Words by LEWIS CARROLL. Music by C.E. HUTCHINSON. When midnight mists are creeping And all the land is sleeping Around me tread the mighty dead, And slowly pass away. Lo, warriors, saints, and sages, From out the vanished ages, With solemn pace and reverend face Appear and pass away. The blaze of noonday splendour, The twilight soft and tender, May charm the eye: yet they shall die, Shall die and pass away But here, in Dreamland's centre, No spoiler's hand may enter, These visions fair, this radiance rare, Shall never pass away I see the shadows falling, The forms of eld recalling; Around me tread the mighty dead, And slowly pass away One of the best services to education which Mr. Dodgson performed was his edition of "Euclid I. and II.," which was published in 1882. In writing "Euclid and His Modern Rivals," he had criticised somewhat severely the various substitutes proposed for Euclid, so far as they concerned beginners; but at the same time he had admitted that within prescribed limits Euclid's text is capable of amendment and improvement, and this is what he attempted to do in this book. That he was fully justified is shown by the fact that during the years 1882—1889 the book ran through eight editions. In the Introduction he enumerates, under the three headings of "Additions," "Omissions," and "Alterations," the chief points of difference between his own and the ordinary editions of Euclid, with his reasons for adopting them. They are the outcome of long experience, and the most conservative of teachers would readily accept them. The proof of I. 24, for example, is decidedly better and more satisfactory than the ordinary proof, and the introduction of the definition of "projection" certainly simplifies the cumbrous enunciations of II. 12 and 13. Again, the alternative proof of II. 8, suggested in the Introduction, is valuable, and removes all excuse for omitting this proposition, as is commonly clone. The figures used are from the blocks prepared for the late Mr. Todhunter's well-known edition of Euclid, to which Mr. Dodgson's manual forms an excellent stepping-stone. At the beginning of 1883 he went up to town to see the collection of D. G. Rossetti's pictures in the Burlington Gallery. He was especially struck with "Found," which he thus describes— A picture of a man finding, in the streets of London, a girl he had loved years before in the days of her innocence. She is huddled up against the wall, dressed in gaudy colours, and trying to turn away her agonised face, while he, holding her wrists, is looking down with an expression of pain and pity, condemnation and love, which is one of the most marvellous things I have ever seen done in painting. Jan. 27, 1883 [His birthday].—I cannot say I feel much older at 51 than at 21! Had my first "tasting-luncheon"; it seemed to give great satisfaction. [The object of the Curator's "tasting-luncheon" was, of course, to give members of Common Room an opportunity of deciding what wines should be bought.] March 15th.—Went up to town to fulfil my promise to Lucy A.—: to take her for her first visit to the theatre. We got to the Lyceum in good time, and the play was capitally acted. I had hinted to Beatrice (Miss Ellen Terry) how much she could add to Lucy's pleasure by sending round a "carte" of herself; she sent a cabinet. She is certainly an adept in giving gifts that gratify. April 23d.—Tried another long walk—22 miles, to Besilsleigh, Fyfield, Kingston, Bagpuize, Frilford, Marcham, and Abingdon. The last half of the way was in the face of wind, rain, snow, and hail. Was too lame to go into Hall. CHAPTER VI (1883—1887) "The Profits of Authorship"—"Rhyme? and Reason?"—The Common Room Cat—Visit to Jersey—Purity of elections—Parliamentary Representation—Various literary projects—Letters to Miss E. Rix—Being happy—"A Tangled Tale"—Religious arguments—The "Alice" Operetta—"Alice's Adventures Underground"—"The Game of Logic"—Mr. Harry Furniss. In 1883 Lewis Carroll was advised to make a stand against the heavy discount allowed by publishers to booksellers, and by booksellers to the public. Accordingly the following notice began to appear in all his books: "In selling Mr. Lewis Carroll's books to the Trade, Messrs. Macmillan and Co. will abate 2d. in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per cent, discount within six months, and 10 per cent, for cash. In selling them to the Public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent, discount." It was a bold step to take, and elicited some loud expressions of disapproval. "Rather than buy on the terms Mr. Lewis Carroll offers," "A Firm of London Booksellers" wrote in The Bookseller of August 4th, "the trade will do well to refuse to take copies of his books, new or old, so long as he adheres to the terms he has just announced to the trade for their delectation and delight." On the other hand, an editorial, which appeared in the same number of The Bookseller, expressed warm approval of the innovation. To avoid all possible misconceptions, the author fully explained his views in a little pamphlet on "The Profits of Authorship." He showed that the bookseller makes as much profit out of every volume he sells (assuming the buyer to pay the full published price, which he did in those days more readily than he does to-day) as author and publisher together, whereas his share in the work is very small. He does not say much about the author's part in the work—that it is a very heavy one goes without saying—but in considering the publisher's share he says:— The publisher contributes about as much as the bookseller in time and bodily labour, but in mental toil and trouble a great deal more. I speak with some personal knowledge of the matter, having myself, for some twenty years, inflicted on that most patient and painstaking firm, Messrs. Macmillan and Co., about as much wear and worry as ever publishers have lived through. The day when they undertake a book for me is a dies nefastus for them. From that day till the book is out—an interval of some two or three years on an average—there is no pause in "the pelting of the pitiless storm" of directions and questions on every conceivable detail. To say that every question gets a courteous and thoughtful reply—that they are still outside a lunatic asylum—and that they still regard me with some degree of charity—is to speak volumes in praise of their good temper and of their health, bodily and mental. I think the publisher's claim on the profits is on the whole stronger than the booksellers. "Rhyme? and Reason?" appeared at Christmas; the dedicatory verses, inscribed "To a dear child: in memory of golden summer hours and whispers of a summer sea," were addressed to a little friend of the author's, Miss Gertrude Chataway. One of the most popular poems in the book is "Hiawatha's Photographing," a delicious parody of Longfellow's "Hiawatha." "In an age of imitation," says Lewis Carroll, in a note at the head, "I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy." It is not every one who has read this note who has observed that it is really in the same metre as the poem below it. Another excellent parody, "Atalanta in Camden-Town," exactly hit off the style of that poet who stands alone and unapproached among the poets of the day, and whom Mr. Dodgson used to call "the greatest living master of language." "Fame's Penny Trumpet," affectionately dedicated to all "original researchers" who pant for "endowment," was an attack upon the Vivisectionists, Who preach of Justice—plead with tears That Love and Mercy should abound— While marking with complacent ears The moaning of some tortured hound. Lewis Carroll thus addresses them:— Fill all the air with hungry wails— "Reward us, ere we think or write! Without your gold mere knowledge fails To sate the swinish appetite!" And, where great Plato paced serene, Or Newton paused with wistful eye, Rush to the chase with hoofs unclean And Babel-clamour of the stye! Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise: We will not rob them of their due, Nor vex the ghosts of other days By naming them along with you. They sought and found undying fame: They toiled not for reward nor thanks: Their cheeks are hot with honest shame For you, the modern mountebanks! "For auld lang syne" the author sent a copy of his book to Mrs. Hargreaves (Miss Alice Liddell), accompanied by a short note. Christ Church, December 21, 1883. Dear Mrs. Hargreaves,—Perhaps the shortest day in the year is not quite the most appropriate time for recalling the long dreamy summer afternoons of ancient times; but anyhow if this book gives you half as much pleasure to receive as it does me to send, it will be a success indeed. Wishing you all happiness at this happy season, I am, Sincerely yours, C. L. Dodgson. The beginning of 1884 was chiefly occupied in Common Room business. The Curatorship seems to have been anything but a sinecure. Besides weightier responsibilities, it involved the care of the Common Room Cat! In this case the "care" ultimately killed the cat—but not until it had passed the span of life usually allotted to those animals, and beyond which their further existence is equally a nuisance to themselves and to every one else. As to the best way of "terminating its sublunary existence," Mr. Dodgson consulted two surgeons, one of whom was Sir James Paget. I do not know what method was finally adopted, but I am sure it was one that gave no pain to pussy's nerves, and as little as possible to her feelings. On March 11th there was a debate in Congregation on the proposed admission of women to some of the Honour Schools at Oxford. This was one of the many subjects on which Mr. Dodgson wrote a pamphlet. During the debate he made one of his few speeches, and argued strongly against the proposal, on the score of the injury to health which it would inflict upon the girl-undergraduates. Later in the month he and the Rev. E.F. Sampson, Tutor of Christ Church, paid a visit to Jersey, seeing various friends, notably the Rev. F.H. Atkinson, an old College friend of Mr. Dodgson's, who had helped him when he was editor of College Rhymes. I quote a few lines from a letter of his to Mr. Atkinson, as showing his views on matrimony:— So you have been for twelve years a married man, while I am still a lonely old bachelor! And mean to keep so, for the matter of that. College life is by no means unmixed misery, though married life has no doubt many charms to which I am a stranger. A note in his Diary on May 5th shows one of the changes in his way of life which advancing years forced him to make:— Wrote to—(who had invited me to dine) to beg off, on the ground that, in my old age, I find dinner parties more and more fatiguing. This is quite a new departure. I much grudge giving an evening (even if it were not tiring) to bandying small-talk with dull people. The next extract I give does not look much like old age! I called on Mrs. M—. She was out; and only one maid in, who, having come to the gate to answer the bell, found the door blown shut on her return. The poor thing seemed really alarmed and distressed. However, I got a man to come from a neighbouring yard with a ladder, and got in at the drawing-room window—a novel way of entering a friend's house! Oddly enough, almost exactly the same thing happened to him in 1888: "The door blew shut, with the maid outside, and no one in the house. I got the cook of the next house to let me go through their premises, and with the help of a pair of steps got over the wall between the two back-yards." In July there appeared an article in the St. James's Gazette on the subject of "Parliamentary Elections," written by Mr. Dodgson. It was a subject in which he was much interested, and a few years before he had contributed a long letter on the "Purity of Elections" to the same newspaper. I wish I had space to give both in full; as things are, a summary and a few extracts are all I dare attempt. The writer held that there are a great number of voters, and pari passu a great number of constituencies, that like to be on the winning side, and whose votes are chiefly influenced by that consideration. The ballot-box has made it practically impossible for the individual voter to know which is going to be the winning side, but after the first few days of a general election, one side or the other has generally got a more or less decided advantage, and a weak-kneed constituency is sorely tempted to swell the tide of victory. But this is not all. The evil extends further than to the single constituency; nay, it extends further than to a single general election; it constitutes a feature in our national history; it is darkly ominous for the future of England. So long as general elections are conducted as at present we shall be liable to oscillations of political power, like those of 1874 and 1880, but of ever-increasing violence—one Parliament wholly at the mercy of one political party, the next wholly at the mercy of the other—while the Government of the hour, joyfully hastening to undo all that its predecessors have done, will wield a majority so immense that the fate of every question will be foredoomed, and debate will be a farce; in one word, we shall be a nation living from hand to mouth, and with no settled principle—an army, whose only marching orders will be "Right about face!" His remedy was that the result of each single election should be kept secret till the general election is over:— It surely would involve no practical difficulty to provide that the boxes of voting papers should be sealed up by a Government official and placed in such custody as would make it impossible to tamper with them; and that when the last election had been held they should be opened, the votes counted, and the results announced. The article on "Parliamentary Elections" proposed much more sweeping alterations. The opening paragraph will show its general purport:— The question, how to arrange our constituencies and conduct our Parliamentary elections so as to make the House of Commons, as far as possible, a true index of the state of opinion in the nation it professes to represent, is surely equal in importance to any that the present generation has had to settle. And the leap in the dark, which we seem about to take in a sudden and vast extension of the franchise, would be robbed of half its terrors could we feel assured that each political party will be duly represented in the next Parliament, so that every side of a question will get a fair hearing. The axioms on which his scheme was based were as follows:— (1) That each Member of Parliament should represent approximately the same number of electors. (2) That the minority of the two parties into which, broadly speaking, each district may be divided, should be adequately represented. (3) That the waste of votes, caused by accidentally giving one candidate more than he needs and leaving another of the same party with less than he needs, should be, if possible, avoided. (4) That the process of marking a ballot-paper should be reduced to the utmost possible simplicity, to meet the case of voters of the very narrowest mental calibre. (5) That the process of counting votes should be as simple as possible. Then came a precise proposal. I do not pause to compare it in detail with the suggestions of Mr. Hare, Mr. Courtney, and others:— I proceed to give a summary of rules for the method I propose. Form districts which shall return three, four, or more Members, in proportion to their size. Let each elector vote for one candidate only. When the poll is closed, divide the total number of votes by the number of Members to be returned plus one, and take the next greater integer as "quota." Let the returning officer publish the list of candidates, with the votes given for each, and declare as "returned" each that has obtained the quota. If there are still Members to return, let him name a time when all the candidates shall appear before him; and each returned Member may then formally assign his surplus votes to whomsoever of the other candidates he will, while the other candidates may in like manner assign their votes to one another. This method would enable each of the two parties in a district to return as many Members as it could muster "quotas," no matter how the votes were distributed. If, for example, 10,000 were the quota, and the "reds" mustered 30,000 votes, they could return three Members; for, suppose they had four candidates, and that A had 22,000 votes, B 4,000, C 3,000, D 1,000, A would simply have to assign 6,000 votes to B and 6,000 to C; while D, being hopeless of success, would naturally let C have his 1,000 also. There would be no risk of a seat being left vacant through two candidates of the same party sharing a quota between them—an unwritten law would soon come to be recognised—that the one with fewest votes should give place to the other. And, with candidates of two opposite parties, this difficulty could not arise at all; one or the other could always be returned by the surplus votes of his party. Some notes from the Diary for March, 1885, are worth reproducing here:— March 1st.—Sent off two letters of literary importance, one to Mrs. Hargreaves, to ask her consent to my publishing the original MS. of "Alice" in facsimile (the idea occurred to me the other day); the other to Mr. H. Furniss, a very clever illustrator in Punch, asking if he is open to proposals to draw pictures for me. The letter to Mrs. Hargreaves, which, it will be noticed, was earlier in date than the short note already quoted in this chapter, ran as follows:— My Dear Mrs. Hargreaves,—I fancy this will come to you almost like a voice from the dead, after so many years of silence, and yet those years have made no difference that I can perceive in my clearness of memory of the days when we did correspond. I am getting to feel what an old man's failing memory is as to recent events and new friends, (for instance, I made friends, only a few weeks ago, with a very nice little maid of about twelve, and had a walk with her—and now I can't recall either of her names!), but my mental picture is as vivid as ever of one who was, through so many years, my ideal child-friend. I have had scores of child-friends since your time, but they have been quite a different thing. However, I did not begin this letter to say all that. What I want to ask is, Would you have any objection to the original MS. book of "Alice's Adventures" (which I suppose you still possess) being published in facsimile? The idea of doing so occurred to me only the other day. If, on consideration, you come to the conclusion that you would rather not have it done, there is an end of the matter. If, however, you give a favourable reply, I would be much obliged if you would lend it me (registered post, I should think, would be safest) that I may consider the possibilities. I have not seen it for about twenty years, so am by no means sure that the illustrations may not prove to be so awfully bad that to reproduce them would be absurd. There can be no doubt that I should incur the charge of gross egoism in publishing it. But I don't care for that in the least, knowing that I have no such motive; only I think, considering the extraordinary popularity the books have had (we have sold more than 120,000 of the two), there must be many who would like to see the original form. Always your friend, C.L. Dodgson. 504.png H. FURNISS. From a photograph. The letter to Harry Furniss elicited a most satisfactory reply. Mr. Furniss said that he had long wished to illustrate one of Lewis Carroll's books, and that he was quite prepared to undertake the work ("Sylvie and Bruno"). Two more notes from the Diary, referring to the same month follow:— March 10th.—A great Convocation assembled in the theatre, about a proposed grant for Physiology, opposed by many (I was one) who wish restrictions to be enacted as to the practice of vivisection for research. Liddon made an excellent speech against the grant, but it was carried by 412 to 244. March 29th.—Never before have I had so many literary projects on hand at once. For curiosity, I will here make a list of them. (1) Supplement to "Euclid and Modern Rivals." (2) 2nd Edition of "Euc. and Mod. Rivals." (3) A book of Math. curiosities, which I think of calling "Pillow Problems, and other Math. Trifles." This will contain Problems worked out in the dark, Logarithms without Tables, Sines and angles do., a paper I am now writing on "Infinities and Infinitesimals," condensed Long Multiplication, and perhaps others. (4) Euclid V. (5) "Plain Facts for Circle-Squarers," which is nearly complete, and gives actual proof of limits 3.14158, 3.14160. (6) A symbolical Logic, treated by my algebraic method. (7) "A Tangled Tale." (8) A collection of Games and Puzzles of my devising, with fairy pictures by Miss E.G. Thomson. This might also contain my "Mem. Tech." for dates; my "Cipher-writing" scheme for Letter-registration, &c., &c. (9) Nursery Alice. (10) Serious poems in "Phantasmagoria." (11) "Alice's Adventures Underground." (12) "Girl's Own Shakespeare." I have begun on "Tempest." (13) New edition of "Parliamentary Representation." (14) New edition of Euc. I., II. (15) The new child's book, which Mr. Furniss is to illustrate. I have settled on no name as yet, but it will perhaps be "Sylvie and Bruno." I have other shadowy ideas, e.g., a Geometry for Boys, a vol. of Essays on theological points freely and plainly treated, and a drama on "Alice" (for which Mr. Mackenzie would write music): but the above is a fair example of "too many irons in the fire!" A letter written about this time to his friend, Miss Edith Rix, gives some very good hints about how to work, all the more valuable because he had himself successfully carried them out. The first hint was as follows:— When you have made a thorough and reasonably long effort, to understand a thing, and still feel puzzled by it, stop, you will only hurt yourself by going on. Put it aside till the next morning; and if then you can't make it out, and have no one to explain it to you, put it aside entirely, and go back to that part of the subject which you do understand. When I was reading Mathematics for University honours, I would sometimes, after working a week or two at some new book, and mastering ten or twenty pages, get into a hopeless muddle, and find it just as bad the next morning. My rule was to begin the book again. And perhaps in another fortnight I had come to the old difficulty with impetus enough to get over it. Or perhaps not. I have several books that I have begun over and over again. My second hint shall be—Never leave an unsolved difficulty behind. I mean, don't go any further in that book till the difficulty is conquered. In this point, Mathematics differs entirely from most other subjects. Suppose you are reading an Italian book, and come to a hopelessly obscure sentence—don't waste too much time on it, skip it, and go on; you will do very well without it. But if you skip a mathematical difficulty, it is sure to crop up again: you will find some other proof depending on it, and you will only get deeper and deeper into the mud. My third hint is, only go on working so long as the brain is quite clear. The moment you feel the ideas getting confused leave off and rest, or your penalty will be that you will never learn Mathematics at all! Two more letters to the same friend are, I think, deserving of a place here:— Eastbourne, Sept. 25, 1885. My dear Edith,—One subject you touch on—"the Resurrection of the Body"—is very interesting to me, and I have given it much thought (I mean long ago). My conclusion was to give up the literal meaning of the material body altogether. Identity, in some mysterious way, there evidently is; but there is no resisting the scientific fact that the actual material usable for physical bodies has been used over and over again—so that each atom would have several owners. The mere solitary fact of the existence of cannibalism is to my mind a sufficient reductio ad absurdum of the theory that the particular set of atoms I shall happen to own at death (changed every seven years, they say) will be mine in the next life—and all the other insuperable difficulties (such as people born with bodily defects) are swept away at once if we accept S. Paul's "spiritual body," and his simile of the grain of corn. I have read very little of "Sartor Resartus," and don't know the passage you quote: but I accept the idea of the material body being the "dress" of the spiritual—a dress needed for material life. Ch. Ch., Dec. 13, 1885. Dear Edith,—I have been a severe sufferer from Logical puzzles of late. I got into a regular tangle about the "import of propositions," as the ordinary logical books declare that "all x is z" doesn't even hint that any x's exist, but merely that the qualities are so inseparable that, if ever x occurs, z must occur also. As to "some x is z" they are discreetly silent; and the living authorities I have appealed to, including our Professor of Logic, take opposite sides! Some say it means that the qualities are so connected that, if any x's did exist, some must be z—others that it only means compatibility, i.e., that some might be z, and they would go on asserting, with perfect belief in their truthfulness, "some boots are made of brass," even if they had all the boots in the world before them, and knew that none were so made, merely because there is no inherent impossibility in making boots of brass! Isn't it bewildering? I shall have to mention all this in my great work on Logic—but I shall take the line "any writer may mean exactly what he pleases by a phrase so long as he explains it beforehand." But I shall not venture to assert "some boots are made of brass" till I have found a pair! The Professor of Logic came over one day to talk about it, and we had a long and exciting argument, the result of which was "x —x"—a magnitude which you will be able to evaluate for yourself. C. L. Dodgson. As an example of the good advice Mr. Dodgson used to give his young friends, the following letter to Miss Isabel Standen will serve excellently:— Eastbourne, Aug. 4, 1885. I can quite understand, and much sympathise with, what you say of your feeling lonely, and not what you can honestly call "happy." Now I am going to give you a bit of philosophy about that—my own experience is, that every new form of life we try is, just at first, irksome rather than pleasant. My first day or two at the sea is a little depressing; I miss the Christ Church interests, and haven't taken up the threads of interest here; and, just in the same way, my first day or two, when I get back to Christ Church, I miss the seaside pleasures, and feel with unusual clearness the bothers of business-routine. In all such cases, the true philosophy, I believe, is "wait a bit." Our mental nerves seem to be so adjusted that we feel first and most keenly, the dis—comforts of any new form of life; but, after a bit, we get used to them, and cease to notice them; and then we have time to realise the enjoyable features, which at first we were too much worried to be conscious of. Suppose you hurt your arm, and had to wear it in a sling for a month. For the first two or three days the discomfort of the bandage, the pressure of the sling on the neck and shoulder, the being unable to use the arm, would be a constant worry. You would feel as if all comfort in life were gone; after a couple of days you would be used to the new sensations, after a week you perhaps wouldn't notice them at all; and life would seem just as comfortable as ever. So my advice is, don't think about loneliness, or happiness, or unhappiness, for a week or two. Then "take stock" again, and compare your feelings with what they were two weeks previously. If they have changed, even a little, for the better you are on the right track; if not, we may begin to suspect the life does not suit you. But what I want specially to urge is that there's no use in comparing one's feelings between one day and the next; you must allow a reasonable interval, for the direction of change to show itself. Sit on the beach, and watch the waves for a few seconds; you say "the tide is coming in "; watch half a dozen successive waves, and you may say "the last is the lowest; it is going out." Wait a quarter of an hour, and compare its average place with what it was at first, and you will say "No, it is coming in after all." ... With love, I am always affectionately yours, C. L. Dodgson. The next event to chronicle in Lewis Carroll's Life is the publication, by Messrs. Macmillan, of "A Tangled Tale," a series of mathematical problems which had originally appeared in the Monthly Packet. In addition to the problems themselves, the author added their correct solutions, with criticisms on the solutions, correct or otherwise, which the readers of the Monthly Packet had sent in to him. With some people this is the most popular of all his books; it is certainly the most successful attempt he ever made to combine mathematics and humour. The book was illustrated by Mr. A.B. Frost, who entered most thoroughly into the spirit of the thing. One of his pictures, "Balbus was assisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon," is irresistibly comic. A short quotation will better enable the reader to understand the point of the joke:— Balbus was waiting for them at the hotel; the journey down had tried him, he said; so his two pupils had been the round of the place, in search of lodgings, without the old tutor who had been their inseparable companion from their childhood. They had named him after the hero of their Latin exercise-book, which overflowed with anecdotes about that versatile genius—anecdotes whose vagueness in detail was more than compensated by their sensational brilliance. "Balbus has overcome all his enemies" had been marked by their tutor, in the margin of the book, "Successful Bravery." In this way he had tried to extract a moral from every anecdote about Balbus—sometimes one of warning, as in "Balbus had borrowed a healthy dragon," against which he had written, "Rashness in Speculation "—sometimes of encouragement, as in the words, "Influence of Sympathy in United Action," which stood opposite to the anecdote "Balbus was assisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon"—and sometimes it dwindled down to a single word, such as "Prudence," which was all he could extract from the touching record that "Balbus, having scorched the tail of the dragon, went away." His pupils liked the short morals best, as it left them more room for marginal illustrations, and in this instance they required all the space they could get to exhibit the rapidity of the hero's departure. Balbus and his pupils go in search of lodgings, which are only to be found in a certain square; at No. 52, one of the pupils supplements the usual questions by asking the landlady if the cat scratches:— The landlady looked round suspiciously, as if to make sure the cat was not listening. "I will not deceive you, gentlemen," she said. "It do scratch, but not without you pulls its whiskers! It'll never do it," she repeated slowly, with a visible effort to recall the exact words of some written agreement between herself and the cat, "without you pulls its whiskers!" "Much may be excused in a cat so treated," said Balbus as they left the house and crossed to No. 70, leaving the landlady curtesying on the doorstep, and still murmuring to herself her parting words, as if they were a form of blessing—"Not without you pulls its whiskers!" 505.png Balbus having scorched the Dragon's Tail—Went Away! From a crayon drawing by the Rev. H.C. Gaye.. They secure one room at each of the following numbers—the square contains 20 doors on each side—Nine, Twenty-five, Fifty-two, and Seventy-three. They require three bedrooms and one day-room, and decide to take as day—room the one that gives them the least walking to do to get to it. The problem, of course, is to discover which room they adopted as the day-room. There are ten such "knots" in the book, and few, if any of them, can be untied without a good deal of thought. Owing, probably, to the strain of incessant work, Mr. Dodgson about this period began to be subject to a very peculiar, yet not very uncommon, optical delusion, which takes the form of seeing moving fortifications. Considering the fact that he spent a good twelve hours out of every twenty-four in reading and writing, and that he was now well over fifty years old, it was not surprising that nature should begin to rebel at last, and warn him of the necessity of occasional rest. Some verses on "Wonderland" by "One who loves Alice," appeared in the Christmas number of Sylvia's Home Journal, 1885. They were written by Miss M.E. Manners, and, as Lewis Carroll himself admired them, they will, I think, be read with interest:— WONDERLAND. How sweet those happy days gone by, Those days of sunny weather, When Alice fair, with golden hair, And we—were young together;— When first with eager gaze we scann'd The page which told of Wonderland. On hearthrug in the winter-time We lay and read it over; We read it in the summer's prime, Amidst the hay and clover. The trees, by evening breezes fann'd, Murmured sweet tales of Wonderland. We climbed the mantelpiece, and broke The jars of Dresden china; In Jabberwocky tongue we spoke, We called the kitten "Dinah!" And, oh! how earnestly we planned To go ourselves to Wonderland. The path was fringed with flowers rare, With rainbow colours tinted; The way was "up a winding stair," Our elders wisely hinted. We did not wish to understand Bed was the road to Wonderland. We thought we'd wait till we should grow Stronger as well as bolder, But now, alas! full well we know We're only growing older. The key held by a childish hand, Fits best the door of Wonderland. Yet still the Hatter drinks his tea, The Duchess finds a moral, And Tweedledum and Tweedledee Forget in fright their quarrel. The Walrus still weeps on the sand, That strews the shores of Wonderland. And other children feel the spell Which once we felt before them, And while the well-known tale we tell, We watch it stealing o'er them: Before their dazzled eyes expand The glorious realms of Wonderland. Yes, "time is fleet," and we have gained Years more than twice eleven; Alice, dear child, hast thou remained "Exactually" seven? With "proper aid," "two" could command Time to go back in Wonderland. Or have the years (untouched by charms), With joy and sorrow laden, Rolled by, and brought unto thy arms A dainty little maiden? Another Alice, who shall stand By thee to hear of Wonderland. Carroll! accept the heartfelt thanks Of children of all ages, Of those who long have left their ranks, Yet still must love the pages Written by him whose magic wand Called up the scenes of Wonderland. Long mayst thou live, the sound to hear Which most thy heart rejoices, Of children's laughter ringing clear, And children's merry voices, Until for thee an angel-hand Draws back the veil of Wonderland. One Who Loves "Alice." Three letters, written at the beginning of 1886 to Miss Edith Rix, to whom he had dedicated "A Tangled Tale," are interesting as showing the deeper side of his character:— Guildford, Jan. 15, 1886. My dear Edith,—I have been meaning for some time to write to you about agnosticism, and other matters in your letter which I have left unnoticed. And yet I do not know, much as what you say interests me, and much as I should like to be of use to any wandering seeker after truth, that I am at all likely to say anything that will be new to you and of any practical use. The Moral Science student you describe must be a beautiful character, and if, as you say, she lives a noble life, then, even though she does not, as yet, see any God, for whose sake she can do things, I don't think you need be unhappy about her. "When thou wast under the fig tree, I saw thee," is often supposed to mean that Nathanael had been praying, praying no doubt ignorantly and imperfectly, but yet using the light he had: and it seems to have been accepted as faith in the Messiah. More and more it seems to me (I hope you won't be very much shocked at me as an ultra "Broad" Churchman) that what a person is is of more importance in God's sight than merely what propositions he affirms or denies. You, at any rate, can do more good among those new friends of yours by showing them what a Christian is, than by telling them what a Christian believes.... I have a deep dread of argument on religious topics: it has many risks, and little chance of doing good. You and I will never argue, I hope, on any controverted religious question: though I do hope we may see the day when we may freely speak of such things, even where we happen to hold different views. But even then I should have no inclination, if we did differ, to conclude that my view was the right one, and to try to convert you to it.... Now I come to your letter dated Dec. 22nd, and must scold you for saying that my solution of the problem was "quite different to all common ways of doing it": if you think that's good English, well and good; but I must beg to differ to you, and to hope you will never write me a sentence similar from this again. However, "worse remains behind"; and if you deliberately intend in future, when writing to me about one of England's greatest poets, to call him "Shelly," then all I can say is, that you and I will have to quarrel! Be warned in time. C. L. Dodgson. Ch. Ch., Jan. 26, 1886. My Dear Edith,—I am interested by what you say of Miss—. You will know, without my saying it, that if she, or any other friend of yours with any troubles, were to like to write to me, I would very gladly try to help: with all my ignorance and weakness, God has, I think, blessed my efforts in that way: but then His strength is made perfect in weakness.... Ch. Ch., Feb. 14, 1886. My Dear Edith,... I think I've already noticed, in a way, most of the rest of that letter—except what you say about learning more things "after we are dead." I certainly like to think that may be so. But I have heard the other view strongly urged, a good deal based on "then shall we know even as we are known." But I can't believe that that means we shall have all knowledge given us in a moment—nor can I fancy it would make me any happier: it is the learning that is the chief joy, here, at any rate.... I find another remark anent "pupils"—a bold speculation that my 1,000 pupils may really "go on" in the future life, till they have really outstripped Euclid. And, please, what is Euclid to be doing all that time? ... One of the most dreadful things you have ever told me is your students' theory of going and speaking to any one they are interested in, without any introductions. This, joined with what you say of some of them being interested in "Alice," suggests the horrid idea of their some day walking into this room and beginning a conversation. It is enough to make one shiver, even to think of it! Never mind if people do say "Good gracious!" when you help old women: it is being, in some degree, both "good" and "gracious," one may hope. So the remark wasn't so inappropriate. I fear I agree with your friend in not liking all sermons. Some of them, one has to confess, are rubbish: but then I release my attention from the preacher, and go ahead in any line of thought he may have started: and his after-eloquence acts as a kind of accompaniment—like music while one is reading poetry, which often, to me, adds to the effect. C. L. Dodgson. The "Alice" operetta, which Mr. Dodgson had despaired of, was at last to become a reality. Mr. Savile Clarke wrote on August 28th to ask his leave to dramatise the two books, and he gladly assented. He only made one condition, which was very characteristic of him, that there should be "no suggestion even of coarseness in libretto or in stage business." The hint was hardly necessary, for Mr. Savile Clarke was not the sort of man to spoil his work, or to allow others to spoil it, by vulgarity. Several alterations were made in the books before they were suitable for a dramatic performance; Mr. Dodgson had to write a song for the ghosts of the oysters, which the Walrus and the Carpenter had devoured. He also completed "Tis the voice of the lobster," so as to make it into a song. It ran as follows:— Tis the voice of the lobster; I heard him declare "You have baked me too brown: I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And talks with the utmost contempt of the shark; But when the tide rises, and sharks are around, His words have a timid and tremulous sound. I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, How the owl and the panther were sharing a pie: The panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, And the owl had the dish for his share of the treat. When the plate was divided, the owl, as a boon, Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: But the panther obtained both the fork and the knife, So, when he lost his temper, the owl lost its life. The play, for the first few weeks at least, was a great success. Some notes in Mr. Dodgson's Diary which relate to it, show how he appreciated Mr. Savile Clarke's venture:— Dec. 30th.—To London with M—, and took her to "Alice in Wonderland," Mr. Savile Clarke's play at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. The first act (Wonderland) goes well, specially the Mad Tea Party. Mr. Sydney Harcourt is a capital Hatter, and little Dorothy d'Alcourt (æt. 6 1/2) a delicious Dormouse. Phoebe Carlo is a splendid Alice. Her song and dance with the Cheshire Cat (Master C. Adeson, who played the Pirate King in "Pirates of Penzance") was a gem. As a whole the play seems a success. Feb. 11, 1887.—Went to the "Alice" play, where we sat next a chatty old gentleman, who told me that the author of "Alice" had sent Phoebe Carlo a book, and that she had written to him to say that she would do her very best, and further, that he is "an Oxford man"—all which I hope I received with a sufficient expression of pleased interest. Shortly before the production of the play, a Miss Whitehead had drawn a very clever medley-picture, in which nearly all Tenniel's wonderful creations—the Dormouse, the White Knight, the Mad Hatter, &c.—appeared. This design was most useful as a "poster" to advertise the play. After the London run was over, the company made a tour of the provinces, where it met with a fair amount of success. 506.png MEDLEY OF TENNIEL'S ILLUSTRATIONS IN "ALICE." From an etching by Miss Whitehead. At the end of 1886, "Alice's Adventures Underground," a facsimile of the original MS. book, afterwards developed into "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," with thirty-seven illustrations by the author, was published by Macmillan & Co. A postscript to the Preface stated that any profits that might arise from the book would be given to Children's Hospitals and Convalescent Homes for Sick Children. Shortly before the book came out, Lewis Carroll wrote to Mrs. Hargreaves, giving a description of the difficulties that he had encountered in producing it:— Christ Church, Oxford, November 11, 1886. My Dear Mrs. Hargreaves,—Many thanks for your permission to insert "Hospitals" in the Preface to your book. I have had almost as many adventures in getting that unfortunate facsimile finished, Above ground, as your namesake had Under it! First, the zincographer in London, recommended to me for photographing the book, page by page, and preparing the zinc-blocks, declined to undertake it unless I would entrust the book to him, which I entirely refused to do. I felt that it was only due to you, in return for your great kindness in lending so unique a book, to be scrupulous in not letting it be even touched by the workmen's hands. In vain I offered to come and reside in London with the book, and to attend daily in the studio, to place it in position to be photographed, and turn over the pages as required. He said that could not be done because "other authors' works were being photographed there, which must on no account be seen by the public." I undertook not to look at anything but my own book; but it was no use: we could not come to terms. Then — recommended me a certain Mr. X—, an excellent photographer, but in so small a way of business that I should have to prepay him, bit by bit, for the zinc-blocks: and he was willing to come to Oxford, and do it here. So it was all done in my studio, I remaining in waiting all the time, to turn over the pages. But I daresay I have told you so much of the story already. Mr. X— did a first-rate set of negatives, and took them away with him to get the zinc-blocks made. These he delivered pretty regularly at first, and there seemed to be every prospect of getting the book out by Christmas, 1885. On October 18, 1885, I sent your book to Mrs. Liddell, who had told me your sisters were going to visit you and would take it with them. I trust it reached you safely? Soon after this—I having prepaid for the whole of the zinc-blocks—the supply suddenly ceased, while twenty-two pages were still due, and Mr. X— disappeared! My belief is that he was in hiding from his creditors. We sought him in vain. So things went on for months. At one time I thought of employing a detective to find him, but was assured that "all detectives are scoundrels." The alternative seemed to be to ask you to lend the book again, and get the missing pages re-photographed. But I was most unwilling to rob you of it again, and also afraid of the risk of loss of the book, if sent by post—for even "registered post" does not seem absolutely safe. In April he called at Macmillan's and left eight blocks, and again vanished into obscurity. This left us with fourteen pages (dotted up and down the book) still missing. I waited awhile longer, and then put the thing into the hands of a solicitor, who soon found the man, but could get nothing but promises from him. "You will never get the blocks," said the solicitor, "unless you frighten him by a summons before a magistrate." To this at last I unwillingly consented: the summons had to be taken out at — (that is where this aggravating man is living), and this entailed two journeys from Eastbourne—one to get the summons (my personal presence being necessary), and the other to attend in court with the solicitor on the day fixed for hearing the case. The defendant didn't appear; so the magistrate said he would take the case in his absence. Then I had the new and exciting experience of being put into the witness-box, and sworn, and cross-examined by a rather savage magistrate's clerk, who seemed to think that, if he only bullied me enough, he would soon catch me out in a falsehood! I had to give the magistrate a little lecture on photo-zincography, and the poor man declared the case was so complicated he must adjourn it for another week. But this time, in order to secure the presence of our slippery defendant, he issued a warrant for his apprehension, and the constable had orders to take him into custody and lodge him in prison, the night before the day when the case was to come on. The news of this effectually frightened him, and he delivered up the fourteen negatives (he hadn't done the blocks) before the fatal day arrived. I was rejoiced to get them, even though it entailed the paying a second time for getting the fourteen blocks done, and withdrew the action. The fourteen blocks were quickly done and put into the printer's hands; and all is going on smoothly at last: and I quite hope to have the book completed, and to be able to send you a very special copy (bound in white vellum, unless you would prefer some other style of binding) by the end of the month. Believe me always, Sincerely yours, C. L. Dodgson. "The Game of Logic" was Lewis Carroll's next book; it appeared about the end of February, 1887. As a method of teaching the first principles of Logic to children it has proved most useful; the subject, usually considered very difficult to a beginner, is made extremely easy by simplification of method, and both interesting and amusing by the quaint syllogisms that the author devised, such as— No bald person needs a hair-brush; No lizards have hair; Therefore[1] No lizard needs a hair brush. Caterpillars are not eloquent; Jones is eloquent; Jones is not a caterpillar. Meanwhile, with much interchange of correspondence between author and artist, the pictures for the new fairy tale, "Sylvie and Bruno," were being gradually evolved. Each of them was subjected by Lewis Carroll to the most minute criticism—hyper-criticism, perhaps, occasionally. A few instances of the sort of criticisms he used to make upon Mr. Furniss's work may be interesting; I have extracted them from a letter dated September 1, 1887. It will be seen that when he really admired a sketch he did not stint his praise:— (1) "Sylvie helping beetle" [p. 193]. A quite charming composition. (3) "The Doctor" and "Eric." (Mr. Furniss's idea of their appearance). No! The Doctor won't do at all! He is a smug London man, a great "ladies' man," who would hardly talk anything but medical "shop." He is forty at least, and can have had no love-affair for the last fifteen years. I want him to be about twenty-five, powerful in frame, poetical in face: capable of intelligent interest in any subject, and of being a passionate lover. How would you draw King Arthur when he first met Guinevere? Try that type. Eric's attitude is capital: but his face is a little too near to the ordinary "masher." Please avoid that inane creature; and please don't cut his hair short. That fashion will be "out" directly. (4) "Lady Muriel" (head); ditto (full length); "Earl." I don't like either face of Lady Muriel. I don't think I could talk to her; and I'm quite sure I couldn't fall in love with her. Her dress ("evening," of course) is very pretty, I think. I don't like the Earl's face either. He is proud of his title, very formal, and one who would keep one "at arm's length" always. And he is too prodigiously tall. I want a gentle, genial old man; with whom one would feel at one's ease in a moment. (8) "Uggug becoming Porcupine" ("Sylvie and Bruno, Concluded," page 388), is exactly my conception of it. I expect this will be one of the most effective pictures in the book. The faces of the people should express intense terror. (9) "The Professor" is altogether delightful. When you get the text, you will see that you have hit the very centre of the bull's-eye. [A sketch of "Bruno"]. No, no! Please don't give us the (to my mind) very ugly, quite modern costume, which shows with such cruel distinctness a podgy, pot-bellied (excuse the vulgarism) boy, who couldn't run a mile to save his life. I want Bruno to be strong, but at the same time light and active—with the figure of one of the little acrobats one sees at the circus—not "Master Tommy," who habitually gorges himself with pudding. Also that dress I dislike very much. Please give him a short tunic, and real knickerbockers—not the tight knee-breeches they are rapidly shrinking to. Very truly yours, C. L. Dodgson. By Mr. Furniss's kind permission I am enabled to give an example of the other side of the correspondence, one of his letters to Mr. Dodgson, all the more interesting for the charming little sketch which it contains. With respect to the spider, Mr. Dodgson had written: "Some writer says that the full face of a spider, as seen under a magnifying-glass, is very striking." 278.png 279.png Facsimile of a letter from H. Furniss to Lewis Carroll, August 23, 1886. 508.png SYLVIE AND BRUNO. From a drawing by Henry Holiday. CHAPTER VII (1888—1891) A systematic life—"Memoria Technica"—Mr. Dodgson's shyness—"A Lesson in Latin"—The "Wonderland" Stamp-Case—"Wise Words about Letter-Writing"—Princess Alice—"Sylvie and Bruno"—"The night cometh"—"The Nursery 'Alice'"—Coventry Patmore—Telepathy—Resignation of Dr. Liddell—A letter about Logic. An old bachelor is generally very precise and exact in his habits. He has no one but himself to look after, nothing to distract his attention from his own affairs; and Mr. Dodgson was the most precise and exact of old bachelors. He made a précis of every letter he wrote or received from the 1st of January, 1861, to the 8th of the same month, 1898. These précis were all numbered and entered in reference-books, and by an ingenious system of cross-numbering he was able to trace a whole correspondence, which might extend through several volumes. The last number entered in his book is 98,721. He had scores of green cardboard boxes, all neatly labelled, in which he kept his various papers. These boxes formed quite a feature of his study at Oxford, a large number of them being arranged upon a revolving bookstand. The lists, of various sorts, which he kept were innumerable; one of them, that of unanswered correspondents, generally held seventy or eighty names at a time, exclusive of autograph-hunters, whom he did not answer on principle. He seemed to delight in being arithmetically accurate about every detail of life. He always rose at the same early hour, and, if he was in residence at Christ Church, attended College Service. He spent the day according to a prescribed routine, which usually included a long walk into the country, very often alone, but sometimes with another Don, or perhaps, if the walk was not to be as long as usual, with some little girl-friend at his side. When he had a companion with him, he would talk the whole time, telling delightful stories, or explaining some new logical problem; if he was alone, he used to think out his books, as probably many another author has done and will do, in the course of a lonely walk. The only irregularity noticeable in his mode of life was the hour of retiring, which varied from 11 p.m. to four o'clock in the morning, according to the amount of work which he felt himself in the mood for. He 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!" Such little incidents as this happened more than once. To help himself to remember dates, he devised a system of mnemonics, which he circulated among his friends. As it has never been published, and as some of my readers may find it useful, I reproduce it here. My "Memoria Technica" is a modification of Gray's; but, whereas he used both consonants and vowels to represent digits, and had to content himself with a syllable of gibberish to represent the date or whatever other number was required, I use only consonants, and fill in with vowels ad libitum, and thus can always manage to make a real word of whatever has to be represented. The principles on which the necessary 20 consonants have been chosen are as follows:— 1. "b" and "c," the first two consonants in the alphabet. 2. "d" from "duo," "w" from "two." 3. "t" from "tres," the other may wait awhile. 4. "f" from "four," "q" from "quattuor." 5. "l" and "v," because "l" and "v" are the Roman symbols for "fifty" and "five." 6. "s" and "x" from "six." 7. "p" and "m" from "septem." 8. "h" from "huit," and "k" from the Greek "okto." 9. "n" from "nine"; and "g" because it is so like a "9." 0. "z" and "r" from "zero." There is now one consonant still waiting for its digit, viz., "j," and one digit waiting for its consonant, viz., "3," the conclusion is obvious. The result may be tabulated thus:— 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 b d t f l s p h n z c w j q v x m k g r When a word has been found, whose last consonants represent the number required, the best plan is to put it as the last word of a rhymed couplet, so that, whatever other words in it are forgotten, the rhyme will secure the only really important word. Now suppose you wish to remember the date of the discovery of America, which is 1492; the "1" may be left out as obvious; all we need is "492." Write it thus:— 4 9 2 f n d q g w and try to find a word that contains "f" or "q," "n" or "g," "d" or "w." A word soon suggests itself—"found." The poetic faculty must now be brought into play, and the following couplet will soon be evolved:— "Columbus sailed the world around, Until America was F O U N D." If possible, invent the couplets for yourself; you will remember them better than any others. June, 1888. The inventor found this "Memoria Technica" very useful in helping him to remember the dates of the different Colleges. He often, of course, had to show his friends the sights of Oxford, and the easy way in which, asked or unasked, he could embellish his descriptions with dates used to surprise those who did not know how the thing was done. The couplet for St. John's College ran as follows:— "They must have a bevel To keep them so LEVEL." The allusion is to the beautiful lawns, for which St. John's is famous. In his power of remembering anecdotes, and bringing them out just at the right moment, Mr. Dodgson was unsurpassed. A guest brought into Christ Church Common Room was usually handed over to him to be amused. He was not a good man to tell a story to—he had always heard it before; but as a raconteur I never met his equal. And the best of it was that his stories never grew—except in number. One would have expected that a mind so clear and logical and definite would have fought shy of the feminine intellect, which is generally supposed to be deficient in those qualities; and so it is somewhat surprising to find that by far the greater number of his friends were ladies. He was quite prepared to correct them, however, when they were guilty of what seemed to him unreasoning conduct, as is shown by the following extract from a letter of his to a young lady who had asked him to try and find a place for a governess, without giving the latter's address:— Some of my friends are business-men, and it is pleasant to see how methodical and careful they are in transacting any business-matter. If, for instance, one of them were to write to me, asking me to look out for a place for a French governess in whom he was interested, I should be sure to admire the care with which he would give me her name in full—(in extra-legible writing if it were an unusual name)—as well as her address. Some of my friends are not men of business. So many such requests were addressed to him that at one time he had a circular letter printed, with a list of people requiring various appointments or assistants, which he sent round to his friends. In one respect Lewis Carroll resembled the stoic philosophers, for no outward circumstance could upset the tranquillity of his mind. He lived, in fact, the life which Marcus Aurelius commends so highly, the life of calm contentment, based on the assurance that so long as we are faithful to ourselves, no seeming evils can really harm us. But in him there was one exception to this rule. During an argument he was often excited. The war of words, the keen and subtle conflict between trained minds—in this his soul took delight, in this he sought and found the joy of battle and of victory. Yet he would not allow his serenity to be ruffled by any foe whom he considered unworthy of his steel; he refused to argue with people whom he knew to be hopelessly illogical—definitely refused, though with such tact that no wound was given, even to the most sensitive. He was modest in the true sense of the term, neither overestimating nor underrating his own mental powers, and preferring to follow his own course without regarding outside criticism. "I never read anything about myself or my books," he writes in a letter to a friend; and the reason he used to give was that if the critics praised him he might become conceited, while, if they found fault, he would only feel hurt and angry. On October 25, 1888, he wrote in his Diary: "I see there is a leader in to-day's Standard on myself as a writer; but I do not mean to read it. It is not healthy reading, I think." He hated publicity, and tried to avoid it in every way. "Do not tell any one, if you see me in the theatre," he wrote once to Miss Marion Terry. On another occasion, when he was dining out at Oxford, and some one, who did not know that it was a forbidden subject, turned the conversation on "Alice in Wonderland," he rose suddenly and fled from the house. I could multiply instances of this sort, but it would be unjust to his memory to insist upon the morbid way in which he regarded personal popularity. As compared with self-advertisement, it is certainly the lesser evil; but that it is an evil, and a very painful one to its possessor, Mr. Dodgson fully saw. Of course it had its humorous side, as, for instance, when he was brought into contact with lion-hunters, autograph-collectors, et hoc genus omne. He was very suspicious of unknown correspondents who addressed questions to him; in later years he either did not answer them at all, or used a typewriter. Before he bought his typewriter, he would get some friend to write for him, and even to sign "Lewis Carroll" at the end of the letter. It used to give him great amusement to picture the astonishment of the recipients of these letters, if by any chance they ever came to compare his "autographs." On one occasion the secretary of a "Young Ladies' Academy" in the United States asked him to present some of his works to the School Library. The envelope was addressed to "Lewis Carroll, Christ Church," an incongruity which always annoyed him intensely. He replied to the Secretary, "As Mr. Dodgson's books are all on Mathematical subjects, he fears that they would not be very acceptable in a school library." Some fourteen or fifteen years ago, the Fourth-class of the Girl's Latin School at Boston, U.S., started a magazine, and asked him if they might call it The Jabberwock. He wrote in reply:— Mr. Lewis Carroll has much pleasure in giving to the editors of the proposed magazine permission to use the title they wish for. He finds that the Anglo-Saxon word "wocer" or "wocor" signifies "offspring" or "fruit." Taking "jabber" in its ordinary acceptation of "excited and voluble discussion," this would give the meaning of "the result of much excited discussion." Whether this phrase will have any application to the projected periodical, it will be for the future historian of American literature to determine. Mr. Carroll wishes all success to the forthcoming magazine. From that time forward he took a great interest in the magazine, and thought very well of it. It used, I believe, to be regularly supplied to him. Only once did he express disapproval of anything it contained, and that was in 1888, when he felt it necessary to administer a rebuke for what he thought to be an irreverent joke. The sequel is given in the following extract from The Jabberwock for June, 1888:— A FRIEND WORTH HAVING. The Jabberwock has many friends, and perhaps a few (very few, let us hope) enemies. But, of the former, the friend who has helped us most on the road to success is Mr. Lewis Carroll, the author of "Alice in Wonderland," &c. Our readers will remember his kind letter granting us permission to use the name "Jabberwock," and also giving the meaning of that word. Since then we have received another letter from him, in which he expresses both surprise and regret at an anecdote which we published in an early number of our little paper. We would assure Mr. Carroll, as well as our other friends, that we had no intention of making light of a serious matter, but merely quoted the anecdote to show what sort of a book Washington's diary was. But now a third letter from our kind friend has come, enclosing, to our delight, a poem, "A Lesson in Latin," the pleasantest Latin lesson we have had this year. The first two letters from Mr. Carroll were in a beautiful literary hand, whereas the third is written with a typewriter. It is to this fact that he refers in his letter, which is as follows:— "29, Bedford Street, Covent Garden, LONDON, May 16, 1888. Dear Young Friends,—After the Black Draught of serious remonstrance which I ventured to send to you the other day, surely a Lump of Sugar will not be unacceptable? The enclosed I wrote this afternoon on purpose for you. I hope you will grant it admission to the columns of The Jabberwock, and not scorn it as a mere play upon words. This mode of writing, is, of course, an American invention. We never invent new machinery here; we do but use, to the best of our ability, the machines you send us. For the one I am now using, I beg you to accept my best thanks, and to believe me Your sincere friend, Lewis Carroll." Surely we can patiently swallow many Black Draughts, if we are to be rewarded with so sweet a Lump of Sugar! The enclosed poem, which has since been republished in "Three Sunsets," runs as follows: A LESSON IN LATIN. Our Latin books, in motley row, Invite us to the task— Gay Horace, stately Cicero; Yet there's one verb, when once we know, No higher skill we ask: This ranks all other lore above— We've learned "amare" means "to love"! So hour by hour, from flower to flower, We sip the sweets of life: Till ah! too soon the clouds arise, And knitted brows and angry eyes Proclaim the dawn of strife. With half a smile and half a sigh, "Amare! Bitter One!" we cry. Last night we owned, with looks forlorn, "Too well the scholar knows There is no rose without a thorn "— But peace is made! we sing, this morn, "No thorn without a rose!" Our Latin lesson is complete: We've learned that Love is "Bitter-sweet" Lewis Carroll. In October Mr. Dodgson invented a very ingenious little stamp-case, decorated with two "Pictorial Surprises," representing the "Cheshire Cat" vanishing till nothing but the grin was left, and the baby turning into a pig in "Alice's" arms. The invention was entered at Stationers' Hall, and published by Messrs. Emberlin and Son, of Oxford. As an appropriate accompaniment, he wrote "Eight or Nine Wise Words on Letter-Writing," a little booklet which is still sold along with the case. The "Wise Words," as the following extracts show, have the true "Carrollian" ring about them:— Some American writer has said "the snakes in this district may be divided into one species—the venomous." The same principle applies here. Postage-stamp-cases may be divided into one species—the "Wonderland." Since I have possessed a "Wonderland-Stamp-Case," Life has been bright and peaceful, and I have used no other. I believe the Queen's Laundress uses no other. My fifth Rule is, if your friend makes a severe remark, either leave it unnoticed or make your reply distinctly less severe: and, if he makes a friendly remark, tending towards "making up" the little difference that has arisen between you, let your reply be distinctly more friendly. If, in picking a quarrel, each party declined to go more than three-eighths of the way, and if, in making friends, each was ready to go five-eighths of the way—why, there would be more reconciliations than quarrels! Which is like the Irishman's remonstrance to his gad-about daughter: "Shure, you're always goin' out! You go out three times for wanst that you come in!" My sixth Rule is, don't try to have the last word! How many a controversy would be nipped in the bud, if each was anxious to let the other have the last word! Never mind how telling a rejoinder you leave unuttered: never mind your friend's supposing that you are silent from lack of anything to say: let the thing drop, as soon as it is possible without discourtesy: remember "Speech is silvern, but silence is golden"! (N.B. If you are a gentleman, and your friend a lady, this Rule is superfluous: you won't get the last word!) Remember the old proverb, "Cross-writing makes cross-reading." "The old proverb?" you say inquiringly. "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! The pamphlet ends with an explanation of Lewis Carroll's method of using a correspondence-book, illustrated by a few imaginary pages from such a compilation, which are very humorous. 295.png Facsimile of programme of "Alice in Wonderland." At the end of the year the "Alice" operetta was again produced at the Globe Theatre, with Miss Isa Bowman as the heroine. "Isa makes a delightful Alice," Mr. Dodgson writes, "and Emsie [a younger sister] is wonderfully good as Dormouse and as Second Ghost [of an oyster!], when she sings a verse, and dances the Sailor's Hornpipe." 509.png "THE MAD TEA-PARTY." From a photograph by Elliott & Fry. The first of an incomplete series, "Curiosa Mathematica," was published for Mr. Dodgson by Messrs. Macmillan during the year. It was entitled "A New Theory of Parallels," and any one taking it up for the first time might be tempted to ask, Is the author serious, or is he simply giving us some jeu d'esprit? A closer inspection, however, soon settles the question, and the reader, if mathematics be his hobby, is carried irresistibly along till he reaches the last page. The object which Mr. Dodgson set himself to accomplish was to prove Euclid I. 32 without assuming the celebrated 12th Axiom, a feat which calls up visions of the "Circle-Squarers." The work is divided into two parts: Book I. contains certain Propositions which require no disputable Axiom for their proof, and when once the few Definitions of "amount," &c., have become familiar it is easy reading. In Book II. the author introduces a new Axiom, or rather "Quasi-Axiom"—for it's self-evident character is open to dispute. This Axiom is as follows:— In any Circle the inscribed equilateral Tetragon (Hexagon in editions 1st and 2nd) is greater than any one of the Segments which lie outside it. Assuming the truth of this Axiom, Mr. Dodgson proves a series of Propositions, which lead up to and enable him to accomplish the feat referred to above. At the end of Book II. he places a proof (so far as finite magnitudes are concerned) of Euclid's Axiom, preceded by and dependent on the Axiom that "If two homogeneous magnitudes be both of them finite, the lesser may be so multiplied by a finite number as to exceed the greater." This Axiom, he says, he believes to be assumed by every writer who has attempted to prove Euclid's 12th Axiom. The proof itself is borrowed, with slight alterations, from Cuthbertson's "Euclidean Geometry." In Appendix I. there is an alternative Axiom which may be substituted for that which introduces Book II., and which will probably commend itself to many minds as being more truly axiomatic. To substitute this, however, involves some additions and alterations, which the author appends. Appendix II. is headed by the somewhat startling question, "Is Euclid's Axiom true?" and though true for finite magnitudes—the sense in which, no doubt, Euclid meant it to be taken—it is shown to be not universally true. In Appendix III. he propounds the question, "How should Parallels be defined?" Appendix IV., which deals with the theory of Parallels as it stands to-day, concludes with the following words:— I am inclined to believe that if ever Euclid I. 32 is proved without a new Axiom, it will be by some new and ampler definition of the Right Line—some definition which shall connote that mysterious property, which it must somehow possess, which causes Euclid I. 32 to be true. Try that track, my gentle reader! It is not much trodden as yet. And may success attend your search! In the Introduction, which, as is frequently the case, ought to be read last in order to be appreciated properly, he relates his experiences with two of those "misguided visionaries," the circle-squarers. One of them had selected 3.2 as the value for "pi," and the other proved, to his own satisfaction at least, that it is correctly represented by 3! The Rev. Watson Hagger, to whose kindness, as I have already stated in my Preface, my readers are indebted for the several accounts of Mr. Dodgson's books on mathematics which appear in this Memoir, had a similar experience with one of these "cranks." This circle-squarer selected 3.125 as the value for "pi," and Mr. Hagger, who was fired with Mr. Dodgson's ambition to convince his correspondent of his error, failed as signally as Mr. Dodgson did. The following letter is interesting as showing that, strict Conservative though he was, he was not in religious matters narrow-minded; he held his own opinions strongly, but he would never condemn those of other people. He saw "good in everything," and there was but little exaggeration, be it said in all reverence, in the phrase which an old friend of his used in speaking of him to me: "Mr. Dodgson was as broad—as broad as Christ." Christ Church, Oxford, May 4, 1889. Dear Miss Manners,—I hope to have a new book out very soon, and had entered your name on the list of friends to whom copies are to go; but, on second thoughts, perhaps you might prefer that I should send it to your little sister (?) (niece) Rachel, whom you mentioned in one of your letters. It is to be called "The Nursery Alice," and is meant for very young children, consisting of coloured enlargements of twenty of the pictures in "Alice," with explanations such as one would give in showing them to a little child. I was much interested by your letter, telling me you belong to the Society of Friends. Please do not think of me as one to whom a "difference of creed" is a bar to friendship. My sense of brother— and sisterhood is at least broad enough to include Christians of all denominations; in fact, I have one valued friend (a lady who seems to live to do good kind things) who is a Unitarian. Shall I put "Rachel Manners" in the book? Believe me, very sincerely yours, C. L. Dodgson. From June 7th to June 10th he stayed at Hatfield. 510.png THE LATE DUKE OF ALBANY." From a photograph by Lewis Carroll, 1875. Once at luncheon [he writes] I had the Duchess (of Albany) as neighbour and once at breakfast, and had several other chats with her, and found her very pleasant indeed. Princess Alice is a sweet little girl. Her little brother (the Duke of Albany) was entirely fascinating, a perfect little prince, and the picture of good-humour. On Sunday afternoon I had a pleasant half-hour with the children [Princess Alice, the Duke of Albany, Honorable Mabel Palmer, Lady Victoria Manners, and Lord Haddon], telling them "Bruno's Picnic" and folding a fishing-boat for them. I got the Duchess's leave to send the little Alice a copy of the "Nursery Alice," and mean to send it with "Alice Underground" for herself. Towards the end of the year Lewis Carroll had tremendously hard work, completing "Sylvie and Bruno." For several days on end he worked from breakfast until nearly ten in the evening without a rest. At last it was off his hands, and for a month or so he was (comparatively) an idle man. Some notes from his Diary, written during this period, follow:— Nov. 17th.—Met, for first time, an actual believer in the "craze" that buying and selling are wrong (!) (he is rather 'out of his mind'). The most curious thing was his declaration that he himself lives on that theory, and never buys anything, and has no money! I thought of railway travelling, and ventured to ask how he got from London to Oxford? "On a bicycle!" And how he got the bicycle? "It was given him!" So I was floored, and there was no time to think of any other instances. The whole thing was so new to me that, when he declared it to be un-Christian, I quite forgot the text, "He that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one." Dec. 19th.—Went over to Birmingham to see a performance of "Alice" (Mrs. Freiligrath Kroeker's version) at the High School. I rashly offered to tell "Bruno's Picnic" afterwards to the little children, thinking I should have an audience of 40 or 50, mostly children, instead of which I had to tell it from the stage to an audience of about 280, mostly older girls and grown-up people! However, I got some of the children to come on the stage with me, and the little Alice (Muriel Howard-Smith, æt. 11) stood by me, which made it less awful. The evening began with some of "Julius Caesar" in German. This and "Alice" were really capitally acted, the White Queen being quite the best I have seen (Miss B. Lloyd Owen). I was introduced to Alice and a few more, and was quite sorry to hear afterwards that the other performers wanted to shake hands. The publication of "Sylvie and Bruno" marks an epoch in its author's life, for it was the publication of all the ideals and sentiments which he held most dear. It was a book with a definite purpose; it would be more true to say with several definite purposes. For this very reason it is not an artistic triumph as the two "Alice" books undoubtedly are; it is on a lower literary level, there is no unity in the story. But from a higher standpoint, that of the Christian and the philanthropist, the book is the best thing he ever wrote. It is a noble effort to uphold the right, or what he thought to be the right, without fear of contempt or unpopularity. The influence which his earlier books had given him he was determined to use in asserting neglected truths. Of course the story has other features, delightful nonsense not surpassed by anything in "Wonderland," childish prattle with all the charm of reality about it, and pictures which may fairly be said to rival those of Sir John Tenniel. Had these been all, the book would have been a great success. As things are, there are probably hundreds of readers who have been scared by the religious arguments and political discussions which make up a large part of it, and who have never discovered that Sylvie is just as entrancing a personage as Alice when you get to know her. Perhaps the sentiment of the following poem, sent to Lewis Carroll by an anonymous correspondent, may also explain why some of "Alice's" lovers have given "Sylvie" a less warm welcome:— TO SYLVIE. Ah! Sylvie, winsome, wise and good! Fain would I love thee as I should. But, to tell the truth, my dear,— And Sylvie loves the truth to hear,— Though fair and pure and sweet thou art, Thine elder sister has my heart! I gave it her long, long ago To have and hold; and well I know, Brave Lady Sylvie, thou wouldst scorn To accept a heart foresworn. Lovers thou wilt have enow Under many a greening bough— Lovers yet unborn galore, Like Alice all the wide world o'er; But, darling, I am now too old To change. And though I still shall hold Thee, and that puckling sprite, thy brother, Dear, I cannot love another: In this heart of mine I own She must ever reign alone! March, 1890. N.P. I do not know N.P.'s name and address, or I should have asked leave before giving publicity to the above verses. If these words meet his eye, I hope he will accept my most humble apologies for the liberty I have taken. At the beginning of 1894 a Baptist minister, preaching on the text, "No man liveth to himself," made use of "Sylvie and Bruno" to enforce his argument. After saying that he had been reading that book, he proceeded as follows: A child was asked to define charity. He said it was "givin' away what yer didn't want yerself." This was some people's idea of self-sacrifice; but it was not Christ's. Then as to serving others in view of reward: Mr. Lewis Carroll put this view of the subject very forcibly in his "Sylvie and Bruno"—an excellent book for youth; indeed, for men and women too. He first criticised Archdeacon Paley's definition of virtue (which was said to be "the doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will of God, and for the sake of everlasting happiness,") and then turned to such hymns as the following:— Whatever, Lord, we lend to Thee, Repaid a thousandfold shall be, Then gladly will we give to Thee, Giver of all! Mr. Carroll's comment was brief and to the point. He said: "Talk of Original Sin! Can you have a stronger proof of the Original Goodness there must be in this nation than the fact that Religion has been preached to us, as a commercial speculation, for a century, and that we still believe in a God?" ["Sylvie and Bruno," Part i., pp. 276, 277.] Of course it was quite true, as Mr. Carroll pointed out, that our good deeds would be rewarded; but we ought to do them because they were good, and not because the reward was great. In the Preface to "Sylvie and Bruno," Lewis Carroll alluded to certain editions of Shakespeare which seemed to him unsuitable for children; it never seemed to strike him that his words might be read by children, and that thus his object very probably would be defeated, until this fact was pointed out to him in a letter from an unknown correspondent, Mr. J.C. Cropper, of Hampstead. Mr. Dodgson replied as follows:— Dear Sir,—Accept my best thanks for your thoughtful and valuable suggestion about the Preface to "Sylvie and Bruno." The danger you point out had not occurred to me (I suppose I had not thought of children reading the Preface): but it is a very real one, and I am very glad to have had my attention called to it. Believe me, truly yours, Lewis Carroll. Mathematical controversy carried on by correspondence was a favourite recreation of Mr. Dodgson's, and on February 20, 1890, he wrote:— I've just concluded a correspondence with a Cambridge man, who is writing a Geometry on the "Direction" theory (Wilson's plan), and thinks he has avoided Wilson's (what I think) fallacies. He hasn't, but I can't convince him! My view of life is, that it's next to impossible to convince anybody of anything. The following letter is very characteristic. "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might," was Mr. Dodgson's rule of life, and, as the end drew near, he only worked the harder:— Christ Church, Oxford, April 10, 1890. My dear Atkinson,—Many and sincere thanks for your most hospitable invitation, and for the very interesting photo of the family group. The former I fear I must ask you to let me defer sine die, and regard it as a pleasant dream, not quite hopeless of being some day realised. I keep a list of such pleasant possibilities, and yours is now one of ten similar kind offers of hospitality. But as life shortens in, and the evening shadows loom in sight, one gets to grudge any time given to mere pleasure, which might entail the leaving work half finished that one is longing to do before the end comes. There are several books I greatly desire to get finished for children. I am glad to find my working powers are as good as they ever were. Even with the mathematical book (a third edition) which I am now getting through the press, I think nothing of working six hours at a stretch. There is one text that often occurs to me, "The night cometh, when no man can work." Kindest regards to Mrs. Atkinson, and love to Gertrude. Always sincerely yours, C. L. Dodgson. For the benefit of children aged "from nought to five," as he himself phrased it, Lewis Carroll prepared a nursery edition of "Alice." He shortened the text considerably, and altered it so much that only the plot of the story remained unchanged. It was illustrated by the old pictures, coloured by Tenniel, and the cover was adorned by a picture designed by Miss E. Gertrude Thomson. As usual, the Dedication takes the form of an anagram, the solution of which is the name of one of his later child-friends. "The Nursery 'Alice,'" was published by Macmillan and Co., in March, 1890. On August 18th the following letter on the "Eight Hours Movement" appeared in The Standard:— Sir,—Supposing it were the custom, in a certain town, to sell eggs in paper bags at so much per bag, and that a fierce dispute had arisen between the egg vendors and the public as to how many eggs each bag should be understood to contain, the vendors wishing to be allowed to make up smaller bags; and supposing the public were to say, "In future we will pay you so much per egg, and you can make up bags as you please," would any ground remain for further dispute? Supposing that employers of labour, when threatened with a "strike" in case they should decline to reduce the number of hours in a working day, were to reply, "In future we will pay you so much per hour, and you can make up days as you please," it does appear to me—being, as I confess, an ignorant outsider—that the dispute would die out for want of a raison d'être, and that these disastrous strikes, inflicting such heavy loss on employers and employed alike, would become things of the past. I am, Sir, your obedient servant, Lewis Carroll. The remainder of the year was uneventful; a few notes from his Diary must represent it here:— Oct. 4th.—Called on Mr. Coventry Patmore (at Hastings), and was very kindly received by him, and stayed for afternoon tea and dinner. He showed me some interesting pictures, including a charming little drawing, by Holman Hunt, of one of his daughters when three years old. He gave me an interesting account of his going, by Tennyson's request, to his lodging to look for the MS. of "In Memoriam," which he had left behind, and only finding it by insisting on going upstairs, in spite of the landlady's opposition, to search for it. Also he told me the story (I think I have heard it before) of what Wordsworth told his friends as the "one joke" of his life, in answer to a passing carter who asked if he had seen his wife. "My good friend, I didn't even know you had a wife!" He seems a very hale and vigorous old man for nearly seventy, which I think he gave as his age in writing to me. Oct. 31st.—This morning, thinking over the problem of finding two squares whose sum is a square, I chanced on a theorem (which seems true, though I cannot prove it), that if x² + y² be even, its half is the sum of two squares. A kindred theorem, that 2(x² + y²) is always the sum of two squares, also seems true and unprovable. Nov. 5th.—I have now proved the above two theorems. Another pretty deduction from the theory of square numbers is, that any number whose square is the sum of two squares, is itself the sum of two squares. I have already mentioned Mr. Dodgson's habit of thinking out problems at night. Often new ideas would occur to him during hours of sleeplessness, and he had long wanted to hear of or invent some easy method of taking notes in the dark. At first he tried writing within oblongs cut out of cardboard, but the result was apt to be illegible. In 1891 he conceived the device of having a series of squares cut out in card, and inventing an alphabet, of which each letter was made of lines, which could be written along the edges of the squares, and dots, which could be marked at the corners. The thing worked well, and he named it the "Typhlograph," but, at the suggestion of one of his brother-students, this was subsequently changed into "Nyctograph." He spent the Long Vacation at Eastbourne, attending service every Sunday at Christ Church, according to his usual rule. Sept. 6, 1891.—At the evening service at Christ Church a curious thing happened, suggestive of telepathy. Before giving out the second hymn the curate read out some notices. Meanwhile I took my hymn-book, and said to myself (I have no idea why), "It will be hymn 416," and I turned to it. It was not one I recognised as having ever heard; and, on looking at it, I said, "It is very prosaic; it is a very unlikely one"—and it was really startling, the next minute, to hear the curate announce "Hymn 416." 502.png DR. LIDDELL. From a photograph by Hill & Saunders.. In October it became generally known that Dean Liddell was going to resign at Christmas. This was a great blow to Mr. Dodgson, but little mitigated by the fact that the very man whom he himself would have chosen, Dr. Paget, was appointed to fill the vacant place. The old Dean was very popular in College; even the undergraduates, with whom he was seldom brought into contact, felt the magic of his commanding personality and the charm of his gracious, old-world manner. He was a man whom, once seen, it was almost impossible to forget. Shortly before the resignation of Dr. Liddell, the Duchess of Albany spent a few days at the Deanery. Mr. Dodgson was asked to meet her Royal Highness at luncheon, but was unable to go. Princess Alice and the little Duke of Albany, however, paid him a visit, and were initiated in the art of making paper pistols. He promised to send the Princess a copy of a book called "The Fairies," and the children, having spent a happy half-hour in his rooms, returned to the Deanery. This was one of the days which he "marked with a white stone." He sent a copy of "The Nursery 'Alice'" to the little Princess Alice, and received a note of thanks from her, and also a letter from her mother, in which she said that the book had taught the Princess to like reading, and to do it out of lesson-time. To the Duke he gave a copy of a book entitled "The Merry Elves." In his little note of thanks for this gift, the boy said, "Alice and I want you to love us both." Mr. Dodgson sent Princess Alice a puzzle, promising that if she found it out, he would give her a "golden chair from Wonderland." 511.png THE DEAN OF CHRIST CHURCH. From a photograph by Hill & Saunders.. At the close of the year he wrote me a long letter, which I think worthy of reproducing here, for he spent a long time over it, and it contains excellent examples of his clear way of putting things. To S.D. Collingwood. Ch. Ch., Oxford, Dec. 29, 1891. My Dear Stuart,—(Rather a large note—sheet, isn't it? But they do differ in size, you know.) I fancy this book of science (which I have had a good while, without making any use of it), may prove of some use to you, with your boys. [I was a schoolmaster at that time.] Also this cycling-book (or whatever it is to be called) may be useful in putting down engagements, &c., besides telling you a lot about cycles. There was no use in sending it to me; my cycling days are over. You ask me if your last piece of "Meritt" printing is dark enough. I think not. I should say the rollers want fresh inking. As to the matter of your specimen—[it was a poor little essay on killing animals for the purpose of scientific recreations, e.g., collecting butterflies]—I think you cannot spend your time better than in trying to set down clearly, in that essay-form, your ideas on any subject that chances to interest you; and specially any theological subject that strikes you in the course of your reading for Holy Orders. It will be most excellent practice for you, against the time when you try to compose sermons, to try thus to realise exactly what it is you mean, and to express it clearly, and (a much harder matter) to get into proper shape the reasons of your opinions, and to see whether they do, or do not, tend to prove the conclusions you come to. You have never studied technical Logic, at all, I fancy. [I had, but I freely admit that the essay in question proved that I had not then learnt to apply my principles to practice.] It would have been a great help: but still it is not indispensable: after all, it is only the putting into rules of the way in which every mind proceeds, when it draws valid conclusions; and, by practice in careful thinking, you may get to know "fallacies" when you meet with them, without knowing the formal rules. At present, when you try to give reasons, you are in considerable danger of propounding fallacies. Instances occur in this little essay of yours; and I hope it won't offend your amour propre very much, if an old uncle, who has studied Logic for forty years, makes a few remarks on it. I am not going to enter at all on the subject-matter itself, or to say whether I agree, or not, with your conclusions : but merely to examine, from a logic-lecturer's point of view, your premisses as relating to them. (1) "As the lower animals do not appear to have personality or individual existence, I cannot see that any particular one's life can be very important," &c. The word "personality" is very vague: I don't know what you mean by it. If you were to ask yourself, "What test should I use in distinguishing what has, from what has not, personality?" you might perhaps be able to express your meaning more clearly. The phrase "individual existence" is clear enough, and is in direct logical contradiction to the phrase "particular one." To say, of anything, that it has not "individual existence," and yet that it is a "particular one," involves the logical fallacy called a "contradiction in terms." (2) "In both cases" (animal and plant) "death is only the conversion of matter from one form to another." The word "form" is very vague—I fancy you use it in a sort of chemical sense (like saying "sugar is starch in another form," where the change in nature is generally believed to be a rearrangement of the very same atoms). If you mean to assert that the difference between a live animal and a dead animal, i.e., between animate and sensitive matter, and the same matter when it becomes inanimate and insensitive, is a mere rearrangement of the same atoms, your premiss is intelligible. (It is a bolder one than any biologists have yet advanced. The most sceptical of them admits, I believe, that "vitality" is a thing per se. However, that is beside my present scope.) But this premiss is advanced to prove that it is of no "consequence" to kill an animal. But, granting that the conversion of sensitive into insensitive matter (and of course vice versa) is a mere change of "form," and therefore of no "consequence"; granting this, we cannot escape the including under this rule all similar cases. If the power of feeling pain, and the absence of that power, are only a difference of "form," the conclusion is inevitable that the feeling pain, and the not feeling it, are also only a difference in form, i.e., to convert matter, which is not feeling pain, into matter feeling pain, is only to change its "form," and, if the process of "changing form" is of no "consequence" in the case of sensitive and insensitive matter, we must admit that it is also of no "consequence" in the case of pain-feeling and not pain-feeling matter. This conclusion, I imagine, you neither intended nor foresaw. The premiss, which you use, involves the fallacy called "proving too much." The best advice that could be given to you, when you begin to compose sermons, would be what an old friend once gave to a young man who was going out to be an Indian judge (in India, it seems, the judge decides things, without a jury, like our County Court judges). "Give your decisions boldly and clearly; they will probably be right. But do not give your reasons: they will probably be wrong" If your lot in life is to be in a country parish, it will perhaps not matter much whether the reasons given in your sermons do or do not prove your conclusions. But even there you might meet, and in a town congregation you would be sure to meet, clever sceptics, who know well how to argue, who will detect your fallacies and point them out to those who are not yet troubled with doubts, and thus undermine all their confidence in your teaching. At Eastbourne, last summer, I heard a preacher advance the astounding argument, "We believe that the Bible is true, because our holy Mother, the Church, tells us it is." I pity that unfortunate clergyman if ever he is bold enough to enter any Young Men's Debating Club where there is some clear-headed sceptic who has heard, or heard of, that sermon. I can fancy how the young man would rub his hands, in delight, and would say to himself, "Just see me get him into a corner, and convict him of arguing in a circle!" The bad logic that occurs in many and many a well-meant sermon, is a real danger to modern Christianity. When detected, it may seriously injure many believers, and fill them with miserable doubts. So my advice to you, as a young theological student, is "Sift your reasons well , and, before you offer them to others, make sure that they prove your conclusions." I hope you won't give this letter of mine (which it has cost me some time and thought to write) just a single reading and then burn it; but that you will lay it aside. Perhaps, even years hence, it may be of some use to you to read it again. Believe me always Your affectionate Uncle, C. L. Dodgson. CHAPTER VIII (1892—1896) Mr. Dodgson resigns the Curatorship—Bazaars—He lectures to children—A mechanical "Humpty Dumpty"—A logical controversy—Albert Chevalier—"Sylvie and Bruno Concluded"—"Pillow Problems"—Mr. Dodgson's generosity—College services—Religious difficulties—A village sermon—Plans for the future—Reverence—"Symbolic Logic." At Christ Church, as at other Colleges, the Common Room is an important feature. Open from eight in the morning until ten at night, it takes the place of a club, where the "dons" may see the newspapers, talk, write letters, or enjoy a cup of tea. After dinner, members of High Table, with their guests if any are present, usually adjourn to the Common Room for wine and dessert, while there is a smoking-room hard by for those who do not despise the harmless but unnecessary weed, and below are cellars, with a goodly store of choice old wines. The Curator's duties were therefore sufficiently onerous. They were doubly so in Mr. Dodgson's case, for his love of minute accuracy greatly increased the amount of work he had to do. It was his office to select and purchase wines, to keep accounts, to adjust selling price to cost price, to see that the two Common Room servants performed their duties, and generally to look after the comfort and convenience of the members. "Having heard," he wrote near the end of the year 1892, "that Strong was willing to be elected (as Curator), and Common Room willing to elect him, I most gladly resigned. The sense of relief at being free from the burdensome office, which has cost me a large amount of time and trouble, is very delightful. I was made Curator, December 8, 1882, so that I have held the office more than nine years." The literary results of his Curatorship were three very interesting little pamphlets, "Twelve Months in a Curatorship, by One who has tried it"; "Three years in a Curatorship, by One whom it has tried"; and "Curiosissima Curatoria, by 'Rude Donatus,'" all printed for private circulation, and couched in the same serio-comic vein. As a logician he naturally liked to see his thoughts in print, for, just as the mathematical mind craves for a black-board and a piece of chalk, so the logical mind must have its paper and printing-press wherewith to set forth its deductions effectively. A few extracts must suffice to show the style of these pamphlets, and the opportunity offered for the display of humour. In the arrangement of the prices at which wines were to be sold to members of Common Room, he found a fine scope for the exercise of his mathematical talents and his sense of proportion. In one of the pamphlets he takes old Port and Chablis as illustrations. The original cost of each is about 3s. a bottle; but the present value of the old Port is about 11s. a bottle. Let us suppose, then, that we have to sell to Common Room one bottle of old Port and three of Chablis, the original cost of the whole being 12s., and the present value 20s. These are our data. We have now two questions to answer. First, what sum shall we ask for the whole? Secondly, how shall we apportion that sum between the two kinds of wine? The sum to be asked for the whole he decides, following precedent, is to be the present market-value of the wine; as to the second question, he goes on to say— We have, as so often happens in the lives of distinguished premiers, three courses before us: (1) to charge the present value for each kind of wine; (2) to put on a certain percentage to the original value of each kind; (3) to make a compromise between these two courses. Course 1 seems to me perfectly reasonable; but a very plausible objection has been made to it—that it puts a prohibitory price on the valuable wines, and that they would remain unconsumed. This would not, however, involve any loss to our finances; we could obviously realise the enhanced values of the old wines by selling them to outsiders, if the members of Common Room would not buy them. But I do not advocate this course. Course 2 would lead to charging 5s. a bottle for Port and Chablis alike. The Port-drinker would be "in clover," while the Chablis-drinker would probably begin getting his wine direct from the merchant instead of from the Common Room cellar, which would be a reductio ad absurdum of the tariff. Yet I have heard this course advocated, repeatedly, as an abstract principle. "You ought to consider the original value only," I have been told. "You ought to regard the Port-drinker as a private individual, who has laid the wine in for himself, and who ought to have all the advantages of its enhanced value. You cannot fairly ask him for more than what you need to refill the bins with Port, plus the percentage thereon needed to meet the contingent expenses." I have listened to such arguments, but have never been convinced that the course is just. It seems to me that the 8s. additional value which the bottle of Port has acquired, is the property of Common Room, and that Common Room has the power to give it to whom it chooses; and it does not seem to me fair to give it all to the Port-drinker. What merit is there in preferring Port to Chablis, that could justify our selling the Port-drinker his wine at less than half what he would have to give outside, and charging the Chablis-drinker five-thirds of what he would have to give outside? At all events, I, as a Port-drinker, do not wish to absorb the whole advantage, and would gladly share it with the Chablis-drinker. The course I recommend is Course 3, which is a compromise between 1 and 2, its essential principle being to sell the new wines above their value, in order to be able to sell the old below their value. And it is clearly desirable, as far as possible, to make the reductions where they will be felt, and the additions where they will not be felt. Moreover it seems to me that reduction is most felt where it goes down to the next round sum, and an addition in the reverse case, i.e., when it starts from a round sum. Thus, if we were to take 2d. off a 5s. 8d. wine, and add it to a 4s. 4d.—thus selling them at 5s. 6d. and 4s. 6d. the reduction would be welcomed, and the addition unnoticed; and the change would be a popular one. The next extract shows with what light-hearted frivolity he could approach this tremendous subject of wine:— The consumption of Madeira (B) has been during the past year, zero. After careful calculation I estimate that, if this rate of consumption be steadily maintained, our present stock will last us an infinite number of years. And although there may be something monotonous and dreary in the prospect of such vast cycles spent in drinking second-class Madeira, we may yet cheer ourselves with the thought of how economically it can be done. To assist the Curator in the discharge of his duties, there was a Wine Committee, and for its guidance a series of rules was drawn up. The first runs as follows: "There shall be a Wine Committee, consisting of five persons, including the Curator, whose duty it shall be to assist the Curator in the management of the cellar." "Hence," wrote Mr. Dodgson, "logically it is the bounden duty of the Curator 'to assist himself.' I decline to say whether this clause has ever brightened existence for me—or whether, in the shades of evening, I may ever have been observed leaving the Common Room cellars with a small but suspicious-looking bundle, and murmuring, 'Assist thyself, assist thyself!'" Every Christmas at Christ Church the children of the College servants have a party in the Hall. This year he was asked to entertain them, and gladly consented to do so. He hired a magic lantern and a large number of slides, and with their help told the children the three following stories: (1) "The Epiphany"; (2) "The Children Lost in the Bush"; (3) "Bruno's Picnic." I have already referred to the services held in Christ Church for the College servants, at which Mr. Dodgson used frequently to preach. The way in which he regarded this work is very characteristic of the man. "Once more," he writes, "I have to thank my Heavenly Father for the great blessing and privilege of being allowed to speak for Him! May He bless my words to help some soul on its heavenward way." After one of these addresses he received a note from a member of the congregation, thanking him for what he had said. "It is very sweet," he said, "to get such words now and then; but there is danger in them if more such come, I must beg for silence." During the year Mr. Dodgson wrote the following letter to the Rev. C.A. Goodhart, Rector of Lambourne, Essex:— Dear Sir,—Your kind, sympathising and most encouraging letter about "Sylvie and Bruno" has deserved a better treatment from me than to have been thus kept waiting more than two years for an answer. But life is short; and one has many other things to do; and I have been for years almost hopelessly in arrears in correspondence. I keep a register, so that letters which I intend to answer do somehow come to the front at last. In "Sylvie and Bruno" I took courage to introduce what I had entirely avoided in the two "Alice" books—some reference to subjects which are, after all, the only subjects of real interest in life, subjects which are so intimately bound up with every topic of human interest that it needs more effort to avoid them than to touch on them; and I felt that such a book was more suitable to a clerical writer than one of mere fun. I hope I have not offended many (evidently I have not offended you) by putting scenes of mere fun, and talk about God, into the same book. Only one of all my correspondents ever guessed there was more to come of the book. She was a child, personally unknown to me, who wrote to "Lewis Carroll" a sweet letter about the book, in which she said, "I'm so glad it hasn't got a regular wind-up, as it shows there is more to come!" There is indeed "more to come." When I came to piece together the mass of accumulated material I found it was quite double what could be put into one volume. So I divided it in the middle; and I hope to bring out "Sylvie and Bruno Concluded" next Christmas—if, that is, my Heavenly Master gives me the time and the strength for the task; but I am nearly 60, and have no right to count on years to come. In signing my real name, let me beg you not to let the information go further—I have an intense dislike to personal publicity; and, the more people there are who know nothing of "Lewis Carroll" save his books, the happier I am. Believe me, sincerely yours, Charles L. Dodgson. I have made no attempt to chronicle all the games and puzzles which Lewis Carroll invented. A list of such as have been published will be found in the Bibliographical chapter. He intended to bring out a book of "Original Games and Puzzles," with illustrations by Miss E. Gertrude Thomson. The MS. was, I believe, almost complete before his death, and one, at least, of the pictures had been drawn. On June 30th he wrote in his Diary, "Invented what I think is a new kind of riddle. A Russian had three sons. The first, named Rab, became a lawyer; the second, Ymra, became a soldier; the third became a sailor. What was his name?" The following letter written to a child-friend, Miss E. Drury, illustrates Lewis Carroll's hatred of bazaars:— Ch. Ch., Oxford, Nov. 10, 1892. My dear Emmie,—I object to all bazaars on the general principle that they are very undesirable schools for young ladies, in which they learn to be "too fast" and forward, and are more exposed to undesirable acquaintances than in ordinary society. And I have, besides that, special objections to bazaars connected with charitable or religious purposes. It seems to me that they desecrate the religious object by their undesirable features, and that they take the reality out of all charity by getting people to think that they are doing a good action, when their true motive is amusement for themselves. Ruskin has put all this far better than I can possibly do, and, if I can find the passage, and find the time to copy it, I will send it you. But time is a very scarce luxury for me! Always yours affectionately, C.L. Dodgson. In his later years he used often to give lectures on various subjects to children. He gave a series on "Logic" at the Oxford Girls' High School, but he sometimes went further afield, as in the following instance:— Went, as arranged with Miss A. Ottley, to the High School at Worcester, on a visit. At half-past three I had an audience of about a hundred little girls, aged, I should think, from about six to fourteen. I showed them two arithmetic puzzles on the black-board, and told them "Bruno's Picnic." At half-past seven I addressed some serious words to a second audience of about a hundred elder girls, probably from fifteen to twenty—an experience of the deepest interest to me. The illustration on the next page will be best explained by the following letter which I have received from Mr. Walter Lindsay, of Philadelphia, U.S.:— Phila., September 12, 1898. Dear Sir,—I shall be very glad to furnish what information I can with respect to the "Mechanical Humpty Dumpty" which I constructed a few years ago, but I must begin by acknowledging that, in one sense at least, I did not "invent" the figure. The idea was first put into my head by an article in the Cosmopolitan, somewhere about 1891, I suppose, describing a similar contrivance. As a devoted admirer of the "Alice" books, I determined to build a Humpty Dumpty of my own; but I left the model set by the author of the article mentioned, and constructed the figure on entirely different lines. In the first place, the figure as described in the magazine had very few movements, and not very satisfactory ones at that; and in the second place, no attempt whatever was made to reproduce, even in a general way, the well-known appearance of Tenniel's drawing. Humpty, when completed, was about two feet and a half high. His face, of course, was white; the lower half of the egg was dressed in brilliant blue. His stockings were grey, and the famous cravat orange, with a zigzag pattern in blue. I am sorry to say that the photograph hardly does him justice; but he had travelled to so many different places during his career, that he began to be decidedly out of shape before he sat for his portrait. 512.png THE MECHANICAL "HUMPTY DUMPTY." From a photograph. When Humpty was about to perform, a short "talk" was usually given before the curtain rose, explaining the way in which the Sheep put the egg on the shelf at the back of the little shop, and how Alice went groping along to it. And then, just as the explanation had reached the opening of the chapter on Humpty Dumpty, the curtain rose, and Humpty was discovered, sitting on the wall, and gazing into vacancy. As soon as the audience had had time to recover, Alice entered, and the conversation was carried on just as it is in the book. Humpty Dumpty gesticulated with his arms, rolled his eyes, raised his eyebrows, frowned, turned up his nose in scorn at Alice's ignorance, and smiled from ear to ear when he shook hands with her. Besides this, his mouth kept time with his words all through the dialogue, which added very greatly to his life-like appearance. The effect of his huge face, as it changed from one expression to another, was ludicrous in the extreme, and we were often obliged to repeat sentences in the conversation (to "go back to the last remark but one") because the audience laughed so loudly over Humpty Dumpty's expression of face that they drowned what he was trying to say. The funniest effect was the change from the look of self-satisfied complacency with which he accompanied the words: "The king has promised me—" to that of towering rage when Alice innocently betrays her knowledge of the secret. At the close of the scene, when Alice has vainly endeavoured to draw him into further conversation, and at last walks away in disgust, Humpty loses his balance on the wall, recovers himself, totters again, and then falls off backwards; at the same time a box full of broken glass is dropped on the floor behind the scenes, to represent the "heavy crash," which "shook the forest from end to end";—and the curtain falls. Now, as to how it was all done. Humpty was made of barrel hoops, and covered with stiff paper and muslin. His eyes were round balls of rags, covered with muslin, drawn smoothly, and with the pupil and iris marked on the front. These eyes were pivoted to a board, fastened just behind the eye-openings in the face. To the eyeballs were sewed strong pieces of tape, which passed through screw-eyes on the edges of the board, and so down to a row of levers which were hinged in the lower part of the figure. One lever raised both eyes upward, another moved them both to the left, and so on. The eyebrows were of worsted and indiarubber knitted together. They were fastened at the ends, and raised and lowered by fine white threads passing through small holes in the face, and also operated by levers. The arms projected into the interior of the machine, and the gestures were made by moving the short ends inside. The right hand contained a spring clothe-pin, by which he was enabled to hold the note— book in which Alice set down the celebrated problem— 365 1 ___ 364 The movement of the mouth, in talking, was produced by a long tape, running down to a pedal, which was controlled by the foot of the performer. And the smile consisted of long strips of red tape, which were drawn out through slits at the corners of the mouth by means of threads which passed through holes in the sides of the head. The performer—who was always your humble servant—stood on a box behind the wall, his head just reaching the top of the egg, which was open all the way up the back. At the lower end of the figure, convenient to the hands of the performer, was the row of levers, like a little keyboard; and by striking different chords on the keys, any desired expression could be produced on the face. Of course, a performance of this kind without a good Alice would be unutterably flat; but the little girl who played opposite to Humpty, Miss Nellie K—, was so exactly the counterpart of Alice, both in appearance and disposition, that most children thought she was the original, right out of the book. Humpty still exists, but he has not seen active life for some years. His own popularity was the cause of his retirement; for having given a number of performances (for Charity, of course), and delighted many thousands of children of all ages, the demands upon his time, from Sunday-schools and other institutions, became so numerous that the performers were obliged to withdraw him in self-defence. He was a great deal of trouble to build, but the success he met with and the pleasure he gave more than repaid me for the bother; and I am sure that any one else who tries it will reach the same conclusion. Yours sincerely, Walter Lindsay. At the beginning of 1893 a fierce logical battle was being waged between Lewis Carroll and Mr. Cook Wilson, Professor of Logic at Oxford. The Professor, in spite of the countless arguments that Mr. Dodgson hurled at his head, would not confess that he had committed a fallacy. On February 5th the Professor appears to have conceded a point, for Mr. Dodgson writes: "Heard from Cook Wilson, who has long declined to read a paper which I sent January 12th, and which seems to me to prove the fallacy of a view of his about Hypotheticals. He now offers to read it, if I will study a proof he sent, that another problem of mine had contradictory data. I have accepted his offer, and studied and answered his paper. So I now look forward hopefully to the result of his reading mine." The hopes which he entertained were doomed to be disappointed; the controversy bore no fruits save a few pamphlets and an enormous amount of correspondence, and finally the two antagonists had to agree to differ. As a rule Mr. Dodgson was a stern opponent of music-halls and music-hall singers; but he made one or two exceptions with regard to the latter. For Chevalier he had nothing but praise; he heard him at one of his recitals, for he never in his life entered a "Variety Theatre." I give the passage from his Diary:— Went to hear Mr. Albert Chevalier's Recital. I only knew of him as being now recognised as facile princeps among music-hall singers, and did not remember that I had seen him twice or oftener on the stage—first as "Mr. Hobbs" in "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and afterwards as a "horsy" young man in a matinée in which Violet Vanbrugh appeared. He was decidedly good as an actor; but as a comic singer (with considerable powers of pathos as well) he is quite first-rate. His chief merit seems to be the earnestness with which he throws himself into the work. The songs (mostly his own writing) were quite inoffensive, and very funny. I am very glad to be able to think that his influence on public taste is towards refinement and purity. I liked best "The Future Mrs. 'Awkins," with its taking tune, and "My Old Dutch," which revealed powers that, I should think, would come out grandly in Robsonian parts, such as "The Porter's Knot." "The Little Nipper" was also well worth hearing. Mr. Dodgson's views on Sunday Observance were old-fashioned, but he lived up to them, and did not try to force them upon people with whose actions he had no concern. They were purely matters of "private opinion" with him. On October 2nd he wrote to Miss E.G. Thomson, who was illustrating his "Three Sunsets":— Would you kindly do no sketches, or photos, for me, on a Sunday? It is, in my view (of course I don't condemn any one who differs from me) inconsistent with keeping the day holy. I do not hold it to be the Jewish "Sabbath," but I do hold it to be "the Lord's Day," and so to be made very distinct from the other days. In December, the Logical controversy being over for a time, Mr. Dodgson invented a new problem to puzzle his mathematical friends with, which was called "The Monkey and Weight Problem." A rope is supposed to be hung over a wheel fixed to the roof of a building; at one end of the rope a weight is fixed, which exactly counterbalances a monkey which is hanging on to the other end. Suppose that the monkey begins to climb the rope, what will be the result? The following extract from the Diary illustrates the several possible answers which may be given:— Got Professor Clifton's answer to the "Monkey and Weight Problem." It is very curious, the different views taken by good mathematicians. Price says the weight goes up, with increasing velocity; Clifton (and Harcourt) that it goes up, at the same rate as the monkey; while Sampson says that it goes down. On December 24th Mr. Dodgson received the first twelve copies of "Sylvie and Bruno Concluded," just about four years after the appearance of the first part of the story. In this second volume the two fairy children are as delightful as ever; it also contains what I think most people will agree to be the most beautiful poem Lewis Carroll ever wrote, "Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping?" (p. 305). In the preface he pays a well-deserved compliment to Mr. Harry Furniss for his wonderfully clever pictures; he also explains how the book was written, showing that many of the amusing remarks of Bruno had been uttered by real children. He makes allusion to two books, which only his death prevented him from finishing—"Original Games and Puzzles," and a paper on "Sport," viewed from the standpoint of the humanitarian. From a literary point of view the second volume of "Sylvie and Bruno" lacks unity; a fairy tale is all very well, and a novel also is all very well, but the combination of the two is surely a mistake. However, the reader who cares more for the spirit than the letter will not notice this blemish; to him "Sylvie and Bruno Concluded" will be interesting and helpful, as the revelation of a very beautiful personality. You have made everything turn out just as I should have chosen [writes a friend to whom he had sent a copy], and made right all that disappointed me in the first part. I have not only to thank you for writing an interesting book, but for writing a helpful one too. I am sure that "Sylvie and Bruno" has given me many thoughts that will help me all life through. One cannot know "Sylvie" without being the better for it. You may say that "Mister Sir" is not consciously meant to be yourself, but I cannot help feeling that he is. As "Mister Sir" talks, I hear your voice in every word. I think, perhaps, that is why I like the book so much. I have received an interesting letter from Mr. Furniss, bearing upon the subject of "Sylvie and Bruno," and Lewis Carroll's methods of work. The letter runs as follows:— I have illustrated stories of most of our leading authors, and I can safely say that Lewis Carroll was the only one who cared to understand the illustrations to his own book. He was the W. S. Gilbert for children, and, like Gilbert producing one of his operas, Lewis Carroll took infinite pains to study every detail in producing his extraordinary and delightful books. Mr. Gilbert, as every one knows, has a model of the stage; he puts up the scenery, draws every figure, moves them about just as he wishes the real actors to move about. Lewis Carroll was precisely the same. This, of course, led to a great deal of work and trouble, and made the illustrating of his books more a matter of artistic interest than of professional profit. I was seven years illustrating his last work, and during that time I had the pleasure of many an interesting meeting with the fascinating author, and I was quite repaid for the trouble I took, not only by his generous appreciation of my efforts, but by the liberal remuneration he gave for the work, and also by the charm of having intercourse with the interesting, if somewhat erratic genius. A book very different in character from "Sylvie and Bruno," but under the same well-known pseudonym, appeared about the same time. I refer to "Pillow Problems," the second part of the series entitled "Curiosa Mathematica." "Pillow Problems thought out during wakeful hours" is a collection of mathematical problems, which Mr. Dodgson solved while lying awake at night. A few there are to which the title is not strictly applicable, but all alike were worked out mentally before any diagram or word of the solution was committed to paper. The author says that his usual practice was to write down the answer first of all, and afterwards the question and its solution. His motive, he says, for publishing these problems was not from any desire to display his powers of mental calculation. Those who knew him will readily believe this, though they will hardly be inclined to accept his own modest estimate of those powers. Still the book was intended, not for the select few who can scale the mountain heights of advanced mathematics, but for the much larger class of ordinary mathematicians, and they at least will be able to appreciate the gifted author, and to wonder how he could follow so clearly in his head the mental diagrams and intricate calculations involved in some of these "Pillow Problems." His chief motive in publishing the book was to show how, by a little determination, the mind "can be made to concentrate itself on some intellectual subject (not necessarily mathematics), and thus banish those petty troubles and vexations which most people experience, and which—unless the mind be otherwise occupied—will persist in invading the hours of night." And this remedy, as he shows, serves a higher purpose still. In a paragraph which deserves quoting at length, as it gives us a momentary glimpse of his refined and beautiful character, he says:— Perhaps I may venture for a moment to use a more serious tone, and to point out that there are mental troubles, much worse than mere worry, for which an absorbing object of thought may serve as a remedy. There are sceptical thoughts, which seem for the moment to uproot the firmest faith: there are blasphemous thoughts, which dart unbidden into the most reverent souls: there are unholy thoughts, which torture with their hateful presence the fancy that would fain be pure. Against all these some real mental work is a most helpful ally. That "unclean spirit" of the parable, who brought back with him seven others more wicked than himself, only did so because he found the chamber "swept and garnished," and its owner sitting with folded hands. Had he found it all alive with the "busy hum" of active work, there would have been scant welcome for him and his seven! It would have robbed the book of its true character if Lewis Carroll had attempted to improve on the work done in his head, and consequently we have the solutions exactly as he worked them out before setting them down on paper. Of the Problems themselves there is not much to be said here; they are original, and some of them (e.g., No. 52) expressed in a style peculiarly the author's own. The subjects included in their range are Arithmetic, Algebra, Pure Geometry (Plane), Trigonometry, Algebraic Geometry, and Differential Calculus; and there is one Problem to which Mr. Dodgson says he "can proudly point," in "Transcendental Probabilities," which is here given: "A bag contains two counters, as to which nothing is known except that each is either black or white. Ascertain their colour without taking them out of the bag." The answer is, "One is black and the other white." For the solution the reader is referred to the book itself, a study of which will well repay him, apart from the chance he may have of discovering some mistake, and the consequent joy thereat! A few extracts from the Diary follow, written during the early part of 1894:— Feb. 1st.—Dies notandus. As Ragg was reading Prayers, and Bayne and I were the only M.A.'s in the stalls, I tried the experiment of going to the lectern and reading the lesson. I did not hesitate much, but feel it too great a strain on the nerves to be tried often. Then I went to the Latin Chapel for Holy Communion. Only Paget (Dean) and Dr. Huntley came: so, for the first time in my recollection, it had to be given up. Then I returned to my rooms, and found in The Standard the very important communication from Gladstone denying the rumour that he has decided upon resigning the Premiership, but admitting that, owing to failing powers, it may come at any moment. It will make a complete change in the position of politics! Then I got, from Cook Wilson, what I have been so long trying for—an accepted transcript of the fallacious argument over which we have had an (apparently) endless fight. I think the end is near, now. Feb. 4th.—The idea occurred to me that it might be a pleasant variation in Backgammon to throw three dice, and choose any two of the three numbers. The average quality of the throws would be much raised. I reckon that the chance of "6, 6" would be about two and a half what it now is. It would also furnish a means, similar to giving points in billiards, for equalising players: the weaker might use three dice, the other using two. I think of calling it "Thirdie Backgammon." March 31st.—Have just got printed, as a leaflet, "A Disputed Point in Logic"—the point Professor Wilson and I have been arguing so long. This paper is wholly in his own words, and puts the point very clearly. I think of submitting it to all my logical friends. "A Disputed Point in Logic" appeared also, I believe, in Mind, July, 1894. This seems a fitting place in which to speak of a side of Mr. Dodgson's character of which he himself was naturally very reticent—his wonderful generosity. My own experience of him was of a man who was always ready to do one a kindness, even though it put him to great expense and inconvenience; but of course I did not know, during his lifetime, that my experience of him was the same as that of all his other friends. The income from his books and other sources, which might have been spent in a life of luxury and selfishness, he distributed lavishly where he saw it was needed, and in order to do this he always lived in the most simple way. To make others happy was the Golden Rule of his life. On August 31st he wrote, in a letter to a friend, Miss Mary Brown: "And now what am I to tell you about myself? To say I am quite well 'goes without saying' with me. In fact, my life is so strangely free from all trial and trouble that I cannot doubt my own happiness is one of the talents entrusted to me to 'occupy' with, till the Master shall return, by doing something to make other lives happy." In several instances, where friends in needy circumstances have written to him for loans of money, he has answered them, "I will not lend, but I will give you the £100 you ask for." To help child-friends who wanted to go on the stage, or to take up music as a profession, he has introduced them to leading actors and actresses, paid for them having lessons in singing from the best masters, sent round circulars to his numerous acquaintances begging them to patronise the first concert or recital. In writing his books he never attempted to win popularity by acceding to the prejudices and frailties of the age—his one object was to make his books useful and helpful and ennobling. Like the great Master, in whose steps he so earnestly strove to follow, he "went about doing good." And one is glad to think that even his memory is being made to serve the same purpose. The "Alice" cots are a worthy sequel to his generous life. Even Mr. Dodgson, with all his boasted health, was not absolutely proof against disease, for on February 12, 1895, he writes:— Tenth day of a rather bad attack of influenza of the ague type. Last night the fever rose to a great height, partly caused by a succession of five visitors. One, however, was of my own seeking—Dean Paget, to whom I was thankful to be able to tell all I have had in my mind for a year or more, as to our Chapel services not being as helpful as they could be made. The chief fault is extreme rapidity. I long ago gave up the attempt to say the Confession at that pace; and now I say it, and the Lord's Prayer, close together, and never hear a word of the Absolution. Also many of the Lessons are quite unedifying. On July 11th he wrote to my brother on the subject of a paper about Eternal Punishment, which was to form the first of a series of essays on Religious Difficulties:— I am sending you the article on "Eternal Punishment" as it is. There is plenty of matter for consideration, as to which I shall be glad to know your views. Also if there are other points, connected with religion, where you feel that perplexing difficulties exist, I should be glad to know of them in order to see whether I can see my way to saying anything helpful. But I had better add that I do not want to deal with any such difficulties, unless they tend to affect life. Speculative difficulties which do not affect conduct, and which come into collision with any of the principles which I intend to state as axioms, lie outside the scope of my book. These axioms are:— (1) Human conduct is capable of being right, and of being wrong. (2) I possess Free-Will, and am able to choose between right and wrong. (3) I have in some cases chosen wrong. (4) I am responsible for choosing wrong. (5) I am responsible to a person. (6) This person is perfectly good. I call them axioms, because I have no proofs to offer for them. There will probably be others, but these are all I can think of just now. The Rev. H. Hopley, Vicar of Westham, has sent me the following interesting account of a sermon Mr. Dodgson preached at his church:— In the autumn of 1895 the Vicar of Eastbourne was to have preached my Harvest Sermon at Westham, a village five miles away; but something or other intervened, and in the middle of the week I learned he could not come. A mutual friend suggested my asking Mr. Dodgson, who was then in Eastbourne, to help me, and I went with him to his rooms. I was quite a stranger to Mr. Dodgson; but knowing from hearsay how reluctant he usually was to preach, I apologised and explained my position—with Sunday so near at hand. After a moment's hesitation he consented, and in a most genial manner made me feel quite at ease as to the abruptness of my petition. On the morrow he came over to my vicarage, and made friends with my daughters, teaching them some new manner of playing croquet [probably Castle Croquet], and writing out for them puzzles and anagrams that he had composed. The following letter was forwarded on the Saturday:— "7, Lushington Road, Eastbourne, September 26, 1895. Dear Mr. Hopley,—I think you will excuse the liberty I am taking in asking you to give me some food after the service on Sunday, so that I may have no need to catch the train, but can walk back at leisure. This will save me from the worry of trying to conclude at an exact minute, and you, perhaps, from the trouble of finding short hymns, to save time. It will not, I hope, cause your cook any trouble, as my regular rule here is cold dinner on Sundays. This not from any "Sabbatarian" theory, but from the wish to let our employés have the day wholly at their own disposal. I beg Miss Hopley's acceptance of the enclosed papers— (puzzles and diagrams.) Believe me, very truly yours, C.L. Dodgson." On Sunday our grand old church was crowded, and, although our villagers are mostly agricultural labourers, yet they breathlessly listened to a sermon forty minutes long, and apparently took in every word of it. It was quite extempore, in very simple words, and illustrated by some delightful and most touching stories of children. I only wish there had been a shorthand-writer there. In the vestry after service, while he was signing his name in the Preachers' Book, a church officer handed him a bit of paper. "Mr. Dodgson, would you very kindly write your name on that?" "Sir!" drawing himself up sternly—"Sir, I never do that for any one"—and then, more kindly, "You see, if I did it for one, I must do it for all." An amusing incident in Mr. Dodgson's life is connected with the well-known drama, "Two Little Vagabonds." I give the story as he wrote it in his Diary:— Nov. 28th.—Matinée at the Princess's of "Two Little Vagabonds," a very sensational melodrama, capitally acted. "Dick" and "Wally" were played by Kate Tyndall and Sydney Fairbrother, whom I guess to be about fifteen and twelve. Both were excellent, and the latter remarkable for the perfect realism of her acting. There was some beautiful religious dialogue between "Wally" and a hospital nurse— most reverently spoken, and reverently received by the audience. Dec. 17th.—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! The following is an extract from a letter written in 1896 to one of his sisters, in allusion to a death which had recently occurred in the family:— It is getting increasingly difficult now to remember which of one's friends remain alive, and which have gone "into the land of the great departed, into the silent land." Also, such news comes less and less as a shock, and more and more one realises that it is an experience each of us has to face before long. That fact is getting less dreamlike to me now, and I sometimes think what a grand thing it will be to be able to say to oneself, "Death is over now; there is not that experience to be faced again." I am beginning to think that, if the books I am still hoping to write are to be done at all, they must be done now, and that I am meant thus to utilise the splendid health I have had, unbroken, for the last year and a half, and the working powers that are fully as great as, if not greater, than I have ever had. I brought with me here (this letter was written from Eastbourne) the MS., such as it is (very fragmentary and unarranged) for the book about religious difficulties, and I meant, when I came here, to devote myself to that, but I have changed my plan. It seems to me that that subject is one that hundreds of living men could do, if they would only try, much better than I could, whereas there is no living man who could (or at any rate who would take the trouble to) arrange and finish and publish the second part of the "Logic." Also, I have the Logic book in my head; it will only need three or four months to write out, and I have not got the other book in my head, and it might take years to think out. So I have decided to get Part ii. finished first, and I am working at it day and night. I have taken to early rising, and sometimes sit down to my work before seven, and have one and a half hours at it before breakfast. The book will be a great novelty, and will help, I fully believe, to make the study of Logic far easier than it now is. And it will, I also believe, be a help to religious thought by giving clearness of conception and of expression, which may enable many people to face, and conquer, many religious difficulties for themselves. So I do really regard it as work for God. Another letter, written a few months later to Miss Dora Abdy, deals with the subject of "Reverence," which Mr. Dodgson considered a virtue not held in sufficient esteem nowadays:— My Dear Dora,—In correcting the proofs of "Through the Looking-Glass" (which is to have "An Easter Greeting" inserted at the end), I am reminded that in that letter (I enclose a copy), I had tried to express my thoughts on the very subject we talked about last night—the relation of laughter to religious thought. One of the hardest things in the world is to convey a meaning accurately from one mind to another, but the sort of meaning I want to convey to other minds is that while the laughter of joy is in full harmony with our deeper life, the laughter of amusement should be kept apart from it. The danger is too great of thus learning to look at solemn things in a spirit of mockery, and to seek in them opportunities for exercising wit. That is the spirit which has spoiled, for me, the beauty of some of the Bible. Surely there is a deep meaning in our prayer, "Give us an heart to love and dread Thee." We do not mean terror: but a dread that will harmonise with love; "respect" we should call it as towards a human being, "reverence" as towards God and all religious things. Yours affectionately, C.L. Dodgson. In his "Game of Logic" Lewis Carroll introduced an original method of working logical problems by means of diagrams; this method he superseded in after years for a much simpler one, the method of "Subscripts." In "Symbolic Logic, Part i." (London: Macmillan, 1896) he employed both methods. The Introduction is specially addressed "to Learners," whom Lewis Carroll advises to read the book straight through, without dipping. This Rule [he says] is very desirable with other kinds of books—such as novels, for instance, where you may easily spoil much of the enjoyment you would otherwise get from the story by dipping into it further on, so that what the author meant to be a pleasant surprise comes to you as a matter of course. Some people, I know, make a practice of looking into vol. iii. first, just to see how the story ends; and perhaps it is as well just to know that all ends happily—that the much persecuted lovers do marry after all, that he is proved to be quite innocent of the murder, that the wicked cousin is completely foiled in his plot, and gets the punishment he deserves, and that the rich uncle in India (Qu. Why in India ? Ans. Because, somehow, uncles never can get rich anywhere else) dies at exactly the right moment—before taking the trouble to read vol i. This, I say, is just permissible with a novel, where vol. iii. has a meaning, even for those who have not read the earlier part of the story; but with a scientific book, it is sheer insanity. You will find the latter part hopelessly unintelligible, if you read it before reaching it in regular course. CHAPTER IX (1897—1898) Logic-lectures—Irreverent anecdotes—Tolerance of his religious views—A mathematical discovery—"The Little Minister" Sir George Baden-Powell—Last illness—"Thy will be done"—"Wonderland" at last!—Letters from friends "Three Sunsets"—"Of such is the kingdom of Heaven." The year 1897, the last complete year which he was destined to spend, began for Mr. Dodgson at Guildford. On January 3rd he preached in the morning at the beautiful old church of S. Mary's, the church which he always attended when he was staying with his sisters at the Chestnuts. On the 5th he began a course of Logic Lectures at Abbot's Hospital. The Rev. A. Kingston, late curate of Holy Trinity and S. Mary's Parishes, Guildford, had requested him to do this, and he had given his promise if as many as six people could be got together to hear him. Mr. Kingston canvassed the town so well that an audience of about thirty attended the first lecture. 513.png LEWIS CARROLL. From a photograph. A long Sunday walk was always a feature of Mr. Dodgson's life in the vacations. In earlier years the late Mr. W. Watson was his usual companion at Guildford. The two men were in some respects very much alike; a peculiar gentleness of character, a winning charm of manner which no one could resist, distinguished them both. After Mr. Watson's death his companion was usually one of the following Guildford clergymen: the Rev. J.H. Robson, LL.D., the Rev. H.R. Ware, and the Rev. A. Kingston. On the 26th Mr. Dodgson paid a visit to the Girls' High School, to show the pupils some mathematical puzzles, and to teach the elder ones his "Memoria Technica." On the 28th he returned to Oxford, so as to be up in time for term. I have said that he always refused invitations to dinner; accordingly his friends who knew of this peculiarity, and wished to secure him for a special evening, dared not actually invite him, but wrote him little notes stating that on such and such days they would be dining at home. Thus there is an entry in his Journal for February 10th: "Dined with Mrs. G—(She had not sent an 'invitation'—only 'information')." His system of symbolic logic enabled him to work out the most complex problems with absolute certainty in a surprisingly short time. Thus he wrote on the 15th: "Made a splendid logic-problem, about "great-grandsons" (modelled on one by De Morgan). My method of solution is quite new, and I greatly doubt if any one will solve the Problem. I have sent it to Cook Wilson." On March 7th he preached in the University Church, the first occasion on which he had done so:— There is now [he writes] a system established of a course of six sermons at S. Mary's each year, for University men only, and specially meant for undergraduates. They are preached, preceded by a few prayers and a hymn, at half-past eight. This evening ended the course for this term: and it was my great privilege to preach. It has been the most formidable sermon I have ever had to preach, and it is a great relief to have it over. I took, as text, Job xxviii. 28, "And unto man he said, The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom"—and the prayer in the Litany "Give us an heart to love and dread thee." It lasted three-quarters of an hour. One can imagine how he would have treated the subject. The views which he held on the subject of reverence were, so at least it appears to me, somewhat exaggerated; they are well expressed in a letter which he wrote to a friend of his, during the year, and which runs as follows:— Dear—, After changing my mind several times, I have at last decided to venture to ask a favour of you, and to trust that you will not misinterpret my motives in doing so. The favour I would ask is, that you will not tell me any more stories, such as you did on Friday, of remarks which children are said to have made on very sacred subjects—remarks which most people would recognise as irreverent, if made by grown-up people, but which are assumed to be innocent when made by children who are unconscious of any irreverence, the strange conclusion being drawn that they are therefore innocent when repeated by a grown-up person. The misinterpretation I would guard against is, your supposing that I regard such repetition as always wrong in any grown-up person. Let me assure you that I do not so regard it. I am always willing to believe that those who repeat such stories differ wholly from myself in their views of what is, and what is not, fitting treatment of sacred things, and I fully recognise that what would certainly be wrong in me, is not necessarily so in them. So I simply ask it as a personal favour to myself. The hearing of that anecdote gave me so much pain, and spoiled so much the pleasure of my tiny dinner-party, that I feel sure you will kindly spare me such in future. One further remark. There are quantities of such anecdotes going about. I don't in the least believe that 5 per cent. of them were ever said by children. I feel sure that most of them are concocted by people who wish to bring sacred subjects into ridicule—sometimes by people who wish to undermine the belief that others have in religious truths: for there is no surer way of making one's beliefs unreal than by learning to associate them with ludicrous ideas. Forgive the freedom with which I have said all this. Sincerely yours, C.L. Dodgson. The entry in the Diary for April 11th (Sunday) is interesting:— Went my eighteen-mile round by Besilsleigh. From my rooms back to them again, took me five hours and twenty-seven minutes. Had "high tea" at twenty minutes past seven. This entails only leaving a plate of cold meat, and gives much less trouble than hot dinner at six. Dinner at six has been my rule since January 31st, when it began—I then abandoned the seven o'clock Sunday dinner, of which I entirely disapprove. It has prevented, for two terms, the College Servants' Service. On May 12th he wrote:— As the Prince of Wales comes this afternoon to open the Town Hall, I went round to the Deanery to invite them to come through my rooms upon the roof, to see the procession arrive.... A party of about twenty were on my roof in the afternoon, including Mrs. Moberly, Mrs. Driver, and Mrs. Baynes, and most, if not all, of the children in Christ Church. Dinner in Hall at eight. The Dean had the Prince on his right, and Lord Salisbury on his left. My place was almost vis—à—vis with the Prince. He and the Dean were the only speakers. We did not get out of Hall till nearly ten. In June he bought a "Whiteley Exerciser," and fixed it up in his rooms. One would have thought that he would have found his long walks sufficient exercise (an eighteen-mile round was, as we have seen, no unusual thing for him to undertake), but apparently it was not so. He was so pleased with the "Exerciser," that he bought several more of them, and made presents of them to his friends. As an instance of his broad-mindedness, the following extract from his Diary for June 20th is interesting. It must be premised that E—was a young friend of his who had recently become a member of the Roman Catholic Church, and that their place of worship in Oxford is dedicated to S. Aloysius. I went with E— to S. Aloysius. There was much beauty in the service, part of which consisted in a procession, with banner, all round the church, carrying the Host, preceded by a number of girls in white, with veils (who had all had their first communion that morning), strewing flowers. Many of them were quite little things of about seven. The sermon (by Father Richardson) was good and interesting, and in a very loyal tone about the Queen. A letter he wrote some years before to a friend who had asked him about his religious opinions reveals the same catholicity of mind:— I am a member of the English Church, and have taken Deacon's Orders, but did not think fit (for reasons I need not go into) to take Priest's Orders. My dear father was what is called a "High Churchman," and I naturally adopted those views, but have always felt repelled by the yet higher development called "Ritualism." But I doubt if I am fully a "High Churchman" now. I find that as life slips away (I am over fifty now), and the life on the other side of the great river becomes more and more the reality, of which this is only a shadow, that the petty distinctions of the many creeds of Christendom tend to slip away as well—leaving only the great truths which all Christians believe alike. More and more, as I read of the Christian religion, as Christ preached it, I stand amazed at the forms men have given to it, and the fictitious barriers they have built up between themselves and their brethren. I believe that when you and I come to lie down for the last time, if only we can keep firm hold of the great truths Christ taught us—our own utter worthlessness and His infinite worth; and that He has brought us back to our one Father, and made us His brethren, and so brethren to one another—we shall have all we need to guide us through the shadows. Most assuredly I accept to the full the doctrines you refer to—that Christ died to save us, that we have no other way of salvation open to us but through His death, and that it is by faith in Him, and through no merit of ours, that we are reconciled to God; and most assuredly I can cordially say, "I owe all to Him who loved me, and died on the Cross of Calvary." He spent the Long Vacation at Eastbourne as usual, frequently walking over to Hastings, which is about twenty miles off. A good many of his mornings were spent in giving lectures and telling stories at schools. A letter to the widow of an old college friend reveals the extraordinary sensitiveness of his nature:— 2, Bedford Well Road, Eastbourne, August 2, 1897. My Dear Mrs. Woodhouse,—Your letter, with its mournful news, followed me down here, and I only got it on Saturday night; so I was not able to be with you in thought when the mortal remains of my dear old friend were being committed to the ground; to await the time when our Heavenly Father shall have accomplished the number of His elect, and when you and I shall once more meet the loved ones from whom we are, for a little while only—what a little while even a long human life lasts!—parted in sorrow, yet not sorrowing as those without hope. You will be sure without words of mine, that you have my true and deep sympathy. Of all the friends I made at Ch. Ch., your husband was the very first who spoke to me—across the dinner-table in Hall. That is forty-six years ago, but I remember, as if it were only yesterday, the kindly smile with which he spoke.... September 27th and 28th are marked in his Diary "with a white stone":— Sept. 27th.—Dies notandus. Discovered rule for dividing a number by 9, by mere addition and subtraction. I felt sure there must be an analogous one for 11, and found it, and proved first rule by algebra, after working about nine hours! Sept. 28th.—Dies cretâ notandus. I have actually superseded the rules discovered yesterday! My new rules require to ascertain the 9—remainder, and the 11—remainder, which the others did not require; but the new ones are much the quickest. I shall send them to The Educational Times , with date of discovery. On November 4th he wrote:— Completed a rule for dividing a given number by any divisor that is within 10 of a power of 10, either way. The principle of it is not my discovery, but was sent me by Bertram Collingwood—a rule for dividing by a divisor which is within 10 of a power of 10, below it. My readers will not be surprised to learn that only eight days after this he had superseded his rule:— An inventive morning! After waking, and before I had finished dressing, I had devised a new and much neater form in which to work my Rules for Long Division, and also decided to bring out my "Games and Puzzles," and Part iii. of "Curiosa Mathematica," in Numbers , in paper covers, paged consecutively, to be ultimately issued in boards. On November 20th he spent the day in London, with the object of seeing "The Little Minister" at the Haymarket. "A beautiful play, beautifully acted," he calls it, and says that he should like to see it "again and again." He especially admired the acting of Mrs. Cyril Maude (Miss Winifred Emery) as Lady Babbie. This was the last theatrical performance he ever witnessed. He apparently kept rough notes for his Diary, and only wrote it up every few weeks, as there are no entries at all for 1898, nor even for the last week of 1897. The concluding page runs as follows:— Dec. (W.) 10 a.m.—I am in my large room, with no fire, and open window—temperature 54°. Dec. 17 (F.).—Maggie [one of his sisters], and our nieces Nella and Violet, came to dinner. Dec. 19 (Sun.).—Sat up last night till 4 a.m., over a tempting problem, sent me from New York, "to find 3 equal rational-sided rt.-angled triangles ." I found two, whose sides are 20, 21, 29; 12, 35, 37; but could not find three. Dec. 23(Th.).—I start for Guildford by the 2.7 today. As my story of Lewis Carroll's life draws near its end, I have received some "Stray Reminiscences" from Sir George Baden-Powell, M.P., which, as they refer to several different periods of time, are as appropriate here as in any other part of the book. The Rev. E.H. Dodgson, referred to in these reminiscences, is a younger brother of Lewis Carroll's; he spent several years of his life upon the remote island of Tristan d'Acunha, where there were only about seventy or eighty inhabitants besides himself. About once a year a ship used to call, when the island-folk would exchange their cattle for cloth, corn, tea, &c., which they could not produce themselves. The island is volcanic in origin, and is exposed to the most terrific gales; the building used as a church stood at some distance from Mr. Dodgson's dwelling, and on one occasion the wind was so strong that he had to crawl on his hands and knees for the whole distance that separated the two buildings. My first introduction (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 strong-hold 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. We became friends, and greatly did I enjoy intercourse with him over various minor Oxford matters. In later years, at one time I saw much of him, in quite another rôle—namely that of ardent sympathy with the, as he thought, ill-treated and deserted islanders of Tristan d'Acunha. His brother, it will be remembered, had voluntarily been left at that island with a view to ministering to the spiritual and educational needs of the few settlers, and sent home such graphic accounts and urgent demands for aid, that "Lewis Carroll" spared no pains to organise assistance and relief. At his instance I brought the matter before Government and the House of Commons, and from that day to this frequent communication has been held with the islanders, and material assistance has been rendered them—thanks to the warm heart of "Lewis Carroll." On December 23, 1897, as the note in his Diary states, he went down, in accordance with his usual custom, to Guildford, to spend Christmas with his sisters at the Chestnuts. He seemed to be in his ordinary health, and in the best of spirits, and there was nothing to show that the end was so near. 514.png THE CHESTNUTS, GUILDFORD. From a photograph. At Guildford he was hard at work upon the second part of his "Symbolic Logic," spending most of the day over this task. This book, alas! he was not destined to finish, which is the more to be regretted as it will be exceedingly difficult for any one else to take up the thread of the argument, even if any one could be found willing to give the great amount of time and trouble which would be needed. On January 5th my father, the Rev. C.S. Collingwood, Rector of Southwick, near Sunderland, died after a very short illness. The telegram which brought Mr. Dodgson the news of this contained the request that he would come at once. He determined to travel north the next day—but it was not to be so. An attack of influenza, which began only with slight hoarseness, yet enough to prevent him from following his usual habit of reading family prayers, was pronounced next morning to be sufficiently serious to forbid his undertaking a journey. At first his illness seemed a trifle, but before a week had passed bronchial symptoms had developed, and Dr. Gabb, the family physician, ordered him to keep his bed. His breathing rapidly became hard and laborious, and he had to be propped up with pillows. A few days before his death he asked one of his sisters to read him that well-known hymn, every verse of which ends with 'Thy Will be done.' To another he said that his illness was a great trial of his patience. How great a trial it must have been it is hard for us to understand. With the work he had set himself still uncompleted, with a sense of youth and joyousness, which sixty years of the battle of life had in no way dulled, Lewis Carroll had to face death. He seemed to know that the struggle was over. "Take away those pillows," he said on the 13th, "I shall need them no more." The end came about half-past two on the afternoon of the 14th. One of his sisters was in the room at the time, and she only noticed that the hard breathing suddenly ceased. The nurse, whom she summoned, at first hoped that this was a sign that he had taken a turn for the better. And so, indeed, he had—he had passed from a world of incompleteness and disappointment, to another where God is putting his beautiful soul to nobler and grander work than was possible for him here, where he is learning to comprehend those difficulties which used to puzzle him so much, and where that infinite Love, which he mirrored so wonderfully in his own life, is being revealed to him "face to face." In accordance with his expressed wish, the funeral was simple in the extreme—flowers, and flowers only, adorned the plain coffin. There was no hearse to drag it up the steep incline that leads to the beautiful cemetery where he lies. The service was taken by Dean Paget and Canon Grant, Rector of Holy Trinity and S. Mary's, Guildford. The mourners who followed him in the quiet procession were few—but the mourners who were not there, and many of whom had never seen him—who shall tell their number? After the grave had been filled up, the wreaths which had covered the coffin were placed upon it. Many were from "child-friends" and bore such inscriptions as "From two of his child-friends"—"To the sweetest soul that ever looked with human eyes," &c. Then the mourners left him alone there—up on the pleasant downs where he had so often walked. A marble cross, under the shadow of a pine, marks the spot, and beneath his own name they have engraved the name of "Lewis Carroll," that the children who pass by may remember their friend, who is now—himself a child in all that makes childhood most attractive—in that "Wonderland" which outstrips all our dreams and hopes. I cannot forbear quoting from Professor Sanday's sermon at Christ Church on the Sunday after his death:— The world will think of Lewis Carroll as one who opened out a new vein in literature, a new and a delightful vein, which added at once mirth and refinement to life.... May we not say that from our courts at Christ Church there has flowed into the literature of our time a rill, bright and sparkling, health-giving and purifying, wherever its waters extend? 515.png LEWIS CARROLL'S GRAVE. From a photograph. On the following Sunday Dean Paget, in the course of a sermon on the "Virtue of Simplicity," said:— We may differ, according to our difference of taste or temperament, in appraising Charles Dodgson's genius; but that that great gift was his, that his best work ranks with the very best of its kind, this has been owned with a recognition too wide and spontaneous to leave room for doubt. The brilliant, venturesome imagination, defying forecast with ever-fresh surprise; the sense of humour in its finest and most naïve form; the power to touch with lightest hand the undercurrent of pathos in the midst of fun; the audacity of creative fancy, and the delicacy of insight—these are rare gifts; and surely they were his. Yes, but it was his simplicity of mind and heart that raised them all, not only in his work but in his life, in all his ways, in the man as we knew him, to something higher than any mere enumeration of them tells: that almost curious simplicity, at times, that real and touching child-likeness that marked him in all fields of thought, appearing in his love of children and in their love of him, in his dread of giving pain to any living creature, in a certain disproportion, now and then, of the view he took of things—yes, and also in that deepest life, where the pure in heart and those who become as little children see the very truth and walk in the fear and love of God. Some extracts from the numerous sympathetic letters received by Mr. Dodgson's brothers and sisters will show how greatly his loss was felt. Thus Canon Jelf writes:— It was quite a shock to me to see in the paper to-day the death of your dear, good brother, to whom we owe so much of the brightening of our lives with pure, innocent fun. Personally I feel his loss very much indeed. We were together in old Ch. Ch. days from 1852 onwards; and he was always such a loyal, faithful friend to me. I rejoice to think of the serious talks we had together—of the grand, brave way in which he used the opportunities he had as a man of humour, to reach the consciences of a host of readers—of his love for children—his simplicity of heart—of his care for servants—his spiritual care for them. Who can doubt that he was fully prepared for a change however sudden—for the one clear call which took him away from us? Yet the world seems darker for his going; we can only get back our brightness by realising Who gave him all his talent, all his mirth of heart—the One who never leaves us. In deep sympathy, Yours very sincerely, George E. Jelf. P.S.—When you have time tell me a little about him; he was so dear to me. Mr. Frederic Harrison writes as follows:— The occasional visits that I received from your late brother showed me a side of his nature which to my mind was more interesting and more worthy of remembrance even than his wonderful and delightful humour—I mean his intense sympathy with all who suffer and are in need. He came to see me several times on sundry errands of mercy, and it has been a lesson to me through life to remember his zeal to help others in difficulty, his boundless generosity, and his inexhaustible patience with folly and error. My young daughter, like all young people in civilised countries, was brought up on his beautiful fancies and humours. But for my part I remember him mainly as a sort of missionary to all in need. We all alike grieve, and offer you our heartfelt sympathy. I am, faithfully yours, Frederic Harrison. His old friend and tutor. Dr. Price, writes:— ... I feel his removal from among us as the loss of an old and dear friend and pupil, to whom I have been most warmly attached ever since he was with me at Whitby, reading mathematics, in, I think, 1853—44 years ago! And 44 years of uninterrupted friendship .... I was pleased to read yesterday in The Times newspaper the kindly obituary notice: perfectly just and true; appreciative, as it should be, as to the unusual combination of deep mathematical ability and taste with the genius that led to the writing of "Alice's Adventures." Only the other day [writes a lady friend] he wrote to me about his admiration for my dear husband, and he ended his letter thus: "I trust that when my time comes, I may be found, like him, working to the last, and ready for the Master's call"—and truly so he was. A friend at Oxford writes:— Mr. Dodgson was ever the kindest and gentlest of friends, bringing sunshine into the house with him. We shall mourn his loss deeply, and my two girls are quite overcome with grief. All day memories of countless acts of kindness shown to me, and to people I have known, have crowded my mind, and I feel it almost impossible to realise that he has passed beyond the reach of our gratitude and affection. The following are extracts from letters written by some of his "child-friends," now grown up:— How beautiful to think of the track of light and love he has left behind him, and the amount of happiness he brought into the lives of all those he came in contact with! I shall never forget all his kindness to us, from the time he first met us as little mites in the railway train, and one feels glad to have had the privilege of knowing him. One of Mr. Dodgson's oldest "child-friends" writes:— He was to me a dear and true friend, and it has been my great privilege to see a good deal of him ever since I was a tiny child, and especially during the last two years. I cannot tell you how much we shall miss him here. Ch. Ch. without Mr. Dodgson will be a strange place, and it is difficult to realise it even while we listen to the special solemn anthems and hymns to his memory in our cathedral. One who had visited him at Guildford, writes:— It must be quite sixteen years now since he first made friends with my sister and myself as children on the beach at Eastbourne, and since then his friendship has been and must always be one of my most valued possessions. It culminated, I think, in the summer of 1892—the year when he brought me to spend a very happy Sunday at Guildford. I had not seen him before, that year, for some time; and it was then, I think, that the childish delight in his kindness, and pride in his friendship, changed into higher love and reverence, when in our long walks over the downs I saw more and more into the great tenderness and gentleness of his nature. Shortly after Mr. Dodgson's death, his "Three Sunsets" was published by Messrs. Macmillan. The twelve "Fairy Fancies," which illustrate it, were drawn by Miss E. G. Thomson. Though they are entirely unconnected with the text, they are so thoroughly in accordance with the author's delicate refinement, and so beautiful in themselves, that they do not strike one as inappropriate. Some of the verses are strangely in keeping with the time at which they are published. I could not see, for blinding tears, The glories of the west: A heavenly music filled my ears, A heavenly peace my breast. "Come unto me, come unto me— All ye that labour, unto me— Ye heavy-laden, come to me— And I will give you rest." One cannot read this little volume without feeling that the shadow of some disappointment lay over Lewis Carroll's life. Such I believe to have been the case, and it was this that gave him his wonderful sympathy with all who suffered. But those who loved him would not wish to lift the veil from these dead sanctities, nor would any purpose be served by so doing. The proper use of sympathy is not to weep over sorrows that are over, and whose very memory is perhaps obliterated for him in the first joy of possessing new and higher faculties. Before leaving the subject of this book, I should like to draw attention to a few lines on "woman's mission," lines full of the noblest chivalry, reminding one of Tennyson's "Idylls of the King":— In the darkest path of man's despair, Where War and Terror shake the troubled earth, Lies woman's mission; with unblenching brow To pass through scenes of horror and affright Where men grow sick and tremble: unto her All things are sanctified, for all are good. Nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care: Nothing so great, but she may bear her part. No life is vain: each hath his place assigned: Do thou thy task, and leave the rest to God. Of the unpublished works which Mr. Dodgson left behind him, I may mention "Original Games and Puzzles"; "Symbolic Logic, Part ii.," and a portion of a mathematical book, the proofs of which are now in the hands of the Controller of the Oxford University Press. I will conclude this chapter with a poem which appeared in Punch for January 29th, a fortnight after Lewis Carroll's death. It expresses, with all the grace and insight of the true poet, what I have tried, so feebly and ineffectually, to say:— LEWIS CARROLL. Born 1832. Died January 14, 1898. Lover of children! Fellow-heir with those Of whom the imperishable kingdom is! Beyond all dreaming now your spirit knows The unimagined mysteries. Darkly as in a glass our faces look To read ourselves, if so we may, aright; You, like the maiden in your faërie book— You step behind and see the light! The heart you wore beneath your pedant's cloak Only to children's hearts you gave away; Yet unaware in half the world you woke The slumbering charm of childhood's day. We older children, too, our loss lament, We of the "Table Round," remembering well How he, our comrade, with his pencil lent Your fancy's speech a firmer spell. Master of rare woodcraft, by sympathy's Sure touch he caught your visionary gleams, And made your fame, the dreamer's, one with his. The wise interpreter of dreams. Farewell! But near our hearts we have you yet, Holding our heritage with loving hand, Who may not follow where your feet are set Upon the ways of Wonderland.[025] 516.png LORINA AND ALICE LIDDELL. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. CHAPTER X CHILD FRIENDS Mr. Dodgson's fondness for children—Miss Isabel Standen—Puzzles—"Me and Myself"—A double acrostic—"Father William"—Of drinking healths—Kisses by post—Tired in the face—The unripe plum—Eccentricities—"Sylvie and Bruno"—"Mr. Dodgson is going on well." This chapter, and the next will deal with Mr. Dodgson's friendships with children. It would have been impossible to arrange them in chronological sequence in the earlier part of this book, and the fact that they exhibit a very important and distinct side of his nature seems to justify me in assigning them a special and individual position. For the contents of these two chapters, both my readers and myself owe a debt of gratitude to those child-friends of his, without whose ever-ready help this book could never have been written. From very early college days began to emerge that beautiful side of Lewis Carroll's character which afterwards was to be, next to his fame as an author, the one for which he was best known—his attitude towards children, and the strong attraction they had for him. I shall attempt to point out the various influences which led him in this direction; but if I were asked for one comprehensive word wide enough to explain this tendency of his nature, I would answer unhesitatingly—Love. My readers will remember a beautiful verse in "Sylvie and Bruno"; trite though it is, I cannot forbear to quote it— Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight? That flecks 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! That "secret"—an open secret for him—explains this side of his character. As he read everything in its light, so it is only in its light that we can properly understand him. I think that the following quotation from a letter to the Rev. F. H. Atkinson, accompanying a copy of "Alice" for his little daughter Gertrude, sufficiently proves the truth of what I have just stated:— Many thanks to Mrs. Atkinson and to you for the sight of the tinted photograph of your Gertrude. As you say, the picture speaks for itself, and I can see exactly what sort of a child she is, in proof of which I send her my love and a kiss herewith. It is possible I may be the first (unseen) gentleman from whom she has had so ridiculous a message; but I can't say she is the first unseen child to whom I have sent one! I think the most precious message of the kind I ever got from a child I never saw (and never shall see in this world) was to the effect that she liked me when she read about Alice, "but please tell him, whenever I read that Easter letter he sent me I do love him!" She was in a hospital, and a lady friend who visited there had asked me to send the letter to her and some other sick children. And now as to the secondary causes which attracted him to children. First, I think children appealed to him because he was pre-eminently a teacher, and he saw in their unspoiled minds the best material for him to work upon. In later years one of his favourite recreations was to lecture at schools on logic; he used to give personal attention to each of his pupils, and one can well imagine with what eager anticipation the children would have looked forward to the visits of a schoolmaster who knew how to make even the dullest subjects interesting and amusing. Again, children appealed to his æsthetic faculties, for he was a keen admirer of the beautiful in every form. Poetry, music, the drama, all delighted him, but pictures more than all put together. I remember his once showing me "The Lady with the Lilacs," which Arthur Hughes had painted for him, and how he dwelt with intense pleasure on the exquisite contrasts of colour which it contained—the gold hair of a girl standing out against the purple of lilac-blossom. But with those who find in such things as these a complete satisfaction of their desire for the beautiful he had no sympathy; for no imperfect representations of life could, for him, take the place of life itself, life as God has made it—the babbling of the brook, the singing of the birds, the laughter and sweet faces of the children. And yet, recognising, as he did, what Mr. Pater aptly terms "the curious perfection of the human form," in man, as in nature, it was the soul that attracted him more than the body. His intense admiration, one might almost call it adoration, for the white innocence and uncontaminated spirituality of childhood emerges most clearly in "Sylvie and Bruno." He says very little of the personal beauty of his heroine; he might have asked, with Mr. Francis Thompson— How can I tell what beauty is her dole, Who cannot see her countenance for her soul? So entirely occupied is he with her gentleness, her pity, her sincerity, and her love. Again, the reality of children appealed strongly to the simplicity and genuineness of his own nature. I believe that he understood children even better than he understood men and women; civilisation has made adult humanity very incomprehensible, for convention is as a veil which hides the divine spark that is in each of us, and so this strange thing has come to be, that the imperfect mirrors perfection more completely than the perfected, that we see more of God in the child than in the man. And in those moments of depression of which he had his full share, when old age seemed to mock him with all its futility and feebleness, it was the thought that the children still loved him which nerved him again to continue his life-work, which renewed his youth, so that to his friends he never seemed an old man. Even the hand of death itself only made his face look more boyish—the word is not too strong. "How wonderfully young your brother looks!" were the first words the doctor said, as he returned from the room where Lewis Carroll's body lay, to speak to the mourners below. And so he loved children because their friendship was the true source of his perennial youth and unflagging vigour. This idea is expressed in the following poem—an acrostic, which he wrote for a friend some twenty years ago:— Around my lonely hearth, to-night, Ghostlike the shadows wander: Now here, now there, a childish sprite, Earthborn and yet as angel bright, Seems near me as I ponder. Gaily she shouts: the laughing air Echoes her note of gladness— Or bends herself with earnest care Round fairy-fortress to prepare Grim battlement or turret-stair— In childhood's merry madness! New raptures still hath youth in store: Age may but fondly cherish Half-faded memories of yore— Up, craven heart! repine no more! Love stretches hands from shore to shore: Love is, and shall not perish! His first child-friend, so far as I know, was Miss Alice Liddell, the little companion whose innocent talk was one of the chief pleasures of his early life at Oxford, and to whom he told the tale that was to make him famous. In December, 1885, Miss M.E. Manners presented him with a little volume, of which she was the authoress, "Aunt Agatha Ann and Other Verses," and which contained a poem (which I quoted in Chapter VI.), about "Alice." Writing to acknowledge this gift, Lewis Carroll said:— Permit me to offer you my sincere thanks for the very sweet verses you have written about my dream-child (named after a real Alice, but none the less a dream-child) and her Wonderland. That children love the book is a very precious thought to me, and, next to their love, I value the sympathy of those who come with a child's heart to what I have tried to write about a child's thoughts. Next to what conversing with an angel might be—for it is hard to imagine it—comes, I think, the privilege of having a real child's thoughts uttered to one. I have known some few real children (you have too, I am sure), and their friendship is a blessing and a help in life. 517.png ALICE LIDDELL. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. It is interesting to note how in "Sylvie and Bruno" his idea of the thoughts of a child has become deeper and more spiritual. Yet in the earlier tale, told "all in a golden afternoon," to the plash of oars and the swish of a boat through the waters of Cherwell or Thames, the ideal child is strangely beautiful; she has all Sylvie's genuineness and honesty, all her keen appreciation of the interest of life; only there lacks that mysterious charm of deep insight into the hidden forces of nature, the gentle power that makes the sky "such a darling blue," which almost links Sylvie with the angels. Another of Lewis Carroll's early favourites was Miss Alexandra (Xie) Kitchin, daughter of the Dean of Durham. Her father was for fifteen years the Censor of the unattached members of the University of Oxford, so that Mr. Dodgson had plenty of opportunities of photographing his little friend, and it is only fair to him to say that he did not neglect them. It would be futile to attempt even a bare list of the children whom he loved, and who loved him; during forty years of his life he was constantly adding to their number. Some remained friends for life, but in a large proportion of cases the friendship ended with the end of childhood. To one of those few, whose affection for him had not waned with increasing years, he wrote:— I always feel specially grateful to friends who, like you, have given me a child-friendship and a woman—friendship. About nine out of ten, I think, of my child-friendships get ship-wrecked at the critical point, "where the stream and river meet," and the child-friends, once so affectionate, become uninteresting acquaintances, whom I have no wish to set eyes on again. 518.png XIE KITCHIN. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. These friendships usually began all very much in the same way. A chance meeting on the sea-shore, in the street, at some friend's house, led to conversation; then followed a call on the parents, and after that all sorts of kindnesses on Lewis Carroll's part, presents of books, invitations to stay with him at Oxford, or at Eastbourne, visits with him to the theatre. For the amusement of his little guests he kept a large assortment of musical-boxes, and an organette which had to be fed with paper tunes. On one occasion he ordered about twelve dozen of these tunes "on approval," and asked one of the other dons, who was considered a judge of music, to come in and hear them played over. In addition to these attractions there were clock-work bears, mice, and frogs, and games and puzzles in infinite variety. One of his little friends, Miss Isabel Standen, has sent me the following account of her first meeting with him:— We met for the first time in the Forbury Gardens, Reading. He was, I believe, waiting for a train. I was playing with my brothers and sisters in the Gardens. I remember his taking me on his knee and showing me puzzles, one of which he refers to in the letter (given below. This puzzle was, by the way, a great favourite of his; the problem is to draw three interlaced squares without going over the same lines twice, or taking the pen off the paper), which is so thoroughly characteristic of him in its quaint humour:— "The Chestnuts, Guildford, August 22, 1869. My Dear Isabel,—Though I have only been acquainted with you for fifteen minutes, yet, as there is no one else in Reading I have known so long, I hope you will not mind my troubling you. Before I met you in the Gardens yesterday I bought some old books at a shop in Reading, which I left to be called for, and had not time to go back for them. I didn't even remark the name of the shop, but I can tell where it was, and if you know the name of the woman who keeps the shop, and would put it into the blank I have left in this note, and direct it to her I should be much obliged ... A friend of mine, called Mr. Lewis Carroll, tells me he means to send you a book. He is a very dear friend of mine. I have known him all my life (we are the same age) and have never left him. Of course he was with me in the Gardens, not a yard off—even while I was drawing those puzzles for you. I wonder if you saw him? Your fifteen-minute friend, C.L. Dodgson. Have you succeeded in drawing the three squares?" Another favourite puzzle was the following—I give it in his own words:— A is to draw a fictitious map divided into counties. B is to colour it (or rather mark the counties with names of colours) using as few colours as possible. Two adjacent counties must have different colours. A's object is to force B to use as many colours as possible. How many can he force B to use? One of his most amusing letters was to a little girl called Magdalen, to whom he had given a copy of his "Hunting of the Snark":— Christ Church, December 15, 1875. 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 microscope, and found it was a face! I thought it was father 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, so I must tell you. 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. Another child-friend, Miss F. Bremer, writes as follows:— Our acquaintance began in a somewhat singular manner. We were playing on the Fort at Margate, and a gentleman on a seat near asked us if we could make a paper boat, with a seat at each end, and a basket in the middle for fish! We were, of course, enchanted with the idea, and our new friend—after achieving the feat—gave us his card, which we at once carried to our mother. He asked if he might call where we were staying, and then presented my elder sister with a copy of "Alice in Wonderland," inscribed "From the Author." He kindly organised many little excursions for us—chiefly in the pursuit of knowledge. One memorable visit to a light house is still fresh in our memories. It was while calling one day upon Mrs. Bremer that he scribbled off the following double acrostic on the names of her two daughters— DOUBLE ACROSTIC—FIVE LETTERS. Two little girls near London dwell, More naughty than I like to tell. 1. Upon the lawn the hoops are seen: The balls are rolling on the green. T ur F 2. The Thames is running deep and wide: And boats are rowing on the tide. R ive R 3. In winter-time, all in a row, The happy skaters come and go. I c E 4. "Papa!" they cry, "Do let us stay!" He does not speak, but says they may. N o D 5. "There is a land," he says, "my dear, Which is too hot to skate, I fear." A fric A At Margate also he met Miss Adelaide Paine, who afterwards became one of his greatest favourites. He could not bear to see the healthy pleasures of childhood spoiled by conventional restraint. "One piece of advice given to my parents," writes Miss Paine, "gave me very great glee, and that was not to make little girls wear gloves at the seaside; they took the advice, and I enjoyed the result." Apropos of this I may mention that, when staying at Eastbourne, he never went down to the beach without providing himself with a supply of safety-pins. Then if he saw any little girl who wanted to wade in the sea, but was afraid of spoiling her frock, he would gravely go up to her and present her with a safety-pin, so that she might fasten up her skirts out of harm's way. 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. The first meeting with Miss Paine took place in 1876. When Lewis Carroll returned to Christ Church he sent her a copy of "The Hunting of the Snark," with the following acrostic written in the fly-leaf:— 'A re you deaf, Father William?' the young man said, 'D id you hear what I told you just now? E xcuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head L ike a blundering, sleepy old cow! A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town, I s my friend, so I beg to remark: D o you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down E ntitled "The Hunt of the Snark?"' 'P ack it up in brown paper!' the old man cried, 'A nd seal it with olive-and-dove. I command you to do it!' he added with pride, 'N or forget, my good fellow, to send her beside E aster Greetings, and give her my love.' This was followed by a letter, dated June 7, 1876:— My dear Adelaide,—Did you try if the letters at the beginnings of the lines about Father William would spell anything? Sometimes it happens that you can spell out words that way, which is very curious. I wish you could have heard him when he shouted out "Pack it up in brown paper!" It quite shook the house. And he threw one of his shoes at his son's head (just to make him attend, you know), but it missed him. He was glad to hear you had got the book safe, but his eyes filled with tears as he said, "I sent her my love, but she never—" he couldn't say any more, his mouth was so full of bones (he was just finishing a roast goose). Another letter to Miss Paine is very characteristic of his quaint humour:— Christ Church, Oxford, March 8, 1880. My dear Ada,—(Isn't that your short name? "Adelaide" is all very well, but you see when one's dreadfully busy one hasn't time to write such long words—particularly when it takes one half an hour to remember how to spell it—and even then one has to go and get a dictionary to see if one has spelt it right, and of course the dictionary is in another room, at the top of a high bookcase—where it has been for months and months, and has got all covered with dust—so one has to get a duster first of all, and nearly choke oneself in dusting it—and when one has made out at last which is dictionary and which is dust, even then there's the job of remembering which end of the alphabet "A" comes—for one feels pretty certain it isn't in the middle—then one has to go and wash one's hands before turning over the leaves—for they've got so thick with dust one hardly knows them by sight—and, as likely as not, the soap is lost, and the jug is empty, and there's no towel, and one has to spend hours and hours in finding things—and perhaps after all one has to go off to the shop to buy a new cake of soap—so, with all this bother, I hope you won't mind my writing it short and saying, "My dear Ada"). You said in your last letter you would like a likeness of me: so here it is, and I hope you will like it—I won't forget to call the next time but one I'm in Wallington. Your very affectionate friend, Lewis Carroll. It was quite against Mr. Dodgson's usual rule to give away photographs of himself; he hated publicity, and the above letter was accompanied by another to Mrs. Paine, which ran as follows:— I am very unwilling, usually, to give my photograph, for I don't want people, who have heard of Lewis Carroll, to be able to recognise him in the street—but I can't refuse Ada. Will you kindly take care, if any of your ordinary acquaintances (I don't speak of intimate friends) see it, that they are not told anything about the name of "Lewis Carroll"? He even objected to having his books discussed in his presence; thus he writes to a friend:— Your friend, Miss—was very kind and complimentary about my books, but may I confess that I would rather have them ignored? Perhaps I am too fanciful, but I have somehow taken a dislike to being talked to about them; and consequently have some trials to bear in society, which otherwise would be no trials at all.... I don't think any of my many little stage-friends have any shyness at all about being talked to of their performances. They thoroughly enjoy the publicity that I shrink from. The child to whom the three following letters were addressed, Miss Gaynor Simpson, was one of Lewis Carroll's Guildford friends. The correct answer to the riddle propounded in the second letter is "Copal":— December 27, 1873. My dear Gaynor,—My name is spelt with a "G," that is to say "Dodgson ." Any one who spells it the same as that wretch (I mean of course the Chairman of Committees in the House of Commons) offends me deeply , and for ever! It is a thing I can forget, but never can forgive! If you do it again, I shall call you "'aynor." Could you live happy with such a name? As to dancing, my dear, 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 Zoölogical Gardens, trying to dance a minuet together? It is a touching sight. Give any message from me to Amy that you think will be most likely to surprise her, and, believe me, Your affectionate friend, Lewis Carroll. My dear Gaynor,—So you would like to know the answer to that riddle? Don't be in a hurry to tell it to Amy and Frances: triumph over them for a while! My first lends its aid when you plunge into trade. Gain. Who would go into trade if there were no gain in it? My second in jollifications— Or [The French for "gold"—] Your jollifications would be very limited if you had no money. My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish To pictorial representations. Gaynor. Because she will be an ornament to the Shakespeare Charades—only she must be "laid on thinnish," that is, there musn't be too much of her. Yours affectionately, C. L. Dodgson. My dear Gaynor,—Forgive me for having sent you a sham answer to begin with. My first—Sea. It carries the ships of the merchants. My second—Weed. That is, a cigar, an article much used in jollifications. My whole—Seaweed. Take a newly painted oil—picture; lay it on its back on the floor, and spread over it, "thinnish," some wet seaweed. You will find you have "finished" that picture. Yours affectionately, C.L. Dodgson. Lewis Carroll during the last fifteen years of his life always spent the Long Vacation at Eastbourne; in earlier times, Sandown, a pleasant little seaside resort in the Isle of Wight, was his summer abode. He loved the sea both for its own sake and because of the number of children whom he met at seaside places. Here is another "first meeting"; this time it is at Sandown, and Miss Gertrude Chataway is the narrator:— I first met Mr. Lewis Carroll on the sea-shore at Sandown in the Isle of Wight, in the summer of 1875, when I was quite a little child. We had all been taken there for change of air, and next door there was an old gentlemen—to me at any rate he seemed old—who interested me immensely. He would come on to his balcony, which joined ours, sniffing the sea-air with his head thrown back, and would walk right down the steps on to the beach with his chin in air, drinking in the fresh breezes as if he could never have enough. I do not know why this excited such keen curiosity on my part, but I remember well that whenever I heard his footstep I flew out to see him coming, and when one day he spoke to me my joy was complete. Thus we made friends, and in a very little while I was as familiar with the interior of his lodgings as with our own. I had the usual child's love for fairy-tales and marvels, and his power of telling stories naturally fascinated me. We used to sit for hours on the wooden steps which led from our garden on to the beach, whilst he told the most lovely tales that could possibly be imagined, often illustrating the exciting situations with a pencil as he went along. One thing that made his stories particularly charming to a child was that he often took his cue from her remarks—a question would set him off on quite a new trail of ideas, so that one felt that one had somehow helped to make the story, and it seemed a personal possession It was the most lovely nonsense conceivable, and I naturally revelled in it. His vivid imagination would fly from one subject to another, and was never tied down in any way by the probabilities of life. To me it was of course all perfect, but it is astonishing that he never seemed either tired or to want other society. I spoke to him once of this since I have been grown up, and he told me it was the greatest pleasure he could have to converse freely with a child, and feel the depths of her mind. He used to write to me and I to him after that summer, and the friendship, thus begun, lasted. His letters were one of the greatest joys of my childhood. I don't think that he ever really understood that we, whom he had known as children, could not always remain such. I stayed with him only a few years ago, at Eastbourne, and felt for the time that I was once more a child. He never appeared to realise that I had grown up, except when I reminded him of the fact, and then he only said, "Never mind: you will always be a child to me, even when your hair is grey." Some of the letters, to which Miss Chataway refers in these reminiscences, I am enabled, through her kindness, to give below:— Christ Church, Oxford, October 13, 1875. My dear Gertrude,—I never give birthday presents, but you see I do sometimes write a birthday letter : so, as I've just arrived here, 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!... Your loving friend, Lewis Carroll. Christ Church, Oxford, Dec. 9, 1875. My dear Gertrude,—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 go 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!" he said, "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. I sometimes wish I was back on the shore at Sandown; don't you? Your loving friend, Lewis Carroll. Why is a pig that has lost its tail like a little girl on the sea-shore? Because it says, "I should like another tale, please!" Christ Church, Oxford, July 21, 1876. My dear Gertrude,—Explain to me how I am to enjoy Sandown without you . How can I walk on the beach alone? How can I sit all alone on those wooden steps? So you see, as I shan't be able to do without you, you will have to come. If Violet comes, I shall tell her to invite you to stay with her, and then I shall come over in the Heather-Bell and fetch you. If I ever do come over, I see I couldn't go back the same day, so you will have to engage me a bed somewhere in Swanage; and if you can't find one, I shall expect you to spend the night on the beach, and give up your room to me. Guests of course must be thought of before children; and I'm sure in these warm nights the beach will be quite good enough for you. If you did feel a little chilly, of course you could go into a bathing-machine, which everybody knows is very comfortable to sleep in—you know they make the floor of soft wood on purpose. I send you seven kisses (to last a week) and remain Your loving friend, Lewis Carroll. Christ Church, Oxford, October 28, 1876. My dearest Gertrude,—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 rather 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 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. Reading Station, April 13, 1878. My dear Gertrude,—As I have to wait here for half an hour, I have been studying Bradshaw (most things, you know, ought to be studied: even a trunk is studded with nails), and the result is that it seems I could come, any day next week, to Winckfield, so as to arrive there about one; and that, by leaving Winckfield again about half-past six, I could reach Guildford again for dinner. The next question is, How far is it from Winckfield to Rotherwick? Now do not deceive me, you wretched child! If it is more than a hundred miles, I can't come to see you, and there is no use to talk about it. If it is less, the next question is, How much less? These are serious questions, and you must be as serious as a judge in answering them. There mustn't be a smile in your pen, or a wink in your ink (perhaps you'll say, "There can't be a wink in ink: but there may be ink in a wink"—but this is trifling; you mustn't make jokes like that when I tell you to be serious) while you write to Guildford and answer these two questions. You might as well tell me at the same time whether you are still living at Rotherwick—and whether you are at home—and whether you get my letter—and whether you're still a child, or a grown-up person—and whether you're going to the seaside next summer—and anything else (except the alphabet and the multiplication table) that you happen to know. I send you 10,000,000 kisses, and remain. Your loving friend, C. L. Dodgson. The Chestnuts, Guildford, April 19, 1878. My dear Gertrude,—I'm afraid it's "no go"—I've had such a bad cold all the week that I've hardly been out for some days, and I don't think it would be wise to try the expedition this time, and I leave here on Tuesday. But after all, what does it signify? Perhaps there are ten or twenty gentlemen, all living within a few miles of Rotherwick, and any one of them would do just as well! When a little girl is hoping to take a plum off a dish, and finds that she can't have that one, because it's bad or unripe, what does she do? Is she sorry, or disappointed? Not a bit! She just takes another instead, and grins from one little ear to the other as she puts it to her lips! This is a little fable to do you good; the little girl means you—the bad plum means me—the other plum means some other friend—and all that about the little girl putting plums to her lips means—well, it means—but you know you can't expect every bit of a fable to mean something! And the little girl grinning means that dear little smile of yours, that just reaches from the tip of one ear to the tip of the other! Your loving friend, C.L. Dodgson. I send you 4—3/4 kisses. The next letter is a good example of the dainty little notes Lewis Carroll used to scribble off on any scrap of paper that lay to his hand:— Chestnuts, Guildford, January 15, 1886. Yes, my child, if all be well, I shall hope, and you may fear, that the train reaching Hook at two eleven, will contain Your loving friend, C.L. Dodgson. Only a few years ago, illness prevented him from fulfilling his usual custom of spending Christmas with his sisters at Guildford. This is the allusion in the following letter:— My dear old Friend,—(The friendship is old, though the child is young.) I wish a very happy New Year, and many of them, to you and yours; but specially to you, because I know you best and love you most. And I pray God to bless you, dear child, in this bright New Year, and many a year to come. ... I write all this from my sofa, where I have been confined a prisoner for six weeks, and as I dreaded the railway journey, my doctor and I agreed that I had better not go to spend Christmas with my sisters at Guildford. So I had my Christmas dinner all alone, in my room here, and (pity me, Gertrude!) it wasn't a Christmas dinner at all—I suppose the cook thought I should not care for roast beef or plum pudding, so he sent me (he has general orders to send either fish and meat, or meat and pudding) some fried sole and some roast mutton! Never, never have I dined before, on Christmas Day, without plum pudding. Wasn't it sad? Now I think you must be content; this is a longer letter than most will get. Love to Olive. My clearest memory of her is of a little girl calling out "Good-night" from her room, and of your mother taking me in to see her in her bed, and wish her good-night. I have a yet clearer memory (like a dream of fifty years ago) of a little bare-legged girl in a sailor's jersey, who used to run up into my lodgings by the sea. But why should I trouble you with foolish reminiscences of mine that cannot interest you? Yours always lovingly, C. L. Dodgson. It was a writer in The National Review who, after eulogising the talents of Lewis Carroll, and stating that he would never be forgotten, added the harsh prophecy that "future generations will not waste a single thought upon the Rev. C.L. Dodgson." If this prediction is destined to be fulfilled, I think my readers will agree with me that it will be solely on account of his extraordinary diffidence about asserting himself. But such an unnatural division of Lewis Carroll, the author, from the Rev. C.L. Dodgson, the man, is forced in the extreme. His books are simply the expression of his normal habit of mind, as these letters show. In literature, as in everything else, he was absolutely natural. To refer to such criticisms as this (I am thankful to say they have been very few) is not agreeable; but I feel that it is owing to Mr. Dodgson to do what I can to vindicate the real unity which underlay both his life and all his writings. Of many anecdotes which might be adduced to show the lovable character of the man, the following little story has reached me through one of his child-friends:— My sister and I [she writes] were spending a day of delightful sightseeing in town with him, on our way to his home at Guildford, where we were going to pass a day or two with him. We were both children, and were much interested when he took us into an American shop where the cakes for sale were cooked by a very rapid process before your eyes, and handed to you straight from the cook's hands. As the preparation of them could easily be seen from outside the window, a small crowd of little ragamuffins naturally assembled there, and I well remember his piling up seven of the cakes on one arm, and himself taking them out and doling them round to the seven hungry little youngsters. The simple kindness of his act impressed its charm on his child-friends inside the shop as much as on his little stranger friends outside. It was only to those who had but few personal dealings with him that he seemed stiff and "donnish"; to his more intimate acquaintances, who really understood him, each little eccentricity of manner or of habits was a delightful addition to his charming and interesting personality. That he was, in some respects, eccentric cannot be denied; for instance he hardly ever wore an overcoat, and always wore a tall hat, whatever might be the climatic conditions. At dinner in his rooms small pieces of cardboard took the place of table-mats; they answered the purpose perfectly well, he said, and to buy anything else would be a mere waste of money. On the other hand, when purchasing books for himself, or giving treats to the children he loved, he never seemed to consider expense at all. He very seldom sat down to write, preferring to stand while thus engaged. When making tea for his friends, he used, in order, I suppose, to expedite the process, to walk up and down the room waving the teapot about, and telling meanwhile those delightful anecdotes of which he had an inexhaustible supply. Great were his preparations before going a journey; each separate article used to be carefully wrapped up in a piece of paper all to itself, so that his trunks contained nearly as much paper as of the more useful things. The bulk of the luggage was sent on a day or two before by goods train, while he himself followed on the appointed day, laden only with his well-known little black bag, which he always insisted on carrying himself. He had a strong objection to staring colours in dress, his favourite combination being pink and grey. One little girl who came to stay with him was absolutely forbidden to wear a red frock, of a somewhat pronounced hue, while out in his company. At meals he was very abstemious always, while he took nothing in the middle of the day except a glass of wine and a biscuit. Under these circumstances it is not very surprising that the healthy appetites of his little friends filled him with wonder, and even with alarm. When he took a certain one of them out with him to a friend's house to dinner, he used to give the host or hostess a gentle warning, to the mixed amazement and indignation of the child, "Please be careful, because she eats a good deal too much." Another peculiarity, which I have already referred to, was his objection to being invited to dinners or any other social gatherings; he made a rule of never accepting invitations. "Because you have invited me, therefore I cannot come," was the usual form of his refusal. I suppose the reason of this was his hatred of the interference with work which engagements of this sort occasion. He had an extreme horror of infection, as will appear from the following illustration. Miss Isa Bowman and her sister, Nellie, were at one time staying with him at Eastbourne, when news came from home that their youngest sister had caught the scarlet fever. From that day every letter which came from Mrs. Bowman to the children was held up by Mr. Dodgson, while the two little girls, standing at the opposite end of the room, had to read it as best they could. Mr. Dodgson, who was the soul of honour, used always to turn his head to one side during these readings, lest he might inadvertently see some words that were not meant for his eyes. Some extracts from letters of his to a child-friend, who prefers to remain anonymous, follow: November 30, 1879. I have been awfully busy, and I've had to write heaps of letters—wheelbarrows full, almost. And it tires me so that generally I go to bed again the next minute after I get up: and sometimes I go to bed again a minute before I get up! Did you ever hear of any one being so tired as that? ... November 7, 1882. My dear E—, How often you must find yourself in want of a pin! For instance, you go into a shop, and you say to the man, "I want the largest penny bun you can let me have for a halfpenny." And perhaps the man looks stupid, and doesn't quite understand what you mean. Then how convenient it is to have a pin ready to stick into the back of his hand, while you say, "Now then! Look sharp, stupid!"... and even when you don't happen to want a pin, how often you think to yourself, "They say Interlacken is a very pretty place. I wonder what it looks like!" (That is the place that is painted on this pincushion.) When you don't happen to want either a pin or pictures, it may just remind you of a friend who sometimes thinks of his dear little friend E—, and who is just now thinking of the day he met her on the parade, the first time she had been allowed to come out alone to look for him.... December 26, 1886. My dear E—, Though rushing, rapid rivers roar between us (if you refer to the map of England, I think you'll find that to be correct), we still remember each other, and feel a sort of shivery affection for each other.... March 31, 1890. I do sympathise so heartily with you in what you say about feeling shy with children when you have to entertain them! Sometimes they are a real terror to me—especially boys: little girls I can now and then get on with, when they're few enough. They easily become "de trop." But with little boys I'm out of my element altogether. I sent "Sylvie and Bruno" to an Oxford friend, and, in writing his thanks, he added, "I think I must bring my little boy to see you." So I wrote to say "don't," or words to that effect: and he wrote again that he could hardly believe his eyes when he got my note. He thought I doted on all children. But I'm not omnivorous!—like a pig. I pick and choose.... You are a lucky girl, and I am rather inclined to envy you, in having the leisure to read Dante—I have never read a page of him; yet I am sure the "Divina Commedia" is one of the grandest books in the world—though I am not sure whether the reading of it would raise one's life and give it a nobler purpose, or simply be a grand poetical treat. That is a question you are beginning to be able to answer: I doubt if I shall ever (at least in this life) have the opportunity of reading it; my life seems to be all torn into little bits among the host of things I want to do! It seems hard to settle what to do first. One piece of work, at any rate, I am clear ought to be done this year, and it will take months of hard work: I mean the second volume of "Sylvie and Bruno." I fully mean , if I have life and health till Xmas next, to bring it out then. When one is close on sixty years old, it seems presumptuous to count on years and years of work yet to be done.... She is rather the exception among the hundred or so of child-friends who have brightened my life. Usually the child becomes so entirely a different being as she grows into a woman, that our friendship has to change too: and that it usually does by gliding down from a loving intimacy into an acquaintance that merely consists of a smile and a bow when we meet!... January 1, 1895. ... You are quite correct in saying it is a long time since you have heard from me: in fact, I find that I have not written to you since the 13th of last November. But what of that? You have access to the daily papers. Surely you can find out negatively, that I am all right! Go carefully through the list of bankruptcies; then run your eye down the police cases; and, if you fail to find my name anywhere, you can say to your mother in a tone of calm satisfaction, "Mr. Dodgson is going on well." CHAPTER XI (THE SAME—continued.) Books for children—"The Lost Plum-Cake"—"An Unexpected Guest"—Miss Isa Bowman—Interviews—"Matilda Jane"—Miss Edith Rix—Miss Kathleen Eschwege. Lewis Carroll's own position as an author did not prevent him from taking a great interest in children's books and their writers. He had very strong ideas on what was or was not suitable in such books, but, when once his somewhat exacting taste was satisfied, he was never tired of recommending a story to his friends. His cousin, Mrs. Egerton Allen, who has herself written several charming tales for young readers, has sent me the following letter which she received from him some years ago:— Dear Georgie,—Many thanks. The book was at Ch. Ch. I've done an unusual thing, in thanking for a book, namely, waited to read it. I've read it right through! In fact, I found it very refreshing, when jaded with my own work at "Sylvie and Bruno" (coming out at Xmas, I hope) to lie down on the sofa and read a chapter of "Evie." I like it very much: and am so glad to have helped to bring it out. It would have been a real loss to the children of England, if you had burned the MS., as you once thought of doing.... 519.png XIE KITCHIN AS A CHINAMAN. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. The very last words of his that appeared in print took the form of a preface to one of Mrs. Allen's tales, "The Lost Plum-Cake," (Macmillan & Co., 1898). So far as I know, this was the only occasion on which he wrote a preface for another author's book, and his remarks are doubly interesting as being his last service to the children whom he loved. No apology, then, is needed for quoting from them here:— Let me seize this opportunity of saying one earnest word to the mothers in whose hands this little book may chance to come, who are in the habit of taking their children to church with them. However well and reverently those dear little ones have been taught to behave, there is no doubt that so long a period of enforced quietude is a severe tax on their patience. The hymns, perhaps, tax it least: and what a pathetic beauty there is in the sweet fresh voices of the children, and how earnestly they sing! I took a little girl of six to church with me one day: they had told me she could hardly read at all—but she made me find all the places for her! And afterwards I said to her elder sister "What made you say Barbara couldn't read? Why, I heard her joining in, all through the hymn!" And the little sister gravely replied, "She knows the tunes, but not the words." Well, to return to my subject—children in church. The lessons, and the prayers, are not wholly beyond them: often they can catch little bits that come within the range of their small minds. But the sermons! It goes to one's heart to see, as I so often do, little darlings of five or six years old, forced to sit still through a weary half-hour, with nothing to do, and not one word of the sermon that they can understand. Most heartily can I sympathise with the little charity-girl who is said to have written to some friend, "I think, when I grows up, I'll never go to church no more. I think I'se getting sermons enough to last me all my life!" But need it be so? Would it be so very irreverent to let your child have a story—book to read during the sermon, to while away that tedious half-hour, and to make church—going a bright and happy memory, instead of rousing the thought, "I'll never go to church no more"? I think not. For my part, I should love to see the experiment tried. I am quite sure it would be a success. My advice would be to keep some books for that special purpose. I would call such books "Sunday-treats"—and your little boy or girl would soon learn to look forward with eager hope to that half-hour, once so tedious. If I were the preacher, dealing with some subject too hard for the little ones, I should love to see them all enjoying their picture-books. And if this little book should ever come to be used as a "Sunday-treat" for some sweet baby reader, I don't think it could serve a better purpose. Lewis Carroll. Miss M.E. Manners was another writer for children whose books pleased him. She gives an amusing account of two visits which he paid to her house in 1889:— An Unexpected Guest. "Mr. Dobson wants to see you, miss." I was in the kitchen looking after the dinner, and did not feel that I particularly wished to see anybody. "He wants a vote, or he is an agent for a special kind of tea," thought I. "I don't know him; ask him to send a message." Presently the maid returned— "He says he is Mr. Dodgson, of Oxford." "Lewis Carroll!" I exclaimed; and somebody else had to superintend the cooking that day. My apologies were soon made and cheerfully accepted. I believe I was unconventional enough to tell the exact truth concerning my occupation, and matters were soon on a friendly footing. Indeed I may say at once that the stately college don we have heard so much about never made his appearance during our intercourse with him. He did not talk "Alice," of course; authors don't generally talk their books, I imagine; but it was undoubtedly Lewis Carroll who was present with us. A portrait of Ellen Terry on the wall had attracted his attention, and one of the first questions he asked was, "Do you ever go to the theatre?" I explained that such things were done, occasionally, even among Quakers, but they were not considered quite orthodox. "Oh, well, then you will not be shocked, and I may venture to produce my photographs." And out into the hall he went, and soon returned with a little black bag containing character portraits of his child-friends, Isa and Nellie Bowman. "Isa used to be Alice until she grew too big," he said. "Nellie was one of the oyster—fairies, and Emsie, the tiny one of all, was the Dormouse." "When 'Alice' was first dramatised," he said, "the poem of the 'Walrus and the Carpenter' fell rather flat, for people did not know when it was finished, and did not clap in the right place; so I had to write a song for the ghosts of the oysters to sing, which made it all right." 520.png ALICE AND THE DORMOUSE. From a photograph Elliott & Fry. He was then on his way to London, to fetch Isa to stay with him at Eastbourne. She was evidently a great favourite, and had visited him before. Of that earlier time he said:— "When people ask me why I have never married, I tell them I have never met the young lady whom I could endure for a fortnight—but Isa and I got on so well together that I said I should keep her a month, the length of the honeymoon, and we didn't get tired of each other." Nellie afterwards joined her sister "for a few days," but the days spread to some weeks, for the poor little dormouse developed scarlet fever, and the elder children had to be kept out of harm's way until fear of infection was over. Of Emsie he had a funny little story to tell. He had taken her to the Aquarium, and they had been watching the seals coming up dripping out of the water. With a very pitiful look she turned to him and said, "Don't they give them any towels?" [The same little girl commiserated the bear, because it had got no tail.] Asked to stay to dinner, he assured us that he never took anything in the middle of the day but a glass of wine and a biscuit; but he would be happy to sit down with us, which he accordingly did and kindly volunteered to carve for us. His offer was gladly accepted, but the appearance of a rather diminutive piece of neck of mutton was somewhat of a puzzle to him. He had evidently never seen such a joint in his life before, and had frankly to confess that he did not know how to set about carving it. Directions only made things worse, and he bravely cut it to pieces in entirely the wrong fashion, relating meanwhile the story of a shy young man who had been asked to carve a fowl, the joints of which had been carefully wired together beforehand by his too attentive friends. The task and the story being both finished, our visitor gazed on the mangled remains, and remarked quaintly: "I think it is just as well I don't want anything, for I don't know where I should find it." At least one member of the party felt she could have managed matters better; but that was a point of very little consequence. A day or two after the first call came a note saying that he would be taking Isa home before long, and if we would like to see her he would stop on the way again. Of course we were only too delighted to have the opportunity, and, though the visit was postponed more than once, it did take place early in August, when he brought both Isa and Nellie up to town to see a performance of "Sweet Lavender." It is needless to remark that we took care, this time, to be provided with something at once substantial and carvable. The children were bright, healthy, happy and childlike little maidens, quite devoted to their good friend, whom they called "Uncle"; and very interesting it was to see them together. But he did not allow any undue liberties either, as a little incident showed. He had been describing a particular kind of collapsible tumbler, which you put in your pocket and carried with you for use on a railway journey. "There now," he continued, turning to the children, "I forgot to bring it with me after all." "Oh Goosie," broke in Isa; "you've been talking about that tumbler for days, and now you have forgotten it." He pulled himself up, and looked at her steadily with an air of grave reproof. Much abashed, she hastily substituted a very subdued "Uncle" for the objectionable "Goosie," and the matter dropped. The principal anecdote on this occasion was about a dog which had been sent into the sea after sticks. He brought them back very properly for some time, and then there appeared to be a little difficulty, and he returned swimming in a very curious manner. On closer inspection it appeared that he had caught hold of his own tail by mistake, and was bringing it to land in triumph. This was told with the utmost gravity, and though we had been requested beforehand not to mention "Lewis Carroll's" books, the temptation was too strong. I could not help saying to the child next me— "That was like the Whiting, wasn't it?" Our visitor, however, took up the remark, and seemed quite willing to talk about it. "When I wrote that," he said, "I believed that whiting really did have their tails in their mouths, but I have since been told that fishmongers put the tail through the eye, not in the mouth at all." He was not a very good carver, for Miss Bremer also describes a little difficulty he had—this time with the pastry: "An amusing incident occurred when he was at lunch with us. He was requested to serve some pastry, and, using a knife, as it was evidently rather hard, the knife penetrated the d'oyley beneath—and his consternation was extreme when he saw the slice of linen and lace he served as an addition to the tart!" It was, I think, through her connection with the "Alice" play that Mr. Dodgson first came to know Miss Isa Bowman. Her childish friendship for him was one of the joys of his later years, and one of the last letters he wrote was addressed to her. The poem at the beginning of "Sylvie and Bruno" is an acrostic on her name— Is all our Life, then, but a dream, Seen faintly in the golden gleam Athwart Times's dark, resistless stream? Bowed to the earth with bitter woe, Or laughing at some raree-show, We flutter idly to and fro. Man's little Day in haste we spend, And, from the merry noontide, send No glance to meet the silent end. Every one has heard of Lewis Carroll's hatred of interviewers; the following letter to Miss Manners makes one feel that in some cases, at least, his feeling was justifiable:— If your Manchester relatives ever go to the play, tell them they ought to see Isa as "Cinderella"—she is evidently a success. And she has actually been "interviewed" by one of those dreadful newspapers reporters, and the "interview" is published with her picture! And such rubbish he makes her talk! She tells him that something or other was "tacitly conceded": and that "I love to see a great actress give expression to the wonderful ideas of the immortal master!" (N.B.—I never let her talk like that when she is with me!) Emsie recovered in time to go to America, with her mother and Isa and Nellie: and they all enjoyed the trip much; and Emsie has a London engagement. Only once was an interviewer bold enough to enter Lewis Carroll's sanctum. The story has been told in The Guardian (January 19, 1898), but will bear repetition:— Not long ago Mr. Dodgson happened to get into correspondence with a man whom he had never seen, on some question of religious difficulty, and he invited him to come to his rooms and have a talk on the subject. When, therefore, a Mr. X— was announced to him one morning, he advanced to meet him with outstretched hand and smiles of welcome. "Come in Mr. X—, I have been expecting you." The delighted visitor thought this a promising beginning, and immediately pulled out a note-book and pencil, and proceeded to ask "the usual questions." Great was Mr. Dodgson's disgust! Instead of his expected friend, here was another man of the same name, and one of the much-dreaded interviewers, actually sitting in his chair! The mistake was soon explained, and the representative of the Press was bowed out as quickly as he had come in. It was while Isa and one of her sisters were staying at Eastbourne that the visit to America was mooted. Mr. Dodgson suggested that it would be well for them to grow gradually accustomed to seafaring, and therefore proposed to take them by steamer to Hastings. This plan was carried out, and the weather was unspeakably bad—far worse than anything they experienced in their subsequent trip across the Atlantic. The two children, who were neither of them very good sailors, experienced sensations that were the reverse of pleasant. Mr. Dodgson did his best to console them, while he continually repeated, "Crossing the Atlantic will be much worse than this." However, even this terrible lesson on the horrors of the sea did not act as a deterrent; it was as unsuccessful as the effort of the old lady in one of his stories: "An old lady I once knew tried to check the military ardour of a little boy by showing him a picture of a battlefield, and describing some of its horrors. But the only answer she got was, 'I'll be a soldier. Tell it again!'" The Bowman children sometimes came over to visit him at Oxford, and he used to delight in showing them over the colleges, and pointing out the famous people whom they encountered. On one of these occasions he was walking with Maggie, then a mere child, when they met the Bishop of Oxford, to whom Mr. Dodgson introduced his little guest. His lordship asked her what she thought of Oxford. "I think," said the little actress, with quite a professional aplomb, "it's the best place in the Provinces!" At which the Bishop was much amused. After the child had returned to town, the Bishop sent her a copy of a little book called "Golden Dust," inscribed "From W. Oxon," which considerably mystified her, as she knew nobody of that name! Another little stage-friend of Lewis Carroll's was Miss Vera Beringer, the "Little Lord Fauntleroy," whose acting delighted all theatre-goers eight or nine years ago. Once, when she was spending a holiday in the Isle of Man, he sent her the following lines:— There was a young lady of station, "I love man" was her sole exclamation; But when men cried, "You flatter," She replied, "Oh! no matter, Isle of Man is the true explanation." Many of his friendships with children began in a railway carriage, for he always took about with him a stock of puzzles when he travelled, to amuse any little companions whom chance might send him. Once he was in a carriage with a lady and her little daughter, both complete strangers to him. The child was reading "Alice in Wonderland," and when she put her book down, he began talking to her about it. The mother soon joined in the conversation, of course without the least idea who the stranger was with whom she was talking. "Isn't it sad," she said, "about poor Mr. Lewis Carroll? He's gone mad, you know." "Indeed," replied Mr. Dodgson, "I had never heard that." "Oh, I assure you it is quite true," the lady answered. "I have it on the best authority." Before Mr. Dodgson parted with her, he obtained her leave to send a present to the little girl, and a few days afterwards she received a copy of "Through the Looking-Glass," inscribed with her name, and "From the Author, in memory of a pleasant journey." When he gave books to children, he very often wrote acrostics on their names on the fly-leaf. One of the prettiest was inscribed in a copy of Miss Yonge's "Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe," which he gave to Miss Ruth Dymes:— R ound the wondrous globe I wander wild, U p and down-hill—Age succeeds to youth— T oiling all in vain to find a child H alf so loving, half so dear as Ruth. In another book, given to her sister Margaret, he wrote:— M aidens, if a maid you meet A lways free from pout and pet, R eady smile and temper sweet, G reet my little Margaret. A nd if loved by all she be R ightly, not a pampered pet, E asily you then may see 'Tis my little Margaret. Here are two letters to children, the one interesting as a specimen of pure nonsense of the sort which children always like, the other as showing his dislike of being praised. The first was written to Miss Gertrude Atkinson, daughter of an old College friend, but otherwise unknown to Lewis Carroll except by her photograph:— My dear Gertrude,—So many things have happened since we met last, really I don't know which to begin talking about! For instance, England has been conquered by William the Conqueror. We haven't met since that happened, you know. How did you like it? Were you frightened? And one more thing has happened: I have got your photograph. Thank you very much for it. I like it "awfully." Do they let you say "awfully"? or do they say, "No, my dear; little girls mustn't say 'awfully'; they should say 'very much indeed'"? I wonder if you will ever get as far as Jersey? If not, how are we to meet? Your affectionate friend, C.L. Dodgson. From the second letter, to Miss Florence Jackson, I take the following extract:— I have two reasons for sending you this fable; one is, that in a letter you wrote me you said something about my being "clever"; and the other is that, when you wrote again you said it again! And each time I thought, "Really, I must write and ask her not to say such things; it is not wholesome reading for me." The fable is this. The cold, frosty, bracing air is the treatment one gets from the world generally—such as contempt, or blame, or neglect; all those are very wholesome. And the hot dry air, that you breathe when you rush to the fire, is the praise that one gets from one's young, happy, rosy, I may even say florid friends! And that's very bad for me, and gives pride-fever, and conceit-cough, and such-like diseases. Now I'm sure you don't want me to be laid up with all these diseases; so please don't praise me any more! The verses to "Matilda Jane" certainly deserve a place in this chapter. To make their meaning clear, I must state that Lewis Carroll wrote them for a little cousin of his, and that Matilda Jane was the somewhat prosaic name of her doll. The poem expresses finely the blind, unreasoning devotion which the infant mind professes for inanimate objects:— Matilda Jane, you never look At any toy or picture-book; I show you pretty things in vain, You must be blind, Matilda Jane! I ask you riddles, tell you tales, But all our conversation fails; You never answer me again, I fear you're dumb, Matilda Jane! Matilda, darling, when I call You never seem to hear at all; I shout with all my might and main, But you're so deaf, Matilda Jane! Matilda Jane, you needn't mind, For though you're deaf, and dumb, and blind, There's some one loves you, it is plain, And that is me, Matilda Jane! In an earlier chapter I gave some of Mr. Dodgson's letters to Miss Edith Rix; the two which follow, being largely about children, seem more appropriate here:— My dear Edith,—Would you tell your mother I was aghast at seeing the address of her letter to me: and I would much prefer "Rev. C.L. Dodgson, Ch. Ch., Oxford." When a letter comes addressed "Lewis Carroll, Ch. Ch.," it either goes to the Dead Letter Office, or it impresses on the minds of all letter-carriers, &c., through whose hands it goes, the very fact I least want them to know. Please offer to your sister all the necessary apologies for the liberty I have taken with her name. My only excuse is, that I know no other; and how am I to guess what the full name is? It may be Carlotta, or Zealot, or Ballot, or Lotus-blossom (a very pretty name), or even Charlotte. Never have I sent anything to a young lady of whom I have a more shadowy idea. Name, an enigma; age, somewhere between 1 and 19 (you've no idea how bewildering it is, alternately picturing her as a little toddling thing of 5, and a tall girl of 15!); disposition—well, I have a fragment of information on that question—your mother says, as to my coming, "It must be when Lottie is at home, or she would never forgive us." Still, I cannot consider the mere fact that she is of an unforgiving disposition as a complete view of her character. I feel sure she has some other qualities besides. Believe me, Yrs affectionately, C.L. Dodgson. My dear child,—It seems quite within the bounds of possibility, if we go on long in this style, that our correspondence may at last assume a really friendly tone. I don't of course say it will actually do so—that would be too bold a prophecy, but only that it may tend to shape itself in that direction. Your remark, that slippers for elephants could be made, only they would not be slippers, but boots, convinces me that there is a branch of your family in Ireland. Who are (oh dear, oh dear, I am going distracted! There's a lady in the opposite house who simply sings all day. All her songs are wails, and their tunes, such as they have, are much the same. She has one strong note in her voice, and she knows it! I think it's "A natural," but I haven't much ear. And when she gets to that note, she howls!) they? The O'Rixes, I suppose? About your uninteresting neighbours, I sympathise with you much; but oh, I wish I had you here, that I might teach you not to say "It is difficult to visit one's district regularly, like every one else does!" And now I come to the most interesting part of your letter—May you treat me as a perfect friend, and write anything you like to me, and ask my advice? Why, of course you may, my child! What else am I good for? But oh, my dear child-friend, you cannot guess how such words sound to me! That any one should look up to me, or think of asking my advice—well, it makes one feel humble, I think, rather than proud—humble to remember, while others think so well of me, what I really am, in myself. "Thou, that teachest another, teachest thou not thyself?" Well, I won't talk about myself, it is not a healthy topic. Perhaps it may be true of any two people, that, if one could see the other through and through, love would perish. I don't know. Anyhow, I like to have the love of my child-friends, tho' I know I don't deserve it. Please write as freely as ever you like. I went up to town and fetched Phoebe down here on Friday in last week; and we spent most of Saturday upon the beach—Phoebe wading and digging, and "as happy as a bird upon the wing" (to quote the song she sang when first I saw her). Tuesday evening brought a telegram to say she was wanted at the theatre next morning. So, instead of going to bed, Phoebe packed her things, and we left by the last train, reaching her home by a quarter to 1 a.m. However, even four days of sea-air, and a new kind of happiness, did her good, I think. I am rather lonely now she is gone. She is a very sweet child, and a thoughtful child, too. It was very touching to see (we had a little Bible-reading every day: I tried to remember that my little friend had a soul to be cared for, as well as a body) the far-away look in her eyes, when we talked of God and of heaven—as if her angel, who beholds His face continually, were whispering to her. Of course, there isn't much companionship possible, after all, between an old man's mind and a little child's, but what there is is sweet—and wholesome, I think. 430.png 431.png Facsimile of a "Looking-Glass Letter" from Lewis Carroll to Miss Edith Ball. Three letters of his to a child-friend, Miss Kathleen Eschwege, now Mrs. Round, illustrate one of those friendships which endure: the sort of friendship that he always longed for, and so often failed to secure:— Ch. Ch., Oxford, October 24, 1879. My dear Kathleen,—I was really pleased to get your letter, as I had quite supposed I should never see or hear of you again. You see I knew only your Christian name—not the ghost of a surname, or the shadow of an address—and I was not prepared to spend my little all in advertisements—"If the young lady, who was travelling on the G.W. Railway, &c." —or to devote the remainder of my life to going about repeating "Kathleen," like that young woman who came from some foreign land to look for her lover, but only knew that he was called "Edward" (or "Richard" was it? I dare say you know History better than I do) and that he lived in England; so that naturally it took her some time to find him. All I knew was that you could, if you chose, write to me through Macmillan: but it is three months since we met, so I was not expecting it, and it was a pleasant surprise. Well, so I hope I may now count you as one of my child-friends. I am fond of children (except boys), and have more child-friends than I could possibly count on my fingers, even if I were a centipede (by the way, have they fingers? I'm afraid they're only feet, but, of course, they use them for the same purpose, and that is why no other insects, except centipedes, ever succeed in doing Long Multiplication), and I have several not so very far from you—one at Beckenham, two at Balham, two at Herne Hill, one at Peckham—so there is every chance of my being somewhere near you before the year 1979. If so, may I call? I am very sorry your neck is no better, and I wish they would take you to Margate: Margate air will make any body well of any thing. It seems you have already got my two books about "Alice." Have you also got "The Hunting of the Snark"? If not, I should be very glad to send you one. The pictures (by Mr. Holiday) are pretty: and you needn't read the verses unless you like. How do you pronounce your surname? "esk-weej"? or how? Is it a German name? If you can do "Doublets," with how many links do you turn KATH into LEEN? With kind remembrances to your mother, I am Your affectionate friend, Charles L. Dodgson (alias "Lewis Carroll"). Ch. Ch., Oxford, January 20, 1892. My dear Kathleen,—Some months ago I heard, from my cousin, May Wilcox, that you were engaged to be married. And, ever since, I have cherished the intention of writing to offer my congratulations. Some might say, "Why not write at once?" To such unreasoning creatures, the obvious reply is, "When you have bottled some peculiarly fine Port, do you usually begin to drink it at once?" Is not that a beautiful simile? Of course, I need not remark that my congratulations are like fine old Port—only finer, and older! Accept, my dear old friend, my heartiest wishes for happiness, of all sorts and sizes, for yourself, and for him whom you have chosen as your other self. And may you love one another with a love second only to your love for God—a love that will last through bright days and dark days, in sickness and in health, through life and through death. A few years ago I went, in the course of about three months, to the weddings of three of my old child-friends. But weddings are not very exhilarating scenes for a miserable old bachelor; and I think you'll have to excuse me from attending yours. However, I have so far concerned myself in it that I actually dreamed about it a few nights ago! I dreamed that you had had a photograph done of the wedding—party, and had sent me a copy of it. At one side stood a group of ladies, among whom I made out the faces of Dolly and Ninty; and in the foreground, seated in a boat, were two people, a gentleman and a lady I think (could they have been the bridegroom and the bride?) engaged in the natural and usual occupation for a riverside picnic—pulling a Christmas cracker! I have no idea what put such an idea into my head. I never saw crackers used in such a scene! I hope your mother goes on well. With kindest regards to her and your father, and love to your sisters—and to yourself too, if HE doesn't object!—I am, Yours affectionately, C.L. Dodgson. P.S.—I never give wedding-presents; so please regard the enclosed as an unwedding present. Ch. Ch., Oxford, December 8, 1897. My dear Kathleen,—Many thanks for the photo of yourself and your fiancé, which duly reached me January 23, 1892. Also for a wedding-card, which reached me August 28, 1892. Neither of these favours, I fear, was ever acknowledged. Our only communication since, has been, that on December 13, 1892, I sent you a biscuit—box adorned with "Looking-Glass" pictures. This you never acknowledged; so I was properly served for my negligence. I hope your little daughter, of whose arrival Mrs. Eschwege told me in December, 1893, has been behaving well? How quickly the years slip by! It seems only yesterday that I met, on the railway, a little girl who was taking a sketch of Oxford! Your affectionate old friend, C.L. Dodgson. The following verses were inscribed in a copy of "Alice's Adventures," presented to the three Miss Drurys in August, 1869:— To three puzzled little girls, from the Author. Three little maidens weary of the rail, Three pairs of little ears listening to a tale, Three little hands held out in readiness, For three little puzzles very hard to guess. Three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide, At three little scissors lying side by side. Three little mouths that thanked an unknown Friend, For one little book, he undertook to send. Though whether they'll remember a friend, or book, or day— In three little weeks is very hard to say. He took the same three children to German Reed's entertainment, where the triple bill consisted of "Happy Arcadia," "All Abroad," and "Very Catching." A few days afterwards he sent them "Phantasmagoria," with a little poem on the fly-leaf to remind them of their treat:— Three little maids, one winter day, While others went to feed, To sing, to laugh, to dance, to play, More wisely went to—Reed. Others, when lesson-time's begun, Go, half inclined to cry, Some in a walk, some in a run; But these went in a—Fly. I give to other little maids A smile, a kiss, a look, Presents whose memory quickly fades, I give to these—a Book. Happy Arcadia may blind, While all abroad, their eyes; At home, this book (I trust) they'll find A very catching prize. The next three letters were addressed to two of Mr. Arthur Hughes' children. They are good examples of the wild and delightful nonsense with which Lewis Carroll used to amuse his little friends:— My dear Agnes,—You lazy thing! What? I'm to divide the kisses myself, am I? Indeed I won't take the trouble to do anything of the sort! But I'll tell you how to do it. First, you must take four of the kisses, and—and that reminds me of a very curious thing that 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 pan-cakes! "If you come knocking at my door," I said, "I shall come knocking at your heads." "That was fair, wasn't it?" Yours affectionately, Lewis Carroll. My dear Agnes,—About the cats, you know. 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. Well, I told them they might ring if they happened to want anything—and, as they rang 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. They wanted some boiled pelican, but of course I knew it wouldn't be good for them. So all I said was "Go to Number Two, Finborough Road, and ask for 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 all goodbye, and drove them up the chimney. They seemed very sorry to go, and they took the bells and the portfolio with them. I didn't find this out till after they had gone, and then I was sorry too, and wished for them back again. What do I mean by "them"? Never mind. How are Arthur, and Amy, and Emily? Do they still go up and down Finborough Road, and teach the cats to be kind to mice? I'm very fond of all the cats in Finborough Road. Give them my love. Who do I mean by "them"? Never mind. Your affectionate friend, Lewis Carroll. 521.png ARTHUR HUGHES AND HIS DAUGHTER AGNES. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll. My dear Amy,—How are you getting on, I wonder, with guessing those puzzles from "Wonderland"? If you think you've found out any of the answers, you may send them to me; and if they're wrong, I won't tell you they're right! You asked me after those three cats. Ah! The dear creatures! Do you know, ever since that night they first came, they have never left me? Isn't it kind of them? Tell Agnes this. She will be interested to hear it. And they are so kind and thoughtful! Do you know, when I had gone out for a walk the other day, 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 all 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), and by accident they 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 dreadful faces. But, of course, as it was given them as a treat, they had to drink it. One of them has turned black since: it was a white cat to begin with. Give my love to any children you happen to meet. Also I send two kisses and a half, for you to divide with Agnes, Emily, and Godfrey. Mind you divide them fairly. Yours affectionately, C.L. Dodgson. The intelligent reader will make a discovery about the first of the two following letters, which Miss Maggie Cunningham, the "child-friend" to whom both were addressed, perhaps did not hit upon at once. Mr. Dodgson wrote these two letters in 1868:— Dear Maggie,—I found that the friend, that the little girl asked me to write to, lived at Ripon, and not at Land's End—a nice sort of place to invite to! It looked rather suspicious to me—and soon after, by dint of incessant inquiries, I found out that she was called Maggie, and lived in a Crescent! Of course I declared, "After that" (the language I used doesn't matter), "I will not address her, that's flat! So do not expect me to flatter." Well, I hope you will soon see your beloved Pa come back—for consider, should you be quite content with only Jack? Just suppose they made a blunder! (Such things happen now and then.) Really, now, I shouldn't wonder if your "John" came home again, and your father stayed at school! A most awkward thing, no doubt. How would you receive him? You'll say, perhaps, "you'd turn him out." That would answer well, so far as concerns the boy, you know—but consider your Papa, learning lessons in a row of great inky schoolboys! This (though unlikely) might occur: "Haly" would be grieved to miss him (don't mention it to her). No carte has yet been done of me, that does real justice to my smile; and so I hardly like, you see, to send you one. However, I'll consider if I will or not—meanwhile, I send a little thing to give you an idea of what I look like when I'm lecturing. The merest sketch, you will allow—yet still I think there's something grand in the expression of the brow and in the action of the hand. Have you read my fairy tale in Aunt Judy's Magazine? If you have you will not fail to discover what I mean when I say "Bruno yesterday came to remind me that he was my god-son!"—on the ground that I "gave him a name"! Your affectionate friend, C.L. Dodgson. P.S.—I would send, if I were not too shy, the same message to "Haly" that she (though I do not deserve it, not I!) has sent through her sister to me. My best love to yourself—to your Mother my kindest regards—to your small, fat, impertinent, ignorant brother my hatred. I think that is all. 441.png WHAT I LOOK LIKE WHEN I'M LECTURING. From a drawing by Lewis Carroll. My dear Maggie,—I am a very bad correspondent, I fear, but I hope you won't leave off writing to me on that account. I got the little book safe, and will do my best about putting my name in, if I can only manage to remember what day my birthday is—but one forgets these things so easily. Somebody told me (a little bird, I suppose) that you had been having better photographs done of yourselves. If so, I hope you will let me buy copies. Fanny will pay you for them. But, oh Maggie, how can you ask for a better one of me than the one I sent! It is one of the best ever done! Such grace, such dignity, such benevolence, such—as a great secret (please don't repeat it) the Queen sent to ask for a copy of it, but as it is against my rule to give in such a case, I was obliged to answer— "Mr. Dodgson presents his compliments to her Majesty, and regrets to say that his rule is never to give his photograph except to young ladies." I am told she was annoyed about it, and said, "I'm not so old as all that comes to!" and one doesn't like to annoy Queens; but really I couldn't help it, you know. I will conclude this chapter with some reminiscences of Lewis Carroll, which have been kindly sent me by an old child-friend of his, Mrs. Maitland, daughter of the late Rev. E.A. Litton, Rector of Naunton, and formerly Fellow of Oriel College and Vice—Principal of Saint Edmund's Hall:— To my mind Oxford will be never quite the same again now that so many of the dear old friends of one's childhood have "gone over to the great majority." Often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the old wainscotted wall, have we—father and I—chatted over the old Oxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together in Long Wall Street. I was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child then, and for some years I was left almost entirely to the care of Mary Pearson, my own particular attendant. I first remember Mr. Dodgson when I was about seven years old, and from that time until we went to live in Gloucestershire he was one of my most delightful friends. I shall never forget how Mr. Dodgson and I sat once under a dear old tree in the Botanical Gardens, and how he told me, for the first time, Hans Andersen's story of the "Ugly Duckling." I cannot explain the charm of Mr. Dodgson's way of telling stories; as he spoke, the characters seemed to be real flesh and blood. This particular story made a great impression upon me, and interested me greatly, as I was very sensitive about my ugly little self. I remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good and truthful and to try not to think of oneself than to be a pretty, selfish child, spoiled and disagreeable; and, after telling me this story, he gave me the name of "Ducky." "Never mind, little Ducky," he used often to say, "perhaps some day you will turn out a swan." I always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of Mr. Dodgson: his stories about them, his knowledge of their lives and histories, his enthusiasm about birds and butterflies enlivened many a dull hour. The monkeys in the Botanical Gardens were our special pets, and when we fed them with nuts and biscuits he seemed to enjoy the fun as much as I did. Every day my nurse and I used to take a walk in Christ Church Meadows, and often we would sit down on the soft grass, with the dear old Broad Walk quite close, and, when we raised our eyes, Merton College, with its walls covered with Virginian creeper. And how delighted we used to be to see the well-known figure in cap and gown coming, so swiftly, with his kind smile ready to welcome the "Ugly Duckling." I knew, as he sat beside me, that a book of fairy tales was hidden in his pocket, or that he would have some new game or puzzle to show me—and he would gravely accept a tiny daisy-bouquet for his coat with as much courtesy as if it had been the finest hot-house boutonnière. Two or three times I went fishing with him from the bank near the Old Mill, opposite Addison's Walk, and he quite entered into my happiness when a small fish came wriggling up at the end of my bent pin, just ready for the dinner of the little white kitten "Lily," which he had given me. My hair was a great trouble to me, as a child, for it would tangle, and Mary was not too patient with me, as I twisted about while she was trying to dress it. One day I received a long blue envelope addressed to myself, which contained a story-letter, full of drawings, from Mr. Dodgson. The first picture was of a little girl—with her hat off and her tumbled hair very much in evidence—asleep on a rustic bench under a big tree by the riverside, and two birds, holding what was evidently a very important conversation, above in the branches, their heads on one side, eyeing the sleeping child. Then there was a picture of the birds flying up to the child with twigs and straw in their beaks, preparing to build their nest in her hair. Next came the awakening, with the nest completed, and the mother-bird sitting on it; while the father-bird flew round the frightened child. And then, lastly, hundreds of birds—the air thick with them—the child fleeing, small boys with tin trumpets raised to their lips to add to the confusion, and Mary, armed with a basket of brushes and combs, bringing up the rear! After this, whenever I was restive while my hair was being arranged, Mary would show me the picture of the child with the nest on her head, and I at once became "as quiet as a lamb." I had a daily governess, a dear old soul, who used to come every morning to teach me. I disliked particularly the large—lettered copies which she used to set me; and as I confided this to Mr. Dodgson, he came and gave me some copies himself. The only ones which I can remember were "Patience and water-gruel cure gout" (I always wondered what "gout" might be) and "Little girls should be seen and not heard" (which I thought unkind). These were written many times over, and I had to present the pages to him, without one blot or smudge, at the end of the week. One of the Fellows of Magdalen College at that time was a Mr. Saul, a friend of my father's and of Mr. Dodgson, and a great lover of music—his rooms were full of musical instruments of every sort. Mr. Dodgson and father and I all went one afternoon to pay him a visit. At that time he was much interested in the big drum, and we found him when we arrived in full practice, with his music-book open before him. He made us all join in the concert. Father undertook the 'cello, and Mr. Dodgson hunted up a comb and some paper, and, amidst much fun and laughter, the walls echoed with the finished roll, or shake, of the big drum—a roll that was Mr. Saul's delight. My father died on August 27, 1897, and Mr. Dodgson on January 14, 1898. And we, who are left behind in this cold, weary world can only hope we may some day meet them again. Till then, oh! Father, and my dear old childhood's friend, requiescalis in pace! BIBLIOGRAPHY "NOTES ON THE FIRST TWO BOOKS OF EUCLID." 1860 Oxford: Parker. 8vo. 6d "PHOTOGRAPHS." (?)1860 (Printed for private circulation; a list of negatives taken by the Rev. C. L. Dodgson.) Pp. 4, 4to "A SYLLABUS OF PLANE ALGEBRAICAL GEOMETRY," 1860 systematically arranged, with formal definitions, postulates, and axioms. By Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. Part I. Containing Points, Right Lines, Rectilinear Figures, Pencils and Circles. Oxford: Parker. Pp. xvi + 164, 8vo. Cloth, paper label. 5s "RULES FOR COURT CIRCULAR." 1860 (A new game, invented by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson.) Pp. 4. (Reprinted in 1862). "THE FORMULÆ OF PLANE TRIGONOMETRY," 1861 printed with symbols (instead of words) to express the "goniometrical ratios." By Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. Oxford: Parker. Pp. 19, 4to. Stitched, 1s. "NOTES ON THE FIRST PART OF ALGEBRA." 1861 Oxford: Parker. 8vo. 6d "INDEX TO 'IN MEMORIAM.'" 1862 [Suggested and edited by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson; much of the actual work of compilation was done by his sisters] London: Moxon. "THE ENUNCIATIONS OF EUCLID, Books I. and II." 1863 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "GENERAL LIST OF (MATHEMATICAL) SUBJECTS, AND 1863 CYCLE FOR WORKING EXAMPLES." Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "CROQUÊT CASTLES." 1863 (A new game invented by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson). London(?) Pp. 4. (Reprinted, with additions and alterations, in 1866 at Oxford.) "THE NEW EXAMINATION STATUTE." 1864 (A letter to the Vice-Chancellor.) Pp. 2, 4 to. Oxford. "A GUIDE TO THE MATHEMATICAL STUDENT IN READING, 1864 REVIEWING, AND WORKING EXAMPLES." By Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. Part I. Pure Mathematics. Oxford: Parker. Two leaves and pp. 27, 8vo. Stitched, 1s. "THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE, with an Excursus on 1865 the New Method of Evaluation as applied to pi." Oxford: Vincent. Pp. 28, 8vo. (Three editions). "ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND." By Lewis 1865 Carroll, with forty-two illustrations by John Tenniel. London: Macmillan. Pp. 192, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 6s. The 1st edition (recalled) was printed in Oxford, and is very rare; all subsequent editions (1865 onwards) by Richard Clay in London. Now in its 86th thousand. [People's Edition, price 2s. 6d.; first published in 1887. Now in its 70th thousand.] "CONDENSATION OF DETERMINANTS," being a new and 1866 brief method for computing their arithmetical values. By the Rev. C.L. Dodgson. From "The Proceedings of the Royal Society, No. 84, 1866." London: Taylor and Francis. Pp. 8, 8vo. "AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON DETERMINANTS." 1867 London: Macmillan. (Printed in Oxford.) Pp. viii + 143, 4to. Cloth. 10s. 6d. "THE FIFTH BOOK OF EUCLID TREATED ALGEBRAICALLY, 1868 SO FAR AS IT RELATES TO COMMENSURABLE MAGNITUDES." With notes. By Charles L. Dodgson. Oxford and London: Parker. Two leaves and pp. 37, 8vo. In wrapper, 1s. 6d. "ALGEBRAICAL FORMULÆ FOR RESPONSIONS." 1868 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "THE TELEGRAPH CIPHER." (?)1868 (Invented, in 1868, by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson.) "PHANTASMAGORIA AND OTHER POEMS." 1869 By Lewis Carroll. London: Macmillan. (Printed in Oxford.) Pp. viii + 202, small 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. "AVENTURES D'ALICE AU PAYS DE MERVEILLES." 1869 Par Lewis Carroll, ouvrage illustré de 42 vignettes par John Tenniel. Traduit de l'anglais, par H. Bué. London: Macmillan. Pp. 196, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 6s. (Now in its 2nd thousand.) "ALICE'S ABENTEUER IM WUNDERLAND." Von Lewis 1869 Carroll, mit zweiundvierzig Illustrationen von John Tenniel. Uebersetzt von Antonie Zimmermann. London: Macmillan. Pp. 178, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 6s. "GAZETTE EXTRAORDINARY." 1870 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "ALGEBRAICAL FORMULÆ AND RULES." 1870 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "ARITHMETICAL FORMULÆ AND RULES." 1870 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "TO ALL CHILD READERS OF 'ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN 1871 WONDERLAND.'" Pp. 4 "THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND 1871 THERE." By Lewis Carroll. With fifty illustrations by John Tenniel. London: Macmillan. Pp. 224., cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 6s. Now in its 61st thousand [People's edition. Price 2s. 6d. First published in 1887. Now in its 46th thousand.] "LE AVVENTURE D'ALICE NEL PAESE DELLA MERAVIGLIE." 1872 Per Lewis Carroll. Tradotte dall'inglese da T. Pietrocòla-Rossetti. Con 42 vignette di Giovanni Tenniel. London: Macmillan. Pp. 189, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 6s. CIRCULAR TO HOSPITALS OFFERING COPIES OF THE TWO 1872 "ALICE" BOOKS. London: Macmillan. "SYMBOLS, &c., TO BE USED IN EUCLID, 1872 Books I. and II." Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "NUMBER OF PROPOSITIONS IN EUCLID." Oxford: 1872 Printed at the University Press. "THE NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD." A 1872 Monograph. By D.C.L. Oxford: Parker. Pp. 2 + 31, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 6d. (Five editions.) "ENUNCIATIONS, EUCLID, I.—VI." 1873 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "OBJECTIONS, SUBMITTED TO THE GOVERNING BODY of 1873 Christ Church, Oxford, against certain proposed alterations in the Great Quadrangle." Oxford: Printed at the University Press. Pp. 4, 4to. [Printed for Private Circulation.] "THE VISION OF THE THREE T's." A Threnody. By the 1873 Author of "The New Belfry." Oxford. Parker. Pp. 37 + 3, 8vo. In wrapper, 9d. (Three editions.) "A DISCUSSION OF THE VARIOUS MODES OF PROCEDURE IN 1873 CONDUCTING ELECTIONS." Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "EUCLID, BOOK V. PROVED ALGEBRAICALLY," so far as 1874 it relates to Commensurable Magnitudes. To which is prefixed a summary of all the necessary algebraical operations, arranged in order of difficulty. By Charles L. Dodgson. Oxford: Parker. Pp. viii + 62, 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. "SUGGESTIONS AS TO THE BEST METHOD OF TAKING VOTES, 1874 where more than two Issues are to be voted on." Oxford: Hall and Stacy. Pp. 8, 8vo. "THE BLANK CHEQUE." A Fable. By the Author of "The 1874 New Belfry," and "The Vision of The Three T's" Oxford: Parker. Pp. 14 + 2, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 4d. "PRELIMINARY ALGEBRA, AND EUCLID Book V." 1874 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE." 1874 Oxford: Parker. Pp. 24, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 6d. "THE NEW METHOD OF EVALUATION AS APPLIED TO pi." 1874 Oxford: Parker. Pp. 16, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 4d. "FACTS, FIGURES, AND FANCIES," relating to the 1874 Elections to the Hebdomadal Council, the Offer of the Clarendon Trustees, and the Proposal to convert the Parks into Cricke-Grounds. Oxford: Parker. Pp. 29 + 3, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 8d. "NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL." 1874 Oxford: Parker. Cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. [This book consists of the following six pamphlets bound together—"The New Method of Evaluation," "The Dynamics of a Particle," "Facts, Figures, and Fancies," "The New Belfry," "The Vision of the Three T's," and "The Blank Cheque."] "EXAMPLES IN ARITHMETIC." 1874 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "EUCLID, BOOKS I. and II." Edited by Charles L. 1875 Dodgson. Oxford: Parker. Diagram, Title, Preface, and pp. 102, cr. 8vo. Cloth. [The book was circulated privately among Mathematical friends for hints. "Not yet published" was printed above title.] "THE PROFESSORSHIP OF COMPARATIVE PHILOLOGY." 1876 (Three leaflets.) Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "A METHOD OF TAKING VOTES OF MORE THAN TWO 1876 ISSUES." Oxford: Printed at the University Press. Pp. 20, cr. 8vo. [A note on the title-page runs as follows: "As I hope to investigate this subject further, and to publish a more complete pamphlet on the subject, I shall feel greatly obliged if you will enter in this copy any remarks that occur to you, and return it to me any time before—."] LETTER AND QUESTIONS TO HOSPITALS. Oxford: 1876 Printed at the University Press. "AN EASTER GREETING." [Reprinted in London, by 1876 Macmillan & Co., in 1880.] "FAME'S PENNY TRUMPET." Not published. 1876 Oxford: Baxter. Pp. 4, 4to. [Afterwards published in "Rhyme? and Reason?"] "THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK." An Agony, in Eight 1876 Fits. By Lewis Carroll. With nine illustrations by Henry Holiday. London: Macmillan. Pp. xi + 83, 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 4s.. 6d. "THE RESPONSIONS OF HILARY TERM, 1877." 1877 (A letter to the Vice-Chancellor.) Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "A CHARADE." (Written with a cyclostyle.) Pp. 4. 1878 "WORD-LINKS." (A game, afterwards called 1878 "DOUBLETS," invented by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson.) Oxford: Printed at the University Press. Pp. 4, 8vo.[There is also a form written with a cyclostyle.] "DOUBLETS." A Word-Puzzle. By Lewis Carroll. 1879 London: Macmillan. Pp. 73, 8vo. Cloth. 2s. (2nd edition, 1880.) "EUCLID AND HIS MODERN RIVALS." 1879 London: Macmillan. 8vo. Cloth. 6s. (2nd edition, 1885. Pp. xxxi + 275.) "DOUBLETS." A Word-Puzzle. By Lewis Carroll. 1880 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. Pp. 8. 8vo. [This Puzzle appeared in Vanity Fair, April 19, 1879.] "LETTER FROM MABEL TO EMILY." To illustrate common 1880 errors in letter-writing. (Written with a cyclostyle.) "LIZE'S AVONTUREN IN HET WONDERLAND." (?)1881 Naar het Engelsch. [A Dutch version of "Alice in Wonderland."] Nijmegen. 4to. "ON CATCHING COLD." (A pamphlet, consisting of 1881 extracts from two books by Dr. Inman.) Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "JABBERWOCKY." (Lewis Carroll's Poem, with A.A. 1881 Vansittart's Latin rendering.) Oxford: Printed at the University Press. NOTICE RE CONCORDANCE TO "IN MEMORIAM." 1881 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "LANRICK." A Game for Two Players. 1881 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. A CIRCULAR ABOUT THE "SCHOOL OF DRAMATIC ART." 1882 Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "AN ANALYSIS OF THE RESPONSIONS-LISTS FROM 1882 MICHAELMAS, 1873, to Michaelmas, 1881." Oxford: Printed at the University Press. CIRCULAR ASKING FOR SUGGESTIONS FOR A GIRLS' 1882 EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE. Oxford: Printed at the University Press. [Two different forms, one pp. 2, the other pp. 4.] "EUCLID, BOOKS I. and II." 1882 London: Macmillan. Printed in Oxford. Pp. xi + 108. 8vo. Cloth. 2s. [Seven editions were subsequently published.] "DREAMLAND." A Song. Words by Lewis Carroll; music 1882 by Rev. C. E. Hutchinson. Oxford: Printed at the University Press. "MISCHMASCH." (A game invented by the Rev. C. L. 1882 Dodgson.) Oxford: Printed at the University Press. Two editions. "RHYME? AND REASON?" By Lewis Carroll. With 1883 sixty-five illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and nine by Henry Holiday. London: Macmillan. Pp. xii + 214, cr. 8vo. Cloth, 7s. (Now in its 6th thousand.) [This book is a reprint, with a few additions, of "The Hunting of the Snark," and of the comic portions of "Phantasmagoria and Other Poems."] "LAWN TENNIS TOURNAMENTS: THE TRUE METHOD OF 1883 ASSIGNING PRIZES, with a Proof of the Fallacy of the Present Method." London: Macmillan. Printed in Oxford. 8vo. "RULES FOR RECKONING POSTAGE." 1883 Oxford: Baxter. "TWELVE MONTHS IN A CURATORSHIP." 1884 By One who has tried it. Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 52, 8vo SUPPLEMENT TO DITTO. 1884 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 8, 8vo POSTSCRIPT TO DITTO. 1884 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 2, 8vo. "CHRISTMAS GREETINGS." 1884 London: Macmillan. "THE PROFITS OF AUTHORSHIP." By Lewis Carroll. 1884 London: Macmillan. 8vo. 6d. "THE PRINCIPLES OF PARLIAMENTARY REPRESENTATION." 1884 London: Harrison. Pp. 56, 8vo. (Reprinted in 1885.) SUPPLEMENT TO DITTO. 1885 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 8, 8vo. Two editions. POSTSCRIPT TO SUPPLEMENT TO DITTO. 1885 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, 8vo. Two editions. SUPPLEMENT TO FIRST EDITION OF "EUCLID AND HIS 1885 MODERN RIVALS." London: Macmillan. 8vo. 1s "A TANGLED TALE." By Lewis Carroll. With six 1885 illustrations by Arthur B. Frost. London: Macmillan. Printed in Oxford. Pp. 152, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 4s. 6d. (Now in its 4th thousand.) [First appeared in Monthly Packet, April, 1882—November, 1884. There are also separate reprints of each "Knot," and of the Answers to "Knots" I. and II.] "PROPOSED PROCURATORIAL CYCLE." 1885 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, 4to. "THE PROCURATORIAL CYCLE. FURTHER REMARKS." 1885 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 3, 4to. "SUGGESTIONS AS TO THE ELECTION OF PROCTORS." 1885 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, 4to. (Reprinted, with additions, in 1886) "ALICE'S ADVENTURES UNDER GROUND." By Lewis 1886 Carroll. With thirty-seven illustrations by the author. London: Macmillan. Pp. viii + 95, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 4s. (Now in its 4th thousand.) [This book is a facsimile of the original Manuscript story, afterwards developed into "Alice in Wonderland."] "THREE YEARS IN A CURATORSHIP." 1886 By one whom it has tried. Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 32, cr. 8vo. "REMARKS ON THE REPORT OF THE FINANCE COMMITTEE." 1886 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 8, cr. 8vo. "REMARKS ON MR. SAMPSON'S PROPOSAL." 1886 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, cr. 8vo. "OBSERVATIONS ON MR. SAMPSON'S PROPOSAL." 1889 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 12, 8vo. "FIRST PAPER ON LOGIC." 1886 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 2, 8vo. "FOURTH PAPER ON LOGIC." 1886 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 3, 8vo. "FIFTH PAPER ON LOGIC." 1887 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, 8vo. "SIXTH PAPER ON LOGIC." 1887 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, 8vo. "QUESTIONS IN LOGIC." 1887 Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, fcap. fol. "ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND; AND THROUGH THE 1887 LOOKING-GLASS." People's editions, 1 vol. London: Macmillan. Cr. 8vo. Cloth. 4s. 6d. "THE GAME OF LOGIC." By Lewis Carroll. 1887 London: Macmillan. Pp. 96, cr. 8vo. Cloth. 3s. "CURIOSA MATHEMATICA, Part I. A New Theory of 1888 Parallels." By C. L. Dodgson. London: Macmillan. Pp. 75. 8vo. Cloth. 2s. (Reprinted in 1889, 1890, and 1895.) "MEMORIA TECHNICA." [Written with a cyclostyle.] 1888 Pp. 4 "CIRCULAR BILLIARDS FOR TWO PLAYERS." Invented, in (?)1889 1889, by Lewis Carroll. Two editions "SYLVIE AND BRUNO." By Lewis Carroll. With 1889 forty-six illustrations by Harry Furniss. London: Macmillan. Pp. xxiii + 400, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. (Now in its 13th thousand.) [The picture on p. 77 was drawn by Miss Alice Havers.] "THE NURSERY 'ALICE.'" Containing twenty coloured 1890 enlargements from Tenniel's illustrations to "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." With text adapted to nursery readers by Lewis Carroll. The cover designed and coloured by E. Gertrude Thomson. London: Macmillan. Pp. 56, 4to. Boards. 4s. (Now in its 11th thousand.) "EIGHT OR NINE WISE WORDS ABOUT LETTER-WRITING." 1890 By Lewis Carroll. Oxford: Emberlin and Son. (Now in its 5th edition.) [This pamphlet is sold with the "Wonderland" Postage-Stamp Case, published by Messrs. Emberlin and Son.] "THE STRANGER CIRCULAR." (A leaflet sent by Mr. 1890 Dodgson to people who wrote to him about his "Lewis Carroll" books, addressing the envelope to Rev. C. L. Dodgson.) Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. CIRCULAR, asking friends to send addresses of 1890 stationers likely to sell the "Wonderland" Postage-Stamp Case. Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. CIRCULAR SENT TO VARIOUS HOSPITALS, offering free 1890 copies of Lewis Carroll's books. Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. LIST OF INSTITUTIONS to which above was to be sent. 1890 Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. CIRCULAR, ADDRESSED TO THE GOVERNING BODY OF 1891 CHRIST CHURCH, Oxford, about the proposal to invite M.A.'s to dine at High Table. "A POSTAL PROBLEM." June, 1891. 1891 DITTO, Supplement. 1891 A CIRCULAR ABOUT RESIGNATION OF CURATORSHIP. 1892 Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. A CIRCULAR ABOUT "UNPARLIAMENTARY" WORDS 1892 used by some competitors in the "Syzygies" competition in The Lady. Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. "CURIOSISSIMA CURATORIA." By 'Rude Donatus.' 1892 (A Pamphlet sent to all resident members of Christ Church Common Room.) Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. "EIGHTH PAPER ON LOGIC." 1892 Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. [A revised version of one page was printed in same year.] "NINTH PAPER ON LOGIC." 1892 Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. "NOTES TO LOGIC PAPERS EIGHT AND NINE." 1892 Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. "CURIOSA MATHEMATICA, Part III. PILLOW PROBLEMS," 1893 thought out during wakeful hours, by C. L. Dodgson. London, Macmillan: Printed in Oxford. Pp. xvii + 109, 8vo. Cloth, 1st and 2nd editions. (Reprinted in 1894, 1895.) "SYZYGIES AND LANRICK." By Lewis Carroll. 1893 London: The Lady office. Pp. 26. 6d. "SYLVIE AND BRUNO CONCLUDED." By Lewis Carroll. 1893 With forty-six illustrations by Harry Furniss. London: Macmillan. Pp. xxi + 423, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges. 7s.6d. (Now in its 3rd thousand.) [The picture on p. 409 was drawn by Miss Alice Havers.] "A DISPUTED POINT IN LOGIC." 1894 "WHAT THE TORTOISE SAID TO ACHILLES." (Reprinted 1894 from Mind, December, 1894.) Pp. 4. "A FASCINATING MENTAL RECREATION FOR THE YOUNG." (?)1895 (A circular about Symbolic Logic, signed "Lewis Carroll.") "RESIDENT WOMEN-STUDENTS." 1896 (A circular, signed "Charles L Dodgson.") Oxford: Printed by Sheppard. "SYMBOLIC LOGIC. Part I. Elementary." By Lewis 1896 Carroll. London: Macmillan. Pp. xxxi + 192, cr. 8vo. Cloth. 2s. (Now in its 4th edition.) "THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS." By Lewis Carroll. 1898 With twelve Fairy-Fancies by E. Gertrude Thomson. London: Macmillan. Pp. 68, fcap. 4to. Cloth, gilt edges. 4s. [This book is a reprint, with additions, of the serious portions of "Phantasmagoria and Other Poems."] "TO MY CHILD-FRIEND." (A poem, reprinted in "The No date Game of Logic.") Pp. 2 "THE ALPHABET-CIPHER." No date INDEX A Abdy, Miss Dora, Albany, The Duchess of, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," "Alice's Adventures Underground," "Alice" Operetta, The, Alice, Princess, "Alice, The Nursery," Allen, Mrs. Egerton, Anderson, Mrs., Atkinson, Miss G., Atkinson, Rev. F. H., B Baden-Powell, Sir George, Bayne, Rev. T. Vere, Bennie, Mrs., "Blank Cheque, The," Bowman, Miss Isa, Bremer, Miss, "Bruno's Revenge," C Calverley, C. S., Chataway, Miss G., Chevalier, Albert, Circle-squarers, College Rhymes, College Servants, Comic Times, The, Cook Wilson, Professor, Croft, Cunningham, Miss M., D Daresbury, "Deserted Parks, The," "Determinants, An Elementary Treatise On," Dodgson, Archdeacon, Dodgson, Captain, Dodgson, Mrs., "Dotheboys Hall," "Dreamland," Drury, Miss Dymes, Miss "Dynamics of a Parti-cle, The" E Egerton, Lord Francis Elphin, The Bishop of Elsdon Eschwege, Miss K. Eternal Punishment "Euclid and His Modern Rivals" "Euclid, Books I. and II." "Euclid, Book V." Exhibition, The Great F "Facts, Figures, and Fancies" Freiligrath Kroeker, Mrs. Frost, A.B. Furniss, Harry G "Game of Logic, The" Gatty, Mrs. General Elections H Harrison, Frederic Holiday, Henry Hopley, Rev. H. Hughes, Arthur Hughes, Miss Agnes "Hunting of the Snark, The" Hutchinson, Rev. C.E. J Jabberwock, The Jackson, Miss F. Jelf, Canon Jowett, Dr. K Kean, Mrs. Kingsley, Henry Kitchin, Miss Alexandra (Xie) L "Lays of Sorrow" Liddell, Dr. Liddell, Miss Alice Liddon, Canon "Little Minister, The" Longley, Archbishop M Macdonald, George Maitland, Mrs. Manners, Miss M.E. Maurier, George du Mechanical "Humpty Dumpty," The "Memoria Technica" Misch-Masch Moscow N Natural Science "New Belfry, The" "New Method of Evaluation, The" "New Theory of Parallels, The" Nijni Novgorod "Notes by an Oxford Chiel" P Paget, Dean Paget, Sir James Paine, Miss Adelaide Patmore, Coventry Paton, Sir Noel "Phantasmagoria" "Pillow Problems" Potsdam Price, Professor "Profits of Authorship, The" Pusey, Dr. R Rectory Umbrella, The "Rhyme? and Reason?" Richmond Rix, Miss Edith Rugby Ruskin, John S Salisbury, The Marquis of St. Petersburg Sanday, Professor Simpson, Miss Gaynor Smedley, Frank Standen, Miss Isabel "Sylvie and Bruno" "Sylvie and Bruno Concluded" "Symbolic Logic, Part I." "Syzygies" T Tait, Archbishop "Tangled Tale, A" Taylor, Tom Tenniel, Sir John Tennyson, Alfred Terry, Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Kate Thackeray, W.M. Thomson, Miss E.G. "Three Sunsets" "Through the Looking-Glass" Train, The "Twelve Months in a Curatorship" V Vansittart, A.A. "Vision of The Three T's, The" Vivisection W Wilberforce, Bishop "Wise Words on Letter-Writing" "Wonderland" Stamp-Case, The Woodhouse, Rev. G.C. Y Yates, Edmund Yonge, Miss Charlotte M. FOOTNOTES. [001] Perhaps an incorrect expression, as it was only the second attempt. [002] The science of taking medicine in infinitely small doses. [003] 1 _________________________ 1000000000000000000000000 [004] A Man's history of his own life. [005] The author of "The Bandy-legged Butterfly." [006] Afterwards President of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. [007] Or a pulling by the ear. [008] This Rectory has been supposed to have been built in the time of Edward VI., but recent discoveries clearly assign its origin to a much earlier period. A stone has been found in an island formed by the river Tees on which is inscribed the letter "A," which is justly conjectured to stand for the name of the great King Alfred, in whose reign this house was probably built. [009] The poet entreats pardon for having represented a donkey under this dignified name. [010] With reference to these remarkable animals see "Moans from the Miserable," page 12. [011] A full account of the history and misfortunes of these interesting creatures may be found in the first "Lay of Sorrow," page 36. [012] It is a singular fact that a donkey makes a point of returning any kicks offered to it. [013] This valiant knight, besides having a heart of steel and nerves of iron, has been lately in the habit of carrying a brick in his eye. [014] She was sister to both. [015] The reader will probably be at a loss to discover the nature of this triumph, as no object was gained, and the donkey was obviously the victor; on this point, however, we are sorry to say, we can offer no good explanation. [016] Much more acceptable to a true knight than "corn-land" which the Roman people were so foolish as to give to their daring champion, Horatius. [017] Lewis Carroll composed this poem while staying with his cousins, the Misses Wilcox, at Whitburn, near Sunderland. To while away an evening the whole party sat down to a game of verse-making, and "Jabberwocky" was his contribution. [018] Coesper from coena and vesper. [019] Lubriciles, from lubricus and graciles. See the commentary in "Humpty Dumpty's square," which will also explain ultravia, and, if it requires explanation, moestenui. [020] Sanguis meus: Verg. Aen. vi. 836—"Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!" [021] Egnia: "muffish"—segnis; therefore "uffish" = egnis. This is a conjectural analogy, but I can suggest no better solution. [022] Susuffrus: "whiffling," susurrus: "whistling." [023] Spicula: see the picture. [024] Burbur: apparently a labial variation of murmur, stronger but more dissonant. [025] This poem is reproduced here by the kind permission of the proprietors of Punch. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE OF LEWIS CARROLL *** ===== Hiawatha’s Photographing ===== HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING Lewis Carroll [In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.' Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.] FROM his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood, Made of sliding, folding rosewood; Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the Second Book of Euclid. This he perched upon a tripod - Crouched beneath its dusky cover - Stretched his hand, enforcing silence - Said "Be motionless, I beg you!" Mystic, awful was the process. [Click here for extra verses added later.] All the family in order Sat before him for their pictures: Each in turn, as he was taken, Volunteered his own suggestions, His ingenious suggestions. First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains looped about a massy pillar; And the corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die in tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it. Next, his better half took courage; She would have her picture taken. She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress. Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a bouquet Rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she was sitting, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkey in the forest. "Am I sitting still ?" she asked him. "Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it come into the picture?" And the picture failed completely. Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curves of beauty, Curves pervading all his figure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centered in the breast-pin, Centered in the golden breast-pin. He had learnt it all from Ruskin (Author of 'The Stones of Venice,' 'Seven Lamps of Architecture,' 'Modern Painters,' and some others); And perhaps he had not fully Understood his author's meaning; But, whatever was the reason All was fruitless, as the picture Ended in an utter failure. Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty-' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up Sideways To the corner of the nostrils. Hiawatha, when she asked him Took no notice of the question Looked as if he hadn't heared it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' Bit his lip and changed the subject. Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely. So in turn the other sisters. Last, the youngest son was taken: Very rough and thick his hair was, Very round and red his face was, Very dusty was his jacket, Very fidgety his manner. And his overbearing sisters Called him names he disapproved of: Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,' Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy.' And, so awful was the picture, In comparison the others Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy, To have partially succeeded. Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, ('Grouped' is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would have it, Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness. Then they joined and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of. 'Giving one such strange expressions-- Sullen, stupid, pert expressions. Really any one would take us (Any one that did not know us) For the most unpleasant people!' (Hiawatha seemed to think so, Seemed to think it not unlikely). All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hiawatha's patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party. Neither did he leave them slowly, With the calm deliberation, The intense deliberation Of a photographic artist: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mighty hurry, Stating that he would not stand it, Stating in emphatic language What he'd be before he'd stand it. Hurriedly he packed his boxes: Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes: Hurriedly he took his ticket: Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha. Verses added later - when the wet-plate process was less common. First, a piece of glass he coated With collodion, and plunged it In a bath of lunar caustic Carefully dissolved in water - There he left it certain minutes. Secondly, my Hiawatha Made with cunning hand a mixture Of the acid pyrro-gallic, And of glacial-acetic, And of alcohol and water This developed all the picture. Finally, he fixed each picture With a saturate solution Which was made of hyposulphite Which, again, was made of soda. (Very difficult the name is For a metre like the present But periphrasis has done it.) return Taken from Rhyme? and Reason? (dated 1887). Illustrations are by Arthur B. Frost. Take a look at some of Charles Dodgson's photographs. Return to the Literary Page Dated by C. L. Dodgson: 1857-11-13 Original page by J. David Sapir Mirrored by Goetz Kluge from people.virginia.edu/~ds8s/carroll/hia.html in snrk.de: 2018-11-14 Four images replaced by images (hia2~hia5) from https://twitter.com/DodgsonDiaries/status/1062292276842422273 ===== Notes by an Oxford Chiel ===== Notes by an Oxford Chiel by C.L. Dodgson, extracted from the "The Lewis Carroll picture book; a selection from the unpublished writings and drawings of Lewis Carroll, together with reprints from scarce and unacknowledged work. Edited by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood See other formats The texts may contain OCR errors. THE EVALUATION OF ? (1865) THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTICLE (1865) FACTS, FIGURES, AND FANCIES (1866-1868) THE NEW BELFRY (1872, see also: https://snrk.de/belfry/) THE VISION OF THE THREE T'S (1873) THE BLANK CHEQUE (1874, see also: https://snrk.de/page_the-blank-cheque) See also: Wikisource THE NEW METHOD OF EVALUATION AS APPLIED TO ? " Little Jack Homer Sat in a corner, Eating his Christmas Pie." FIRST POINTED IN 1865 iforlt : JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1874- CONTENTS. INTRODUCTORY. I. RATIONALISATION. II. METHOD OF INDIFFERENCES. III. PENRHYN'S METHOD. IV. ELIMINATION OF J. V. EVALUATION UNDER PRESSURE THE NEW METHOD OF EVALUATION AS APPLIED TO ?. The problem of evaluating ?r, which has en- gaged the attention of mathematicians from the earliest ages, had, down to our own time, been considered as purely arithmetical. It was re- served for this generation to make the discovery that it is in reality a dynamical problem ; and the true value of TT, which appeared an ignis fatuus to our forefathers, has been at last obtained under pressure. The following are the main data of the problem : Let U =the University, G = Greek, and P = Professor. Then GP = Greek Professor; let this be reduced to its lowest terms, and call the result J. Also let W = the work done, T = the Times, / = the given payment, 7r = the payment according to T, and S = the sum required ; so that ?r = S. The problem is, to obtain a value for n which shall be commensurable with W. In the early treatises on this subject, the mean 47 48 THE LEWIS CARROLL 'PICTURE BOOK value assigned to ?r will be found to be 40.000000. Later writers suspected that the decimal point had been accidentally shifted, and that the proper value was 400.00000 ; but, as the details of the process for obtaining it had been lost, no further progress was made in the subject till our own time, though several most ingenious methods were tried for solving the problem. Of these methods we proceed to give some brief account. Those chiefly worthy of note appear to be Rationalisation, the Method of Indifferences, Penrhyn's Method, and the Method of Elimination. We shall conclude with an account of the great discovery of our own day, the Method of Evalua- tion under Pressure. I. RATIONALISATION. The peculiarity of this process consists in its affecting all quantities alike with a negative sign. To apply it, let H = High Church, and L = Low Church then the geometric mean = v /HL: call this "B" (Broad Church). .'. HL=B2. Also let x and y represent unknown quantities THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 49 The process now requires the breaking up of U into its partial factions, and the introduction of certain combinations. Of the two principal factions thus formed, that corresponding with P presented no further difficulty, but it appeared hopeless to rationalise the other. A rcductio adabsurdum was therefore attempted, and it was asked, "Why should TT not be evalu- ated ? " The great difficulty now was, to dis- cover y. Several ingenious substitutions and transforma- tions were then resorted to, with a view to simplifying the equation, and it was at one time asserted, though never actually proved, that the ys were all on one side. However, as repeated trials produced the same irrational result, the process was finally abandoned. 1 1. --THE METHOD OF INDIFFERENCES. This was a modification of " the method of finite Differences," and may be thus briefly described : Let E = Essays, and R = Reviews : then the locus of (E + R), referred to multilinear co- ordinates, will be found to be a superficies (i.e., 5 50 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK a locus possessing length and breadth, but no depth). Let v = novelty, and assume (E + R) as a function of v. Taking this superficies as the plane of reference, we get ... EB = B 2 =HL (by the last article). Multiplying by P, EBP = HPL. It was now necessary to investigate the locus of EBP: this was found to be a species of Catenary, called the Patristic Catenary, which is usually defined as "passing through origen, and containing many multiple points." The locus of HPL will be found almost entirely to coincide with this. Great results were expected from the assump- tion of (E + R) as a function of v: but the opponents of this theorem, having actually suc- ceeded in demonstrating that the v-element did not even enter into the function, it appeared hope- less to obtain any real value of ?r by this method. III. PENRHYN'S METHOD. This was an exhaustive process for extracting the value of ?, in a series of terms, by repeated DEAN STANLEY. (From a photograph by Lewis Carroll.) THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 53 divisions. The series so obtained appeared to be convergent, but the residual quantity was always negative, which of course made the pro- cess of extraction impossible. This theorem was originally derived from a radical series in Arithmetical Progression : let us denote the series itself by A. P., and its sum by (A.P.)S. It was found that the function (A.P.)S. entered into the above process, in various forms. The experiment was therefore tried of trans- forming (A.P.)S. into a new scale of notation ; it had hitherto been, through a long series of terms, entirely in the senary, in which scale it had furnished many beautiful expressions : it was now transformed into the denary. Under this modification, the process of division was repeated, but with the old negative result ; the attempt was therefore abandoned, though not without a hope that future mathematicians, by introducing a number of hitherto undetermined constants, raised to the second degree, might succeed in obtaining a positive result. IV. ELIMINATION OF J. It had long been perceived that the chief obstacle to the evaluation of ? was the presence 54 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK of J, and in an earlier age of mathematics J would probably have been referred to rectangular axes, and divided into two unequal parts a process of arbitrary elimination which is now considered not strictly legitimate. It was proposed, therefore, to eliminate J by an appeal to the principle known as "the permanence of equivalent formularies :" this, however, failed on application, as J became indeterminate. Some advocates of the process would have preferred that J should be eliminated " in toto" The classical scholar need hardly be reminded that " toto" is the ablative of ' ' tiuntum, " and that this beautiful and expressive phrase embodied the wish that J should be eliminated by a com- pulsory religious examination. It was next proposed to eliminate J by means of a " canonisant." The chief objection to this process was, that it would raise J to an in- conveniently high power, and would after all only give an irrational value for TT. Other processes, which we need not here describe, have been suggested for the evaluation of ?. One was that it should be treated as a given quantity: this theory was supported by THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 55 many eminent men, at Cambridge and elsewhere ; but, on application, J was found to exhibit a negative sign, which of course made the evaluation impossible. We now proceed to describe the modern method, which has been crowned with brilliant and unexpected success, and which may be defined as V. EVALUATION UNDER PRESSURE. Mathematicians had already investigated the locus of HPL, and had introduced this function into the calculation, but without effecting the desired evaluation, even when HPL was trans- ferred to the opposite side of the equation with a change of sign. The process we are about to describe consists chiefly in the substitution of G for P, and the application of pressure. Let the function tf> (HGL) be developed into a series, and let the sum of this be assumed as a perfectly rigid body, moving in a fixed line : let " ju " be the coefficient of moral- obligation, and "e" the expediency. Also let "F" be a Force acting equally in all directions, and varying inversely as T : let A = Able, and E = Enlightened. 5 6 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK We have now to develope (HGL) by Maclaurin's Theorem. The function itself vanishes when the variable vanishes : /.., 0() = O. 0'(o) = Q ( a prime constant). f"(o) = 2. 3 .H. 0"(o) = 2.3.4.8. r"() = 2-34-5.P- 0"""() = 2.3.4.5.6.;. after which the quantities recur in the same order. The above proof is taken from the learned treatise " August i dc fallibilitatc historicorum" and occupies an entire Chapter : the evaluation of TT is given in the next Chapter. The author takes occasion to point out several remarkable properties possessed by the above series, the existence of which had hardly been suspected before. This series is a function of /* and of e : but, when it is considered as a body it will be found that /* = o, and that e only remains. We now have the equation THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 57 The summation of this gave a minimum value for TT : this, however, was considered only as a first approximation, and the process was re- peated under pressure EAF, which gave to * a partial maximum value ; by continually in- creasing EAF, the result was at last obtained, 7T= S = 500.00000. This result differs considerably from the anticipated value, namely, 400.00000 : still there can be no doubt that the process has been correctly performed, and that the learned world may be congratulated on the final settlement of this most difficult problem. THE END. THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTICLE. THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE. "'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article." FJXST PRINTED IN 1865. JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1874. INTRODUCTION. ' 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, as 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 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 61 as a striking illustration of the advantage of intro- ducing the human element into the hitherto barren region of Mathematics. Who shall say what germs of romance, hitherto unobserved, 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 ? In some such spirit as this we have compiled the following pages. Crude and hasty as they are, they yet exhibit some of the phenomena of light, or " enlightenment," considered as a force, more fully than has hitherto been attempted by other writers. June, 1865. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS. Definitions. Postulates. Axioms. Methods of Voting. On Representation. CHAPTER II. DYNAMICS OF A PARTICLE. Introductory. Definitions. On Differentiation. Propositions. CHAPTER L GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS. DEFINITIONS. i. PLAIN SUPERFICIALITY is the character of a speech, in which any two points being taken, the speaker is found to lie wholly with regard to those two points. ii. PLAIN ANGER is the inclination of two voters to one another, who meet together, but whose views are not in the same direction. in. When a Proctor, meeting another Proctor, makes the votes on one side equal to those on the other, the feeling entertained by each side is called RIGHT ANGER. IV. When two parties, coming together, feel a Right Anger, each is said to be COMPLEMENTARY to the other, (though, strictly speaking, this is very seldom the case). 64 THE LEWIS CARROLL] PICTURE BOOK v. OBTUSE ANGER is that which is greater than Right Anger. POSTULATES. i. Let it be granted, that a speaker may digress from any one point to any other point. II. That a finite argument, (i.e., one finished and disposed of,) may be produced to any extent in subsequent debates. in. That a controversy may be raised about any question, and at any distance from that question. AXIOMS. I. Men who go halves in the same (quart) are (generally) equal to another. ii. Men who take a double in the same (term) are equal to anything. THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 65 ON VOTING. The different methods of voting are as follows : i. ALTERNANDO, as in the case of Mr. - , who voted for and against Mr. Gladstone, alternate elections. ii. INVERTENDO, as was done by Mr. - , who came all the way from Edinburgh to vote, handed in a blank voting paper, and so went home re- joicing. in. COMPONENDO, as was done by Mr. - , whose name appeared on both committees at once, whereby he got great praise from all men, by the space of one day. IV. DIVIDENDO, as in Mr. - -'s case, who, being sorely perplexed in his choice of candidates, voted for neither. v. CONVERTENDO, as was wonderfully exemplified by Messrs. - and - , who held a long and fierce argument on the election, in which, at the 6 66 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK end of two hours, each had vanquished and con verted the other. VI. Ex ^LQUALI IN PROPORTIONE PERTURBATA SEU INORDINATA, as in the election, when the result was for a long time equalised, and as it were held in the balance, by reason of those who had first voted on the one side seeking to pair off with those who had last arrived on the other side, and those who were last to vote on the one side being kept out by those who had first arrived on the other side, whereby, the entry to the Convo- cation House being blocked up, men could pass neither in nor out. ON REPRESENTATION. Magnitudes are algebraically represented by letters, men by men of letters, and so on. The following are the principal systems of representa- tion : 1. CARTESIAN : i.e., by means of "cartes." This system represents lines well, sometimes too well ; but fails in representing points, particularly good points. 2. POLAR : i.e., by means of the 2 poles, THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 67 " North and South." This is a very uncertain system of representation, and one that cannot safely be depended upon. 3. TRILINEAR : i e., by means of a line which takes 3 different courses. Such a line is usually expressed by three letters, as W.E.G. That the principle of Representation was known to the ancients is abundantly exemplified by Thucydides, who tells us that the favourite cry of encouragement during a trireme race was that touching allusion to Polar Co-ordinates which is still heard during the races of our own time, "/5, p6, cos #, they're gaining !" CHAPTER II. DYNAMICS OF A PARTICLE. Particles are logically divided according to GENIUS and SPEECHES. GENIUS is the higher classification, and this, combined with DIFFERENTIA (i.e., difference of opinion), produces SPEECHES. These again naturally divide themselves into three heads. 68 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK Particles belonging to the great order of GENIUS are called " able " or t( enlightened." DEFINITIONS. i. A SURD is a radical whose meaning cannot be exactly ascertained. This class comprises a very ] arge number of particles. ii. INDEX indicates the degree, or power, to which a particle is raised. It consists of two letters, placed to the right of the symbol representing the particle. Thus, 4 ' A. A." signifies the oth degree ; " B.A." the ist degree ; and so on, till we reach " M.A." the 2nd degree (the intermediate letters indicating fractions of a degree) ; the last two usually employed being " R.A." (the reader need hardly be reminded of that beautiful line in The Princess " Go dress yourself, Dinah, like a gorgeous R.A.") and " S.A." This last indicates the 36oth degree, and denotes that the particle in question (which is 1th part of the function E + R " Essays and Reviews ") has effected a complete revolution, and that the result = o. THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 69 III. MOMENT is the product of the mass into the velocity. To discuss this subject fully, would lead us too far into the subject Vis Viva, and we must content ourselves with mentioning the fact that no moment is ever really lost, by fully en- lightened Particles. It is scarcely necessary to quote the well-known passage : " Every moment, that can be snatched from academical duties, is devoted to furthering the cause of the popular Chancellor of the Exchequer." (Clarendon, " History of the Great Rebellion.") IV. A COUPLE consists of a moving particle, raised to the degree M.A., and combined with what is technically called a "better half." The following are the principal characteristics of a Couple : (i) It may be easily transferred from point to point. (2) Whatever force of translation was possessed by the uncombined particle (and this is often considerable), is wholly lost when the Couple is formed. (3) The two forces constituting the Couple habitually act in opposite directions. 70 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK ON DIFFERENTIATION. The effect of Differentiation on a Particle is very remarkable, the first Differential being fre- quently of a greater value than the original Particle, and the second of less enlightenment. For example, let L = " Leader," S = " Satur- day," and then L.S. = " Leader in the Saturday" (a particle of no assignable value). Differen- tiating once, we get L.S.D., a function of great value. Similarly it will be found that, by taking the second Differential of an enlightened Particle (i.e., raising it to the degree D.D.), the enlighten- ment becomes rapidly less. The effect is much increased by the addition of a C : in this case the enlightenment often vanishes altogether, and the Particle becomes conservative. It should be observed that, whenever the symbol L is used to denote " Leader," it must be affected with the sign : this serves to indicate that its action is sometimes positive and sometimes negative some particles of this class having the property of drawing others after them (as "a Leader of an army"), and others of repelling them (as "a Leader of the Times "). THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 71 PROPOSITIONS. Prop. I. Pr. To find the value of a given Examiner. Example. A takes in ten books in the Final Examination, and gets a 3rd Class : B takes in the Examiners, and gets a 2nd. Find the value of the Examiners in terms of books. Find also their value in terms in which no Examination is held. Prop. II. Pr. To estimate Profit and Loss. Example. Given a Derby Prophet, who has sent three different winners to three different betting men, and given that none of the three horses are placed. Find the total Loss incurred by the three men (a) in money, ()3) in temper. Find also the Prophet. Is this latter generally possible ? Prop. III. Pr. To estimate the direction of a line. Example. Prove that the definition of a line, according to Walton, coincides with that of Salmon, only that they begin at opposite ends. 72 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK If such a line be divided by Frost's method, find its value according to Price. Prop. IV. Th. The end (i.e., " the product of the extremes,") justifies (i.e., "is equal to " see Latin "aequus,") the means. No example is appended to this Proposition, for obvious reasons. Prop. V. Pr. To continue a given series. Example. A and B, who are respectively addicted to Fours and Fives, occupy the same set of rooms, which is always at Sixes and Sevens. Find the probable amount of reading done by A and B while the Eights are on. We proceed to illustrate this hasty sketch of the Dynamics of a Parti-cle, by demonstrating the great Proposition on which the whole theory of Representation depends, namely, " To remove a given Tangent from a given Circle, and to bring another given Line into Contact with it." To work the following problem algebraically, THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 73 it is best to let the circle be represented as re- ferred to its two tangents, i.e., first to WEG, WH, and afterwards to WH, GH. When this is effected, it will be found most convenient to project WEG to infinity. The process is not given here in full, since it requires the introduc- tion of many complicated determinants. Prop. VI. Pr. To remove a given Tangent from a given Circle, and to bring another given Line into contact with it. Let UN IV be a Large Circle, whose centre is O (V being, of course, placed at the top), and let WGH be a triangle, two of whose sides, WEG and WH, are in contact with the circle, while GH (called "the base" by liberal mathema- 74 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK ticians,) is not in contact with it. (See Fig. T.) It is required to destroy the contact of WEG, and to bring GH into contact instead. Let I be the point of maximum illumination of the circle, and therefore E the point of maximum enlightenment of the triangle. (E of course varying perversely as the square of the distance from O). Let WH be fixed absolutely, and remain always in contact with the circle, and let the direction of OI be also fixed. Now, so long as WEG preserves a perfectly straight course, GH cannot possibly come into contact with the circle ; but if the force of illumi- nation, acting along OI, cause it to bend (as in Fig. 2), a partial revolution on the part of WEG and GH is effected, WEG ceases to touch the circle, and GH is immediately brought into con- tact with it. Q.E.F. The theory involved in the foregoing Proposi- tion is at present much controverted, and its supporters are called upon to show what is the fixed point, or "locus standi" on which they pro- pose to effect the necessary revolution. To make this clear, we must go to the original Greek, and THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 75 remind our readers that the true point or " locus standi " is in this case ap&e, (or a/o&c according to modern usage), and therefore must not be assigned to WEG. In reply to this it is urged that, in a matter like the present, a single word cannot be considered a satisfactory explanation, such as It should also be observed that the revolution here discussed is entirely the effect of enlighten- ment, since particles, when illuminated to such an extent as actually to become #we, are always found to diverge more or less widely from each other; though undoubtedly the radical force of the word is "union" or "friendly feeling." The reader will find in " Liddell and Scott " a remark- able illustration of this, from which it appears to be an essential condition that the feeling should be entertained QopaSriv, and that the particle enter- taining it should belong to the genus O-KOTOC, and should therefore be, nominally at least, unen- lightened. THE END. FACTS, FIGURES, AND FANCIES, RELATING TO THE ELECTIONS TO THE HEBDOMADAL COUNCIL, THE OFFER OF THE CLARENDON TRUSTEES, AND THE PROPOSAL TO CONVERT THE PARKS INTO CRICKET-GROUNDS. Thrice the hrinded cat hath mewed." FIRST PRINTED IN 1866-1868. iforfc : JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1874. INTRODUCTORY. I. THE ELECTIONS TO THE HEBDOMADAL COUNCIL. In the year 1866, a Letter with the above title was published in Oxford, addressed to the Senior Censor of Christ Church, with the twofold object of revealing to the University a vast political misfortune which it had unwittingly encountered, and of suggesting a remedy which should at once alleviate the bitterness of the calamity and secure the sufferers from its re- currence. The misfortune thus revealed was no less than the fact that, at a recent election of Members to the Hebdomadal Council, tivo Conservatives had been chosen, thus giving a Conservative majority in the Council ; and the remedy sug- gested was a sufficiently sweeping one, embracing, as it did, the following details : 1. "The exclusion" (from Congregation) "of the non- academical elements which form a main part of the strength of this party domination." These " elements " are afterwards enumerated as " the parish clergy and the professional men of the city, and chaplains who are without any academical occupation." 2. The abolition of the Hebdomadal Council. 3. The abolition of the legislative functions of Convoca- tion. These are all the main features of this remarkable scheme of Reform, unless it be necessary to add 4. "To preside over a Congregation with full legislative powers, the Vice-Chancellor ought no doubt to be a man of real capacity." But it would be invidious to suppose that there was any intention of suggesting this as a novelty. The following rhythmical version of the Letter developes THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 79 its principles to an extent which possibly the writer had never contemplated. II. THE OFFER OF THE CLARENDON TRUSTEES. Letter from Mr. Gladstone to the Vice- Chancellor. DEAR MR. VICE-CHANCELLOR, The Clarendon Trustees . . are ready, in concert with the University, to consider of the best mode of applying the funds belonging to them for "adding to the New Museum Physical Laboratories and other accommodation requisite for the department of Experimental Philosophy.'' . . . I have the honour to remain, Dear Mr. Vice-Chancellor, Very faithfully yours, May 3, 1867. W. E. GLADSTONE. The following passages are quoted from a paper which appeared on the subject. " As Members of Convocation are called upon to consider the offer of the Clarendon Trustees, to employ the funds at their disposal in the erection of additional buildings to facili- tate the study of Physics, they may perhaps find it useful to have a short statement of the circumstances which render additional buildings necessary, and of the nature of the accommodation required." "Again, it is often impossible to carry on accurate Physical experiments in close contiguity to one another, owing to their mutual interference ; and consequently different processes need different rooms, in which these delicate instruments, which 8o THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK are always required in a particular branch of science, have to be carefully and permanently fixed." " It may be sufficient, in order to give an idea of the number of rooms required, to enumerate the chief branches of Physics which require special accommodation, owing to their mutual interference. (1) Weighing and measuring. (2) Heat. (3) Radiant Heat. (4) Dispersion of Light. Spectrum Analysis, &c. (5) General optics. (6) Statical electricity. (7) Dynamical electricity. (8) Magnetism. (9) Acoustics. Of these, (5) requires one large room or three smaller rooms, and these, together with those devoted to (3) and (4), should have a south aspect. Besides the fixed instruments, there is a large quantity of movable apparatus, which is either used with them or employed in illustrating lectures ; and this must be carefully preserved from causes of deterioration when not in use ; for this purpose a large room fitted with glass cases is required. A store-room for chemicals and other materials used is also necessary." " As Photography is now very much employed in multiply- ing results of observation, in constructing diagrams for lec- tures, &c., and as it is in fact a branch of Physics, a small Photographic room is necessary, both for general use and for studying the subject itself." THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 81 III. THE PROPOSAL TO CONVERT THE PARKS INTO CRICKET-GROUNDS. Notice from the Vice-Chancellor. " A form of Decree to the following effect will be pro- posed : " i. That the Curators of the Parks be authorised to receive applications from Members of the University for Cricket- grounds in the Parks, and that public notice be issued to that effect, a time being fixed within which applications are to be sent in. " 2. That at the expiration of such time the Curators be authorised to make Cricket-grounds, and allot them to Cricket- clubs or Colleges from which applications have been received, according to priority of application. . . . " F. K. LEIGHTON, " Vice-Chancellor. " April 29, 1867." THE ELECTIONS TO THE HEBDOMADAL COUNCIL. " Now is the winter of our discontent." ' " HEARD ye the arrow hurtle in the sky ? Heard ye the dragon-monster's deathful cry ? "- Excuse this sudden burst of the Heroic ; The present state of things would vex a Stoic ! And just as Sairey Gamp, for pains within, Administered a modicum of gin, So does my mind, when vexed and ill at ease, Console itself with soothing similes. 1 Dr. Wynter, President of St. John's, one of the recently elected Con- servative members of Council. 82 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK The " dragon -monster " (pestilential schism !) I need not tell you is Conservatism ; The " hurtling arrow " (till we find a better) Is represented by the present Letter. Twas, I remember, but the other day, Dear Senior Censor, that you chanced to say You thought these party-combinations would Be found, " though needful, no unmingled good. ' Unmingled good ? They are unmingled ill ! l / never took to them, and never will What am I saying ? Heed it not, my friend : On the next page I mean to recommend The very dodges that I now condemn } In the Conservatives ! Don't hint to them > A word of this ! (In confidence. Ahem !) ) Need I rehearse the history of Jowett ? I need not, Senior Censor, for you know it. 3 That was the Board Hebdomadal, and oh ! Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow ! Let each that wears a beard, and each that shaves, Join in the cry " We never will be slaves ! " " But can the University afford " To be a slave to any kind of board ? " A slave ? " you shuddering ask. " Think you it can, Sir?" " Not at the present moment" is my answer. 4 1 "In a letter on a point connected with the late elections to the Hebdomadal Council you incidentally remarked to me that our combina- tions for these elections, 'though necessary were not an unmixed good.' They are an unmixed evil." 2 " I never go to a caucus without reluctance : I never write a canvassing letter without a feeling of repugnance to my task. " 3 " I need not rehearse the history of the Regius Professor of Greek." 4 " The University cannot afford at the present moment to be delivered over as a slave to any non-academical interest whatever." THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 83 I've thought the matter o'er and o'er again And given to it all my powers of brain ; I've thought it out, and this is what I make it, (And I don't care a Tory how you take it :) It may be right to go ahead, / guess: It may be right to stop, I do confess ; Also, it may be right to retrogress.* So says the oracle, and, for myself, I Must say it beats to fits the one at Delphi ! To save beloved Oxford from the yoke, (For this majority's beyond a joke,) We must combine, 2 aye ! hold a efore the election." 2 It is not known to what the word " Paradise " was intended to allude, and therefore the hint, here thrown out, that the writer meant to recall the case of the late Chairman of Mr. Gladstone's committee, who had been recently collated to the See of Chester, is wholly wanton and gratuitous. 3 A case of this kind had actually occurred on the occasion of the division just alluded to. 4 Mr. Wayte, now President of Trinity, then put forward as the Liberal candidate for election to Council. 5 " You and others suggest, as the only effective remedy, that the Con- stituency should be reformed, by the exclusion of the non-academical elements which form a main part of the strength of this party domination." 6 " I confess that, having included all the really academical elements in Congregation, I would go boldly on, and put an end to the legislative functions of Convocation." THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 85 But why stop there ? Let us go boldly on Sweep everything beginning with a "Con" Into oblivion ! Convocation first, Conservatism next, and, last and worst, " Concilium Hebdomadale " must, Consumed and conquered, be consigned to dust ! ' And here I must relate a little fable I heard last Saturday at our high table : The cats, it seems, were masters of the house, And held their own against the rat and mouse : Of course the others couldn't stand it long, So held a caucus, (not, in their case, wrong ;) And, when they were assembled to a man, Uprose an aged rat, and thus began : " Brothers in bondage ! Shall we bear to be For ever left in a minority ? With what " fell unity of purpose " cats Oppose the trusting innocence of rats ! So unsuspicious are we of disguise, Their machinations take us by surprise 2 Insulting and tyrannical absurdities ! 3 It is too bad by half upon my word it is ! For, now that these Con , cats, I should say, (frizzle 'em !) Are masters, they exterminate like Islam ! 4 How shall we deal with them ? I'll tell you how : Let none but kittens be allowed to miaow ! 1 "This conviction, that while we have Elections to Council we shall not entirely get rid of party organisation and its evils, leads me to venture a step further, and to raise the question whether it is really necessary that we should have an Elective Council for legislative purposes at all." 2 " Sometimes, indeed, not being informed that the wires are at work, we are completely taken by surprise." 3 "We are without protection against this most insulting and tyrannical absurdity." 4 " It is as exterminating as Islam." 86 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK The Liberal kittens seize us but in play, And, while they frolic, we can run away : But older cats are not so generous, Their claws are too Conservative for us ! Then let them keep the stable and the oats, While kittens, rats, and mice have all the votes. " Yes ; banish cats ! The kittens would not use Their powers for blind obstruction, 1 nor refuse To let us sip the cream and gnaw the cheese How glorious then would be our destinies ! 2 Kittens and rats would occupy the throne, And rule the larder for itself alone ! " 3 So rhymed my friend, and asked me what I thought of it I told him that so much as I had caught of it Appeared to me (as I need hardly mention) Entirely undeserving of attention. But now, to guide the Congregation, when It numbers none but really " able " men, A " Vice- Cacellar ins" will be needed Of every kind of human weakness weeded ! Is such the president that we have got ? He ought no doubt to be ; why should he not ? * I do not hint that Liberals should dare 1 "Their powers would scarcely be exercised for the purposes of fanaticism, or in a spirit of blind obstruction." 2 " These narrow local bounds, within which our thoughts and schemes have hitherto been pent, will begin to disappear, and a far wider sphere of action will open on the view." 3 "Those councils must be freely opened to all who can serve her well and who will serve her for herself." 4 " To preside over a Congregation with full legislative powers, the Vice- Chancellor ought no doubt to be a man of real capacity ; but why should he not ? His mind ought also, for this as well as for his other high functions, to be clear of petty details, and devoted to the great matters of University business ; but why should not this condition also be fulfilled ? " THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 87 To oust the present holder of the chair But surely he would not object to be Gently examined by a Board of three ? Their duty being just to ascertain That he's " all there " (I mean, of course, in brain,) And that his mind, from " petty details " clear, Is fitted for the duties of his sphere. All this is merely moonshine, till we get The seal of Parliament upon it set. A word then, Senior Censor, in your ear : The Government is in a state of fear Like some old gentleman, abroad at night, Seized with a sudden shiver of affright, Who offers money, on his bended knees, To the first skulking vagabond he sees Now is the lucky moment for our task ; They daren't refuse us anything we ask ! T And then our Fellowships shall open be To Intellect, no meaner quality ! No moral excellence, no social fitness Shall ever be admissible as witness. " Avaunt, dull Virtue ! " is Oxonia's cry : " Come to my arms, ingenious Villainy ! " For Classic Fellowships, an honour high, Simonides and Co. will then apply Our Mathematics will to Oxford bring The 'cutest members of the betting-ring Law Fellowships will start upon their journeys A myriad of unscrupulous attorneys 1 " If you apply now to Parliament for this or any other University reform, you will find the House of Commons in a propitious mood. . . . Even the Conservative Government, as it looks for the support of moderate Liberals on the one great subject, is very unwilling to present itself in such an aspect that these men may not be able decently to give it their support." 88 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK While poisoners, doomed till now to toil unknown, Shall mount the Physical Professor's throne ! And thus would Oxford educate, indeed, Men far beyond a merely local need With no career before them, I may say, 1 Unless they're wise enough to go away, And seek far West, or in the distant East, Another flock of pigeons to be fleeced. I might go on, and trace the destiny Of Oxford in an age which, though it be Thus breaking with tradition, owns a new Allegiance to the intellectual few (I mean, of course, the pshaw ! no matter who !) But, were I to pursue the boundless theme, I fear that I should seem to you to dream. 2 This to fulfil, or even humbler far To shun Conservatism's noxious star And all the evils that it brings behind, These pestilential coils must be untwined The party-coils, that clog the march of Mind Choked in whose meshes Oxford, slowly wise, Has lain for three disastrous centuries.3 Away with them ! (It is for this I yearn !) Each twist untwist, each Turner overturn ! Disfranchise each Conservative, and cancel 1 " With open Fellowships, Oxford will soon produce a supply of men fit for the work of high education far beyond her own local demands, and in fact with no career before them unless a career can be opened elsewhere." 2 " I should seem to you to dream if I were to say what I think the destiny of the University may be in an age which, though it is breaking with tradition, is, from the same causes, owning a new allegiance to intellectual authority." 3 "But to fulfil this, or even a far humbler destiny to escape the opposite lot -the pestilential coils of party, in which the University has lain for three disastrous centuries choked, must be untwined." THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 89 The votes of Michell, Liddon, Wall, and Mansel ! Then, then shall Oxford be herself again, Neglect the heart, and cultivate the brain Then this shall be the burden of our song, " All change is good whatever is, is wrong ' Then Intellect's proud flag shall be unfurled, And Brain, and Brain alone, shall rule the world ! THE OFFER OF THE CLARENDON TRUSTEES. " Accommodated : that is, when a man is, as they say, accommodated ; or when a man is being whereby he may be thought to be accommodated ; which is an excel- lent thing." DEAR SENIOR CENSOR, In a desultory con- versation on a point connected with the dinner at our high table, you incidentally remarked to me that lobster-sauce, " though a necessary adjunct to turbot, was not entirely wholesome." It is entirely unwholesome. I never ask for it without reluctance : I never take a second spoon- ful without a feeling of apprehension on the subject of possible nightmare. 1 This naturally brings me to the subject of Mathematics, and of the accommodation provided by the Uni- 1 See page 82, Notes i, 2. 9 o THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK versity for carrying on the calculations necessary in that important branch of Science. As Members of Convocation are called upon (whether personally, or, as is less exasperating, by letter) to consider the offer of the Clarendon Trustees, as well as every other subject of human, or inhuman, interest, capable of consideration, it has occurred to me to suggest for your considera- tion how desirable roofed buildings are for carry- ing 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 for students to carry on accurate mathematical calculations in close contiguity to one another, owing to their mutual interference, and a tendency to general conversation : consequently these processes re- quire different rooms in which irrepressible con- versationists, who are found to occur in every branch of Society, might be carefully and per- manently fixed. It may be sufficient for the present to enume- rate the following requisites ; others might be added as funds permitted. A. A very large room for calculating Greatest THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 91 Common Measure. To this a small one might be attached 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 92 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 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 pos- sibly 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 Equi- librium, Resolution, &c., which affect the features during severe mathematical operations. May I trust that you will give your immediate attention to this most important subject ? Believe me, Sincerely yours, Feb. 6, 1868. MATHEMATICUS THE DESERTED PARKS. "SOLITUDINUM FACIUNT : FARCUM APPELLANT." Museum ! loveliest building of the plain Where Cherwell winds towards the distant main ; How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared the scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, The rustic couple walking arm in arm The groups of trees, with seats beneath the shade THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 93 For prattling babes and whisp'ring lovers made The never-failing brawl, the busy mill Where tiny urchins vied in fistic skill (Two phrases only have that dusky race Caught from the learned influence of the place ; Phrases in their simplicity sublime, " Scramble a copper ! " " Please, Sir, what's the time ? " These round thy walks their cheerful influence shed ; These were thy charms but all these charms are fled. Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And rude pavilions sadden all thy green ; One selfish pastime grasps the whole domain, And half a faction swallows up the plain ; Adown thy glades, all sacrificed to cricket, The hollow-sounding bat now guards the wicket ; Sunk are thy mounds in shapeless level all, Lest aught impede the swiftly rolling ball ; And trembling, shrinking from the fatal blow, Far, far away thy hapless children go. Ill fares the place, to luxury a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and minds decay ; Athletic sports may flourish or may fade, Fashion may make them, even as it has made ; But the broad Parks, the city's joy and pride, When once destroyed can never be supplied ! Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells go by with laugh of hollow joy, And shouting Folly hails them with " Ahoy ! " Funds even beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name, 94 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for the game, and all its instruments, Space for pavilions and for scorers' tents ; The ball, that raps his shins in padding cased, Has worn the verdure to an arid waste ; His Park, where these exclusive sports are seen, Indignant spurns the rustic from the green ; While through the plain, consigned to silence all, In barren splendour flits the russet ball. In peaceful converse with his brother Don, Here oft the calm Professor wandered on ; Strange words he used men drank with wondering ears The languages called "dead," the tongues of other years. (Enough of Heber ! Let me once again Attune my verse to Goldsmith's liquid strain.) A man he was to undergraduates dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. And so, I ween, he would have been till now, Had not his friends ('twere long to tell you how) Prevailed on him, Jack-Horner-like, to try Some method to evaluate his pie, And win from those dark depths, with skilful thumb, Five times a hundredweight of luscious plum Yet for no thirst of wealth, no love of praise, In learned labour he consumed his days ! O Luxury ! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ; Iced cobbler, Badminton, and shandy-gaff, Rouse the loud jest and idiotic laugh ; Inspired by them, to tipsy greatness grown, THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 95 Men boast a florid vigour not their own ; At every draught more wild and wild they grow ; While pitying friends observe " I told you so ! " Till, summoned to their post, at the first ball, A feeble under-hand, their wickets fall. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done ; Even now, methinks while pondering here in pity, I see the rural Virtues leave the city. Contented Toil, and calm scholastic Care, And frugal Moderation, all are there ; Resolute Industry that scorns the lure Of careless mirth that dwells apart secure- To science gives her days, her midnight oil, Cheered by the sympathy of others' toil- Courtly Refinement, and that Taste in dress That brooks no meanness, yet avoids excess- All these I see, with slow reluctant pace Desert the long-beloved and honoured place ! While yet 'tis time, Oxonia, rise and fling The spoiler from thee : grant no parleying ! Teach him that eloquence, against the wrong, Though very poor, may still be very strong ; That party-interests we must forego, When hostile to " pro bono publico "; That faction's empire hastens to its end, When once mankind to common sense attend ; While independent votes may win the day Even against the potent spell of " Play ! " May, 1867. THE END. THE NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD. A MONOGRAPH BY D. C. L. " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever." East view of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch., as seen from the Meadow. SECOND THOUSAND. JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1872. CONTENTS. i. On the etymological significance of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. 2. On the style of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. 3. On the origin of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. ^ 4. On the chief architectural merit of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. 5. On the other architectural merits of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. 6. On the means of obtaining the best views of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. 7. On the impetus given to Art in England by the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. 8. On the feelings with which old Ch. Ch. men regard the new Belfry. 9. On the feelings with which resident Ch. Ch. men regard the new Belfry. 10. On the logical treatment of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. IT. On the dramatic treatment of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. 12. On the Future of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. 13. On the Moral of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. i. On the etymological significance of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The word " Belfry " is derived from the French bel, "beautiful, becoming, meet," and from the German frei, " free, unfettered, secure, safe." Thus the word is strictly equivalent to " meat- safe," to which the new belfry bears a resemblance so perfect as almost to amount to coincidence. 2. On the style of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The style is that which is usually known as " Early Debased " : very early, and remarkably debased. 3. On the origin of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. Outsiders have enquired, with a persistence verging on personality, and with a recklessness scarcely distinguishable from insanity, to whom we are to attribute the first grand conception of the work. Was it the Treasurer, say they, who thus strove to force it on an unwilling House? Was it a Professor who designed this box, which, 103 104 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK whether with a lid on or not, equally offends the eye ? Or was it a Censor whose weird spells evoked the horrid thing, the bane of this and of succeeding generations ? Until some reply is given to these and similar questions, they must and will remain for ever unanswered ! On this point Rumour has been unusually busy. Some say that the Governing Body evolved the idea in solemn conclave the original motion being to adopt the Tower of St. Mark's at Venice as a model ; and that by a series of amendments it was reduced at last to a simple cube. Others say that the Reader in Chemistry suggested it as a form of crystal. There are others who affirm that the Mathematical Lecturer found it in the Eleventh Book of Euclid. In fact, there is no end to the various myths afloat on the subject. Most fortunately, we are in possession of the real story. The true origin of the design is as follows : we have it on the very best authority. The head of the House, and the architect, feeling a natural wish that their names should be embodied, in some conspicuous way, among the alterations then in progress, conceived the beautiful and unique idea of representing, by THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 105 means of the new Belfry, a gigantic copy of a Greek Lexicon. 1 But, before the idea had been reduced to a working form, business took them both to London for a few days, and during their absence, somehow (this part of the business has never been satisfactorily explained) the whole thing was put into the hands of a wandering architect, who gave the name of Jeeby. As the poor man is now incarcerated at Han well, we will not be too hard upon his memory, but will only say that he professed to have originated the idea in a moment of inspiration, when idly contemplating one of those high coloured, and mysteriously decorated chests which, filled with dried leaves from gooseberry bushes and quick- set hedges, profess to supply the market with tea of genuine Chinese growth. Was there not something prophetic in the choice ? What traveller is there, to whose lips, when first he enters that great educational establishment and gazes on this its newest decoration, the words do not rise unbidden " Thou tea-chest "? 1 The Editor confesses to a difficulty here. No sufficient reason has been adduced why a model of a Greek Lexicon should in any way " embody " the names of the above illus- trious individuals. io6 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK It is plain then that Scott, the great architect to whom the work of restoration has been en- trusted, is not responsible for this. He is said to have pronounced it a " casus belli," which (with all deference to the Classical Tutors of the House, who insist that he meant merely " a case for a bell ") we believe to have been intended as a term of reproach. The following lines are attributed to Scott : " If thou wouldst view the Belfry aright, Go visit it at the mirk midnight For the least hint of open day Scares the beholder quite away. When wall and window are black as pitch, And there's no deciding which is which ; When the dark Hall's uncertain roof In horror seems to stand aloof ; When corner and corner, alternately, Is wrought to an odious symmetry : When distant Thames is heard to sigh And shudder as he hurries by ; Then go, if it be worth the while, Then view the Belfry's monstrous pile, And, home returning, soothly swear, * Tis more than Job himself could bear ! ' " 4. On the chief architectural merit of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. Its chief merit is its simplicity a simplicity so THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 107 pure, so profound, in a word, so simple, that no other word will fitly describe it. The meagre outline, and baldness of detail, of the present Chapter, are adopted in humble imitation of this great feature. 5. On the other architectural merits of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The Belfry has no other architectural merits. 6. On the means of obtaining the best views of the neiv Belfry, Ch. Ch. The visitor may place himself, in the first in- stance, at the opposite corner of the Great Quad- rangle, and so combine, in one grand spectacle, the beauties of the North and West sides of the edifice. He will find that the converging lines forcibly suggest a vanishing point, and if that vanishing point should in its turn suggest the thought, " Would that it were on the point of vanishing ! " he may perchance, like the soldier in the ballad, " lean upon his sword " (if he has one : they are not commonly worn by modern tourists), " and wipe away a tear." io8 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK He may then make the circuit of the Quadrangle, drinking in new visions of beauty at every step " Ever charming, ever new, When will the Belfry tire the view ? " as Dyer sings in his well-known poem, " Grongar Hill" and as he walks along from the Deanery towards the Hall staircase, and breathes more and more freely as the Belfry lessens on the view, the delicious sensation of relief, which he will expe- rience when it has finally disappeared, will amply repay him for all he will have endured. The best view of the Belfry is that selected by our artist for the admirable frontispiece which he has furnished for the first volume of the present work. 1 This view may be seen, in all its beauty, from the far end of Merton Meadow. From that point the imposing position (or, more briefly, the imposition) of the whole structure is thrill- ingly apparent. There the thoughtful passer-by, with four right angles on one side of him, and four anglers, who have no right to be there, on the other, may ponder on the mutability of human things, or recall the names of Euclid and Isaak 1 On further consideration, it was deemed inexpedient to extend this work beyond the compass of one Volume. THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 109 Walton, or smoke, or ride a bicycle, or do any- thing that the local authorities will permit. 7. On the impetus given to Art in England by the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The idea has spread far and wide, and is rapidly pervading all branches of manufacture. Already an enterprising maker of bonnet-boxes is ad- vertising " the Belfry pattern " : two builders of bathing machines at Ramsgate have followed his example : one of the great London houses is supplying "bar-soap" cut in the same striking and symmetrical form : and we are credibly informed that Berwick's Baking Powder and Thorley's Food for Cattle are now sold in no other shape. 8. On the feelings with which old Ch. Ch. men regard the new Belfry. Bitterly, bitterly do all old Ch. Ch. men lament this latest lowest development of native taste. " We see the Governing Body," say they : " where is the Governing Mind? " and Echo (exercising a judicious " natural selection," for which even Darwin would give her credit) answers "where? ' no THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK At the approaching " Gaucty," when a number of old Ch. Ch. men will gather together, it is pro- posed, at the conclusion of the banquet, to present to each guest a portable model of the new Belfry, tastefully executed in cheese. 9. On the feelings with which resident Ch. Ch. men regard the new Belfry. Who that has seen a Ch. Ch. man conducting his troop of ''lionesses" (so called from the savage and pitiless greed with which they devour the various sights of Oxford) through its ancient precincts, that has noticed the convulsive start and ghastly stare that always affect new-comers, when first they come into view of the new Belfry, that has heard the eager questions with which they assail their guide as to the how, the why, the what for, and the how long, of this astounding phenomenon, can have failed to mark the manly glow which immediately suffuses the cheek of the hapless cicerone ? " Is it the glow of conscious pride Of pure ambition gratified That seeks to read in other eye Something of its own ecstasy ? Or wrath, that worldlings should make fun THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK in Of anything ' the House ' has done ? Or puzzlement, that seeks in vain The rigid mystery to explain ? Or is it shame that, knowing not How to defend or cloak the blot The foulest blot on fairest face That ever marred a noble place Burns with the pangs it will not own, Pangs felt by loyal sons alone ? " 10. On the logical treatment of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The subject has been reduced to three Syllo- gisms. The first is in " Barbara." It is attributed to the enemies of the Belfry. Wooden buildings in the midst of stone- work are barbarous ; Plain rectangular forms in the midst of arches and decorations are barbarous ; Ergo, the whole thing is ridiculous and revolting. The second is in " Celarent," and has been most carefully composed by the friends of the Belfry. The Governing Body would conceal this appalling structure, if they could ; The Governing Body would conceal the feelings of chagrin with which they now regard it, if they could ; Ergo . . . (MS. unfinished}. The third Syllogism is in " Festino," and is ii2 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK the joint composition of the friends and the enemies of the Belfry. To restore the character of Ch. Ch., a tower must be built ; To build a tower, ten thousand pounds must be raised ; Ergo, no time must be lost. These three Syllogisms have been submitted to the criticism of the Professor of Logic, who writes that " he fancies he can detect some slight want of logical sequence in the Conclusion of the third." He adds that, according to his experience of life, when people thus commit a fatal blunder in child-like confidence that money will be forth- coming to enable them to set it right, in ten cases out of nine the money is not forthcoming. This is a large percentage. 11. On the dramatic treatment of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. Curtain rises, discovering the DEAN, CANONS, and STUDENTS seated round a table, on which the mad ARCHITECT, fantastically dressed, and wearing a Fool's cap and bells, is placing a square block of deal. DEAN (As HAMLET). Methinks I see a Bell- tower ! THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 113 CANONS (Looking wildly in all directions]. Where, my good Sir ? DEAN. In my mind's eye - - (Knocking heard] Who's there ? FOOL. A spirit, a spirit ; he says his name's poor Tom. (Enter THE GREAT BELL, disguised as a mush- room. ) GREAT BELL. Who gives anything to poor Tom, whom the foul fiend hath led through bricks and through mortar, through rope and windlass, through plank and scaffold ; that hath torn down his balustrades, and torn up his terraces ; that hath made him go as a common pedlar, with a wooden box upon his back. Do poor Tom some charity. Tom's a-cold. Rafters and planks, and such small deer, Shall be Tom's food for many a year. CENSOR. I feared it would come to this. DEAN (As KING LEAR). The little Dons and all, Tutor, Reader, Lecturer see, they bark at me ! CENSOR. His wits begin to unsettle. DEAN (As HAMLET). Do you see yonder box that's almost in shape of a tea-caddy ? n 4 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK CENSOR. By its mass, it is like a tea-caddy, indeed. DEAN. Methinks it is like a clothes-horse. CENSOR. It is backed by a clothes-horse. DEAN. Or like a tub. CENSOR. Very like a tub. DEAN. They fool me to the top of my bent. (Enter from opposite sides THE BELFRY as Box, and THE BODLEY LIBRARIAN as Cox.) LIBRARIAN. Who are you, Sir ? BELFRY. If it comes to that, Sir, who are you? (They exchange cards.} LIBRARIAN. I should feel obliged to you if you could accommodate me with a more protuberant Bell-tower, Mr. B. The one you have now seems to me to consist of corners only, with nothing whatever in the middle. BELFRY. Anything to accommodate you, Mr. Cox. (Places jauntily on his head a small model of the skeleton of an umbrella, upside down.} LIBRARIAN. Ah, tell me in mercy tell me have you such a thing as a redeeming feature, or the least mark of artistic design, about you ? BELFRY. No ! LIBRARIAN. Then you are my long-lost door scraper ! ( They rush into each other s arms. ) THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 115 (Enter TREASURER as ARIEL. Solemn music.} SONG AND CHORUS. Five fathom square the Belfry frowns ; All its sides of timber made ; Painted all in greys and browns ; Nothing of it that will fade. Christ Church may admire the change Oxford thinks it sad and strange. Beauty's dead ! Let's ring her knell. Hark ! now I hear them ding-dong, bell. 1 2. On the Future of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The Belfry has a great Future before it at least, if it has not, it has very little to do with Time at all, its Past being (fortunately for our ancestors) a nonentity, and its Present a blank. The advan- tage of having been born in the reign of Queen Anne, and of having died in that or the subsequent reign, has never been so painfully apparent as it is now. Credible witnesses assert that, when the bells are rung, the Belfry must come down. In that case considerable damage (the process technically described as " pulverisation ") must ensue to the beautiful pillar and roof which adofn the Hall staircase. But the architect is prepared even for n6 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK this emergency. " On the first symptom of de- flection " (he writes from Hanwell) " let the pillar be carefully removed and placed, with its super- struent superstructure " (we cannot forbear calling attention to this beautiful phrase), " in the centre of ' Mercury.' There it will constitute a novel and most unique feature of the venerable House." " Yes, and the Belfry shall serve to generations yet unborn as an ariel Ticket-office," so he cries with his eye in a fine frenzy rolling, " where the Oxford and London balloon shall call ere it launch forth on its celestial voyage and where expectant passengers shall while away the time with the latest edition of Belts Life I" 13. On the Moral of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The moral position of Christ Church is un- doubtedly improved by it. " We have been attacked, and perhaps not without reason, on the Bread-and- Butter question," she remarks to an inattentive World (which heeds her not, but prates on of Indirect Claims and of anything but indirect Claimants), " we have been charged and, it must be confessed, in a free and manly tone with shortcomings in the payment of the Greek Pro- THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 117 fessor, but who shall say that we are not all ' on the square ' now ? " This, however, is not the Moral of the matter. Everything has a moral, if you choose to look for it. In Wordsworth, a good half of every poem is devoted to the Moral : in Byron, a smaller pro portion : in Tupper, the whole. Perhaps the most graceful tribute we can pay to the genius of the last-named writer, is to entrust to him, as an old member of Christ Church, the conclusion of this Monograph. " Look on the Quadrangle of Christ, squarely, for is it not a Square ? And a Square recalleth a Cube ; and a Cube recalleth the Belfry ; And the Belfry recalleth a Die, shaken by the hand of the gambler ; Yet, once thrown, it may not be recalled, being, so to speak, irrevocable. There it shall endure for ages, treading hard on the heels of the Sublime For it is but a step, saith the wise man, from the Sublime unto the Ridiculous : And the Simple dwelleth midway between, and shareth the qualities of either." FINIS. THE VISION OF THE THREE T'S, A THRENODY BY THE AUTHOR OF THE NEW BELFRY." " Cal you this, baching of your friends ? " West -view of the new Tunnel SECOND EDITION. JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1873- CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. A Conference (held on the Twentieth of March, 1873), betwixt an Angler, a Hunter, and a Professor ; concerning angling, and the beautifying of Thomas his Quadrangle. The Ballad of " The Wandering Burgess." CHAPTER II. A Conference with one distraught : who discourseth strangely of many things. CHAPTER III. A Conference of the Hunter with a Tutor, whilom the Angler his eyes be closed in sleep. The Angler aivaking relateth his Vision. The Hunter chaunteth " A Bachanalian Ode." CHAPTER 1. A Conference betwixt an Angler, a Hunter, and a Professor concerning angling, and the beauti- fying of Thomas his Quadrangle. The Ballad of " The Wandering Burgess!' PISCATOR, VENATOR. PISCATOR. My honest Scholar, we are now arrived at the place whereof I spake, and trust me, we shall have good sport. How say you? Is not this a noble Quadrangle we see around us ? And be not these lawns trimly kept, and this lake marvellous clear ? VENATOR. So marvellous clear, good Master, and withal so brief in compass, that methinks, if any fish of a reasonable bigness were therein, we must perforce espy it. I fear me there is none. Pise. The less the fish, dear Scholar, the greater the skill in catching of it. Come, let's sit down, and while we unpack the fishing gear, I'll deliver a few remarks, both as to the fish to be met with hereabouts, and the properest method of fishing. THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 121 But you are to note first (for, as you are pleased to be my Scholar, it is but fitting you should imitate my habits of close observation) that the margin of this lake is so deftly fashioned that each portion thereof is at one and the same distance from that tumulus which rises in the centre. VEN. O' my word 'tis so ! You have indeed a quick eye, dear Master, and a wondrous readi- ness of observing. Pise. Both may be yours in time, my Scholar, if with humility and patience you follow me as your model. VEN. I thank you for that hope, great Master! But ere you begin your discourse, let me enquire of you one thing touching this noble Quadrangle- Is all we see of a like antiquity ? To be brief, think you that those two tall archways, that excavation in the parapet, and that quaint wooden box, belong to the ancient design of the building, or have men of our day thus sadly disfigured the place ? Pise. I doubt not they are new, dear Scholar. For indeed I was here but a few years since, and saw naught of these things. But what book is that I see lying by the water's edge ? VEN. A book of ancient ballads, and truly I 122 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK am glad to see it, as we may herewith beguile the tediousness of the day, if our sport be poor, or if we grow aweary. Pise. This is well thought of. But now to business. And first I'll tell you somewhat of the fish proper to these waters. The Commoner kinds we may let pass : for though some of them be easily Plucked forth from the water, yet are they so slow, and withal have so little in them, that they are good for nothing, unless they be crammed up to the very eyes with such stuffing as comes readiest to hand. Of these the Stickle- back, a mighty slow fish, is chiefest, and along with him you may reckon the Fluke, and divers others : all these belong to the " Mullet " genus, and be good to play, though scarcely worth examination. I will say somewhat of the Nobler kinds, and chiefly of the Gold-fish, which is a species highly thought of, and much sought after in these parts, not only by men, but by divers birds, as for example the King-fishers : and note that where- soever you shall see those birds assemble, and but few insects about, there shall you ever find the Gold-fish most lively and richest in flavour ; but wheresoever you perceive swarms of a certain THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 123 gray fly, called the Dun-fly, there the Gold-fish are ever poorer in quality, and the King-fishers seldom seen. A good Perch may sometimes be found here- abouts : but for a good fat Plaice (which is indeed but a magnified Perch) you may search these waters in vain. They that love such dainties must needs betake them to some distant Sea. But for the manner of fishing, I would have you note first that your line be not thicker than an ordinary bell-rope ; for look you, to flog the water, as though you laid on with a flail, is most pre- posterous, and will surely scare the fish. And note further, that your rod must by no means exceed ten, or at the most twenty, pounds in weight, for VEN. Pardon me, my Master, that I thus break in on so excellent a discourse, but there now approaches us a Collegian, as I guess him to be, from whom we may haply learn the cause of these novelties we see around us. Is not that a bone which, ever as he goes, he so cautiously waves before him ? Enter PROFESSOR. Pise. By his reverend aspect and white hair, I guess him to be some learned Professor. I give 124 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK you good day, reverend Sir ! If it be. not ill manners to ask it, what bone is that you bear about with you? It is, methinks, a humerous whimsy to chuse so strange a companion. PROF. Your observation, Sir, is both anthro- politically and ambidexterously opportune : for this is indeed a Hiimerus I carry with me. You are, I doubt not, strangers in these parts, for else you would surely know that a Professor doth ever carry that which most aptly sets forth his Profession. Thus, the Professor of Uniform Rotation carries with him a wheelbarrow the Professor of Graduated Scansion a ladder and so of the rest. VEN. It is an inconvenient and, methinks, an ill-advised custom. PROF. Trust me, Sir, you are absolutely and amorphologically mistaken : yet time would fail me to show you wherein lies your error, for indeed I must now leave you, being bound for this great performance of music, which even at this distance salutes your ears. Pise. Yet, I pray you, do us one courtesy before you go ; and that shall be to resolve a question, whereby my friend and I are sorely exercised. THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 125 PROF. Say on. Sir, and I will e'en answer you to the best of my poor ability. Pise. Briefly, then, we would ask the cause for piercing the very heart of this fair building with that uncomely tunnel, which is at once so ill- shaped, so ill-sized, and so ill-lighted. PROF. Sir, do you know German ? Pise. It is my grief, Sir, that I know no other tongue than mine own. PROF. Then, Sir, my answer is this, Warum nicht ? Pise. Alas, Sir, I understand you not. PROF. The more the pity. For now-a-days all that is good comes from the German. Ask our men of science : they will tell you that any German book must needs surpass an English one. Aye, and even an English book, worth naught in this its native dress, shall become, when rendered into German, a valuable contribution to Science. VEN. Sir, you much amaze me. PROF. Nay, Sir, I'll amaze you yet more. No learned man doth now talk, or even so much as cough, save only in German. The time has been, I doubt not, when an honest English " Hem ! " was held enough, both to 'clear the 126 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK voice and rouse the attention of the company, but now-a-days no man of Science, that setteth any store by his good name, will cough otherwise than thus, Ach ! Euch I Auch I VEN. 'Tis wondrous. But, not to stay you further, wherefore do we see that ghastly gash above us, hacked, as though by some wanton schoolboy, in the parapet adjoining the Hall ? PROF. Sir, do you know German ? VEN. Believe me, No. PROF. Then, Sir, I need but ask you this, Wie befinden Sie Sick ? VEN. I doubt not, Sir, but you are in the right on't. Pise. But, Sir, I will by your favour ask you one other thing, as to that unseemly box that blots the fair heavens above. Wherefore, in this grand old City, and in so conspicuous a place, do men set so hideous a thing ? PROF. Be you mad, Sir? Why this is the very climacteric and coronal of all our archi- tectural aspirations ! In all Oxford there is naught like it ! Pise. It joys me much to hear you say so. PROF. And, trust me, to an earnest mind, THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 127 the categorical evolution of the Abstract, ideologi- cally considered, must infallibly develope itself in the parallelopipedisation of the Concrete ! And so Farewell. \_Exit PROFESSOR. Pise. He is a learned man, and methinks there is much that is sound in his reasoning. VEN. It is all sound, as it seems to me. But how say you ? Shall I read you one of these ballads ? Here is one called " The Wandering- Burgess," which (being forsooth a dumpish ditty) may well suit the ears of us whose eyes are oppressed with so dire a spectacle. Pise. Read on, good Scholar, and I will bait our hooks the while. [VENATOR readeth. THE WANDERING BURGESS. Our Willie had been sae lang awa', Frae bonnie Oxford toon, The townsfolk they were greeting a' As they went up and doon. He hadna been gane a year, a year, A year but barely ten, When word cam unto Oxford toon, Our Willie wad come agen. 128 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK Willie he stude at Thomas his Gate, And made a lustie din ; And who so blithe as the gate-porter To rise and let him in ? " Now enter Willie, now enter Willie, And look around the place, And see the pain that we have ta'en Thomas his Quad to grace." The first look that our Willie cast, He leuch loud laughters three, The neist look that our Willie cast, The tear blindit his e'e. Sae square and stark the Tea-chest frowned Athwart the upper air, But when the Trench our Willie saw, He thoucht the Tea-chest fair. Sae murderous-deep the Trench did gape The parapet aboon, But when the Tunnel Willie saw, He loved the Trench eftsoon. 'Twas mirk beneath the tane archway, 'Twas mirk beneath the tither ; Ye wadna ken a man therein, Though it were your ain dear brither. He turned him round and round about, And looked upon the Three ; And dismal grew his countenance, And drumlie grew his e'e. THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 129 " What cheer, what cheer, my gallant knight ? " The gate-porter 'gan say. " Saw ever ye sae fair a sight As ye have seen this day ? " " Now haud your tongue of your prating, man : Of your prating now let me be. For, as I'm true knight, a fouler sight I'll never live to see. " Before I'd be the ruffian dark Who planned this ghastly show, I'd serve as secretary's clerk To Ayrton or to Lowe. " Before I'd own the loathly thing That Christ Church Quad reveals, I'd serve as shoeblack's underling To Odger and to Beales ! " CHAPTER II. A Conference with one distraught : who discourseth strangely of many things. PISCATOR, VENATOR. PISCATOR. 'Tis a marvellous pleasant ballad. But look you, another Collegian draws near. I wot not of what station he is, for indeed his apparel is new to me. VENATOR. It is compounded, as I take it, of 10 130 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK the diverse dresses of a jockey, a judge, and a North American Indian. Enter LUNATIC. Pise. Sir, may I make bold to ask your name? LUN. With all my heart. It is Jeeby, at your service. Pise. And wherefore (if I may further trouble you, being, as you see, a stranger) do you wear so gaudy, but withal so ill-assorted, a garb ? LUN. Why, Sir, I'll tell you. Do you read the Morning Post? Pise. Alas, Sir, I do not. LUN. 'Tis pity of your life you do not. For, look you, not to read the Post, and not to know the newest and most commended fashions, are but one and the same thing. And yet this raiment, that I wear, is not the newest fashion. No, nor has it ever been, nor will it ever be, the fashion. VEN. I can well believe it. LUN. And therefore 'tis, Sir, that I wear it. 'Tis but a badge of greatness. My deeds you see around you. Si monumentum quceris, circum- spice ! You know Latin ? VEN. Not I, Sir ! It shames me to say it. LUN. You are then (let me roundly tell you) THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 131 monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum ! VEN. Sir, you may tell it me roundly or, if you list, squarely or again, triangularly. But if, as you affirm, I see your deeds around me, I would fain know which they be. LUN. Aloft, Sir, stands the first and chiefest ! That soaring minaret ! That gorgeous cupola ! That dreamlike effulgence of VEN. That wooden box ? LUN. The same, Sir ! 'Tis mine ! VEN. (After a pause]. Sir, it is worthy of you. LUN. Lower now your eyes by a hairsbreadth, and straight you light upon my second deed. Oh, Sir, what toil of brain, what cudgelling of fore- head, what rending of locks, went to the fashion- ing of it ! VEN. Mean you that newly-made gap ? LUN. I do, Sir. 'Tis mine ! VEN. (After a long pause]. What else, Sir ? I would fain know the worst. LUN. (Wildly). It comes, it comes. My third great deed ! Lend, lend your ears your nose any feature you can least conveniently spare ! See you those twin doorways ? Tall and narrow they loom upon you severely simple 132 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK their outline massive the masonry between- black as midnight the darkness within ! Sir, of what do they mind you ? VEN. Of vaults, Sir, and of charnel-houses. LUN. This is a goodly fancy, and yet they are not vaults. No, Sir, you see before you a Rail- way Tunnel ! VEN. 'Tis very strange. LUN. But no less true than strange. Mark me. 'Tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round ! Society goes round of itself. In circles. Military society in military circles. Circles must needs have centres. Military circles military centres. VEN. Sir, I fail to see LUN. Lo you, said our Rulers, Oxford shall be a military centre ! Then the chiefest of them (glad in countenance, yet stony, I wot, in heart) so ordered it by his underling (I remember me not his name, yet is he one that can play a card well, and so serveth meetly the behests of that mighty one, who played of late in Ireland a game of cribbage such as no man, who saw it, may lightly forget) ; and then, Sir, this great College, ever loyal and generous, gave this Quadrangle as a Railway Terminus, whereby the troops might THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 133 come and go. By that Tunnel, Sir, the line will enter. Pise. But, Sir, I see no rails. LUN. Patience, good Sir ! For railing we look to the Public. The College doth but furnish sleepers. Pise. And the design of that Tunnel is LUN. Is mine, Sir ! Oh, the fancy ! Oh, the wit ! Oh, the rich vein of humour ! When came the idea? I' the mirk midnight. Whence came the idea ? From a cheese-scoop ! How came the idea? In a wild dream. Hearken, and I will tell. Form square, and prepare to receive a canonry ! All the evening long I had seen lobsters marching around the table in unbroken order. Something sputtered in the candle something hopped among the tea-things some- thing pulsated, with an ineffable yearning, beneath the enraptured hearthrug ! My heart told me something was coming and something came. A voice cried " Cheese-scoop ! " and the Great Thought of my life flashed upon me ! Placing an ancient Stilton cheese, to represent this vene- rable Quadrangle, on the chimney-piece, I retired to the further end of the room, armed only with a cheese-scoop, and with a dauntless courage awaited 134 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK the word of command. Charge, Cheesetaster, charge ! On, Stilton, on ! With a yell and a bound I crossed the room, and plunged my scoop into the very heart of the foe ! Once more ! Another yell another bound another cavity scooped out ! The deed was done ! VEN. And yet, Sir, if a cheese-scoop were your guide, these cavities must needs be circular. LUN. They were so at the first but, like the fickle Moon, my guardian satellite, I change as I go on. Oh, the rapture, Sir, of that wild moment! And did I reveal the Mighty Secret! Never, never! Day by day, week by week, behind a wooden screen, I wrought out that vision of beauty. The world came and went, and knew not of it. Oh, the ecstasy, when yesterday the Screen was swept away, and the Vision was a Reality ! I stood by Tom-Gate, in that triumphal hour, and watched the passers-by. They stopped ! They stared ! ! They started ! ! ! A thrill of envy paled their cheeks! Hoarse inarticulate words of delirious rapture rose to their lips. What withheld me what, I ask you candidly, withheld me from leaping upon them, holding them in a frantic clutch, and yelling in their ears " Tis mine, 'tis mine ! " THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 135 Pise. Perchance, the thought that LUN. You are right, Sir. The thought that there is a lunatic asylum in the neighbourhood, and that two medical certificates but I will be calm. The deed is done. Let us change the subject. Even now a great musical performance is going on within. Wilt hear it ? The Chapter give it ha, ha ! They give it ! Pise. Sir, I will very gladly be their guest. LUN. Then, guest, you have not guessed all ! You shall be bled, Sir, ere you go ! 'Tis love, 'tis love, that makes the hat go round ! Stand and deliver ! Vivat Regina ! No money re- turned ! Pise. How mean you, Sir ? LUN. I said, Sir, " No money returned ! " Pise. And /said. Sir, " How mean LUN. Sir, I am with you. You have heard of Bishops' Charges. Sir, what are Bishops to Chapters ? Oh, it goes to my heart to see these quaint devices ! First, sixpence for use of a door- scraper. Then, fivepence for right of choosing by which archway to approach the door. Then, a poor threepence for turning of the handle. Then, a shilling a head for admission, and half-a-crown for every two-headed man. Now this, Sir, is 136 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK manifestly unjust, for you are to note that the double of a shilling Pise. I do surmise, Sir, that the case is rare. LUN. And then, Sir, five shillings each for care of your umbrella ! Hence comes it that each visitor of ready wit hides his umbrella, ere he enter, either by swallowing it (which is perilous to the health of the inner man), or by running it down within his coat, even from the nape of the neck, which indeed is the cause of that which you may have observed in me, namely, a certain stiff- ness in mine outward demeanour. Farewell, gentlemen, 1 go to hear the music. \_Exit LUNATIC. CHAPTER III. [see also Wikisource] A Conference of the Hunter with a Tutor, whilom the Angler his eyes be closed in sleep. The Angler awaking relateth his Vision. The Hunter chaunteth "A Bach- analian Ode" PISCATOR, VENATOR, TUTOR. VENATOR. He has left us, but methinks we are not to lack company, for look you, another is THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 137 even now at hand, gravely apparelled, and bear- ing upon his head Hoffmann's Lexicon in four volumes folio. PISCATOR. Trust me, this doth symbolise his craft. Good morrow, Sir. If I rightly interpret these that you bear with you, you are a teacher in this learned place ? TUTOR, i am, Sir, a Tutor, and profess the teaching of divers unknown tongues. Pise. Sir, we are happy to have your com- pany, and, if it trouble you not too much, we would gladly ask (as indeed we did ask another of your learned body, but understood not his reply) the cause of these new things we see around us, which indeed are as strange as they are new, and as unsightly as they are strange. TUTOR. Sir, I will tell you with all my heart. You must know then (for herein lies the pith of the matter) that the motto of the Governing Body is this : " Diruit, ædificat, mutat quadrat a rotundis" ; which I thus briefly expound. Diruit. "It teareth doivn" Witness that fair opening which, like a glade in an ancient forest, we have made in the parapet at the sinistral extremity of the Hall. Even as a tree is the 138 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK more admirable when the hewer's axe hath all but severed its trunk or as a row of pearly teeth, enshrined in ruby lips, are yet the more lovely for the loss of one so, believe me, this our fair Quadrangle is but enhanced by that which foolish men in mockery call the " Trench." Ædificat. "It buildeth up." Witness that beauteous Belfry which, in its ethereal grace, seems ready to soar away even as we gaze upon it ! Even as a railway porter moves with an unwonted majesty when bearing a portmanteau on his head or as I myself (to speak modestly) gain a new beauty from these massive tomes or as ocean charms us most when the rectangular bathing-machine breaks the monotony of its curving marge so are we blessed by the presence of that which an envious world hath dubbed " the Tea-chest." Mutat quadrata rotundis. " It exchangeth square things for round." Witness that series of square-headed doors and windows, so beautifully broken in upon by that double archway ! For indeed, though simple (" simplex munditiis" as the poet saith), it is matchless in its beauty. Had those twin archways been greater, they would but have matched those at the corners of the Quadrangle THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 139 had they been less, they would but have copied, with an abject servility, the doorways around them. In such things, it is only a vulgar mind that thinks of a match. The subject is lowe. We seek the Unique, the Eccentric! We glory in this twofold excavation, which scoffers speak of as " the Tunnel." VEN. Come, Sir, let me ask you a pleasant question. Why doth the Governing Body chuse for motto so trite a saying ? It is, if I remember me aright, an example of a rule in the Latin Grammar. TUTOR. Sir, if we are not grammatical, we are nothing ! VEN. But for the Belfry, Sir. Sure none can look on it without an inward shudder ? TUTOR. I will not gainsay it. But you are to note that it is not permanent. This shall serve its time, and a fairer edifice shall succeed it. VEN. In good sooth I hope it. Yet for the time being it doth not, in that it is not permanent, the less disgrace the place. Drunkenness, Sir, is not permanent, and yet is held in no good esteem. TUTOR. 'Tis an apt simile. VEN. And for these matchless arches, as you i 4 o THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK do most truly call them, would it not savour of more wholesome Art, had they matched the door- ways, or the gateways ? TUTOR. Sir; do you study the Mathematics ? VEN. I trust, Sir, I can do the Rule of Three as well as another ; and for Long Division TUTOR. You must know, then, that there be three Means treated of in Mathematics. For there is the Arithmetic Mean, the Geometric, and the Harmonic. And note further that a Mean is that which falleth between two mag- nitudes. Thus it is, that the entrance you here behold falleth between the magnitudes of the doorways and the gateways, and is in truth the Non-harmonic Mean, the Mean Absolute. But that the Mean, or Middle, is ever the safer course, we have a notable ensample in Egyptian history, in which land (as travellers tell us) the Ibis standeth ever in the midst of the river Nile, so best to avoid the onslaught of the ravenous alligators, which infest the banks on either side ; from which habit of that wise bird is derived the ancient maxim, " Medio tutissimus Ibis" VEN. But wherefore be they two ? Surely one arch were at once more comely and more convenient ? THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 141 TUTOR. Sir, so long as public approval be won, what matter for the arch ? But that they are two, take this as sufficient explication that they are too tall for doorways, too narrow for gateways ; too light without, too dark within ; too plain to be ornamental, and withal too fan- tastic to be useful. And if this be not enough, you are to note further that, were it all one arch, it must needs cut short one of those shafts which grace the Quadrangle on all sides and that were a monstrous and unheard-of thing, in good sooth, look you. VEN. In good sooth, Sir, if I look I cannot miss seeing that there be three such shafts already cut short by doorways : so that it hath fair ensample to follow. TUTOR. Then will I take other ground, Sir, and affirm (for I trust I have not learned Logic in vain) that to cut short the shaft were a common and vulgar thing to do. But indeed a single arch, where folk might smoothly enter in, were wholly adverse to Nature, who formeth never a mouth without setting a tongue as an obstacle in the midst thereof. VEN. Sir, do you tell me that the block of masonry, between the gateways, was left there 142 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK of set purpose, to hinder those that would enter in ? TUTOR. Trust me, it was even so ; for firstly, we may thereby more easily control the entering crowds ("divide et impera" say the Ancients), and secondly, in this matter a wise man will ever follow Nature. Thus, in the centre of a hall- door we usually place an umbrella stand in the midst of a wicket-gate, a milestone, what place so suited for a watchbox as the centre of a narrow bridge ? -Yea, and in the most crowded thoroughfare, where the living tide flows thickest, there, in the midst of all, the true ideal architect doth ever plant an obelisk ! You may have observed this ? VEN. (Muck bewildered]. I may have done so, worthy Sir ; and yet, methinks TUTOR. I must now bid you farewell ; for the music, which I would fain hear, is even now beginning. VEN. Trust me, Sir, your discourse hath in- terested me hugely. TUTOR. Yet it hath, I fear me, somewhat wearied your friend, who is, as I perceive, in a deep slumber. VEN. I had partly guessed it, by his loud and continuous snoring. THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 143 TUTOR. You had best let him sleep on. He hath, I take it, a dull fancy, that cannot grasp the Great and the Sublime. And so farewell : I am bound for the music. \Exit TUTOR. VEN. I give you good day, good Sir. Awake, my Master ! For the day weareth on, and we have catched no fish. Pise. Think not of fish, dear Scholar, but hearken ! Trust me, I have seen such things in my dreams as words may hardly compass ! Come, Sir, sit down, and I'll unfold to you, in such poor language as may best suit both my capacity and the briefness of our time. THE VISION OF THE THREE T's. Methought that, in some bygone Age, I stood beside the waters of Mercury, and saw, reflected on its placid face, the grand old buildings of the Great Quadrangle : near me stood one of portly form and courtly mien, with scarlet gown, and broad-brimmed hat whose strings, wide-fluttering in the breezeless air, at once defied the laws of gravity and marked the reverend Cardinal! 'Twas Wolsey's self! I would have spoken, but he raised his hand and pointed to the cloudless sky, from whence deep-muttering thunders now began to roll. I listened in wild terror. Darkness gathered overhead, and through the gloom sobbingly down-floated a gigantic Box ! With a fearful crash it settled upon the ancient College, which groaned beneath it, while a mocking voice cried, " Ha ! Ha ! " / looked for Wolsey : he was gone. Down in those glassy depths lay the stalwart form, with 144 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK scarlet mantle grandly wrapped around it : the broad-brimmed hat floated, boatlike, on the lake, while the strings with their complex tassels, still defying the laws of gravity, quivered in the air, and seemed to point a hundred fingers at the horrid Belfry ! Around, on every side, spirits howled in the howling blast, blatant, stridulous ! A darker vision yet ! A black gash appeared in the shud- dering parapet ! Spirits flitted hither and thither with averted face, and warning finger pressed to quivering lips f Then a wild shriek rang through the air, as, with volcanic roar, two murky chasms burst upon the vieiv, and the ancient College reeled giddily around me ! Spirits in patent-leather boots stole by on tiptoe, with hushed breath and eyes of ghastly terror ! Spirits with cheap um- brellas, and unnecessary goloshes, hovered over me, sublimely pendant ! Spirits with carpet bags, dressed in complete suits of dittos, sped by me, shrieking " Aivay ! Away ! To the arrowy Rhine ! To the rushing Guadalquiver ! To Bath ! To Jericho ! To anywhere ! " Stand here with me and gaze. From this thrice-favoured spot, in one rapturous glance gather in, and brand for ever on the tablets of memory, the Vision of the Three T's ! To your left frowns the abysmal blackness of the tenebrous Tunnel. To your right yawns the terrible Trench. While far above, away from the sordid aims of Earth and the petty criticisms of Art, soars, tetragonal and tremendous, the tintinabulatory Tea- chest ! Scholar, the Vision is complete ! VEN. I am glad on't ; for in good sooth I am a-hungered. How say you, my Master? Shall we not leave fishing, and fall to eating presently ? And look you, here is a song, which I have THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 145 chanced on in this book of ballads, and which methinks suits well the present time and this most ancient place. Pise. Nay, then, let's sit down. We shall, I warrant you, make a good, honest, wholesome, hungry nuncheon with a piece of powdered beef and a radish or two that I have in my fish-bag. And you shall sing us this same song as we eat. VEN. Well, then, I will sing ; and I trust it may content you as well as your excellent dis- course hath oft profited me. VENATOR chaunteth A BACHANALIAN ODE. Here's to the Freshman of bashful eighteen ! Here's to the Senior of twenty ! Here's to the youth whose moustache can't be seen ! And here's to the man who has plenty ! Let the men Pass ! Out of the mass I'll warrant we'll find you some fit for a Class ! Here's to the Censors, who symbolise Sense, Just as Mitres incorporate Might, Sir ! To the Bursar, who never expands the expense And the Readers, who always do right, Sir Tutor and Don, Let them jog on ! I warrant they'll rival the centuries gone ! ii 146 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK Here's to the Chapter, melodious crew ! Whose harmony surely intends well : For, though it commences with " harm," it is true Yet its motto is " All's well that ends well ! " Tis love, I'll be bound, That makes it go round ! 'For " In for a penny is in for a pound ! " Here's to the Governing Body, whose Art (For they're Masters of Arts to a man, Sir !) Seeks to beautify Christ Church in every part, Though the method seems hardly to answer ! With three T's it is graced Which letters are placed To stand for the names of Tact, Talent, and Taste ! Pise. I thank you, good Scholar, for this piece of merriment, and this Song, which was well humoured by the maker, and well rendered by you. VEN. Oh, me ! Look you, Master ! A fish ! a fish! Pise. Then let us hook it. [ They hook it. FINIS. THE BLANK CHEQUE, A FABLE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE NEW BELFRY AND "THE VISION OF THE THREE T'S.' "Veil, perhaps, "said Sam, "you bought houses, vich is delicate English for goin' mad ; or took to buildin', vich is a medical term for being incurable." i^rforlr : JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1874 " Five o'clock tea " is a phrase that our " rude forefathers," even of the last generation, would scarcely have understood, so completely is it a thing of to-day ; and yet, so rapid is the March of Mind, it has already risen into a national insti- tution, and rivals, in its universal application to all ranks and ages, and as a specific for "all the ills that flesh is heir to," the glorious Magna Charta. Thus it came to pass that, one chilly day in March, which only made the shelter indoors seem by contrast the more delicious, I found myself in the cosy little parlour of my old friend, kind, hospitable Mrs. Nivers. Her broad, good- humoured face wreathed itself into a sunny smile as I entered, and we were soon embarked on that wayward smooth-flowing current of chat about nothing in particular, which is perhaps the most enjoyable of all forms of conversation. John (I beg his pardon, " Mr. Nivers," I should say: but he was so constantly talked of, and at, by his better half, as " John," that his friends were apt to forget he had a surname at all) sat in a 150 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 151 distant corner with his feet tucked well under his chair, in an attitude rather too upright for com- fort, and rather too suggestive of general collapse for anything like dignity, and sipped his tea in silence. From some distant region came a sound like the roar of the sea, rising and falling, suggest- ing the presence of many boys ; and indeed I knew that the house was full to overflowing of noisy urchins, overflowing with high spirits and mischief, but on the whole a very creditable set of little folk. " And where are you going for your sea-side trip this summer, Mrs. Nivers?" My old friend pursed up her lips with a mys- terious smile and nodded. " Can't understand you," I said. ''You understand me, Mr. De Ciel, just as well as I understand myself, and thats not saying much, /don't know where we're going : John doesn't know where we're going but we're cer- tainly going somewhere; and we shan't even know the name of the place till we find ourselves there! Now are you satisfied ? " I was more hopelessly bewildered than ever. ' l One of us is dreaming, no doubt," I faltered ; " or or perhaps I'm going mad, or-- 152 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK The good lady laughed merrily at my discom- fiture. "Well, well! It's a shame to puzzle you so," she said. "I'll tell you all about it. You see, last year we couldrit settle it, do what we would. John said * Herne Bay,' and / said * Brighton,' and the boys said 4 somewhere where there's a circus,' not that we gave much weight to that, you know ; well, and Angela (she's a growing girl, and we've got to find a new school for her this year) ; she said * Portsmouth, because of the soldiers ' ; and Susan (she's my maid, you know), she said ' Ramsgate.' Well, with all those con- trary opinions, somehow it ended in our going nowhere ; and John and I put our heads together last week, and we settled that it should never happen again. And now, how do you think we've managed it ? " "Quite impossible to guess," I said dreamily, as I handed back my empty cup. " In the first place," said the good lady, "we need change sadly. Housekeeping worries me more every year, particularly with boarders and John will have a couple of gentlemen-boarders always on hand ; he says it looks respectable, and that they talk so well, they make the House THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 153 quite lively. As if / couldn't talk enough for him ! 11 It isn't that ! " muttered John. " It's " They're well enough sometimes," the lady went on (she never seemed to hear her husband's remarks), " but I'm sure when Mr. Prior Burgess was here, it was enough to turn one's hair grey ! He was an open-handed gentleman enough as liberal as could be but far too particular about his meals. Why, if you'll believe me, he wouldn't sit down to dinner without there were three courses. We couldn't go on in that style, you know. I had to tell the next boarder he must be more hardy in his notions, or I could warrant him we shouldn't suit each other." "Quite right," I said. " Might I trouble you for another half cup ? " 4< Seaside air we must have, you see," Mrs. Nivers went on, mechanically taking up the tea- pot, but too much engrossed in the subject to do more, "and as we can't agree where to go, and yet we must go somewhere did you say half a cup ? " "Thanks," said I. "You were going to tell me what it was you settled." "We settled," said the good lady, pouring out 154 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK the tea without a moment's pause in her flow of talk, "that the only course was (cream I think you take, but no sugar? Just so) was to put the whole matter but stop, John shall read it all out to you. We've drawn up the agreement in writing quite ship-shape, isn't it, John? Here's the document : John shall read it you and mind your stops, there's a dear ! " John put on his spectacles, and in a tone of gloomy satisfaction (it was evidently his own com- position) read the following : " Be it hereby enacted and decreed, " 7^/iat Susan be appointed for the business of choosing a watering-place for this season, and find- ing a New School for Angela. ' ' That Susan be empowered not only to procure plans, but to select a plan, to submit the estimate for the execution of such plan to the Housekeeper, and, if the Housekeeper sanction the proposed ex- penditure, to proceed with the execution of siich plan, and to fill z// the Blank Cheque for the whole expense incurred." Before I could say another word the door burst open, and a whole army of boys tumbled into the THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 155 room, headed by little Harry, the pet of the family, who hugged in his arms the much-enduring parlour cat, which, as he eagerly explained in his broken English, he had been trying to teach to stand on one leg. " Harry- Parry Ridy-Pidy Coachy-Poachy ! " said the fond mother, as she lifted the little fellow to her knee and treated him to a jog-trot. " Harry's very fond of Pussy, he is, but he mustn't tease it, he mustn't ! Now go and play on the stairs, there's dear children. Mr. De Ciel and I want to have a quiet talk." And the boys tumbled out of the room again, as eagerly as they had tumbled in, shouting, " Let's have a Chase in the Hall ! " "A good set of heads, are they not, Mr. De Ciel ? " my friend continued, with a wave of her fat hand towards the retreating army. " Phreno- logists admire them much. Look at little Sam, there. He's one of the latest arrivals, you know, but he grows mercy on us, how that boy does grow ! You've no idea what a Weight he is ! Then there's Freddy, that tall boy in the corner : he's rather too big for the others, that's a fact and he's something of a Bully at times, but the boy has a tender heart, too ; give him a bit of 156 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK poetry, now, and he's as maudlin as a girl ! Then there's Benjy, again : a nice boy, but I daren't tell you what he costs us in pocket money ! Oh, the work we had with that boy till we raised his allowance! Hadn't we, John?" ("John" grunted in acquiescence). "It was Arthur took up his cause so much, and worried poor John and me nearly into our graves. Arthur was a very nice boy, Mr. De Ciel, and as great a favourite with the other boys as Harry is now, before he went to Westminster. He used to tell them stories, and draw them the prettiest pictures you ever saw ! Houses that were all windows and chimnies what they call ' High Art,' I believe. We tried a conservatory once on the High- Art principle, and (would you believe it ?) the man stuck the roof up on a lot of rods like so many knitting needles ! Of course it soon came down about our ears, and we had to do it all over again. As I said to John at the time, 'If this is High Art, give me a little more of the Art next time, and a little less of the High ! ' He's doing very well at W T est- minster, I hear, but his tutor writes that he's very asthmatic, poor fellow " Esthetic, my dear, aesthetic ! " remonstrated John. THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 157 ''Ah, well, my love," said the good lady, "all those long medical words are one and the same thing to me. And they come to the same thing in the Christmas bills, too ; they both mean ' Draught as before ' ! Well, well ! They're a set of dear good boys on the whole : they've only one real Vice among them but I shall tire you, talking about the boys so much. What do you think of that agreement of ours ? " I had been turning the paper over and over in my hands, quite at a loss to know what to say to so strange a scheme. " Surely I've misunderstood you ? " I said. " You don't mean to say that you've left the whole thing to your maid to settle for you ? " " But that's exactly what I do mean, Mr. De Ciel," the lady replied a little testily. " She's a very sensible young person, I can assure you. So now, wherever Susan chooses to take us, there we go ! " (" There we go ! There we go ! " echoed her husband in a dismal sort of chant, rocking himself backwards and forwards in his chair.) " You've no idea what a comfort it is to feel that the whole thing's in Susan's hands ! " " Go where Susan takes thee," I remarked, with a vague idea that I was quoting an old song. 158 THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK " Well, no doubt Susan has very correct taste, and all that but still, if I might advise, I wouldn't leave all to her. She may need a little check " That's the very word, dear Mr. De Ciel ! " cried my old friend, clapping her hands. " And that's the very thing we've done, isn't it, John? " (" The very thing we've done," echoed John). "I made him do it only this morning. He has signed her a Blank Cheque, so that she can go to any cost she likes. It's such a comfort to get things settled and off one's hands, you know! John's been grumbling about it ever since, but now that I can tell him it's your advice " But, my dear Madame," I exclaimed, " I don't mean cheque with a ' Q ' ! " your advice," repeated Mrs. N., not heeding my interruption, " why, of course he'll see the reasonableness of it, like a sensible creature as he is ! " Here she looked approvingly at her husband, who tried to smile a " slow wise smile," like Tennyson's "wealthy miller," but I fear the result was more remarkable for slowness than for wisdom. I saw that it would be waste of words to argue the matter further, so took my leave, and did not THE LEWIS CARROLL PICTURE BOOK 159 see my old friends again before their departure for the sea-side. 1 quote the following from a letter which I received yesterday from Mrs. Nivers : " MARGATE, April i. 11 DEAR FRIEND, You know the old story of the dinner-party, where there was nothing hot but the ices, and nothing cold but the soup? Of this place I may safely say that there is nothing high but the prices, the staircases, and the eggs ; nothing low but the sea and the company ; nothing strong but the butter, and nothing weak but the tea ! " From the general tenour of her letter I gather that they are not enjoying it. MORAL. Is it really seriously proposed in the University of Oxford, and towards the close of the nineteenth century (never yet reckoned by historians as part of the Dark Ages] to sign a Blank Cheque for the expenses of building New Schools, before any esti- mate has been made of those expenses before any plan has been laid before the University, from which such an estimate could be made before any architect has been found to design such a plan before any Committee has been elected to find such an architect ? FINIS, [...] Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge The Lewis Carroll picture book ===== The New Belfry of Christ Church, Oxford ===== The New Belfry of Christ Church, Oxford Lewis Carroll 1873 Exported from Wikisource on 05/23/18 THE NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD. A MONOGRAPH BY D. C. L. "A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOR EVER," ? ? ? ? East view of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch., as seen from the Meadow. SECOND THOUSAND. OXFORD: JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1873. CONTENTS. ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? page § 1. On the etymological significance of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 § 2. On the style of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 § 3. On the origin of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 § 4. On the chief architectural merit of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 § 5. On the other architectural merits of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 § 6. On the means of obtaining the best views of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 § 7. On the impetus given to Art in England by the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 § 8. On the feelings with which old Ch. Ch. men regard the new Belfry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 § 9. On the feelings with which resident Ch. Ch. men regard the new Belfry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 § 10. On the logical treatment of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 § 11. On the dramatic treatment of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 § 12. On the Future of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 § 13. On the Moral of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 THE NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD. § 1. On the etymological significance of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The word 'Belfry' is derived from the French bel, 'beautiful, becoming, meet,' and from the German frei, 'free, unfettered, secure, safe.' Thus the word is strictly equivalent to 'meat-safe,' to which the new Belfry bears a resemblance so perfect as almost to amount to coincidence. § 2. On the style of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The style is that which is usually known as 'Early Debased': very early, and remarkably debased. § 3. On the origin of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. Outsiders have enquired, with a persistence verging on personality, and with a recklessness scarcely distinguishable from insanity, to whom we are to attribute the first grand conception of the work. Was it the Treasurer, say they, who thus strove to force it on an unwilling House? Was it a Professor who designed this box, which, whether with a lid on or not, equally offends the eye? Or was it a Censor whose weird spells evoked the horrid thing, the bane of this and of succeeding generations? Until some reply is given to these and similar questions, they must and will remain—for ever—unanswered! On this point Rumour has been unusually busy. Some say that the Governing Body evolved the idea in solemn conclave—the original motion being to adopt the Tower of St. Mark's at Venice as a model: and that by a series of amendments it was reduced at last to a simple cube. Others say that the Reader in Chemistry suggested it as a form of crystal. There are others who affirm that the Mathematical Lecturer found it in the Eleventh Book of Euclid. In fact, there is no end to the various myths afloat on the subject. Most fortunately, we are in possession of the real story. The true origin of the design is as follows: we have it on the very best authority. The head of the House, and the architect, feeling a natural wish that their names should be embodied, in some conspicuous way, among the alterations then in progress, conceived the beautiful and unique idea of representing, by means of the new Belfry, a gigantic copy of a Greek Lexicon.[1] But, before the idea had been reduced to a working form, business took them both to London for a few days, and during their absence, somehow (this part of the business has never been satisfactorily explained) the whole thing was put into the hands of a wandering architect, who gave the name of Jeeby. As the poor man is now incarcerated at Hanwell, we will not be too hard upon his memory, but will only say that he professed to have originated the idea in a moment of inspiration, when idly contemplating one of those highly coloured, and mysteriously decorated chests which, filled with dried leaves from gooseberry bushes and quickset hedges, profess to supply the market with tea of genuine Chinese growth. Was there not something prophetic in the choice? What traveller is there, to whose lips, when first he enters that great educational establishment and gazes on this its newest decoration, the words do not rise unbidden—'Thou tea-chest'? It is plain then that Scott, the great architect to whom the work of restoration has been entrusted, is not responsible for this. He is said to have pronounced it a 'casus belli', which (with all deference to the Classical Tutors of the House, who insist that he meant merely 'a case for a bell') we believe to have been intended as a term of reproach. The following lines are attributed to Scott:— 'If thou wouldst view the Belfry aright, Go visit it at the mirk midnight— For the least hint of open day Scares the beholder quite away. When wall and window are black as pitch, And there's no deciding which is which; When the dark Hall's uncertain roof In horror seems to stand aloof; When corner and corner, alternately, Is wrought to an odious symmetry; When distant Thames is heard to sigh And shudder as he hurries by; Then go, if it be worth the while, Then view the Belfry's monstrous pile, And, home returning, soothly swear "'Tis more than Job himself could bear!"' § 4. On the chief architectural merit of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. Its chief merit is its Simplicity—a Simplicity so pure, so profound, in a word, so simple, that no other word will fitly describe it. The meagre outline, and baldness of detail, of the present Chapter, are adopted in humble imitation of this great feature. § 5. On the other architectural merits of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The Belfry has no other architectural merits. § 6. On the means of obtaining the best views of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The visitor may place himself, in the first instance, at the opposite corner of the Great Quadrangle, and so combine, in one grand spectacle, the beauties of the North and West sides of the edifice. He will find that the converging lines forcibly suggest a vanishing point, and if that vanishing point should in its turn suggest the thought, 'would that it were on the point of vanishing!' he may perchance, like the Soldier in the Ballad, 'lean upon his sword' (if he has one: they are not commonly worn by modern tourists), 'and wipe away a tear.' He may then make the circuit of the Quadrangle, drinking in new visions of beauty at every step— 'Ever charming, ever new, When will the Belfry tire the view?' as Dyer sings in his well-known poem, 'Grongar Hill'—and, as he walks along from the Deanery towards the Hall staircase, and breathes more and more freely as the Belfry lessens on the view, the delicious sensation of relief, which he will experience when it has finally disappeared, will amply repay him for all he will have endured. The best view of the Belfry is that selected by our Artist for the admirable frontispiece which he has furnished for the first Volume of the present work.[2] This view may be seen, in all its beauty, from the far end of Merton Meadow. From that point the imposing position (or, more briefly, the imposition) of the whole structure is thrillingly apparent. There the thoughtful passer-by, with four right angles on one side of him, and four anglers, who have no right to be there, on the other, may ponder on the mutability of human things, or recall the names of Euclid and Isaak Walton, or smoke, or ride a bicycle, or do anything that the local authorities will permit. § 7. On the impetus given to Art in England by the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The idea has spread far and wide, and is rapidly pervading all branches of manufacture. Already an enterprising maker of bonnet-boxes is advertising 'the Belfry pattern': two builders of bathing-machines at Ramsgate have followed his example: one of the great London houses is supplying 'bar-soap' cut in the same striking and symmetrical form: and we are credibly informed that Borwick's Baking Powder and Thorley's Food for Cattle are now sold in no other shape. § 8. On the feelings with which old Ch. Ch. men regard the new Belfry. Bitterly bitterly do all old Ch. Ch. men lament this latest lowest development of native taste. 'We see the Governing Body,' say they: 'where is the Governing Mind?' And Echo (exercising a judicious 'natural selection' for which even Darwin would give her credit) answers—'where?' At the approaching 'Gaudy,' when a number of old Ch. Ch. men will be gathered together, it is proposed, at the conclusion of the banquet, to present to each guest a portable model of the new Belfry, tastefully executed in cheese. § 9. On the feelings with which resident Ch. Ch. men regard the new Belfry. Who that has seen a Ch. Ch. man conducting his troop of 'lionesses' (so called from the savage and pitiless greed with which they devour the various sights of Oxford) through its ancient precincts, that has noticed the convulsive start and ghastly stare that always affect new-comers when first they come into view of the new Belfry, that has heard the eager questions with which they assail their guide as to the how, the why, the what for, and the how long, of this astounding phenomenon, can have failed to mark the manly glow which immediately suffuses the cheek of the hapless cicerone? 'Is it the glow of conscious pride— Of pure ambition gratified— That seeks to read in other eye Something of its own ecstasy? Or wrath, that worldlings should make fun Of anything 'the House' has done? Or puzzlement, that seeks in vain The rigid mystery to explain? Or is it shame that, knowing not How to defend or cloak the blot— The foulest blot on fairest face That ever marred a noble place— Burns with the pangs it will not own, Pangs felt by loyal sons alone?' § 10. On the logical treatment of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The subject has been reduced to three Syllogisms. The first is in 'Barbara.' It is attributed to the enemies of the Belfry. Wooden buildings in the midst of stone-work are barbarous; Plain rectangular forms in the midst of arches and decorations are barbarous; Ergo, The whole thing is ridiculous and revolting. The second is in 'Celarent,' and has been most carefully composed by the friends of the Belfry. The Governing Body would conceal this appalling structure, if they could; The Governing Body would conceal the feelings of chagrin with which they now regard it, if they could; Ergo, .?.?.?.?.?.?. (MS. unfinished.) The third Syllogism is in 'Festino,' and is the joint composition of the friends and the enemies of the Belfry. To restore the character of Ch. Ch., a tower must be built; To build a tower, ten thousand pounds must be raised; Ergo, No time must be lost. These three Syllogisms have been submitted to the criticism of the Professor of Logic, who writes that 'he fancies he can detect some slight want of logical sequence in the Conclusion of the third.' He adds that, according to his experience of life, when people thus commit a fatal blunder in child-like confidence that money will be forthcoming to enable them to set it right, in ten cases out of nine the money is not forthcoming. This is a large percentage. § 11. On the dramatic treatment of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. Curtain rises, discovering the Dean, Canons, and Students, seated round a table, on which the mad Architect, fantastically dressed, and rearing a Fool's cap and bells, is placing a square block of deal. Dean (as Hamlet). Methinks I see a Bell-tower! Canons (looking wildly in all directions). Where, my good Sir? Dean. In my mind's eye—(Knocking heard) Who's there? Fool. A spirit, a spirit; he says his name's poor Tom. Enter the Great Bell, disguised as a mushroom. Great Bell. Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through bricks and through mortar, through rope and windlass, through plank and scaffold; that hath torn down his balustrades, and torn up his terraces; that hath made him go as a common pedlar, with a wooden box upon his back. Do poor Tom some charity. Tom's a-cold. Rafters, and planks, and such small deer, Shall be Tom's food for many a year. Censor. I feared it would come to this. Dean. (as King Lear). The little dons and all, Tutor, Reader, Lecturer—see, they bark at me! Censor. His wits begin to unsettle. Dean (as Hamlet). Do you see yonder box, that's almost in shape of a tea-caddy? Censor. By its mass, it is like a tea-caddy, indeed. Dean. Methinks it is like a clothes-horse. Censor. It is backed like a clothes-horse. Dean. Or like a tub. Censor. Very like a tub. Dean. They fool me to the top of my bent. Enter from opposite sides the Belfry as Box, and the Bodley Librarian as Cox. Librarian. Who are you, Sir? Belfry. If it comes to that, Sir, who are you? They exchange cards. Librarian. I should feel obliged to you if you could accommodate me with a more protuberant Bell-tower, Mr. B. The one you have now seems to me to consist of corners only, with nothing whatever in the middle. Belfry. Anything to accommodate you, Mr. Cox. (Places jauntily on his head a small model of the skeleton of an umbrella, upside down). Librarian. Ah, tell me—in mercy tell me—have you such a thing as a redeeming feature, or the least mark of artistic design, about you? Belfry. No! Librarian. Then you are my long-lost door-scraper! They rush into each other's arms. Enter Treasurer as Ariel. Solemn music. Song and Chorus. Five fathom square the Belfry frowns; All its sides of timber made; Painted all in greys and browns; Nothing of it that will fade. Christ Church may admire the change— Oxford thinks it sad and strange. Beauty's dead! Let's ring her knell. Hark! now I hear them—ding-dong, bell. § 12. On the Future of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The Belfry has a great Future before it—at least, if it has not, it has very little to do with Time at all, its Past being (fortunately for our ancestors) a nonentity, and its Present a blank. The advantage of having been born in the reign of Queen Anne, and of having died in that or the subsequent reign, has never been so painfully apparent as it is now. Credible witnesses assert that, when the bells are rung, the Belfry must come down. In that case considerable damage (the process technically described as 'pulverisation') must ensue to the beautiful pillar and roof which adorn the Hall staircase. But the architect is prepared even for this emergency. 'On the first symptom of deflection' (he writes from Hanwell), 'let the pillar be carefully removed and placed, with its superstruent superstructure' (we cannot forbear calling attention to this beautiful phrase), 'in the centre of "Mercury." There it will constitute a novel and most unique feature of the venerable House.' 'Yea, and the Belfry shall serve to generations yet unborn as an aërial Ticket-office,' so he cries with his eye in a fine frenzy rolling, 'where the Oxford and London Balloon shall call ere it launch forth on its celestial voyage—and where expectant passengers shall while away the time with the latest edition of "Bell's Life"!' § 13. On the Moral of the new Belfry, Ch. Ch. The moral position of Christ Church is undoubtedly improved by it. 'We have been attacked, and perhaps not without reason, on the Bread-and-Butter question,' she remarks to an inattentive World (which heeds her not, but prates on of Indirect Claims and of anything but indirect Claimants), 'we have been charged—and, it must be confessed, in a free and manly tone—with shortcomings in the payment of the Greek Professor, but who shall say that we are not all "on the square" now?' This, however, is not the Moral of the matter. Everything has a moral, if you choose to look for it. In Wordsworth, a good half of every poem is devoted to the Moral: in Byron, a smaller proportion: in Tupper, the whole. Perhaps the most graceful tribute we can pay to the genius of the last-named writer, is to entrust to him, as an old member of Christ Church, the conclusion of this Monograph. Look on the Quadrangle of Christ Church, squarely, for is it not a Square? And a Square recalleth a Cube; and a Cube recalleth the Belfry; And the Belfry recalleth a Die, shaken by the hand of the gambler; Yet, once thrown, it may not be recalled, being, so to speak, irrevocable. There it shall endure for ages, treading hard on the heels of the Sublime— For it is but a step, saith the wise man, from the Sublime unto the Ridiculous: And the Simple dwelleth midway between, and shareth the qualities of either.' FINIS. ? The Editor confesses to a difficulty here. No sufficient reason has been adduced why a model of a Greek Lexicon should in any way 'embody' the names of the above illustrious individuals. ? On further consideration, it was deemed inexpedient to extend this work beyond the compass of one Volume. OXFORD: By T. Combe, M.A., E. B. Gardner, E. Pickard Hall, and J. H. Stacy, PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. This work was published before January 1, 1923, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago. About this digital edition This e-book comes from the online library Wikisource[1]. This multilingual digital library, built by volunteers, is committed to developing a free accessible collection of publications of every kind: novels, poems, magazines, letters... We distribute our books for free, starting from works not copyrighted or published under a free license. You are free to use our e-books for any purpose (including commercial exploitation), under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported[2] license or, at your choice, those of the GNU FDL[3]. Wikisource is constantly looking for new members. During the realization of this book, it's possible that we made some errors. You can report them at this page[4]. The following users contributed to this book: Beleg Tâl Captain Nemo Kathleen.wright5 George Orwell III Brownian Desmond Beeswaxcandle Shii ? http://wikisource.org ? http://www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0 ? http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html ? http://wikisource.org/wiki/Wikisource:Scriptorium ===== The Blank Cheque ===== THE BLANK CHEQUE, A FABLE. BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE NEW BELFRY” AND “THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S.” “VELL, PERHAPS,” SAID SAM, “YOU BOUGHT HOUSES, VICH IS DELICATE ENGLISH FOR GOIN’ MAD; OR TOOK TO BUILDIN’, VICH IS A MEDICAL TERM FOR BEIN’ INCURABLE.” OXFORD: JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1874. THE BLANK CHEQUE. ‘Five o’clock tea’ is a phrase that our ‘rude forefathers,’ even of the last generation, would scarcely have understood, so completely is it a thing of to-day: and yet, so rapid is the March of Mind, it has already risen into a national institution, and rivals, in its universal application to all ranks and ages, and as a specific for ‘all the ills that flesh is heir to,’ the glorious Magna Charta. Thus it came to pass that, one chilly day in March, which only made the shelter indoors seem by contrast the more delicious, I found myself in the cosy little parlour of my old friend, kind hospitable Mrs. Nivers. Her broad good-humoured face wreathed itself into a sunny smile as I entered, and we were soon embarked on that wayward smooth-flowing current of chat about nothing in particular, which is perhaps the most enjoyable of all forms of conversation. John (I beg his pardon, ‘Mr. Nivers’ I should say: but he was so constantly talked of and at, by his better half, as ‘John,’ that his friends were apt to forget he had a surname at all) sat in a distant corner with his feet tucked well under his chair, in an attitude rather too upright for comfort, and rather too suggestive of general collapse for anything like dignity, and sipped his tea in silence. From some distant region came a sound like the roar of the sea, rising and falling, suggesting the presence of many boys; and indeed I knew that the house was full to overflowing of noisy urchins, overflowing with high spirits and mischief, but on the whole a very creditable set of little folk. ‘And where are you going for your sea-side trip this summer, Mrs. Nivers?’ My old friend pursed up her lips with a mysterious smile, and nodded. ‘Can’t understand you,’ I said. ‘You understand me, Mr. De Ciel, just as well as I understand myself, and that’s not saying much. I don’t know where we’re going: John doesn’t know where we’re going—but we’re certainly going somewhere; and we shan’t even know the name of the place, till we find ourselves there! Now are you satisfied?’ I was more hopelessly bewildered than ever. ‘One of us is dreaming, no doubt,’ I faltered: ‘or—or perhaps I’m going mad, or——’ The good lady laughed merrily at my discomfiture. ‘Well, well! It’s a shame to puzzle you so,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you all about it. You see, last year we couldn’t settle it, do what we would. John said “Herne Bay”; and I said “Brighton”; and the boys said “somewhere where there’s a circus”; not that we gave much weight to that, you know: well, and Angela (she’s a growing girl, and we’ve got to find a new school for her, this year) she said “Portsmouth, because of the soldiers”; and Susan (she’s my maid, you know) she said “Ramsgate.” Well, with all those contrary opinions, somehow it ended in our going nowhere: and John and I put our heads together last week, and we settled that it should never happen again. And now, how do you think we’ve managed it?’ ‘Quite impossible to guess,’ I said dreamily, as I handed back my empty cup. ‘In the first place,’ said the good lady, ‘we need change sadly. Housekeeping worries me more every year, particularly with boarders—and John will have a couple of gentleman-boarders always on hand: he says it looks respectable, and that they talk so well they make the House quite lively. As if I couldn’t talk enough for him!’ ‘It isn’t that!’ muttered John. ‘It’s——’ ‘They’re well enough sometimes,’ the lady went on (she never seemed to hear her husband’s remarks), ‘but I’m sure, when Mr. Prior Burgess was here, it was enough to turn one’s hair grey! He was an open-handed gentleman enough—as liberal as could be—but far too particular about his meals. Why, if you’ll believe me, he wouldn’t sit down to dinner without there were three courses! We couldn’t go on in that style, you know. I had to tell the next boarder he must be more hardy in his notions, or I could warrant him we shouldn’t suit each other.’ ‘Quite right,’ I said. ‘Might I trouble you for another half cup?’ ‘Sea-side air we must have, you see,’ Mrs. Nivers went on, mechanically taking up the tea-pot, but too much engrossed in the subject to do more, ‘and as we can’t agree where to go, and yet we must go somewhere——did you say half a cup?’ ‘Thanks,’ said I. ‘You were going to tell me what it was you settled.’ ‘We settled,’ said the good lady, pouring out the tea without a moment’s pause in her flow of talk, ‘that the only course was—(cream I think you take, but no sugar? Just so)—was to put the whole matter——but stop, John shall read it all out to you. We’ve drawn up the agreement in writing—quite ship-shape, isn’t it, John? Here’s the document: John shall read it you—and mind your stops, there’s a dear!’ John put on his spectacles, and in a tone of gloomy satisfaction (it was evidently his own composition) read the following. ‘Be it hereby enacted and decreed, ‘That Susan be appointed for the business of choosing a watering-place for this season, and finding a New School for Angela. ‘That Susan be empowered not only to procure plans, but to select a plan, to submit the estimate for the execution of such plan to the House-keeper; and, if the House-keeper sanction the proposed expenditure to proceed with the execution of such plan, and to fill up the Blank Cheque for the whole expense incurred.‘ Before I could say another word the door burst open, and a whole army of boys tumbled into the room, headed by little Harry, the pet of the family, who hugged in his arms the much-enduring parlour-cat, which, as he eagerly explained in his broken English, he had been trying to teach to stand on one leg. ‘Harry-Parry Ridy-Pidy Coachy-Poachy!’ said the fond mother, as she lifted the little fellow to her knee and treated him to a jog-trot. ‘Harry’s very fond of Pussy, he is, but he mustn’t tease it, he mustn’t! Now go and play on the stairs, there’s dear children! Mr. De Ciel and I want to have a quiet talk.’ And the boys tumbled out of the room again, as eagerly as they had tumbled in, shouting ‘Let’s have a Chase in the Hall!’ ‘A good set of Heads, are they not, Mr. De Ciel?’ my friend continued, with a wave of her fat hand towards the retreating army. ‘Phrenologists admire them much. Look at little Sam, there. He’s one of the latest arrivals, you know, but he grows—mercy on us, how that boy does grow! You’ve no idea what a Weight he is! Then there’s Freddy, that tall boy in the corner: he’s rather too big for the others, that’s a fact—and he’s something of a Bully at times, but the boy has a tender heart, too: give him a bit of poetry, now, and he’s as maudlin as a girl! Then there’s Benjy, again: a nice boy, but I daren’t tell you what he costs us in pocket-money! Oh, the work we had with that boy, till we raised his allowance! Hadn’t we, John?’ (‘John’ grunted in acquiescence.) ‘It was Arthur took up his cause so much, and worried poor John and me nearly into our graves! Arthur was a very nice boy, Mr. De Ciel, and as great a favourite with the other boys as Harry is now, before he went to Westminster. He used to tell them stories, and draw them the prettiest pictures you ever saw! Houses that were all windows and chimnies—what they call “High Art,” I believe. We tried a conservatory once on the High-Art principle, and (would you believe it?) the man stuck the roof up on a lot of rods like so many knitting-needles! Of course it soon came down about our ears, and we had to do it all over again. As I said to John at the time, “If this is High Art, give me a little more of the Art next time, and a little less of the High!” He’s doing very well at Westminster, I hear, but his tutor writes that he’s very asthmatic, poor fellow——’ ‘Æsthetic, my dear, æsthetic!’ remonstrated John. ‘Ah, well, my love,’ said the good lady, ‘all those long medical words are one and the same thing to me. And they come to the same thing in the Christmas bills, too: they both mean “Draught as before”! Well, well! They’re a set of dear good boys on the whole: they’ve only one real Vice among them——but I shall tire you, talking about the boys so much. What do you think of that agreement of ours?’ I had been turning the paper over and over in my hands, quite at a loss to know what to say to so strange a scheme. ‘Surely I’ve misunderstood you?’ I said. ‘You don’t mean to say that you’ve left the whole thing to your maid to settle for you?’ ‘But that’s exactly what I do mean, Mr. De Ciel,’ the lady replied, a little testily. ‘She’s a very sensible young person, I can assure you. So now, wherever Susan chooses to take us, there we go!’ (‘There we go! There we go!’ echoed her husband in a dismal sort of chant, rocking himself backwards and forwards in his chair.) ‘You’ve no idea what a comfort it is to feel that the whole thing’s in Susan’s hands!’ ‘Go where Susan takes thee,’ I remarked, with a vague idea that I was quoting an old song. ‘Well, no doubt Susan has very correct taste, and all that—but still, if I might advise, I wouldn’t leave all to her. She may need a little check——’ ‘That’s the very word, dear Mr. De Ciel!’ cried my old friend, clapping her hands. ‘And that’s the very thing we’ve done, isn’t it, John?’ (‘The very thing we’ve done,’ echoed John.) ‘I made him do it only this morning. He has signed her a Blank Cheque, so that she can go to any cost she likes. It’s such a comfort to get things settled and off one’s hands, you know! John’s been grumbling about it ever since, but now that I can tell him it’s your advice——’ ‘But, my dear Madam,’ I exclaimed, ‘I don’t mean cheque with a “Q”!’ “——your advice,’ repeated Mrs. N., not heeding my interruption,’ why, of course he’ll see the reasonableness of it, like a sensible creature as he is!’ Here she looked approvingly at her husband, who tried to smile a ‘slow wise smile,’ like Tennyson’s ‘wealthy miller,’ but I fear the result was more remarkable for slowness than for wisdom. I saw that it would be waste of words to argue the matter further, so took my leave, and did not see my old friends again before their departure for the sea-side. I quote the following from a letter which I received yesterday from Mrs. Nivers. ‘Margate. April 1 ‘Dear Friend, ?‘You know the old story of the dinner-party where there was nothing hot but the ices, and nothing cold but the soup? Of this place I may fairly say that there is nothing high but the prices, the staircases, and the eggs; nothing low but the sea and the company: nothing strong but the butter; and nothing weak but the tea!’ From the general tenour of her letter I gather that they are not enjoying it. MORAL. Is it really seriously proposed——in the University of Oxford, and towards the close of the Nineteenth Century (never yet reckoned by historians as part of the Dark Ages)——to sign a Blank Cheque for the expenses of building New Schools, before any estimate has been made of those expenses——before any plan has been laid before the University, from which such an estimate could be made——before any architect has been found to design such a plan——before any Committee has been elected to find such an architect? FINIS. OXFORD: E. PICKARD HALL, AND J. H. STACY, PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. ===== The Game of Logic ===== The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Game of Logic, by Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: The Game of Logic Author: Lewis Carroll Posting Date: December 30, 2011 [EBook #4763] Release Date: December, 2003 First Posted: March 13, 2002 Last Updated: May 10, 2004 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAME OF LOGIC *** Produced by Gregory D. Weeks, L. Lynn Smith, Reina Hosier, Brett Fishburne THE GAME OF LOGIC By Lewis Carroll --------------------- |9 | 10| | | | | -----x------ | | |11 | 12| | | | | | | |---y-----m------y'---| | | | | | | |13 | 14| | | -----x'----- | | | | |15 | 16| --------------------- COLOURS FOR ------------- COUNTERS |5 | 6| ___ | x | | | | See the Sun is overhead, |--y-------y'-| Shining on us, FULL and | | | RED! | x' | |7 | 8| Now the Sun is gone away, ------------- And the EMPTY sky is GREY! ___ THE GAME OF LOGIC By Lewis Carrol To my Child-friend. I charm in vain; for never again, All keenly as my glance I bend, Will Memory, goddess coy, Embody for my joy Departed days, nor let me gaze On thee, my fairy friend! Yet could thy face, in mystic grace, A moment smile on me, 'twould send Far-darting rays of light From Heaven athwart the night, By which to read in very deed Thy spirit, sweetest friend! So may the stream of Life's long dream Flow gently onward to its end, With many a floweret gay, Adown its willowy way: May no sigh vex, no care perplex, My loving little friend! NOTA BENE. With each copy of this Book is given an Envelope, containing a Diagram (similar to the frontispiece) on card, and nine Counters, four red and five grey. The Envelope, &c. can be had separately, at 3d. each. The Author will be very grateful for suggestions, especially from beginners in Logic, of any alterations, or further explanations, that may seem desirable. Letters should be addressed to him at "29, Bedford Street, Covent Garden, London." PREFACE "There foam'd rebellious Logic, gagg'd and bound." This Game requires nine Counters--four of one colour and five of another: say four red and five grey. Besides the nine Counters, it also requires one Player, AT LEAST. I am not aware of any Game that can be played with LESS than this number: while there are several that require MORE: take Cricket, for instance, which requires twenty-two. How much easier it is, when you want to play a Game, to find ONE Player than twenty-two. At the same time, though one Player is enough, a good deal more amusement may be got by two working at it together, and correcting each other's mistakes. A second advantage, possessed by this Game, is that, besides being an endless source of amusement (the number of arguments, that may be worked by it, being infinite), it will give the Players a little instruction as well. But is there any great harm in THAT, so long as you get plenty of amusement? CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. NEW LAMPS FOR OLD. 1. Propositions . . . . . . . 1 2. Syllogisms . . . . . . . . 20 3. Fallacies . . . . . . . . 32 II. CROSS QUESTIONS. 1. Elementary . . . . . . . . 37 2. Half of Smaller Diagram. Propositions to be represented . . . . . 40 3. Do. Symbols to be interpreted. . 42 4. Smaller Diagram. Propositions to be represented . . . . . . . 44 5. Do. Symbols to be interpreted. . 46 6. Larger Diagram. Propositions to be represented . . . . . . . 48 7. Both Diagrams to be employed . . 51 III. CROOKED ANSWERS. 1. Elementary . . . . . . . . 55 2. Half of Smaller Diagram. Propositions represented . . . . . . . 59 3. Do. Symbols interpreted . . . 61 4. Smaller Diagram. Propositions represented. 62 5. Do. Symbols interpreted . . . 65 6. Larger Diagram. Propositions represented. 67 7. Both Diagrams employed . . . . 72 IV. HIT OR MISS . . . . . . . . . 85 CHAPTER I. NEW LAMPS FOR OLD. "Light come, light go." _________ 1. Propositions. "Some new Cakes are nice." "No new Cakes are nice." "All new cakes are nice." There are three 'PROPOSITIONS' for you--the only three kinds we are going to use in this Game: and the first thing to be done is to learn how to express them on the Board. Let us begin with "Some new Cakes are nice." But before doing so, a remark has to be made--one that is rather important, and by no means easy to understand all in a moment: so please to read this VERY carefully. The world contains many THINGS (such as "Buns", "Babies", "Beetles". "Battledores". &c.); and these Things possess many ATTRIBUTES (such as "baked", "beautiful", "black", "broken", &c.: in fact, whatever can be "attributed to", that is "said to belong to", any Thing, is an Attribute). Whenever we wish to mention a Thing, we use a SUBSTANTIVE: when we wish to mention an Attribute, we use an ADJECTIVE. People have asked the question "Can a Thing exist without any Attributes belonging to it?" It is a very puzzling question, and I'm not going to try to answer it: let us turn up our noses, and treat it with contemptuous silence, as if it really wasn't worth noticing. But, if they put it the other way, and ask "Can an Attribute exist without any Thing for it to belong to?", we may say at once "No: no more than a Baby could go a railway-journey with no one to take care of it!" You never saw "beautiful" floating about in the air, or littered about on the floor, without any Thing to BE beautiful, now did you? And now what am I driving at, in all this long rigmarole? It is this. You may put "is" or "are" between names of two THINGS (for example, "some Pigs are fat Animals"), or between the names of two ATTRIBUTES (for example, "pink is light-red"), and in each case it will make good sense. But, if you put "is" or "are" between the name of a THING and the name of an ATTRIBUTE (for example, "some Pigs are pink"), you do NOT make good sense (for how can a Thing BE an Attribute?) unless you have an understanding with the person to whom you are speaking. And the simplest understanding would, I think, be this--that the Substantive shall be supposed to be repeated at the end of the sentence, so that the sentence, if written out in full, would be "some Pigs are pink (Pigs)". And now the word "are" makes quite good sense. Thus, in order to make good sense of the Proposition "some new Cakes are nice", we must suppose it to be written out in full, in the form "some new Cakes are nice (Cakes)". Now this contains two 'TERMS'--"new Cakes" being one of them, and "nice (Cakes)" the other. "New Cakes," being the one we are talking about, is called the 'SUBJECT' of the Proposition, and "nice (Cakes)" the 'PREDICATE'. Also this Proposition is said to be a 'PARTICULAR' one, since it does not speak of the WHOLE of its Subject, but only of a PART of it. The other two kinds are said to be 'UNIVERSAL', because they speak of the WHOLE of their Subjects--the one denying niceness, and the other asserting it, of the WHOLE class of "new Cakes". Lastly, if you would like to have a definition of the word 'PROPOSITION' itself, you may take this:--"a sentence stating that some, or none, or all, of the Things belonging to a certain class, called its 'Subject', are also Things belonging to a certain other class, called its 'Predicate'". You will find these seven words--PROPOSITION, ATTRIBUTE, TERM, SUBJECT, PREDICATE, PARTICULAR, UNIVERSAL--charmingly useful, if any friend should happen to ask if you have ever studied Logic. Mind you bring all seven words into your answer, and you friend will go away deeply impressed--'a sadder and a wiser man'. Now please to look at the smaller Diagram on the Board, and suppose it to be a cupboard, intended for all the Cakes in the world (it would have to be a good large one, of course). And let us suppose all the new ones to be put into the upper half (marked 'x'), and all the rest (that is, the NOT-new ones) into the lower half (marked 'x''). Thus the lower half would contain ELDERLY Cakes, AGED Cakes, ANTE-DILUVIAN Cakes--if there are any: I haven't seen many, myself--and so on. Let us also suppose all the nice Cakes to be put into the left-hand half (marked 'y'), and all the rest (that is, the not-nice ones) into the right-hand half (marked 'y''). At present, then, we must understand x to mean "new", x' "not-new", y "nice", and y' "not-nice." And now what kind of Cakes would you expect to find in compartment No. 5? It is part of the upper half, you see; so that, if it has any Cakes in it, they must be NEW: and it is part of the left-hand half; so that they must be NICE. Hence if there are any Cakes in this compartment, they must have the double 'ATTRIBUTE' "new and nice": or, if we use letters, the must be "x y." Observe that the letters x, y are written on two of the edges of this compartment. This you will find a very convenient rule for knowing what Attributes belong to the Things in any compartment. Take No. 7, for instance. If there are any Cakes there, they must be "x' y", that is, they must be "not-new and nice." Now let us make another agreement--that a red counter in a compartment shall mean that it is 'OCCUPIED', that is, that there are SOME Cakes in it. (The word 'some,' in Logic, means 'one or more' so that a single Cake in a compartment would be quite enough reason for saying "there are SOME Cakes here"). Also let us agree that a grey counter in a compartment shall mean that it is 'EMPTY', that is that there are NO Cakes in it. In the following Diagrams, I shall put '1' (meaning 'one or more') where you are to put a RED counter, and '0' (meaning 'none') where you are to put a GREY one. As the Subject of our Proposition is to be "new Cakes", we are only concerned, at present, with the UPPER half of the cupboard, where all the Cakes have the attribute x, that is, "new." Now, fixing our attention on this upper half, suppose we found it marked like this, ----------- | | | | 1 | | | | | ----------- that is, with a red counter in No. 5. What would this tell us, with regard to the class of "new Cakes"? Would it not tell us that there are SOME of them in the x y-compartment? That is, that some of them (besides having the Attribute x, which belongs to both compartments) have the Attribute y (that is, "nice"). This we might express by saying "some x-Cakes are y-(Cakes)", or, putting words instead of letters, "Some new Cakes are nice (Cakes)", or, in a shorter form, "Some new Cakes are nice". At last we have found out how to represent the first Proposition of this Section. If you have not CLEARLY understood all I have said, go no further, but read it over and over again, till you DO understand it. After that is once mastered, you will find all the rest quite easy. It will save a little trouble, in doing the other Propositions, if we agree to leave out the word "Cakes" altogether. I find it convenient to call the whole class of Things, for which the cupboard is intended, the 'UNIVERSE.' Thus we might have begun this business by saying "Let us take a Universe of Cakes." (Sounds nice, doesn't it?) Of course any other Things would have done just as well as Cakes. We might make Propositions about "a Universe of Lizards", or even "a Universe of Hornets". (Wouldn't THAT be a charming Universe to live in?) So far, then, we have learned that ----------- | | | | 1 | | | | | ----------- means "some x and y," i.e. "some new are nice." I think you will see without further explanation, that ----------- | | | | | 1 | | | | ----------- means "some x are y'," i.e. "some new are not-nice." Now let us put a GREY counter into No. 5, and ask ourselves the meaning of ----------- | | | | 0 | | | | | ----------- This tells us that the x y-compartment is EMPTY, which we may express by "no x are y", or, "no new Cakes are nice". This is the second of the three Propositions at the head of this Section. In the same way, ----------- | | | | | 0 | | | | ----------- would mean "no x are y'," or, "no new Cakes are not-nice." What would you make of this, I wonder? ----------- | | | | 1 | 1 | | | | ----------- I hope you will not have much trouble in making out that this represents a DOUBLE Proposition: namely, "some x are y, AND some are y'," i.e. "some new are nice, and some are not-nice." The following is a little harder, perhaps: ----------- | | | | 0 | 0 | | | | ----------- This means "no x are y, AND none are y'," i.e. "no new are nice, AND none are not-nice": which leads to the rather curious result that "no new exist," i.e. "no Cakes are new." This is because "nice" and "not-nice" make what we call an 'EXHAUSTIVE' division of the class "new Cakes": i.e. between them, they EXHAUST the whole class, so that all the new Cakes, that exist, must be found in one or the other of them. And now suppose you had to represent, with counters the contradictory to "no Cakes are new", which would be "some Cakes are new", or, putting letters for words, "some Cakes are x", how would you do it? This will puzzle you a little, I expect. Evidently you must put a red counter SOMEWHERE in the x-half of the cupboard, since you know there are SOME new Cakes. But you must not put it into the LEFT-HAND compartment, since you do not know them to be NICE: nor may you put it into the RIGHT-HAND one, since you do not know them to be NOT-NICE. What, then, are you to do? I think the best way out of the difficulty is to place the red counter ON THE DIVISION-LINE between the xy-compartment and the xy'-compartment. This I shall represent (as I always put '1' where you are to put a red counter) by the diagram ----------- | | | | -1- | | | | ----------- Our ingenious American cousins have invented a phrase to express the position of a man who wants to join one or the other of two parties--such as their two parties 'Democrats' and 'Republicans'--but can't make up his mind WHICH. Such a man is said to be "sitting on the fence." Now that is exactly the position of the red counter you have just placed on the division-line. He likes the look of No. 5, and he likes the look of No. 6, and he doesn't know WHICH to jump down into. So there he sits astride, silly fellow, dangling his legs, one on each side of the fence! Now I am going to give you a much harder one to make out. What does this mean? ----------- | | | | 1 | 0 | | | | ----------- This is clearly a DOUBLE Proposition. It tells us not only that "some x are y," but also the "no x are NOT y." Hence the result is "ALL x are y," i.e. "all new Cakes are nice", which is the last of the three Propositions at the head of this Section. We see, then, that the Universal Proposition "All new Cakes are nice" consists of TWO Propositions taken together, namely, "Some new Cakes are nice," and "No new Cakes are not-nice." In the same way ----------- | | | | 0 | 1 | | | | ----------- would mean "all x are y' ", that is, "All new Cakes are not-nice." Now what would you make of such a Proposition as "The Cake you have given me is nice"? Is it Particular or Universal? "Particular, of course," you readily reply. "One single Cake is hardly worth calling 'some,' even." No, my dear impulsive Reader, it is 'Universal'. Remember that, few as they are (and I grant you they couldn't well be fewer), they are (or rather 'it is') ALL that you have given me! Thus, if (leaving 'red' out of the question) I divide my Universe of Cakes into two classes--the Cakes you have given me (to which I assign the upper half of the cupboard), and those you HAVEN'T given me (which are to go below)--I find the lower half fairly full, and the upper one as nearly as possible empty. And then, when I am told to put an upright division into each half, keeping the NICE Cakes to the left, and the NOT-NICE ones to the right, I begin by carefully collecting ALL the Cakes you have given me (saying to myself, from time to time, "Generous creature! How shall I ever repay such kindness?"), and piling them up in the left-hand compartment. AND IT DOESN'T TAKE LONG TO DO IT! Here is another Universal Proposition for you. "Barzillai Beckalegg is an honest man." That means "ALL the Barzillai Beckaleggs, that I am now considering, are honest men." (You think I invented that name, now don't you? But I didn't. It's on a carrier's cart, somewhere down in Cornwall.) This kind of Universal Proposition (where the Subject is a single Thing) is called an 'INDIVIDUAL' Proposition. Now let us take "NICE Cakes" as the Subject of Proposition: that is, let us fix our thoughts on the LEFT-HAND half of the cupboard, where all the Cakes have attribute y, that is, "nice." ----- Suppose we find it marked like this:-- | | | 1 | What would that tell us? | | ----- | | | | | | ----- I hope that it is not necessary, after explaining the HORIZONTAL oblong so fully, to spend much time over the UPRIGHT one. I hope you will see, for yourself, that this means "some y are x", that is, "Some nice Cakes are new." "But," you will say, "we have had this case before. You put a red counter into No. 5, and you told us it meant 'some new Cakes are nice'; and NOW you tell us that it means 'some NICE Cakes are NEW'! Can it mean BOTH?" The question is a very thoughtful one, and does you GREAT credit, dear Reader! It DOES mean both. If you choose to take x (that is, "new Cakes") as your Subject, and to regard No. 5 as part of a HORIZONTAL oblong, you may read it "some x are y", that is, "some new Cakes are nice": but, if you choose to take y (that is, "nice Cake") as your Subject, and to regard No. 5 as part of an UPRIGHT oblong, THEN you may read it "some y are x", that is, "some nice Cakes are new". They are merely two different ways of expressing the very same truth. Without more words, I will simply set down the other ways in which this upright oblong might be marked, adding the meaning in each case. By comparing them with the various cases of the horizontal oblong, you will, I hope, be able to understand them clearly. You will find it a good plan to examine yourself on this table, by covering up first one column and then the other, and 'dodging about', as the children say. Also you will do well to write out for yourself two other tables--one for the LOWER half of the cupboard, and the other for its RIGHT-HAND half. And now I think we have said all we need to say about the smaller Diagram, and may go on to the larger one. _________________________________________________ | Symbols. | Meanings. _______________|_________________________________ ----- | | | | | | | Some y are x'; | | | i.e. Some nice are not-new. ----- | | | | | 1 | | | | | ----- | | ----- | | | | No y are x; | 0 | | i.e. No nice are new. | | | ----- | [Observe that this is merely another way of | | | expressing "No new are nice."] | | | | | | ----- | | ----- | | | | | | | No y are x'; | | | i.e. No nice are not-new. ----- | | | | | 0 | | | | | ----- | | ----- | | | | | 1 | | Some y are x, and some are x'; | | | i.e. Some nice are new, and some are ----- | not-new. | | | | 1 | | | | | ----- | | ----- | | | | | 0 | | No y are x, and none are x'; i.e. No y | | | exist; ----- | i.e. No Cakes are nice. | | | | 0 | | | | | ----- | | ----- | | | | | 1 | | All y are x; | | | i.e. All nice are new. ----- | | | | | 0 | | | | | ----- | | ----- | | | | | 0 | | All y are x'; | | | i.e. All nice are not-new. ----- | | | | | 1 | | | | | ----- | _______________|_________________________________ This may be taken to be a cupboard divided in the same way as the last, but ALSO divided into two portions, for the Attribute m. Let us give to m the meaning "wholesome": and let us suppose that all WHOLESOME Cakes are placed INSIDE the central Square, and all the UNWHOLESOME ones OUTSIDE it, that is, in one or other of the four queer-shaped OUTER compartments. We see that, just as, in the smaller Diagram, the Cakes in each compartment had TWO Attributes, so, here, the Cakes in each compartment have THREE Attributes: and, just as the letters, representing the TWO Attributes, were written on the EDGES of the compartment, so, here, they are written at the CORNERS. (Observe that m' is supposed to be written at each of the four outer corners.) So that we can tell in a moment, by looking at a compartment, what three Attributes belong to the Things in it. For instance, take No. 12. Here we find x, y', m, at the corners: so we know that the Cakes in it, if there are any, have the triple Attribute, 'xy'm', that is, "new, not-nice, and wholesome." Again, take No. 16. Here we find, at the corners, x', y', m': so the Cakes in it are "not-new, not-nice, and unwholesome." (Remarkably untempting Cakes!) It would take far too long to go through all the Propositions, containing x and y, x and m, and y and m which can be represented on this diagram (there are ninety-six altogether, so I am sure you will excuse me!) and I must content myself with doing two or three, as specimens. You will do well to work out a lot more for yourself. Taking the upper half by itself, so that our Subject is "new Cakes", how are we to represent "no new Cakes are wholesome"? This is, writing letters for words, "no x are m." Now this tells us that none of the Cakes, belonging to the upper half of the cupboard, are to be found INSIDE the central Square: that is, the two compartments, No. 11 and No. 12, are EMPTY. And this, of course, is represented by ------------------- | | | | _____|_____ | | | | | | | | 0 | 0 | | | | | | | ------------------- And now how are we to represent the contradictory Proposition "SOME x are m"? This is a difficulty I have already considered. I think the best way is to place a red counter ON THE DIVISION-LINE between No. 11 and No. 12, and to understand this to mean that ONE of the two compartments is 'occupied,' but that we do not at present know WHICH. This I shall represent thus:-- ------------------- | | | | _____|_____ | | | | | | | | -1- | | | | | | | ------------------- Now let us express "all x are m." This consists, we know, of TWO Propositions, "Some x are m," and "No x are m'." Let us express the negative part first. This tells us that none of the Cakes, belonging to the upper half of the cupboard, are to be found OUTSIDE the central Square: that is, the two compartments, No. 9 and No. 10, are EMPTY. This, of course, is represented by ------------------- | 0 | 0 | | _____|_____ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------- But we have yet to represent "Some x are m." This tells us that there are SOME Cakes in the oblong consisting of No. 11 and No. 12: so we place our red counter, as in the previous example, on the division-line between No. 11 and No. 12, and the result is ------------------- | 0 | 0 | | _____|_____ | | | | | | | | -1- | | | | | | | ------------------- Now let us try one or two interpretations. What are we to make of this, with regard to x and y? ------------------- | | 0 | | _____|_____ | | | | | | | | 1 | 0 | | | | | | | ------------------- This tells us, with regard to the xy'-Square, that it is wholly 'empty', since BOTH compartments are so marked. With regard to the xy-Square, it tells us that it is 'occupied'. True, it is only ONE compartment of it that is so marked; but that is quite enough, whether the other be 'occupied' or 'empty', to settle the fact that there is SOMETHING in the Square. If, then, we transfer our marks to the smaller Diagram, so as to get rid of the m-subdivisions, we have a right to mark it ----------- | | | | 1 | 0 | | | | ----------- which means, you know, "all x are y." The result would have been exactly the same, if the given oblong had been marked thus:-- ------------------- | 1 | 0 | | _____|_____ | | | | | | | | | 0 | | | | | | | ------------------- Once more: how shall we interpret this, with regard to x and y? ------------------- | 0 | 1 | | _____|_____ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ------------------- This tells us, as to the xy-Square, that ONE of its compartments is 'empty'. But this information is quite useless, as there is no mark in the OTHER compartment. If the other compartment happened to be 'empty' too, the Square would be 'empty': and, if it happened to be 'occupied', the Square would be 'occupied'. So, as we do not know WHICH is the case, we can say nothing about THIS Square. The other Square, the xy'-Square, we know (as in the previous example) to be 'occupied'. If, then, we transfer our marks to the smaller Diagram, we get merely this:-- ----------- | | | | | 1 | | | | ----------- which means, you know, "some x are y'." These principles may be applied to all the other oblongs. For instance, to represent "all y' are m'" we should mark the ------- RIGHT-HAND UPRIGHT OBLONG (the one | | that has the attribute y') thus:-- |--- | | 0 | | |---|-1-| | 0 | | |--- | | | ------- and, if we were told to interpret the lower half of the cupboard, marked as follows, with regard to x and y, ------------------- | | | | | | | | 0 | | | | | | | | -----|----- | | 1 | 0 | ------------------- we should transfer it to the smaller Diagram thus, ----------- | | | | 1 | 0 | | | | ----------- and read it "all x' are y." Two more remarks about Propositions need to be made. One is that, in every Proposition beginning with "some" or "all", the ACTUAL EXISTENCE of the 'Subject' is asserted. If, for instance, I say "all misers are selfish," I mean that misers ACTUALLY EXIST. If I wished to avoid making this assertion, and merely to state the LAW that miserliness necessarily involves selfishness, I should say "no misers are unselfish" which does not assert that any misers exist at all, but merely that, if any DID exist, they WOULD be selfish. The other is that, when a Proposition begins with "some" or "no", and contains more that two Attributes, these Attributes may be re-arranged, and shifted from one Term to the other, "ad libitum." For example, "some abc are def" may be re-arranged as "some bf are acde," each being equivalent to "some Things are abcdef". Again "No wise old men are rash and reckless gamblers" may be re-arranged as "No rash old gamblers are wise and reckless," each being equivalent to "No men are wise old rash reckless gamblers." 2. Syllogisms Now suppose we divide our Universe of Things in three ways, with regard to three different Attributes. Out of these three Attributes, we may make up three different couples (for instance, if they were a, b, c, we might make up the three couples ab, ac, bc). Also suppose we have two Propositions given us, containing two of these three couples, and that from them we can prove a third Proposition containing the third couple. (For example, if we divide our Universe for m, x, and y; and if we have the two Propositions given us, "no m are x'" and "all m' are y", containing the two couples mx and my, it might be possible to prove from them a third Proposition, containing x and y.) In such a case we call the given Propositions 'THE PREMISSES', the third one 'THE CONCLUSION' and the whole set 'A SYLLOGISM'. Evidently, ONE of the Attributes must occur in both Premisses; or else one must occur in ONE Premiss, and its CONTRADICTORY in the other. In the first case (when, for example, the Premisses are "some m are x" and "no m are y'") the Term, which occurs twice, is called 'THE MIDDLE TERM', because it serves as a sort of link between the other two Terms. In the second case (when, for example, the Premisses are "no m are x'" and "all m' are y") the two Terms, which contain these contradictory Attributes, may be called 'THE MIDDLE TERMS'. Thus, in the first case, the class of "m-Things" is the Middle Term; and, in the second case, the two classes of "m-Things" and "m'-Things" are the Middle Terms. The Attribute, which occurs in the Middle Term or Terms, disappears in the Conclusion, and is said to be "eliminated", which literally means "turned out of doors". Now let us try to draw a Conclusion from the two Premisses-- "Some new Cakes are unwholesome; No nice Cakes are unwholesome." In order to express them with counters, we need to divide Cakes in THREE different ways, with regard to newness, to niceness, and to wholesomeness. For this we must use the larger Diagram, making x mean "new", y "nice", and m "wholesome". (Everything INSIDE the central Square is supposed to have the attribute m, and everything OUTSIDE it the attribute m', i.e. "not-m".) You had better adopt the rule to make m mean the Attribute which occurs in the MIDDLE Term or Terms. (I have chosen m as the symbol, because 'middle' begins with 'm'.) Now, in representing the two Premisses, I prefer to begin with the NEGATIVE one (the one beginning with "no"), because GREY counters can always be placed with CERTAINTY, and will then help to fix the position of the red counters, which are sometimes a little uncertain where they will be most welcome. Let us express, the "no nice Cakes are unwholesome (Cakes)", i.e. "no y-Cakes are m'-(Cakes)". This tells us that none of the Cakes belonging to the y-half of the cupboard are in its m'-compartments (i.e. the ones outside the central Square). Hence the two compartments, No. 9 and No. 15, are both 'EMPTY'; and we must place a grey counter in EACH of them, thus:-- ----------- |0 | | | --|-- | | | | | | |--|-----|--| | | | | | | --|-- | |0 | | ----------- We have now to express the other Premiss, namely, "some new Cakes are unwholesome (Cakes)", i.e. "some x-Cakes are m'-(Cakes)". This tells us that some of the Cakes in the x-half of the cupboard are in its m'-compartments. Hence ONE of the two compartments, No. 9 and No. 10, is 'occupied': and, as we are not told in WHICH of these two compartments to place the red counter, the usual rule would be to lay it on the division-line between them: but, in this case, the other Premiss has settled the matter for us, by declaring No. 9 to be EMPTY. Hence the red counter has no choice, and MUST go into No. 10, thus:-- ----------- |0 | 1| | --|-- | | | | | | |--|-----|--| | | | | | | --|-- | |0 | | ----------- And now what counters will this information enable us to place in the SMALLER Diagram, so as to get some Proposition involving x and y only, leaving out m? Let us take its four compartments, one by one. First, No. 5. All we know about THIS is that its OUTER portion is empty: but we know nothing about its inner portion. Thus the Square MAY be empty, or it MAY have something in it. Who can tell? So we dare not place ANY counter in this Square. Secondly, what of No. 6? Here we are a little better off. We know that there is SOMETHING in it, for there is a red counter in its outer portion. It is true we do not know whether its inner portion is empty or occupied: but what does THAT matter? One solitary Cake, in one corner of the Square, is quite sufficient excuse for saying "THIS SQUARE IS OCCUPIED", and for marking it with a red counter. As to No. 7, we are in the same condition as with No. 5--we find it PARTLY 'empty', but we do not know whether the other part is empty or occupied: so we dare not mark this Square. And as to No. 8, we have simply no information at all. The result is ------- | | 1 | |---|---| | | | ------- Our 'Conclusion', then, must be got out of the rather meager piece of information that there is a red counter in the xy'-Square. Hence our Conclusion is "some x are y' ", i.e. "some new Cakes are not-nice (Cakes)": or, if you prefer to take y' as your Subject, "some not-nice Cakes are new (Cakes)"; but the other looks neatest. We will now write out the whole Syllogism, putting the symbol &there4[*] for "therefore", and omitting "Cakes", for the sake of brevity, at the end of each Proposition. [*][NOTE from Brett: The use of "&there4" is a rather arbitrary selection. There is no font available in general practice which renders the "therefore" symbol correction (three dots in a triangular formation). This can be done, however, in HTML, so if this document is read in a browser, then the symbol will be properly recognized. This is a poor man's excuse.] "Some new Cakes are unwholesome; No nice Cakes are unwholesome &there4 Some new Cakes are not-nice." And you have now worked out, successfully, your first 'SYLLOGISM'. Permit me to congratulate you, and to express the hope that it is but the beginning of a long and glorious series of similar victories! We will work out one other Syllogism--a rather harder one than the last--and then, I think, you may be safely left to play the Game by yourself, or (better) with any friend whom you can find, that is able and willing to take a share in the sport. Let us see what we can make of the two Premisses-- "All Dragons are uncanny; All Scotchmen are canny." Remember, I don't guarantee the Premisses to be FACTS. In the first place, I never even saw a Dragon: and, in the second place, it isn't of the slightest consequence to us, as LOGICIANS, whether our Premisses are true or false: all WE have to do is to make out whether they LEAD LOGICALLY TO THE CONCLUSION, so that, if THEY were true, IT would be true also. You see, we must give up the "Cakes" now, or our cupboard will be of no use to us. We must take, as our 'Universe', some class of things which will include Dragons and Scotchmen: shall we say 'Animals'? And, as "canny" is evidently the Attribute belonging to the 'Middle Terms', we will let m stand for "canny", x for "Dragons", and y for "Scotchmen". So that our two Premisses are, in full, "All Dragon-Animals are uncanny (Animals); All Scotchman-Animals are canny (Animals)." And these may be expressed, using letters for words, thus:-- "All x are m'; All y are m." The first Premiss consists, as you already know, of two parts:-- "Some x are m'," and "No x are m." And the second also consists of two parts:-- "Some y are m," and "No y are m'." Let us take the negative portions first. We have, then, to mark, on the larger Diagram, first, "no x are m", and secondly, "no y are m'". I think you will see, without further explanation, that the two results, separately, are ----------- ----------- | | | |0 | | | --|-- | | --|-- | | |0 | 0| | | | | | | |--|--|--|--| |--|--|--|--| | | | | | | | | | | | --|-- | | --|-- | | | | |0 | | ----------- ----------- and that these two, when combined, give us ----------- |0 | | | --|-- | | |0 | 0| | |--|--|--|--| | | | | | | --|-- | |0 | | ----------- We have now to mark the two positive portions, "some x are m'" and "some y are m". The only two compartments, available for Things which are xm', are No. 9 and No. 10. Of these, No. 9 is already marked as 'empty'; so our red counter must go into No. 10. Similarly, the only two, available for ym, are No. 11 and No. 13. Of these, No. 11 is already marked as 'empty'; so our red counter MUST go into No. 13. The final result is ----------- |0 | 1| | --|-- | | |0 | 0| | |--|--|--|--| | |1 | | | | --|-- | |0 | | ----------- And now how much of this information can usefully be transferred to the smaller Diagram? Let us take its four compartments, one by one. As to No. 5? This, we see, is wholly 'empty'. (So mark it with a grey counter.) As to No. 6? This, we see, is 'occupied'. (So mark it with a red counter.) As to No. 7? Ditto, ditto. As to No. 8? No information. The smaller Diagram is now pretty liberally marked:-- ------- | 0 | 1 | |---|---| | 1 | | ------- And now what Conclusion can we read off from this? Well, it is impossible to pack such abundant information into ONE Proposition: we shall have to indulge in TWO, this time. First, by taking x as Subject, we get "all x are y'", that is, "All Dragons are not-Scotchmen": secondly, by taking y as Subject, we get "all y are x'", that is, "All Scotchmen are not-Dragons". Let us now write out, all together, our two Premisses and our brace of Conclusions. "All Dragons are uncanny; All Scotchmen are canny. &there4 All Dragons are not-Scotchmen; All Scotchmen are not-Dragons." Let me mention, in conclusion, that you may perhaps meet with logical treatises in which it is not assumed that any Thing EXISTS at all, by "some x are y" is understood to mean "the Attributes x, y are COMPATIBLE, so that a Thing can have both at once", and "no x are y" to mean "the Attributes x, y are INCOMPATIBLE, so that nothing can have both at once". In such treatises, Propositions have quite different meanings from what they have in our 'Game of Logic', and it will be well to understand exactly what the difference is. First take "some x are y". Here WE understand "are" to mean "are, as an actual FACT"--which of course implies that some x-Things EXIST. But THEY (the writers of these other treatises) only understand "are" to mean "CAN be", which does not at all imply that any EXIST. So they mean LESS than we do: our meaning includes theirs (for of course "some x ARE y" includes "some x CAN BE y"), but theirs does NOT include ours. For example, "some Welsh hippopotami are heavy" would be TRUE, according to these writers (since the Attributes "Welsh" and "heavy" are quite COMPATIBLE in a hippopotamus), but it would be FALSE in our Game (since there are no Welsh hippopotami to BE heavy). Secondly, take "no x are y". Here WE only understand "are" to mean "are, as an actual FACT"--which does not at all imply that no x CAN be y. But THEY understand the Proposition to mean, not only that none ARE y, but that none CAN POSSIBLY be y. So they mean more than we do: their meaning includes ours (for of course "no x CAN be y" includes "no x ARE y"), but ours does NOT include theirs. For example, "no Policemen are eight feet high" would be TRUE in our Game (since, as an actual fact, no such splendid specimens are ever found), but it would be FALSE, according to these writers (since the Attributes "belonging to the Police Force" and "eight feet high" are quite COMPATIBLE: there is nothing to PREVENT a Policeman from growing to that height, if sufficiently rubbed with Rowland's Macassar Oil--which said to make HAIR grow, when rubbed on hair, and so of course will make a POLICEMAN grow, when rubbed on a Policeman). Thirdly, take "all x are y", which consists of the two partial Propositions "some x are y" and "no x are y'". Here, of course, the treatises mean LESS than we do in the FIRST part, and more than we do in the SECOND. But the two operations don't balance each other--any more than you can console a man, for having knocked down one of his chimneys, by giving him an extra door-step. If you meet with Syllogisms of this kind, you may work them, quite easily, by the system I have given you: you have only to make 'are' mean 'are CAPABLE of being', and all will go smoothly. For "some x are y" will become "some x are capable of being y", that is, "the Attributes x, y are COMPATIBLE". And "no x are y" will become "no x are capable of being y", that is, "the Attributes x, y are INCOMPATIBLE". And, of course, "all x are y" will become "some x are capable of being y, and none are capable of being y'", that is, "the Attributes x, y are COMPATIBLE, and the Attributes x, y' are INCOMPATIBLE." In using the Diagrams for this system, you must understand a red counter to mean "there may POSSIBLY be something in this compartment," and a grey one to mean "there cannot POSSIBLY be anything in this compartment." 3. Fallacies. And so you think, do you, that the chief use of Logic, in real life, is to deduce Conclusions from workable Premisses, and to satisfy yourself that the Conclusions, deduced by other people, are correct? I only wish it were! Society would be much less liable to panics and other delusions, and POLITICAL life, especially, would be a totally different thing, if even a majority of the arguments, that scattered broadcast over the world, were correct! But it is all the other way, I fear. For ONE workable Pair of Premisses (I mean a Pair that lead to a logical Conclusion) that you meet with in reading your newspaper or magazine, you will probably find FIVE that lead to no Conclusion at all: and, even when the Premisses ARE workable, for ONE instance, where the writer draws a correct Conclusion, there are probably TEN where he draws an incorrect one. In the first case, you may say "the PREMISSES are fallacious": in the second, "the CONCLUSION is fallacious." The chief use you will find, in such Logical skill as this Game may teach you, will be in detecting 'FALLACIES' of these two kinds. The first kind of Fallacy--'Fallacious Premisses'--you will detect when, after marking them on the larger Diagram, you try to transfer the marks to the smaller. You will take its four compartments, one by one, and ask, for each in turn, "What mark can I place HERE?"; and in EVERY one the answer will be "No information!", showing that there is NO CONCLUSION AT ALL. For instance, "All soldiers are brave; Some Englishmen are brave. &there4 Some Englishmen are soldiers." looks uncommonly LIKE a Syllogism, and might easily take in a less experienced Logician. But YOU are not to be caught by such a trick! You would simply set out the Premisses, and would then calmly remark "Fallacious PREMISSES!": you wouldn't condescend to ask what CONCLUSION the writer professed to draw--knowing that, WHATEVER it is, it MUST be wrong. You would be just as safe as that wise mother was, who said "Mary, just go up to the nursery, and see what Baby's doing, AND TELL HIM NOT TO DO IT!" The other kind of Fallacy--'Fallacious Conclusion'--you will not detect till you have marked BOTH Diagrams, and have read off the correct Conclusion, and have compared it with the Conclusion which the writer has drawn. But mind, you mustn't say "FALLACIOUS Conclusion," simply because it is not IDENTICAL with the correct one: it may be a PART of the correct Conclusion, and so be quite correct, AS FAR AS IT GOES. In this case you would merely remark, with a pitying smile, "DEFECTIVE Conclusion!" Suppose, of example, you were to meet with this Syllogism:-- "All unselfish people are generous; No misers are generous. &there4 No misers are unselfish." the Premisses of which might be thus expressed in letters:-- "All x' are m; No y are m." Here the correct Conclusion would be "All x' are y'" (that is, "All unselfish people are not misers"), while the Conclusion, drawn by the writer, is "No y are x'," (which is the same as "No x' are y," and so is PART of "All x' are y'.") Here you would simply say "DEFECTIVE Conclusion!" The same thing would happen, if you were in a confectioner's shop, and if a little boy were to come in, put down twopence, and march off triumphantly with a single penny-bun. You would shake your head mournfully, and would remark "Defective Conclusion! Poor little chap!" And perhaps you would ask the young lady behind the counter whether she would let YOU eat the bun, which the little boy had paid for and left behind him: and perhaps SHE would reply "Sha'n't!" But if, in the above example, the writer had drawn the Conclusion "All misers are selfish" (that is, "All y are x"), this would be going BEYOND his legitimate rights (since it would assert the EXISTENCE of y, which is not contained in the Premisses), and you would very properly say "Fallacious Conclusion!" Now, when you read other treatises on Logic, you will meet with various kinds of (so-called) 'Fallacies' which are by no means ALWAYS so. For example, if you were to put before one of these Logicians the Pair of Premisses "No honest men cheat; No dishonest men are trustworthy." and were to ask him what Conclusion followed, he would probably say "None at all! Your Premisses offend against TWO distinct Rules, and are as fallacious as they can well be!" Then suppose you were bold enough to say "The Conclusion is 'No men who cheat are trustworthy'," I fear your Logical friend would turn away hastily--perhaps angry, perhaps only scornful: in any case, the result would be unpleasant. I ADVISE YOU NOT TO TRY THE EXPERIMENT! "But why is this?" you will say. "Do you mean to tell us that all these Logicians are wrong?" Far from it, dear Reader! From THEIR point of view, they are perfectly right. But they do not include, in their system, anything like ALL the possible forms of Syllogisms. They have a sort of nervous dread of Attributes beginning with a negative particle. For example, such Propositions as "All not-x are y," "No x are not-y," are quite outside their system. And thus, having (from sheer nervousness) excluded a quantity of very useful forms, they have made rules which, though quite applicable to the few forms which they allow of, are no use at all when you consider all possible forms. Let us not quarrel with them, dear Reader! There is room enough in the world for both of us. Let us quietly take our broader system: and, if they choose to shut their eyes to all these useful forms, and to say "They are not Syllogisms at all!" we can but stand aside, and let them Rush upon their Fate! There is scarcely anything of yours, upon which it is so dangerous to Rush, as your Fate. You may Rush upon your Potato-beds, or your Strawberry-beds, without doing much harm: you may even Rush upon your Balcony (unless it is a new house, built by contract, and with no clerk of the works) and may survive the foolhardy enterprise: but if you once Rush upon your FATE--why, you must take the consequences! CHAPTER II. CROSS QUESTIONS. "The Man in the Wilderness asked of me 'How many strawberries grow in the sea?'" __________ 1. Elementary. 1. What is an 'Attribute'? Give examples. 2. When is it good sense to put "is" or "are" between two names? Give examples. 3. When is it NOT good sense? Give examples. 4. When it is NOT good sense, what is the simplest agreement to make, in order to make good sense? 5. Explain 'Proposition', 'Term', 'Subject', and 'Predicate'. Give examples. 6. What are 'Particular' and 'Universal' Propositions? Give examples. 7. Give a rule for knowing, when we look at the smaller Diagram, what Attributes belong to the things in each compartment. 8. What does "some" mean in Logic? [See pp. 55, 6] 9. In what sense do we use the word 'Universe' in this Game? 10. What is a 'Double' Proposition? Give examples. 11. When is a class of Things said to be 'exhaustively' divided? Give examples. 12. Explain the phrase "sitting on the fence." 13. What two partial Propositions make up, when taken together, "all x are y"? 14. What are 'Individual' Propositions? Give examples. 15. What kinds of Propositions imply, in this Game, the EXISTENCE of their Subjects? 16. When a Proposition contains more than two Attributes, these Attributes may in some cases be re-arranged, and shifted from one Term to the other. In what cases may this be done? Give examples. __________ Break up each of the following into two partial Propositions: 17. All tigers are fierce. 18. All hard-boiled eggs are unwholesome. 19. I am happy. 20. John is not at home. __________ [See pp. 56, 7] 21. Give a rule for knowing, when we look at the larger Diagram, what Attributes belong to the Things contained in each compartment. 22. Explain 'Premisses', 'Conclusion', and 'Syllogism'. Give examples. 23. Explain the phrases 'Middle Term' and 'Middle Terms'. 24. In marking a pair of Premisses on the larger Diagram, why is it best to mark NEGATIVE Propositions before AFFIRMATIVE ones? 25. Why is it of no consequence to us, as Logicians, whether the Premisses are true or false? 26. How can we work Syllogisms in which we are told that "some x are y" is to be understood to mean "the Attribute x, y are COMPATIBLE", and "no x are y" to mean "the Attributes x, y are INCOMPATIBLE"? 27. What are the two kinds of 'Fallacies'? 28. How may we detect 'Fallacious Premisses'? 29. How may we detect a 'Fallacious Conclusion'? 30. Sometimes the Conclusion, offered to us, is not identical with the correct Conclusion, and yet cannot be fairly called 'Fallacious'. When does this happen? And what name may we give to such a Conclusion? [See pp. 57-59] 2. Half of Smaller Diagram. Propositions to be represented. ----------- | | | | x | | | | --y-----y'- __________ 1. Some x are not-y. 2. All x are not-y. 3. Some x are y, and some are not-y. 4. No x exist. 5. Some x exist. 6. No x are not-y. 7. Some x are not-y, and some x exist. __________ Taking x="judges"; y="just"; 8. No judges are just. 9. Some judges are unjust. 10. All judges are just. __________ Taking x="plums"; y="wholesome"; 11. Some plums are wholesome. 12. There are no wholesome plums. 13. Plums are some of them wholesome, and some not. 14. All plums are unwholesome. [See pp. 59, 60] ----- | | | x | | |--y--| | | | x' | | ----- __________ Taking y="diligent students"; x="successful"; 15. No diligent students are unsuccessful. 16. All diligent students are successful. 17. No students are diligent. 18. There are some diligent, but unsuccessful, students. 19. Some students are diligent. [See pp. 60, 1] 3. Half of Smaller Diagram. Symbols to be interpreted. __________ ----------- | | | | x | | | | --y-----y'- __________ ------- ------- | | | | | | 1. | | 0 | 2. | 0 | 0 | | | | | | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | | | | | 3. | - | 4. | 0 | 1 | | | | | | | ------- ------- __________ Taking x="good riddles"; y="hard"; ------- ------- | | | | | | 5. | 1 | | 6. | 1 | 0 | | | | | | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | | | | | 7. | 0 | 0 | 8. | 0 | | | | | | | | ------- ------- __________ [See pp. 61, 2] Taking x="lobster"; y="selfish"; ------- ------- | | | | | | 9. | | 1 | 10. | 0 | | | | | | | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | | | | | 11. | 0 | 1 | 12. | 1 | 1 | | | | | | | ------- ------- __________ ----- | | x | | | |--y'-| | | x' | | | ----- Taking y="healthy people"; x="happy"; --- --- --- --- | 0 | | | | 1 | | 0 | 13. |---| 14. |-1-| 15. |---| 16. |---| | 1 | | | | 1 | | | --- --- --- --- [See p. 62] 4. Smaller Diagram. Propositions to be represented. ----------- | | | | x | |--y--|--y'-| | x' | | | | ----------- __________ 1. All y are x. 2. Some y are not-x. 3. No not-x are not-y. 4. Some x are not-y. 5. Some not-y are x. 6. No not-x are y. 7. Some not-x are not-y. 8. All not-x are not-y. 9. Some not-y exist. 10. No not-x exist. 11. Some y are x, and some are not-x. 12. All x are y, and all not-y are not-x. [See pp. 62, 3] Taking "nations" as Universe; x="civilised"; y="warlike"; 13. No uncivilised nation is warlike. 14. All unwarlike nations are uncivilised. 15. Some nations are unwarlike. 16. All warlike nations are civilised, and all civilised nations are warlike. 17. No nation is uncivilised. __________ Taking "crocodiles" as Universe; x="hungry"; and y="amiable"; 18. All hungry crocodiles are unamiable. 19. No crocodiles are amiable when hungry. 20. Some crocodiles, when not hungry, are amiable; but some are not. 21. No crocodiles are amiable, and some are hungry. 22. All crocodiles, when not hungry, are amiable; and all unamiable crocodiles are hungry. 23. Some hungry crocodiles are amiable, and some that are not hungry are unamiable. [See pp. 63, 4] 5. Smaller Diagram. Symbols to be interpreted. __________ ----------- | | | | x | |--y--|--y'-| | x' | | | | ----------- __________ ------- ------- | | | | | | 1. |---|---| 2. |---|---| | 1 | | | | 0 | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | 1 | | | | 3. |---|---| 4. |---|---| | | 0 | | 0 | 0 | ------- ------- __________ Taking "houses" as Universe; x="built of brick"; and y="two-storied"; interpret ------- ------- | 0 | | | | | 5. |---|---| 6. |---|---| | 0 | | | - | ------- ---|--- ------- ------- | | 0 | | | | 7. |---|---| 8. |---|---| | | | | 0 | 1 | ------- ------- [See p. 65] Taking "boys" as Universe; x="fat"; and y="active"; interpret ------- ------- | 1 | 1 | | | 0 | 9. |---|---| 10. |---|---| | | | | | 1 | ------- ------- ------- ------- | 0 | 1 | | 1 | | 11. |---|---| 12. |---|---| | | 0 | | 0 | 1 | ------- ------- __________ Taking "cats" as Universe; x="green-eyed"; and y="good-tempered"; interpret ------- ------- | 0 | 0 | | | 1 | 13. |---|---| 14. |---|---| | | 0 | | 1 | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | 1 | | | 0 | 1 | 15. |---|---| 16. |---|---| | | 0 | | 1 | 0 | ------- ------- [See pp. 65, 6] 6. Larger Diagram. Propositions to be represented. __________ ----------- | | | | --x-- | | | | | | |--y--m--y'-| | | | | | | --x'- | | | | ----------- __________ 1. No x are m. 2. Some y are m'. 3. All m are x'. 4. No m' are y'. 5. No m are x; All y are m. 6. Some x are m; No y are m. 7. All m are x'; No m are y. 8. No x' are m; No y' are m'. [See pp. 67,8] Taking "rabbits" as Universe; m="greedy"; x="old"; and y="black"; represent 9. No old rabbits are greedy. 10. Some not-greedy rabbits are black. 11. All white rabbits are free from greediness. 12. All greedy rabbits are young. 13. No old rabbits are greedy; All black rabbits are greedy. 14. All rabbits, that are not greedy, are black; No old rabbits are free from greediness. __________ Taking "birds" as Universe; m="that sing loud"; x="well-fed"; and y="happy"; represent 15. All well-fed birds sing loud; No birds, that sing loud, are unhappy. 16. All birds, that do not sing loud, are unhappy; No well-fed birds fail to sing loud. __________ Taking "persons" as Universe; m="in the house"; x="John"; and y="having a tooth-ache"; represent 17. John is in the house; Everybody in the house is suffering from tooth-ache. 18. There is no one in the house but John; Nobody, out of the house, has a tooth-ache. __________ [See pp. 68-70] Taking "persons" as Universe; m="I"; x="that has taken a walk"; y="that feels better"; represent 19. I have been out for a walk; I feel much better. __________ Choosing your own 'Universe' &c., represent 20. I sent him to bring me a kitten; He brought me a kettle by mistake. [See pp. 70, 1] 7. Both Diagrams to be employed. __________ ----------- | | | ----------- | --x-- | | | | | | | | | | x | |--y--m--y'-| |--y--|--y'-| | | | | | | x' | | --x'- | | | | | | | ----------- ----------- __________ N.B. In each Question, a small Diagram should be drawn, for x and y only, and marked in accordance with the given large Diagram: and then as many Propositions as possible, for x and y, should be read off from this small Diagram. ----------- ----------- |0 | | | | | | --|-- | | --|-- | | |0 | 0| | | |0 | 1| | 1. |--|--|--|--| 2. |--|--|--|--| | |1 | | | | |0 | | | | --|-- | | --|-- | |0 | | | | | ----------- ----------- [See p. 72] ----------- ----------- | | | | | 0| | --|-- | | --|-- | | |0 | 0| | | | | | | 3. |--|--|--|--| 4. |--|--|--|--| | |1 | 0| | | |0 | | | | --|-- | | --|-- | | | | | | 0| ----------- ----------- __________ Mark, in a large Diagram, the following pairs of Propositions from the preceding Section: then mark a small Diagram in accordance with it, &c. 5. No. 13. [see p. 49] 9. No. 17. 6. No. 14. 10. No. 18. 7. No. 15. 11. No. 19. [see p. 50] 8. No. 16. 12. No. 20. __________ Mark, on a large Diagram, the following Pairs of Propositions: then mark a small Diagram, &c. These are, in fact, Pairs of PREMISSES for Syllogisms: and the results, read off from the small Diagram, are the CONCLUSIONS. 13. No exciting books suit feverish patients; Unexciting books make one drowsy. 14. Some, who deserve the fair, get their deserts; None but the brave deserve the fair. 15. No children are patient; No impatient person can sit still. [See pp. 72-5] 16. All pigs are fat; No skeletons are fat. 17. No monkeys are soldiers; All monkeys are mischievous. 18. None of my cousins are just; No judges are unjust. 19. Some days are rainy; Rainy days are tiresome. 20. All medicine is nasty; Senna is a medicine. 21. Some Jews are rich; All Patagonians are Gentiles. 22. All teetotalers like sugar; No nightingale drinks wine. 23. No muffins are wholesome; All buns are unwholesome. 24. No fat creatures run well; Some greyhounds run well. 25. All soldiers march; Some youths are not soldiers. 26. Sugar is sweet; Salt is not sweet. 27. Some eggs are hard-boiled; No eggs are uncrackable. 28. There are no Jews in the house; There are no Gentiles in the garden. [See pp. 75-82] 29. All battles are noisy; What makes no noise may escape notice. 30. No Jews are mad; All Rabbis are Jews. 31. There are no fish that cannot swim; Some skates are fish. 32. All passionate people are unreasonable; Some orators are passionate. [See pp. 82-84] CHAPTER III. CROOKED ANSWERS. "I answered him, as I thought good, 'As many as red-herrings grow in the wood'." __________ 1. Elementary. 1. Whatever can be "attributed to", that is "said to belong to", a Thing, is called an 'Attribute'. For example, "baked", which can (frequently) be attributed to "Buns", and "beautiful", which can (seldom) be attributed to "Babies". 2. When they are the Names of two Things (for example, "these Pigs are fat Animals"), or of two Attributes (for example, "pink is light red"). 3. When one is the Name of a Thing, and the other the Name of an Attribute (for example, "these Pigs are pink"), since a Thing cannot actually BE an Attribute. 4. That the Substantive shall be supposed to be repeated at the end of the sentence (for example, "these Pigs are pink (Pigs)"). 5. A 'Proposition' is a sentence stating that some, or none, or all, of the Things belonging to a certain class, called the 'Subject', are also Things belonging to a certain other class, called the 'Predicate'. For example, "some new Cakes are not nice", that is (written in full) "some new Cakes are not nice Cakes"; where the class "new Cakes" is the Subject, and the class "not-nice Cakes" is the Predicate. 6. A Proposition, stating that SOME of the Things belonging to its Subject are so-and-so, is called 'Particular'. For example, "some new Cakes are nice", "some new Cakes are not nice." A Proposition, stating that NONE of the Things belonging to its Subject, or that ALL of them, are so-and-so, is called 'Universal'. For example, "no new Cakes are nice", "all new Cakes are not nice". 7. The Things in each compartment possess TWO Attributes, whose symbols will be found written on two of the EDGES of that compartment. 8. "One or more." 9. As a name of the class of Things to which the whole Diagram is assigned. 10. A Proposition containing two statements. For example, "some new Cakes are nice and some are not-nice." 11. When the whole class, thus divided, is "exhausted" among the sets into which it is divided, there being no member of it which does not belong to some one of them. For example, the class "new Cakes" is "exhaustively" divided into "nice" and "not-nice" since EVERY new Cake must be one or the other. 12. When a man cannot make up his mind which of two parties he will join, he is said to be "sitting on the fence"--not being able to decide on which side he will jump down. 13. "Some x are y" and "no x are y'". 14. A Proposition, whose Subject is a single Thing, is called 'Individual'. For example, "I am happy", "John is not at home". These are Universal Propositions, being the same as "all the I's that exist are happy", "ALL the Johns, that I am now considering, are not at home". 15. Propositions beginning with "some" or "all". 16. When they begin with "some" or "no". For example, "some abc are def" may be re-arranged as "some bf are acde", each being equivalent to "some abcdef exist". 17. Some tigers are fierce, No tigers are not-fierce. 18. Some hard-boiled eggs are unwholesome, No hard-boiled eggs are wholesome. 19. Some I's are happy, No I's are unhappy. 20. Some Johns are not at home, No Johns are at home. 21. The Things, in each compartment of the larger Diagram, possess THREE Attributes, whose symbols will be found written at three of the CORNERS of the compartment (except in the case of m', which is not actually inserted in the Diagram, but is SUPPOSED to stand at each of its four outer corners). 22. If the Universe of Things be divided with regard to three different Attributes; and if two Propositions be given, containing two different couples of these Attributes; and if from these we can prove a third Proposition, containing the two Attributes that have not yet occurred together; the given Propositions are called 'the Premisses', the third one 'the Conclusion', and the whole set 'a Syllogism'. For example, the Premisses might be "no m are x'" and "all m' are y"; and it might be possible to prove from them a Conclusion containing x and y. 23. If an Attribute occurs in both Premisses, the Term containing it is called 'the Middle Term'. For example, if the Premisses are "some m are x" and "no m are y'", the class of "m-Things" is 'the Middle Term.' If an Attribute occurs in one Premiss, and its contradictory in the other, the Terms containing them may be called 'the Middle Terms'. For example, if the Premisses are "no m are x'" and "all m' are y", the two classes of "m-Things" and "m'-Things" may be called 'the Middle Terms'. 24. Because they can be marked with CERTAINTY: whereas AFFIRMATIVE Propositions (that is, those that begin with "some" or "all") sometimes require us to place a red counter 'sitting on a fence'. 25. Because the only question we are concerned with is whether the Conclusion FOLLOWS LOGICALLY from the Premisses, so that, if THEY were true, IT also would be true. 26. By understanding a red counter to mean "this compartment CAN be occupied", and a grey one to mean "this compartment CANNOT be occupied" or "this compartment MUST be empty". 27. 'Fallacious Premisses' and 'Fallacious Conclusion'. 28. By finding, when we try to transfer marks from the larger Diagram to the smaller, that there is 'no information' for any of its four compartments. 29. By finding the correct Conclusion, and then observing that the Conclusion, offered to us, is neither identical with it nor a part of it. 30. When the offered Conclusion is PART of the correct Conclusion. In this case, we may call it a 'Defective Conclusion'. 2. Half of Smaller Diagram. Propositions represented. __________ ------- ------- | | | | | | 1. | | 1 | 2. | 0 | 1 | | | | | | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | | | | | 3. | 1 | 1 | 4. | 0 | 0 | | | | | | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | | | | | 5. | 1 | 6. | | 0 | | | | | | | ------- ------- ------- | | | 7. | 1 | 1 | It might be thought that the proper | | | ------- ------- | | | Diagram would be | 1 1 |, in order to express "some | | | ------- x exist": but this is really contained in "some x are y'." To put a red counter on the division-line would only tell us "ONE OF THE compartments is occupied", which we know already, in knowing that ONE is occupied. ------- | | | 8. No x are y. i.e. | 0 | | | | | ------- ------- | | | 9. Some x are y'. i.e. | | 1 | | | | ------- ------- | | | 10. All x are y. i.e. | 1 | 0 | | | | ------- ------- | | | 11. Some x are y. i.e. | 1 | | | | | ------- ------- | | | 12. No x are y. i.e. | 0 | | | | | ------- ------- | | | 13. Some x are y, and some are y'. i.e. | 1 | 1 | | | | ------- ------- | | | 14. All x are y'. i.e. | 0 | 1 | | | | ------- --- | | 15. No y are x'. i.e. |---| | 0 | --- --- | 1 | 16. All y are x. i.e. |---| | 0 | --- --- | 0 | 17. No y exist. i.e. |---| | 0 | --- --- | | 18. Some y are x'. i.e. |---| | 1 | --- --- | | 15. Some y exist. i.e. |-1-| | | --- 3. Half of Smaller Diagram. Symbols interpreted. __________ 1. No x are y'. 2. No x exist. 3. Some x exist. 4. All x are y'. 5. Some x are y. i.e. Some good riddles are hard. 6. All x are y. i.e. All good riddles are hard. 7. No x exist. i.e. No riddles are good. 8. No x are y. i.e. No good riddles are hard. 9. Some x are y'. i.e. Some lobsters are unselfish. 10. No x are y. i.e. No lobsters are selfish. 11. All x are y'. i.e. All lobsters are unselfish. 12. Some x are y, and some are y'. i.e. Some lobsters are selfish, and some are unselfish. 13. All y' are x'. i.e. All invalids are unhappy. 14. Some y' exist. i.e. Some people are unhealthy. 15. Some y' are x, and some are x'. i.e. Some invalids are happy, and some are unhappy. 16. No y' exist. i.e. Nobody is unhealthy. 4. Smaller Diagram. Propositions represented. __________ ------- ------- | 1 | | | | | 1. |---|---| 2. |---|---| | 0 | | | 1 | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | | | | 1 | 3. |---|---| 4. |---|---| | | 0 | | | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | 1 | | | | 5. |---|---| 6. |---|---| | | | | 0 | | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | | | | | 7. |---|---| 8. |---|---| | | 1 | | 0 | 1 | ------- ------- ------- ------- | | | | | | 9. |---|-1-| 10. |---|---| | | | | 0 | 0 | ------- ------- ------- ------- | 1 | | | 1 | 0 | 11. |---|---| 12. |---|---| | 1 | | | | 1 | ------- ------- ------- | | | 13. No x' are y. i.e. |---|---| | 0 | | ------- ------- | | 0 | 14. All y' are x'. i.e. |---|---| | | 1 | ------- ------- | | | 15. Some y' exist. i.e. |---|-1-| | | | ------- ------- | 1 | 0 | 16. All y are x, and all x are y. i.e. |---|---| | 0 | | ------- ------- | | | 17. No x' exist. i.e. |---|---| | 0 | 0 | ------- ------- | 0 | 1 | 18. All x are y'. i.e. |---|---| | | | ------- ------- | 0 | | 19. No x are y. i.e. |---|---| | | | ------- ------- | | | 20. Some x' are y, and some are y'. i.e. |---|---| | 1 | 1 | ------- ------- | 0 | 1 | 21. No y exist, and some x exist. i.e. |---|---| | 0 | | ------- ------- | | 1 | 22. All x' are y, and all y' are x. i.e. |---|---| | 1 | 0 | ------- ------- | 1 | | 17. Some x are y, and some x' are y'. i.e. |---|---| | | 1 | ------- 5. Smaller Diagram. Symbols interpreted. __________ 1. Some y are not-x, or, Some not-x are y. 2. No not-x are not-y, or, No not-y are not-x. 3. No not-y are x. 4. No not-x exist. i.e. No Things are not-x. 5. No y exist. i.e. No houses are two-storied. 6. Some x' exist. i.e. Some houses are not built of brick. 7. No x are y'. Or, no y' are x. i.e. No houses, built of brick, are other than two-storied. Or, no houses, that are not two-storied, are built of brick. 8. All x' are y'. i.e. All houses, that are not built of brick, are not two-storied. 9. Some x are y, and some are y'. i.e. Some fat boys are active, and some are not. 10. All y' are x'. i.e. All lazy boys are thin. 11. All x are y', and all y' are x. i.e. All fat boys are lazy, and all lazy ones are fat. 12. All y are x, and all x' are y. i.e. All active boys are fat, and all thin ones are lazy. 13. No x exist, and no y' exist. i.e. No cats have green eyes, and none have bad tempers. 14. Some x are y', and some x' are y. Or some y are x', and some y' are x. i.e. Some green-eyed cats are bad-tempered, and some, that have not green eyes, are good-tempered. Or, some good-tempered cats have not green eyes, and some bad-tempered ones have green eyes. 15. Some x are y, and no x' are y'. Or, some y are x, and no y' are x'. i.e. Some green-eyed cats are good-tempered, and none, that are not green-eyed, are bad-tempered. Or, some good-tempered cats have green eyes, and none, that are bad-tempered, have not green eyes. 16. All x are y', and all x' are y. Or, all y are x', and all y' are x. i.e. All green-eyed cats are bad-tempered and all, that have not green eyes, are good-tempered. Or, all good-tempered ones have eyes that are not green, and all bad-tempered ones have green eyes. 6. Larger Diagram. Propositions represented. __________ --------------- --------------- | | | | | | | ---|--- | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | | | | | | 1. |---|---|---|---| 2. |-1-|---|---|---| | | | | | | | | | | | ---|--- | | ---|--- | | | | | | | --------------- --------------- --------------- --------------- | | | | | 0 | | ---|--- | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | | | | | | 3. |---|---|---|---| 4. |---|---|---|---| | | - | | | | | | | | ---|--- | | ---|--- | | | | | | 0 | --------------- --------------- --------------- --------------- | 0 | | | | | | ---|--- | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | | | 0 | 1 | | 5. |---|---|---|---| 6. |---|---|---|---| | | 1 | | | | | 0 | | | | ---|--- | | ---|--- | | 0 | | | | | --------------- --------------- --------------- --------------- | | | | | 0 | | ---|--- | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | | | | | | 7. |---|---|---|---| 8. |---|---|---|---| | | 0 | 1 | | | | 0 | 0 | | | ---|--- | | ---|--- | | | | | | 0 | --------------- --------------- --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 9. No x are m. i.e. |---|---|---|---| | | 0 | | | | ---|--- | | | | --------------- --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | | | | 10. Some m' are y. i.e. |-1-|---|---|---| | | | | | | ---|--- | | | | --------------- --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | | 0 | | 11. All y' are m'. i.e. |---|---|---|-1-| | | | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | | --------------- --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 12. All m are x'. i.e. |---|---|---|---| | | 1 | | | ---|--- | | | | --------------- --------------- | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 13. No x are m; i.e. |---|---|---|---| All y are m. | | 1 | | | | ---|--- | | 0 | | --------------- --------------- | 0 | 0 | | ---|--- | | | | | | 14. All m' are y; i.e. |---|---|---|---| No x are m'. | | | | | | ---|--- | | 1 | 0 | --------------- --------------- | 0 | 0 | | ---|--- | | | 1 | 0 | | 15. All x are m; i.e. |---|---|---|---| No m are y'. | | | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | | --------------- --------------- | 0 | 0 | | ---|--- | | | | | | 16. All m' are y'; i.e. |---|---|---|---| No x are m'. | | | | | | ---|--- | | 0 | 1 | --------------- --------------- | 0 | 0 | | ---|--- | | | 1 | 0 | | 17. All x are m; i.e. |---|---|---|---| All m are y. | | | 0 | | | ---|--- | [See remarks on No. 7, p. 60.] | | | --------------- --------------- | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | | | | 18. No x' are m; i.e. |---|---|---|---| No m' are y. | | 0 | 0 | | | ---|--- | | 0 | | --------------- --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 1 | 0 | | 19. All m are x; i.e. |---|---|---|---| All m are y. | | 0 | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | | --------------- 20. We had better take "persons" as Universe. We may choose "myself" as 'Middle Term', in which case the Premisses will take the form I am a-person-who-sent-him-to-bring-a-kitten; I am a-person-to-whom-he-brought-a-kettle-by-mistake. Or we may choose "he" as 'Middle Term', in which case the Premisses will take the form He is a-person-whom-I-sent-to-bring-me-a-kitten; He is a-person-who-brought-me-a-kettle-by-mistake. The latter form seems best, as the interest of the anecdote clearly depends on HIS stupidity--not on what happened to ME. Let us then make m = "he"; x = "persons whom I sent, &c."; and y = "persons who brought, &c." Hence, All m are x; All m are y. and the required Diagram is --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 1 | 0 | | |---|---|---|---| | | 0 | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | | --------------- 7. Both Diagrams employed. ------- | 0 | | 1. |---|---| i.e. All y are x'. | 1 | | ------- ------- | | 1 | 2. |---|---| i.e. Some x are y'; or, Some y' are x. | | | ------- ------- | | | 3. |---|---| i.e. Some y are x'; or, Some x' are y. | 1 | | ------- ------- | | | 4. |---|---| i.e. No x' are y'; or, No y' are x'. | | 0 | ------- ------- | 0 | | 5. |---|---| i.e. All y are x'. i.e. All black rabbits | 1 | | are young. ------- ------- | | | 6. |---|---| i.e. Some y are x'. i.e. Some black | 1 | | rabbits are young. ------- ------- | 1 | 0 | 7. |---|---| i.e. All x are y. i.e. All well-fed birds | | | are happy. ------- ------- | | | i.e. Some x' are y'. i.e. Some birds, 8. |---|---| that are not well-fed, are unhappy; | | 1 | or, Some unhappy birds are not ------- well-fed. ------- | 1 | 0 | 9. |---|---| i.e. All x are y. i.e. John has got a | | | tooth-ache. ------- ------- | | | 10. |---|---| i.e. No x' are y. i.e. No one, but John, | 0 | | has got a tooth-ache. ------- ------- | 1 | | 11. |---|---| i.e. Some x are y. i.e. Some one, who | | | has taken a walk, feels better. ------- ------- | 1 | | i.e. Some x are y. i.e. Some one, 12. |---|---| whom I sent to bring me a kitten, | | | brought me a kettle by mistake. ------- --------------- | | 0 | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 13. |-1-|---|---|---| ------- | | | | | | | 0 | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | 0 | | | | --------------- ------- Let "books" be Universe; m="exciting", x="that suit feverish patients"; y="that make one drowsy". No m are x; &there4 No y' are x. All m' are y. i.e. No books suit feverish patients, except such as make one drowsy. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 1 | 0 | | 14. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | | 0 | | | 1 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "persons" be Universe; m="that deserve the fair"; x="that get their deserts"; y="brave". Some m are x; &there4 Some y are x. No y' are m. i.e. Some brave persons get their deserts. --------------- | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 15. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | | | | | 0 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | 0 | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "persons" be Universe; m="patient"; x="children"; y="that can sit still". No x are m; &there4 No x are y. No m' are y. i.e. No children can sit still. --------------- | 0 | 0 | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 1 | | 16. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 0 | | | | 0 | 1 | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "things" be Universe; m="fat"; x="pigs"; y="skeletons". All x are m; &there4 All x are y'. No y are m. i.e. All pigs are not-skeletons. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 17. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 1 | 0 | | | | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | 1 | | --------------- ------- Let "creatures" be Universe; m="monkeys"; x="soldiers"; y="mischievous". No m are x; &there4 Some y are x'. All m are y. i.e. Some mischievous creatures are not soldiers. --------------- | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 18. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | | | | | 0 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | 0 | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "persons" be Universe; m="just"; x="my cousins"; y="judges". No x are m; &there4 No x are y. No y are m'. i.e. None of my cousins are judges. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 1 | 0 | | 19. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | | | | | 1 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "periods" be Universe; m="days"; x="rainy"; y="tiresome". Some m are x; &there4 Some x are y. All xm are y. i.e. Some rainy periods are tiresome. N.B. These are not legitimate Premisses, since the Conclusion is really part of the second Premiss, so that the first Premiss is superfluous. This may be shown, in letters, thus:-- "All xm are y" contains "Some xm are y", which contains "Some x are y". Or, in words, "All rainy days are tiresome" contains "Some rainy days are tiresome", which contains "Some rainy periods are tiresome". Moreover, the first Premiss, besides being superfluous, is actually contained in the second; since it is equivalent to "Some rainy days exist", which, as we know, is implied in the Proposition "All rainy days are tiresome". Altogether, a most unsatisfactory Pair of Premisses! --------------- | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | 1 | | | 20. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 0 | 0 | | | 1 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | 0 | | | 0 | | --------------- ------- Let "things" be Universe; m="medicine"; x="nasty"; y="senna". All m are x; &there4 All y are x. All y are m. i.e. Senna is nasty. [See remarks on No. 7, p 60.] --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 1 | | 21. |-1-|---|---|---| ------- | | 0 | | | | | 1 | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "persons" be Universe; m="Jews"; x="rich"; y="Patagonians". Some m are x; &there4 Some x are y'. All y are m'. i.e. Some rich persons are not Patagonians. --------------- | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | - | | 22. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 0 | 0 | | | | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | 0 | | | 0 | | --------------- ------- Let "creatures" be Universe; m="teetotalers"; x="that like sugar"; y="nightingales". All m are x; &there4 No y are x'. No y are m'. i.e. No nightingales dislike sugar. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 23. |-1-|---|---|---| ------- | | 0 | | | | | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "food" be Universe; m="wholesome"; x="muffins"; y="buns". No x are m; All y are m. There is 'no information' for the smaller Diagram; so no Conclusion can be drawn. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 24. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 1 | | | | | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | 1 | | --------------- ------- Let "creatures" be Universe; m="that run well"; x="fat"; y="greyhounds". No x are m; &there4 Some y are x'. Some y are m. i.e. Some greyhounds are not fat. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | - | | 25. |-1-|---|---|---| ------- | | 0 | 0 | | | | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "persons" be Universe; m="soldiers"; x="that march"; y="youths". All m are x; Some y are m'. There is 'no information' for the smaller Diagram; so no Conclusion can be drawn. --------------- | 0 | 0 | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 1 | | 26. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 0 | | | | 0 | 1 | | ---|--- | |---|---| | 1 | | | 1 | | --------------- ------- Let "food" be Universe; m="sweet"; x="sugar"; y="salt". All x are m; &there4 All x are y'. All y are m'. All y are x'. i.e. Sugar is not salt. Salt is not sugar. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 1 | 0 | | 27. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | | 0 | | | 1 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "Things" be Universe; m="eggs"; x="hard-boiled"; y="crackable". Some m are x; &there4 Some x are y. No m are y'. i.e. Some hard-boiled things can be cracked. --------------- | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 28. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | | | | | 0 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | 0 | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "persons" be Universe; m="Jews"; x="that are in the house"; y="that are in the garden". No m are x; &there4 No x are y. No m' are y. i.e. No persons, that are in the house, are also in the garden. --------------- | 0 | 0 | | ---|--- | | | - | | 29. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | | | | | | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | 1 | 0 | | 1 | | --------------- ------- Let "Things" be Universe; m="noisy"; x="battles"; y="that may escape notice". All x are m; &there4 Some x' are y. All m' are y. i.e. Some things, that are not battles, may escape notice. --------------- | 0 | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 30. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 1 | | | | 0 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | 0 | | | 1 | | --------------- ------- Let "persons" be Universe; m="Jews"; x="mad"; y="Rabbis". No m are x; &there4 All y are x'. All y are m. i.e. All Rabbis are sane. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 1 | | | 31. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 0 | 0 | | | 1 | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | | | --------------- ------- Let "Things" be Universe; m="fish"; x="that can swim"; y="skates". No m are x'; &there4 Some y are x. Some y are m. i.e. Some skates can swim. --------------- | | | | ---|--- | | | 0 | 0 | | 32. |---|---|---|---| ------- | | 1 | | | | | | | ---|--- | |---|---| | | | | 1 | | --------------- ------- Let "people" be Universe; m="passionate"; x="reasonable"; y="orators". All m are x'; &there4 Some y are x'. Some y are m. i.e. Some orators are unreasonable. [See remarks on No. 7, p. 60.] CHAPTER IV. HIT OR MISS. "Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man." __________ 1. Pain is wearisome; No pain is eagerly wished for. 2. No bald person needs a hair-brush; No lizards have hair. 3. All thoughtless people do mischief; No thoughtful person forgets a promise. 4. I do not like John; Some of my friends like John. 5. No potatoes are pine-apples; All pine-apples are nice. 6. No pins are ambitious; No needles are pins. 7. All my friends have colds; No one can sing who has a cold. 8. All these dishes are well-cooked; Some dishes are unwholesome if not well-cooked. 9. No medicine is nice; Senna is a medicine. 10. Some oysters are silent; No silent creatures are amusing. 11. All wise men walk on their feet; All unwise men walk on their hands. 12. "Mind your own business; This quarrel is no business of yours." 13. No bridges are made of sugar; Some bridges are picturesque. 14. No riddles interest me that can be solved; All these riddles are insoluble. 15. John is industrious; All industrious people are happy. 16. No frogs write books; Some people use ink in writing books. 17. No pokers are soft; All pillows are soft. 18. No antelope is ungraceful; Graceful animals delight the eye. 19. Some uncles are ungenerous; All merchants are generous. 20. No unhappy people chuckle; No happy people groan. 21. Audible music causes vibration in the air; Inaudible music is not worth paying for. 22. He gave me five pounds; I was delighted. 23. No old Jews are fat millers; All my friends are old millers. 24. Flour is good for food; Oatmeal is a kind of flour. 25. Some dreams are terrible; No lambs are terrible. 26. No rich man begs in the street; All who are not rich should keep accounts. 27. No thieves are honest; Some dishonest people are found out. 28. All wasps are unfriendly; All puppies are friendly. 29. All improbable stories are doubted; None of these stories are probable. 30. "He told me you had gone away." "He never says one word of truth." 31. His songs never last an hour; A song, that lasts an hour, is tedious. 32. No bride-cakes are wholesome; Unwholesome food should be avoided. 33. No old misers are cheerful; Some old misers are thin. 34. All ducks waddle; Nothing that waddles is graceful. 35. No Professors are ignorant; Some ignorant people are conceited. 36. Toothache is never pleasant; Warmth is never unpleasant. 37. Bores are terrible; You are a bore. 38. Some mountains are insurmountable; All stiles can be surmounted. 39. No Frenchmen like plumpudding; All Englishmen like plumpudding. 40. No idlers win fame; Some painters are not idle. 41. No lobsters are unreasonable; No reasonable creatures expect impossibilities. 42. No kind deed is unlawful; What is lawful may be done without fear. 43. No fossils can be crossed in love; Any oyster may be crossed in love. 44. "This is beyond endurance!" "Well, nothing beyond endurance has ever happened to me." 45. All uneducated men are shallow; All these students are educated. 46. All my cousins are unjust; No judges are unjust. 47. No country, that has been explored, is infested by dragons; Unexplored countries are fascinating. 48. No misers are generous; Some old men are not generous. 49. A prudent man shuns hyaenas; No banker is imprudent. 50. Some poetry is original; No original work is producible at will. 51. No misers are unselfish; None but misers save egg-shells. 52. All pale people are phlegmatic; No one, who is not pale, looks poetical. 53. All spiders spin webs; Some creatures, that do not spin webs, are savage. 54. None of my cousins are just; All judges are just. 55. John is industrious; No industrious people are unhappy. 56. Umbrellas are useful on a journey; What is useless on a journey should be left behind. 57. Some pillows are soft; No pokers are soft. 58. I am old and lame; No old merchant is a lame gambler. 59. No eventful journey is ever forgotten; Uneventful journeys are not worth writing a book about. 60. Sugar is sweet; Some sweet things are liked by children. 61. Richard is out of temper; No one but Richard can ride that horse. 62. All jokes are meant to amuse; No Act of Parliament is a joke. 63. "I saw it in a newspaper." "All newspapers tell lies." 64. No nightmare is pleasant; Unpleasant experiences are not anxiously desired. 65. Prudent travellers carry plenty of small change; Imprudent travellers lose their luggage. 66. All wasps are unfriendly; No puppies are unfriendly. 67. He called here yesterday; He is no friend of mine. 68. No quadrupeds can whistle; Some cats are quadrupeds. 69. No cooked meat is sold by butchers; No uncooked meat is served at dinner. 70. Gold is heavy; Nothing but gold will silence him. 71. Some pigs are wild; There are no pigs that are not fat. 72. No emperors are dentists; All dentists are dreaded by children. 73. All, who are not old, like walking; Neither you nor I are old. 74. All blades are sharp; Some grasses are blades. 75. No dictatorial person is popular; She is dictatorial. 76. Some sweet things are unwholesome; No muffins are sweet. 77. No military men write poetry; No generals are civilians. 78. Bores are dreaded; A bore is never begged to prolong his visit. 79. All owls are satisfactory; Some excuses are unsatisfactory. 80. All my cousins are unjust; All judges are just. 81. Some buns are rich; All buns are nice. 82. No medicine is nice; No pills are unmedicinal. 83. Some lessons are difficult; What is difficult needs attention. 84. No unexpected pleasure annoys me; Your visit is an unexpected pleasure. 85. Caterpillars are not eloquent; Jones is eloquent. 86. Some bald people wear wigs; All your children have hair. 87. All wasps are unfriendly; Unfriendly creatures are always unwelcome. 88. No bankrupts are rich; Some merchants are not bankrupts. 89. Weasels sometimes sleep; All animals sometimes sleep. 90. Ill-managed concerns are unprofitable; Railways are never ill-managed. 91. Everybody has seen a pig; Nobody admires a pig. ______________ Extract a Pair of Premisses out of each of the following: and deduce the Conclusion, if there is one:-- 92. "The Lion, as any one can tell you who has been chased by them as often as I have, is a very savage animal: and there are certain individuals among them, though I will not guarantee it as a general law, who do not drink coffee." 93. "It was most absurd of you to offer it! You might have known, if you had had any sense, that no old sailors ever like gruel!" "But I thought, as he was an uncle of yours--" "An uncle of mine, indeed! Stuff!" "You may call it stuff, if you like. All I know is, MY uncles are all old men: and they like gruel like anything!" "Well, then YOUR uncles are--" 94. "Do come away! I can't stand this squeezing any more. No crowded shops are comfortable, you know very well." "Well, who expects to be comfortable, out shopping?" "Why, I do, of course! And I'm sure there are some shops, further down the street, that are not crowded. So--" 95. "They say no doctors are metaphysical organists: and that lets me into a little fact about YOU, you know." "Why, how do you make THAT out? You never heard me play the organ." "No, doctor, but I've heard you talk about Browning's poetry: and that showed me that you're METAPHYSICAL, at any rate. So--" ___________________ Extract a Syllogism out of each of the following: and test its correctness:-- 96. "Don't talk to me! I've known more rich merchants than you have: and I can tell you not ONE of them was ever an old miser since the world began!" "And what has that got to do with old Mr. Brown?" "Why, isn't he very rich?" "Yes, of course he is. And what then?" "Why, don't you see that it's absurd to call him a miserly merchant? Either he's not a merchant, or he's not a miser!" 97. "It IS so kind of you to enquire! I'm really feeling a great deal better to-day." "And is it Nature, or Art, that is to have the credit of this happy change?" "Art, I think. The Doctor has given me some of that patent medicine of his." "Well, I'll never call him a humbug again. There's SOMEBODY, at any rate, that feels better after taking his medicine!" 98. "No, I don't like you one bit. And I'll go and play with my doll. DOLLS are never unkind." "So you like a doll better than a cousin? Oh you little silly!" "Of course I do! COUSINS are never kind--at least no cousins I've ever seen." "Well, and what does THAT prove, I'd like to know! If you mean that cousins aren't dolls, who ever said they were?" 99. "What are you talking about geraniums for? You can't tell one flower from another, at this distance! I grant you they're all RED flowers: it doesn't need a telescope to know THAT." "Well, some geraniums are red, aren't they?" "I don't deny it. And what then? I suppose you'll be telling me some of those flowers are geraniums!" "Of course that's what I should tell you, if you'd the sense to follow an argument! But what's the good of proving anything to YOU, I should like to know?" 100. "Boys, you've passed a fairly good examination, all things considered. Now let me give you a word of advice before I go. Remember that all, who are really anxious to learn, work HARD." "I thank you, Sir, in the name of my scholars! And proud am I to think there are SOME of them, at least, that are really ANXIOUS to learn." "Very glad to hear it: and how do you make it out to be so?" "Why, Sir, I know how hard they work--some of them, that is. Who should know better?" ___________________ Extract from the following speech a series of Syllogisms, or arguments having the form of Syllogisms: and test their correctness. It is supposed to be spoken by a fond mother, in answer to a friend's cautious suggestion that she is perhaps a LITTLE overdoing it, in the way of lessons, with her children. 101. "Well, they've got their own way to make in the world. WE can't leave them a fortune apiece. And money's not to be had, as YOU know, without money's worth: they must WORK if they want to live. And how are they to work, if they don't know anything? Take my word for it, there's no place for ignorance in THESE times! And all authorities agree that the time to learn is when you're young. One's got no memory afterwards, worth speaking of. A child will learn more in an hour than a grown man in five. So those, that have to learn, must learn when they're young, if ever they're to learn at all. Of course that doesn't do unless children are HEALTHY: I quite allow THAT. Well, the doctor tells me no children are healthy unless they've got a good colour in their cheeks. And only just look at my darlings! Why, their cheeks bloom like peonies! Well, now, they tell me that, to keep children in health, you should never give them more than six hours altogether at lessons in the day, and at least two half-holidays in the week. And that's EXACTLY our plan I can assure you! We never go beyond six hours, and every Wednesday and Saturday, as ever is, not one syllable of lessons do they do after their one o'clock dinner! So how you can imagine I'm running any risk in the education of my precious pets is more than I can understand, I promise you!" THE END. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Game of Logic, by Lewis Carroll *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAME OF LOGIC *** ===== Symbolic Logic ===== The Project Gutenberg EBook of Symbolic Logic, by Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Symbolic Logic Author: Lewis Carroll Release Date: May 5, 2009 [EBook #28696] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYMBOLIC LOGIC *** Produced by Tony Browne, Geetu Melwani, Greg Weeks, L. Lynn Smith and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net pg_iSYMBOLIC LOGIC By Lewis Carroll pg_ii pg_iii pg_iv A Syllogism worked out. That story of yours, about your once meeting the sea-serpent, always sets me off yawning; I never yawn, unless when I’m listening to something totally devoid of interest. The Premisses, separately. Diagram representing All Diagram representing Never The Premisses, combined. Diagram representing the combination The Conclusion. Diagram representing the conclusion That story of yours, about your once meeting the sea-serpent, is totally devoid of interest. pg_vSYMBOLIC LOGIC PART I ELEMENTARY BY LEWIS CARROLL SECOND THOUSAND FOURTH EDITION PRICE TWO SHILLINGS London MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited new york: the macmillan company 1897 All rights reserved pg_viRichard Clay and Sons, Limited, london and bungay pg_viiADVERTISEMENT. An envelope, containing two blank Diagrams (Biliteral and Triliteral) and 9 counters (4 Red and 5 Grey), may be had, from Messrs. Macmillan, for 3d., by post 4d. I shall be grateful to any Reader of this book who will point out any mistakes or misprints he may happen to notice in it, or any passage which he thinks is not clearly expressed. I have a quantity of MS. in hand for Parts II and III, and hope to be able——should life, and health, and opportunity, be granted to me, to publish them in the course of the next few years. Their contents will be as follows:— PART II. ADVANCED. Further investigations in the subjects of Part I. Propositions of other forms (such as “Not-all x are y”). Triliteral and Multiliteral Propositions (such as “All abc are de”). Hypotheticals. Dilemmas. &c. &c. Part III. TRANSCENDENTAL. Analysis of a Proposition into its Elements. Numerical and Geometrical Problems. The Theory of Inference. The Construction of Problems. And many other Curiosa Logica. pg_viiiPREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION. The chief alterations, since the First Edition, have been made in the Chapter on ‘Classification’ (pp. 2, 3) and the Book on ‘Propositions’ (pp. 10 to 19). The chief additions have been the questions on words and phrases, added to the Examination-Papers at p. 94, and the Notes inserted at pp. 164, 194. In Book I, Chapter II, I have adopted a new definition of ‘Classification’, which enables me to regard the whole Universe as a ‘Class,’ and thus to dispense with the very awkward phrase ‘a Set of Things.’ In the Chapter on ‘Propositions of Existence’ I have adopted a new ‘normal form,’ in which the Class, whose existence is affirmed or denied, is regarded as the Predicate, instead of the Subject, of the Proposition, thus evading a very subtle difficulty which besets the other form. These subtle difficulties seem to lie at the root of every Tree of Knowledge, and they are far more hopeless to grapple with than any that occur in its higher branches. For example, the difficulties of the Forty-Seventh Proposition of Euclid are mere child’s play compared with the mental torture endured in the effort to think out the essential nature of a straight Line. And, in the present work, the difficulties of the “5 Liars” Problem, at p. 192, are “trifles, light as air,” compared with the bewildering question “What is a Thing?” In the Chapter on ‘Propositions of Relation’ I have inserted a new Section, containing the proof that a Proposition, beginning with “All,” is a Double Proposition (a fact that is quite independent of the arbitrary rule, laid down in the next Section, that such a Proposition is to be understood as implying the actual existence of its Subject). This proof was given, in the earlier editions, incidentally, in the course of the discussion of the Biliteral Diagram: but its proper place, in this treatise, is where I have now introduced it. pg_ixIn the Sorites-Examples, I have made a good many verbal alterations, in order to evade a difficulty, which I fear will have perplexed some of the Readers of the first three Editions. Some of the Premisses were so worded that their Terms were not Specieses of the Univ. named in the Dictionary, but of a larger Class, of which the Univ. was only a portion. In all such cases, it was intended that the Reader should perceive that what was asserted of the larger Class was thereby asserted of the Univ., and should ignore, as superfluous, all that it asserted of its other portion. Thus, in Ex. 15, the Univ. was stated to be “ducks in this village,” and the third Premiss was “Mrs. Bond has no gray ducks,” i.e. “No gray ducks are ducks belonging to Mrs. Bond.” Here the Terms are not Specieses of the Univ., but of the larger Class “ducks,” of which the Univ. is only a portion: and it was intended that the Reader should perceive that what is here asserted of “ ducks” is thereby asserted of “ ducks in this village.” and should treat this Premiss as if it were “Mrs. Bond has no gray ducks in this village,” and should ignore, as superfluous, what it asserts as to the other portion of the Class “ducks,” viz. “ Mrs. Bond has no gray ducks out of this village”. In the Appendix I have given a new version of the Problem of the “Five Liars.” My object, in doing so, is to escape the subtle and mysterious difficulties which beset all attempts at regarding a Proposition as being its own Subject, or a Set of Propositions as being Subjects for one another. It is certainly, a most bewildering and unsatisfactory theory: one cannot help feeling that there is a great lack of substance in all this shadowy host——that, as the procession of phantoms glides before us, there is not one that we can pounce upon, and say “Here is a Proposition that must be either true or false!”——that it is but a Barmecide Feast, to which we have been bidden——and that its prototype is to be found in that mythical island, whose inhabitants “earned a precarious living by taking in each others’ washing”! By simply translating “telling 2 Truths” into “taking both of 2 condiments (salt and mustard),” “telling 2 Lies” into “taking neither of them” and “telling a Truth and a Lie (order not specified)” into “taking only one condiment (it is not specified pg_xwhich),” I have escaped all those metaphysical puzzles, and have produced a Problem which, when translated into a Set of symbolized Premisses, furnishes the very same Data as were furnished by the Problem of the “Five Liars.” The coined words, introduced in previous editions, such as “Eliminands” and “Retinends”, perhaps hardly need any apology: they were indispensable to my system: but the new plural, here used for the first time, viz. “Soriteses”, will, I fear, be condemned as “bad English”, unless I say a word in its defence. We have three singular nouns, in English, of plural form, “series”, “species”, and “Sorites”: in all three, the awkwardness, of using the same word for both singular and plural, must often have been felt: this has been remedied, in the case of “series” by coining the plural “serieses”, which has already found it way into the dictionaries: so I am no rash innovator, but am merely “following suit”, in using the new plural “Soriteses”. In conclusion, let me point out that even those, who are obliged to study Formal Logic, with a view to being able to answer Examination-Papers in that subject, will find the study of Symbolic Logic most helpful for this purpose, in throwing light upon many of the obscurities with which Formal Logic abounds, and in furnishing a delightfully easy method of testing the results arrived at by the cumbrous processes which Formal Logic enforces upon its votaries. This is, I believe, the very first attempt (with the exception of my own little book, The Game of Logic, published in 1886, a very incomplete performance) that has been made to popularise this fascinating subject. It has cost me years of hard work: but if it should prove, as I hope it may, to be of real service to the young, and to be taken up, in High Schools and in private families, as a valuable addition to their stock of healthful mental recreations, such a result would more than repay ten times the labour that I have expended on it. L. C. 29, Bedford Street, Strand. Christmas, 1896. pg_xiINTRODUCTION. TO LEARNERS. [N.B. Some remarks, addressed to Teachers, will be found in the Appendix, at p. 165.] The Learner, who wishes to try the question fairly, whether this little book does, or does not, supply the materials for a most interesting mental recreation, is earnestly advised to adopt the following Rules:— (1) Begin at the beginning, and do not allow yourself to gratify a mere idle curiosity by dipping into the book, here and there. This would very likely lead to your throwing it aside, with the remark “This is much too hard for me!”, and thus losing the chance of adding a very large item to your stock of mental delights. This Rule (of not dipping) is very desirable with other kinds of books——such as novels, for instance, where you may easily spoil much of the enjoyment you would otherwise get from the story, by dipping into it further on, so that what the author meant to be a pleasant surprise comes to you as a matter of course. Some people, I know, make a practice of looking into Vol. III first, just to see how the story ends: and perhaps it is as well just to know that all ends happily——that the much-persecuted lovers do marry after all, that he is proved to be quite innocent of the murder, that the wicked cousin is completely foiled in his plot and gets the punishment he deserves, and that the rich uncle in India (Qu. Why in India? Ans. Because, somehow, uncles never can get rich anywhere else) dies at exactly the right moment——before taking the trouble to read Vol. I. pg_xiiThis, I say, is just permissible with a novel, where Vol. III has a meaning, even for those who have not read the earlier part of the story; but, with a scientific book, it is sheer insanity: you will find the latter part hopelessly unintelligible, if you read it before reaching it in regular course. (2) Don’t begin any fresh Chapter, or Section, until you are certain that you thoroughly understand the whole book up to that point, and that you have worked, correctly, most if not all of the examples which have been set. So long as you are conscious that all the land you have passed through is absolutely conquered, and that you are leaving no unsolved difficulties behind you, which will be sure to turn up again later on, your triumphal progress will be easy and delightful. Otherwise, you will find your state of puzzlement get worse and worse as you proceed, till you give up the whole thing in utter disgust. (3) When you come to any passage you don’t understand, read it again: if you still don’t understand it, read it again: if you fail, even after three readings, very likely your brain is getting a little tired. In that case, put the book away, and take to other occupations, and next day, when you come to it fresh, you will very likely find that it is quite easy. (4) If possible, find some genial friend, who will read the book along with you, and will talk over the difficulties with you. Talking is a wonderful smoother-over of difficulties. When I come upon anything——in Logic or in any other hard subject——that entirely puzzles me, I find it a capital plan to talk it over, aloud, even when I am all alone. One can explain things so clearly to one’s self! And then, you know, one is so patient with one’s self: one never gets irritated at one’s own stupidity! If, dear Reader, you will faithfully observe these Rules, and so give my little book a really fair trial, I promise you, most confidently, that you will find Symbolic Logic to be one of the most, if not the most, fascinating of mental recreations! In this First Part, I have carefully avoided all difficulties which seemed to me to be beyond the grasp of an intelligent child of (say) twelve or fourteen years of age. I have myself taught most of its contents, vivâ voce, to many children, and have pg_xiiifound them take a real intelligent interest in the subject. For those, who succeed in mastering Part I, and who begin, like Oliver, “asking for more,” I hope to provide, in Part II, some tolerably hard nuts to crack——nuts that will require all the nut-crackers they happen to possess! Mental recreation is a thing that we all of us need for our mental health; and you may get much healthy enjoyment, no doubt, from Games, such as Back-gammon, Chess, and the new Game “Halma”. But, after all, when you have made yourself a first-rate player at any one of these Games, you have nothing real to show for it, as a result! You enjoyed the Game, and the victory, no doubt, at the time: but you have no result that you can treasure up and get real good out of. And, all the while, you have been leaving unexplored a perfect mine of wealth. Once master the machinery of Symbolic Logic, and you have a mental occupation always at hand, of absorbing interest, and one that will be of real use to you in any subject you may take up. It will give you clearness of thought——the ability to see your way through a puzzle——the habit of arranging your ideas in an orderly and get-at-able form——and, more valuable than all, the power to detect fallacies, and to tear to pieces the flimsy illogical arguments, which you will so continually encounter in books, in newspapers, in speeches, and even in sermons, and which so easily delude those who have never taken the trouble to master this fascinating Art. Try it. That is all I ask of you! L. C. 29, Bedford Street, Strand. February 21, 1896. pg_xiv pg_xvCONTENTS BOOK I. THINGS AND THEIR ATTRIBUTES. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. page ‘Things’ 1 ‘Attributes’ ? ‘Adjuncts’ ? CHAPTER II. CLASSIFICATION. ‘Classification’ 1½ ‘Class’ ? ‘Peculiar’ Attributes ? ‘Genus’ ? ‘Species’ ? ‘Differentia’ ? ‘Real’ and ‘Unreal’, or ‘Imaginary’, Classes 2 ‘Individual’ ? A Class regarded as a single Thing 2½ pg_xviCHAPTER III. DIVISION. § 1. Introductory. ‘Division’ 3 ‘Codivisional’ Classes ? § 2. Dichotomy. ‘Dichotomy’ 3½ Arbitrary limits of Classes ? Subdivision of Classes 4 CHAPTER IV. NAMES. ‘Name’ 4½ ‘Real’ and ‘Unreal’ Names ? Three ways of expressing a Name ? Two senses in which a plural Name may be used 5 CHAPTER V. DEFINITIONS. ‘Definition’ 6 Examples worked as models ? pg_xviiBOOK II. PROPOSITIONS. CHAPTER I. PROPOSITIONS GENERALLY. § 1. Introductory. Technical meaning of “some” 8 ‘Proposition’ ? ‘Normal form’ of a Proposition ? ‘Subject’, ‘Predicate’, and ‘Terms’ 9 § 2. Normal form of a Proposition. Its four parts:— (1) ‘Sign of Quantity’ ? (2) Name of Subject ? (3) ‘Copula’ ? (4) Name of Predicate ? § 3. Various kinds of Propositions. Three kinds of Propositions:— (1) Begins with “Some”. Called a ‘Particular’ Proposition: also a Proposition ‘in I’ 10 (2) Begins with “No”. Called a ‘Universal Negative’ Proposition: also a Proposition ‘in E’ ? (3) Begins with “All”. Called a ‘Universal Affirmative’ Proposition: also a Proposition ‘in A’ ? pg_xviiiA Proposition, whose Subject is an Individual, is to be regarded as Universal ? Two kinds of Propositions, ‘Propositions of Existence’, and ‘Propositions of Relation’ ? CHAPTER II. PROPOSITIONS OF EXISTENCE. ‘Proposition of Existence ’ 11 CHAPTER III. PROPOSITIONS OF RELATION. § 1. Introductory. ‘Proposition of Relation’ 12 ‘Universe of Discourse,’ or ‘Univ.’ ? § 2. Reduction of a Proposition of Relation to Normal form. Rules 13 Examples worked ? § 3. A Proposition of Relation, beginning with “All”, is a Double Proposition. Its equivalence to two Propositions 17 pg_xix§ 4. What is implied, in a Proposition of Relation, as to the Reality of its Terms? Propositions beginning with “Some” 19 Propositions beginning with “No” ? Propositions beginning with “All” ? § 5. Translation of a Proposition of Relation into one or more Propositions of Existence. Rules 20 Examples worked ? BOOK III. THE BILITERAL DIAGRAM. CHAPTER I. SYMBOLS AND CELLS. The Diagram assigned to a certain Set of Things, viz. our Univ. 22 Univ. divided into ‘the x-Class’ and ‘the x'-Class’ 23 The North and South Halves assigned to these two Classes ? The x-Class subdivided into ‘the xy-Class’ and ‘the xy'-Class’ ? The North-West and North-East Cells assigned to these two Classes ? The x'-Class similarly divided ? The South-West and South-East Cells similarly assigned ? The West and East Halves have thus been assigned to ‘the y-Class’ and ‘the y'-Class’ ? Table I. Attributes of Classes, and Compartments, or Cells, assigned to them 25 pg_xxCHAPTER II. COUNTERS. Meaning of a Red Counter placed in a Cell 26 Meaning of a Red Counter placed on a Partition ? American phrase “sitting on the fence” ? Meaning of a Grey Counter placed in a Cell ? CHAPTER III. REPRESENTATION OF PROPOSITIONS. § 1. Introductory. The word “Things” to be henceforwards omitted 27 ‘Uniliteral’ Proposition ? ‘Biliteral’ do. ? Proposition ‘in terms of’ certain Letters ? § 2. Representation of Propositions of Existence. The Proposition “Some x exist” 28 Three other similar Propositions ? The Proposition “No x exist” ? Three other similar Propositions 29 The Proposition “Some xy exist” ? Three other similar Propositions ? The Proposition “No xy exist” ? Three other similar Propositions ? The Proposition “No x exist” is Double, and is equivalent to the two Propositions “No xy exist” and “No xy' exist” 30 pg_xxi§ 3. Representation of Propositions of Relations. The Proposition “Some x are y” ? Three other similar Propositions ? The Proposition “Some y are x” 31 Three other similar Propositions ? Trio of equivalent Propositions, viz. “Some xy exist” = “Some x are y” = “Some y are x” ? ‘Converse’ Propositions, and ‘Conversion’ ? Three other similar Trios 32 The Proposition “No x are y” ? Three other similar Propositions ? The Proposition “No y are x” ? Three other similar Propositions ? Trio of equivalent Propositions, viz. “No xy exist” = “No x are y” = “No y are x” 33 Three other similar Trios ? The Proposition “All x are y” is Double, and is equivalent to the two Propositions “Some x are y” and “No x are y'” ? Seven other similar Propositions 34 Table II. Representation of Propositions of Existence 34 Table III. Representation of Propositions of Relation 35 CHAPTER IV. INTERPRETATION OF BILITERAL DIAGRAM, WHEN MARKED WITH COUNTERS. Interpretation of Diagram representing x y exists 36 And of three other similar arrangements ? pg_xxiiInterpretation of Diagram representing x y does not exist ? And of three other similar arrangements ? Interpretation of Diagram representing x exists 37 And of three other similar arrangements ? Interpretation of Diagram representing x exists with and without y ? And of three other similar arrangements ? Interpretation of Diagram representing x does not exist ? And of three other similar arrangements ? Interpretation of Diagram representing all x are y ? And of seven other similar arrangements 38 BOOK IV. THE TRILITERAL DIAGRAM. CHAPTER I. SYMBOLS AND CELLS. Change of Biliteral into Triliteral Diagram 39 The xy-Class subdivided into ‘the xym-Class’ and ‘the xym'-Class’ 40 pg_xxiiiThe Inner and Outer Cells of the North-West Quarter assigned to these Classes ? The xy'-Class, the x'y-Class, and the x'y'-Class similarly subdivided ? The Inner and Outer Cells of the North-East, the South-West, and the South-East Quarter similarly assigned ? The Inner Square and the Outer Border have thus been assigned to ‘the m-Class’ and ‘the m'-Class’ ? Rules for finding readily the Compartment, or Cell, assigned to any given Attribute or Attributes ? Table IV. Attributes of Classes, and Compartments, or Cells, assigned to them 42 CHAPTER II. REPRESENTATION OF PROPOSITIONS IN TERMS OF x AND m, OR OF y AND m. § 1. Representation of Propositions of Existence in terms of x and m, or of y and m. The Proposition “Some xm exist” 43 Seven other similar Propositions ? The Proposition “No xm exist” 44 Seven other similar Propositions ? § 2. Representation of Propositions of Relation in terms of x and m, or of y and m. The Pair of Converse Propositions “Some x are m” = “Some m are x” ? Seven other similar Pairs ? The Pair of Converse Propositions “No x are m” = “No m are x” ? Seven other similar Pairs ? The Proposition “All x are m” 45 Fifteen other similar Propositions ? Table V. Representations of Propositions in terms of x and m 46 Table VI. Representations of Propositions in terms of y and m 47 Table VII. Representations of Propositions in terms of x and m 48 Table VIII. Representations of Propositions in terms of y and m 49 pg_xxivCHAPTER III. REPRESENTATION OF TWO PROPOSITIONS OF RELATION, ONE IN TERMS OF x AND m, AND THE OTHER IN TERMS OF y AND m, ON THE SAME DIAGRAM. The Digits “I” and “O” to be used instead of Red and Grey Counters 50 Rules ? Examples worked ? CHAPTER IV. INTERPRETATION, IN TERMS OF x AND y, OF TRILITERAL DIAGRAM, WHEN MARKED WITH COUNTERS OR DIGITS. Rules 53 Examples worked 54 BOOK V. SYLLOGISMS. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. ‘Syllogism’ 56 ‘Premisses’ ? ‘Conclusion’ ? ‘Eliminands’ ? ‘Retinends’ ? ‘Consequent’ ? The Symbol “?” ? Specimen-Syllogisms 57 pg_xxvCHAPTER II. PROBLEMS IN SYLLOGISMS. § 1. Introductory. ‘Concrete’ and ‘Abstract’ Propositions 59 Method of translating a Proposition from concrete into abstract form ? Two forms of Problems ? § 2. Given a Pair of Propositions of Relation, which contain between them a Pair of codivisional Classes, and which are proposed as Premisses: to ascertain what Conclusion, if any, is consequent from them. Rules 60 Examples worked fully ? The same worked briefly, as models 64 § 3. Given a Trio of Propositions of Relation, of which every two contain a Pair of codivisional Classes, and which are proposed as a Syllogism: to ascertain whether the proposed Conclusion is consequent from the proposed Premisses, and, if so, whether it is complete. Rules 66 Examples worked briefly, as models ? pg_xxviBOOK VI. THE METHOD OF SUBSCRIPTS. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. Meaning of x1, xy1, &c. 70 ‘Entity’ ? Meaning of x0, xy0, &c. ? ‘Nullity’ ? The Symbols “†” and “¶” ? ‘Like’ and ‘unlike’ Signs ? CHAPTER II. REPRESENTATION OF PROPOSITIONS OF RELATION. The Pair of Converse Propositions “Some x are y” = “Some y are x” 71 Three other similar Pairs ? The Pair of Converse Propositions “No x are y” = “No y are x” ? Three other similar Pairs ? The Proposition “All x are y” 72 The Proposition “All x are y” is Double, and is equivalent to the two Propositions “Some x exist” and “No x and y'” ? Seven other similar Propositions ? Rule for translating “All x are y” from abstract into subscript form, and vice versâ ? pg_xxviiCHAPTER III. SYLLOGISMS. § 1. Representation of Syllogisms. Rules 73 § 2. Formulæ for Syllogisms. Three Formulæ worked out:— Fig. I. xm0 † ym'0 ¶ xy0 75 its two Variants (a) and (ß) ? Fig. II. xm0 † ym1 ¶ x'y1 76 Fig. III. xm0 † ym0 † m1 ¶ x'y'1 77 Table IX. Formulæ and Rules 78 Examples worked briefly, as models ? § 3. Fallacies. ‘Fallacy’ 81 Method of finding Forms of Fallacies 82 Forms best stated in words ? Three Forms of Fallacies:— (1) Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist ? (2) Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss 83 (3) Fallacy of two Entity-Premisses ? § 4. Method of proceeding with a given Pair of Propositions. Rules 84 pg_xxviiiBOOK VII. SORITESES. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. ‘Sorites’ 85 ‘Premisses’ ? ‘Partial Conclusion’ ? ‘Complete Conclusion’ (or ‘Conclusion’) ? ‘Eliminands’ ? ‘Retinends’ ? ‘consequent’ ? The Symbol “?” ? Specimen-Soriteses 86 CHAPTER II. PROBLEMS IN SORITESES. § 1. Introductory. Form of Problem 87 Two Methods of Solution ? § 2. Solution by Method of Separate Syllogisms. Rules 88 Example worked ? pg_xxix§ 3. Solution by Method of Underscoring. ‘Underscoring’ 91 Subscripts to be omitted ? Example worked fully 92 Example worked briefly, as model 93 Seventeen Examination-Papers 94 BOOK VIII. EXAMPLES, WITH ANSWERS AND SOLUTIONS. CHAPTER I. EXAMPLES. § 1. Propositions of Relation, to be reduced to normal form 97 § 2. Pairs of Abstract Propositions, one in terms of x and m, and the other in terms of y and m, to be represented on the same Triliteral Diagram 98 § 3. Marked Triliteral Diagrams, to be interpreted in terms of x and y 99 § 4. Pairs of Abstract Propositions, proposed as Premisses: Conclusions to be found 100 pg_xxx§ 5. Pairs of Concrete Propositions, proposed as Premisses: Conclusions to be found 101 § 6. Trios of Abstract Propositions, proposed as Syllogisms: to be examined 106 § 7. Trios of Concrete Propositions, proposed as Syllogisms: to be examined 107 § 8. Sets of Abstract Propositions, proposed as Premisses for Soriteses: Conclusions to be found 110 § 9. Sets of Concrete Propositions, proposed as Premisses for Soriteses: Conclusions to be found 112 CHAPTER II. ANSWERS. Answers to § 1 125 § 2 126 § 3 127 § 4 ? § 5 128 § 6 130 § 7 131 § 8 132 § 9 ? pg_xxxiCHAPTER III. SOLUTIONS. § 1. Propositions of Relation reduced to normal form. Solutions for § 1 134 § 2. Method of Diagrams. Solutions for § 4 Nos. 1 to 12 136 § 5 ? 1 to 12 138 § 6 ? 1 to 10 141 § 7 ? 1 to 6 144 § 3. Method of Subscripts. Solutions for § 4 146 § 5 Nos. 13 to 24 147 § 6 148 § 7 150 § 8 155 § 9 157 NOTES 164 APPENDIX, ADDRESSED TO TEACHERS 165 NOTES TO APPENDIX 195 INDEX. § 1. Tables 197 § 2. Words &c. explained ? pg_xxxii pg001BOOK I. THINGS AND THEIR ATTRIBUTES. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. The Universe contains ‘Things.’ [For example, “I,” “London,” “roses,” “redness,” “old English books,” “the letter which I received yesterday.”] Things have ‘Attributes.’ [For example, “large,” “red,” “old,” “which I received yesterday.”] One Thing may have many Attributes; and one Attribute may belong to many Things. [Thus, the Thing “a rose” may have the Attributes “red,” “scented,” “full-blown,” &c.; and the Attribute “red” may belong to the Things “a rose,” “a brick,” “a ribbon,” &c.] Any Attribute, or any Set of Attributes, may be called an ‘Adjunct.’ [This word is introduced in order to avoid the constant repetition of the phrase “Attribute or Set of Attributes.” Thus, we may say that a rose has the Attribute “red” (or the Adjunct “red,” whichever we prefer); or we may say that it has the Adjunct “red, scented and full-blown.”] pg001½CHAPTER II. CLASSIFICATION. ‘Classification,’ or the formation of Classes, is a Mental Process, in which we imagine that we have put together, in a group, certain Things. Such a group is called a ‘Class.’ This Process may be performed in three different ways, as follows:— (1) We may imagine that we have put together all Things. The Class so formed (i.e. the Class “Things”) contains the whole Universe. (2) We may think of the Class “Things,” and may imagine that we have picked out from it all the Things which possess a certain Adjunct not possessed by the whole Class. This Adjunct is said to be ‘peculiar’ to the Class so formed. In this case, the Class “Things” is called a ‘Genus’ with regard to the Class so formed: the Class, so formed, is called a ‘Species’ of the Class “Things”: and its peculiar Adjunct is called its ‘Differentia’. pg002As this Process is entirely Mental, we can perform it whether there is, or is not, an existing Thing which possesses that Adjunct. If there is, the Class is said to be ‘Real’; if not, it is said to be ‘Unreal’, or ‘Imaginary.’ [For example, we may imagine that we have picked out, from the Class “Things,” all the Things which possess the Adjunct “material, artificial, consisting of houses and streets”; and we may thus form the Real Class “towns.” Here we may regard “Things” as a Genus, “Towns” as a Species of Things, and “material, artificial, consisting of houses and streets” as its Differentia. Again, we may imagine that we have picked out all the Things which possess the Adjunct “weighing a ton, easily lifted by a baby”; and we may thus form the Imaginary Class “Things that weigh a ton and are easily lifted by a baby.”] (3) We may think of a certain Class, not the Class “Things,” and may imagine that we have picked out from it all the Members of it which possess a certain Adjunct not possessed by the whole Class. This Adjunct is said to be ‘peculiar’ to the smaller Class so formed. In this case, the Class thought of is called a ‘Genus’ with regard to the smaller Class picked out from it: the smaller Class is called a ‘Species’ of the larger: and its peculiar Adjunct is called its ‘Differentia’. [For example, we may think of the Class “towns,” and imagine that we have picked out from it all the towns which possess the Attribute “lit with gas”; and we may thus form the Real Class “towns lit with gas.” Here we may regard “Towns” as a Genus, “Towns lit with gas” as a Species of Towns, and “lit with gas” as its Differentia. If, in the above example, we were to alter “lit with gas” into “paved with gold,” we should get the Imaginary Class “towns paved with gold.”] A Class, containing only one Member is called an ‘Individual.’ [For example, the Class “towns having four million inhabitants,” which Class contains only one Member, viz. “London.”] pg002½Hence, any single Thing, which we can name so as to distinguish it from all other Things, may be regarded as a one-Member Class. [Thus “London” may be regarded as the one-Member Class, picked out from the Class “towns,” which has, as its Differentia, “having four million inhabitants.”] A Class, containing two or more Members, is sometimes regarded as one single Thing. When so regarded, it may possess an Adjunct which is not possessed by any Member of it taken separately. [Thus, the Class “The soldiers of the Tenth Regiment,” when regarded as one single Thing, may possess the Attribute “formed in square,” which is not possessed by any Member of it taken separately.] pg003CHAPTER III. DIVISION. § 1. Introductory. ‘Division’ is a Mental Process, in which we think of a certain Class of Things, and imagine that we have divided it into two or more smaller Classes. [Thus, we might think of the Class “books,” and imagine that we had divided it into the two smaller Classes “bound books” and “unbound books,” or into the three Classes, “books priced at less than a shilling,” “shilling-books,” “books priced at more than a shilling,” or into the twenty-six Classes, “books whose names begin with A,” “books whose names begin with B,” &c.] A Class, that has been obtained by a certain Division, is said to be ‘codivisional’ with every Class obtained by that Division. [Thus, the Class “bound books” is codivisional with each of the two Classes, “bound books” and “unbound books.” Similarly, the Battle of Waterloo may be said to have been “contemporary” with every event that happened in 1815.] Hence a Class, obtained by Division, is codivisional with itself. [Thus, the Class “bound books” is codivisional with itself. Similarly, the Battle of Waterloo may be said to have been “contemporary” with itself.] pg003½§ 2. Dichotomy. If we think of a certain Class, and imagine that we have picked out from it a certain smaller Class, it is evident that the Remainder of the large Class does not possess the Differentia of that smaller Class. Hence it may be regarded as another smaller Class, whose Differentia may be formed, from that of the Class first picked out, by prefixing the word “not”; and we may imagine that we have divided the Class first thought of into two smaller Classes, whose Differentiæ are contradictory. This kind of Division is called ‘Dichotomy’. [For example, we may divide “books” into the two Classes whose Differentiæ are “old” and “not-old.”] In performing this Process, we may sometimes find that the Attributes we have chosen are used so loosely, in ordinary conversation, that it is not easy to decide which of the Things belong to the one Class and which to the other. In such a case, it would be necessary to lay down some arbitrary rule, as to where the one Class should end and the other begin. [Thus, in dividing “books” into “old” and “not-old,” we may say “Let all books printed before a.d. 1801, be regarded as ‘old,’ and all others as ‘not-old’.”] Henceforwards let it be understood that, if a Class of Things be divided into two Classes, whose Differentiæ have contrary meanings, each Differentia is to be regarded as equivalent to the other with the word “not” prefixed. [Thus, if “books” be divided into “old” and “new” the Attribute “old” is to be regarded as equivalent to “not-new,” and the Attribute “new” as equivalent to “not-old.”] pg004After dividing a Class, by the Process of Dichotomy, into two smaller Classes, we may sub-divide each of these into two still smaller Classes; and this Process may be repeated over and over again, the number of Classes being doubled at each repetition. [For example, we may divide “books” into “old” and “new” (i.e. “not-old”): we may then sub-divide each of these into “English” and “foreign” (i.e. “not-English”), thus getting four Classes, viz. (1) old English; (2) old foreign; (3) new English; (4) new foreign. If we had begun by dividing into “English” and “foreign,” and had then sub-divided into “old” and “new,” the four Classes would have been (1) English old; (2) English new; (3) foreign old; (4) foreign new. The Reader will easily see that these are the very same four Classes which we had before.] pg004½CHAPTER IV. NAMES. The word “Thing”, which conveys the idea of a Thing, without any idea of an Adjunct, represents any single Thing. Any other word (or phrase), which conveys the idea of a Thing, with the idea of an Adjunct represents any Thing which possesses that Adjunct; i.e., it represents any Member of the Class to which that Adjunct is peculiar. Such a word (or phrase) is called a ‘Name’; and, if there be an existing Thing which it represents, it is said to be a Name of that Thing. [For example, the words “Thing,” “Treasure,” “Town,” and the phrases “valuable Thing,” “material artificial Thing consisting of houses and streets,” “Town lit with gas,” “Town paved with gold,” “old English Book.”] Just as a Class is said to be Real, or Unreal, according as there is, or is not, an existing Thing in it, so also a Name is said to be Real, or Unreal, according as there is, or is not, an existing Thing represented by it. [Thus, “Town lit with gas” is a Real Name: “Town paved with gold” is an Unreal Name.] Every Name is either a Substantive only, or else a phrase consisting of a Substantive and one or more Adjectives (or phrases used as Adjectives). Every Name, except “Thing”, may usually be expressed in three different forms:— (a) The Substantive “Thing”, and one or more Adjectives (or phrases used as Adjectives) conveying the ideas of the Attributes; pg005(b) A Substantive, conveying the idea of a Thing with the ideas of some of the Attributes, and one or more Adjectives (or phrases used as Adjectives) conveying the ideas of the other Attributes; (c) A Substantive conveying the idea of a Thing with the ideas of all the Attributes. [Thus, the phrase “material living Thing, belonging to the Animal Kingdom, having two hands and two feet” is a Name expressed in Form (a). If we choose to roll up together the Substantive “Thing” and the Adjectives “material, living, belonging to the Animal Kingdom,” so as to make the new Substantive “Animal,” we get the phrase “Animal having two hands and two feet,” which is a Name (representing the same Thing as before) expressed in Form (b). And, if we choose to roll up the whole phrase into one word, so as to make the new Substantive “Man,” we get a Name (still representing the very same Thing) expressed in Form (c).] A Name, whose Substantive is in the plural number, may be used to represent either (1) Members of a Class, regarded as separate Things; or (2) a whole Class, regarded as one single Thing. [Thus, when I say “Some soldiers of the Tenth Regiment are tall,” or “The soldiers of the Tenth Regiment are brave,” I am using the Name “soldiers of the Tenth Regiment” in the first sense; and it is just the same as if I were to point to each of them separately, and to say “This soldier of the Tenth Regiment is tall,” “That soldier of the Tenth Regiment is tall,” and so on. But, when I say “The soldiers of the Tenth Regiment are formed in square,” I am using the phrase in the second sense; and it is just the same as if I were to say “The Tenth Regiment is formed in square.”] pg006CHAPTER V. DEFINITIONS. It is evident that every Member of a Species is also a Member of the Genus out of which that Species has been picked, and that it possesses the Differentia of that Species. Hence it may be represented by a Name consisting of two parts, one being a Name representing any Member of the Genus, and the other being the Differentia of that Species. Such a Name is called a ‘Definition’ of any Member of that Species, and to give it such a Name is to ‘define’ it. [Thus, we may define a “Treasure” as a “valuable Thing.” In this case we regard “Things” as the Genus, and “valuable” as the Differentia.] The following Examples, of this Process, may be taken as models for working others. [Note that, in each Definition, the Substantive, representing a Member (or Members) of the Genus, is printed in Capitals.] 1. Define “a Treasure.” Ans. “a valuable Thing.” 2. Define “Treasures.” Ans. “valuable Things.” 3. Define “a Town.” Ans. “a material artificial Thing, consisting of houses and streets.” pg0074. Define “Men.” Ans. “material, living Things, belonging to the Animal Kingdom, having two hands and two feet”; or else “Animals having two hands and two feet.” 5. Define “London.” Ans. “the material artificial Thing, which consists of houses and streets, and has four million inhabitants”; or else “the Town which has four million inhabitants.” [Note that we here use the article “the” instead of “a”, because we happen to know that there is only one such Thing. The Reader can set himself any number of Examples of this Process, by simply choosing the Name of any common Thing (such as “house,” “tree,” “knife”), making a Definition for it, and then testing his answer by referring to any English Dictionary.] pg008BOOK II. PROPOSITIONS. CHAPTER I. PROPOSITIONS GENERALLY. § 1. Introductory. Note that the word “some” is to be regarded, henceforward, as meaning “one or more.” The word ‘Proposition,’ as used in ordinary conversation, may be applied to any word, or phrase, which conveys any information whatever. [Thus the words “yes” and “no” are Propositions in the ordinary sense of the word; and so are the phrases “you owe me five farthings” and “I don’t!” Such words as “oh!” or “never!”, and such phrases as “fetch me that book!” “which book do you mean?” do not seem, at first sight, to convey any information; but they can easily be turned into equivalent forms which do so, viz. “I am surprised,” “I will never consent to it,” “I order you to fetch me that book,” “I want to know which book you mean.”] But a ‘Proposition,’ as used in this First Part of “Symbolic Logic,” has a peculiar form, which may be called its ‘Normal pg009form’; and if any Proposition, which we wish to use in an argument, is not in normal form, we must reduce it to such a form, before we can use it. A ‘Proposition,’ when in normal form, asserts, as to certain two Classes, which are called its ‘Subject’ and ‘Predicate,’ either (1) that some Members of its Subject are Members of its Predicate; or (2) that no Members of its Subject are Members of its Predicate; or (3) that all Members of its Subject are Members of its Predicate. The Subject and the Predicate of a Proposition are called its ‘Terms.’ Two Propositions, which convey the same information, are said to be ‘equivalent’. [Thus, the two Propositions, “I see John” and “John is seen by me,” are equivalent.] § 2. Normal form of a Proposition. A Proposition, in normal form, consists of four parts, viz.— (1) The word “some,” or “no,” or “all.” (This word, which tells us how many Members of the Subject are also Members of the Predicate, is called the ‘Sign of Quantity.’) (2) Name of Subject. (3) The verb “are” (or “is”). (This is called the ‘Copula.’) (4) Name of Predicate. pg010§ 3. Various kinds of Propositions. A Proposition, that begins with “Some”, is said to be ‘Particular.’ It is also called ‘a Proposition in I.’ [Note, that it is called ‘Particular,’ because it refers to a part only of the Subject.] A Proposition, that begins with “No”, is said to be ‘Universal Negative.’ It is also called ‘a Proposition in E.’ A Proposition, that begins with “All”, is said to be ‘Universal Affirmative.’ It is also called ‘a Proposition in A.’ [Note, that they are called ‘Universal’, because they refer to the whole of the Subject.] A Proposition, whose Subject is an Individual, is to be regarded as Universal. [Let us take, as an example, the Proposition “John is not well”. This of course implies that there is an Individual, to whom the speaker refers when he mentions “John”, and whom the listener knows to be referred to. Hence the Class “men referred to by the speaker when he mentions ‘John’” is a one-Member Class, and the Proposition is equivalent to “All the men, who are referred to by the speaker when he mentions ‘John’, are not well.”] Propositions are of two kinds, ‘Propositions of Existence’ and ‘Propositions of Relation.’ These shall be discussed separately. pg011CHAPTER II. PROPOSITIONS OF EXISTENCE. A ‘Proposition of Existence’, when in normal form, has, for its Subject, the Class “existing Things”. Its Sign of Quantity is “Some” or “No”. [Note that, though its Sign of Quantity tells us how many existing Things are Members of its Predicate, it does not tell us the exact number: in fact, it only deals with two numbers, which are, in ascending order, “0” and “1 or more.”] It is called “a Proposition of Existence” because its effect is to assert the Reality (i.e. the real existence), or else the Imaginariness, of its Predicate. [Thus, the Proposition “Some existing Things are honest men” asserts that the Class “honest men” is Real. This is the normal form; but it may also be expressed in any one of the following forms:— (1) “Honest men exist”; (2) “Some honest men exist”; (3) “The Class ‘honest men’ exists”; (4) “There are honest men”; (5) “There are some honest men”. Similarly, the Proposition “No existing Things are men fifty feet high” asserts that the Class “men 50 feet high” is Imaginary. This is the normal form; but it may also be expressed in any one of the following forms:— (1) “Men 50 feet high do not exist”; (2) “No men 50 feet high exist”; (3) “The Class ‘men 50 feet high’ does not exist”; (4) “There are not any men 50 feet high”; (5) “There are no men 50 feet high.”] pg012CHAPTER III. PROPOSITIONS OF RELATION. § 1. Introductory. A Proposition of Relation, of the kind to be here discussed, has, for its Terms, two Specieses of the same Genus, such that each of the two Names conveys the idea of some Attribute not conveyed by the other. [Thus, the Proposition “Some merchants are misers” is of the right kind, since “merchants” and “misers” are Specieses of the same Genus “men”; and since the Name “merchants” conveys the idea of the Attribute “mercantile”, and the name “misers” the idea of the Attribute “miserly”, each of which ideas is not conveyed by the other Name. But the Proposition “Some dogs are setters” is not of the right kind, since, although it is true that “dogs” and “setters” are Specieses of the same Genus “animals”, it is not true that the Name “dogs” conveys the idea of any Attribute not conveyed by the Name “setters”. Such Propositions will be discussed in Part II.] The Genus, of which the two Terms are Specieses, is called the ‘Universe of Discourse,’ or (more briefly) the ‘Univ.’ The Sign of Quantity is “Some” or “No” or “All”. [Note that, though its Sign of Quantity tells us how many Members of its Subject are also Members of its Predicate, it does not tell us the exact number: in fact, it only deals with three numbers, which are, in ascending order, “0”, “1 or more”, “the total number of Members of the Subject”.] It is called “a Proposition of Relation” because its effect is to assert that a certain relationship exists between its Terms. pg013§ 2. Reduction of a Proposition of Relation to Normal form. The Rules, for doing this, are as follows:— (1) Ascertain what is the Subject (i.e., ascertain what Class we are talking about); (2) If the verb, governed by the Subject, is not the verb “are” (or “is”), substitute for it a phrase beginning with “are” (or “is”); (3) Ascertain what is the Predicate (i.e., ascertain what Class it is, which is asserted to contain some, or none, or all, of the Members of the Subject); (4) If the Name of each Term is completely expressed (i.e. if it contains a Substantive), there is no need to determine the ‘Univ.’; but, if either Name is incompletely expressed, and contains Attributes only, it is then necessary to determine a ‘Univ.’, in order to insert its Name as the Substantive. (5) Ascertain the Sign of Quantity; (6) Arrange in the following order:— Sign of Quantity, Subject, Copula, Predicate. [Let us work a few Examples, to illustrate these Rules. (1) “Some apples are not ripe.” (1) The Subject is “apples.” (2) The Verb is “are.” (3) The Predicate is “not-ripe * * *.” (As no Substantive is expressed, and we have not yet settled what the Univ. is to be, we are forced to leave a blank.) (4) Let Univ. be “fruit.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “some.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “Some | apples | are | not-ripe fruit.” pg014(2) “None of my speculations have brought me as much as 5 per cent.” (1) The Subject is “my speculations.” (2) The Verb is “have brought,” for which we substitute the phrase “are * * * that have brought”. (3) The Predicate is “* * * that have brought &c.” (4) Let Univ. be “transactions.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “none of.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “None of | my speculations | are | transactions that have brought me as much as 5 per cent.” (3) “None but the brave deserve the fair.” To begin with, we note that the phrase “none but the brave” is equivalent to “no not-brave.” (1) The Subject has for its Attribute “not-brave.” But no Substantive is supplied. So we express the Subject as “not-brave * * *.” (2) The Verb is “deserve,” for which we substitute the phrase “are deserving of”. (3) The Predicate is “* * * deserving of the fair.” (4) Let Univ. be “persons.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “no.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “No | not-brave persons | are | persons deserving of the fair.” (4) “A lame puppy would not say “thank you” if you offered to lend it a skipping-rope.” (1) The Subject is evidently “lame puppies,” and all the rest of the sentence must somehow be packed into the Predicate. (2) The Verb is “would not say,” &c., for which we may substitute the phrase “are not grateful for.” (3) The Predicate may be expressed as “* * * not grateful for the loan of a skipping-rope.” (4) Let Univ. be “puppies.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “all.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “All | lame puppies | are | puppies not grateful for the loan of a skipping-rope.” pg015(5) “No one takes in the Times, unless he is well-educated.” (1) The Subject is evidently persons who are not well-educated (“no one” evidently means “no person”). (2) The Verb is “takes in,” for which we may substitute the phrase “are persons taking in.” (3) The Predicate is “persons taking in the Times.” (4) Let Univ. be “persons.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “no.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “No | persons who are not well-educated | are | persons taking in the Times.” (6) “My carriage will meet you at the station.” (1) The Subject is “my carriage.” This, being an ‘Individual,’ is equivalent to the Class “my carriages.” (Note that this Class contains only one Member.) (2) The Verb is “will meet”, for which we may substitute the phrase “are * * * that will meet.” (3) The Predicate is “* * * that will meet you at the station.” (4) Let Univ. be “things.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “all.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “All | my carriages | are | things that will meet you at the station.” (7) “Happy is the man who does not know what ‘toothache’ means!” (1) The Subject is evidently “the man &c.” (Note that in this sentence, the Predicate comes first.) At first sight, the Subject seems to be an ‘Individual’; but on further consideration, we see that the article “the” does not imply that there is only one such man. Hence the phrase “the man who” is equivalent to “all men who”. (2) The Verb is “are.” (3) The Predicate is “happy * * *.” (4) Let Univ. be “men.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “all.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “All | men who do not know what ‘toothache’ means | are | happy men.” pg016(8) “Some farmers always grumble at the weather, whatever it may be.” (1) The Subject is “farmers.” (2) The Verb is “grumble,” for which we substitute the phrase “are * * * who grumble.” (3) The Predicate is “* * * who always grumble &c.” (4) Let Univ. be “persons.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “some.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “Some | farmers | are | persons who always grumble at the weather, whatever it may be.” (9) “No lambs are accustomed to smoke cigars.” (1) The Subject is “lambs.” (2) The Verb is “are.” (3) The Predicate is “* * * accustomed &c.” (4) Let Univ. be “animals.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “no.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “No | lambs | are | animals accustomed to smoke cigars.” (10) “I ca’n’t understand examples that are not arranged in regular order, like those I am used to.” (1) The Subject is “examples that,” &c. (2) The Verb is “I ca’n’t understand,” which we must alter, so as to have “examples,” instead of “I,” as the nominative case. It may be expressed as “are not understood by me.” (3) The Predicate is “* * * not understood by me.” (4) Let Univ. be “examples.” (5) The Sign of Quantity is “all.” (6) The Proposition now becomes “All | examples that are not arranged in regular order like those I am used to | are | examples not understood by me.”] pg017§ 3. A Proposition of Relation, beginning with “All”, is a Double Proposition. A Proposition of Relation, beginning with “All”, asserts (as we already know) that “All Members of the Subject are Members of the Predicate”. This evidently contains, as a part of what it tells us, the smaller Proposition “Some Members of the Subject are Members of the Predicate”. [Thus, the Proposition “All bankers are rich men” evidently contains the smaller Proposition “Some bankers are rich men”.] The question now arises “What is the rest of the information which this Proposition gives us?” In order to answer this question, let us begin with the smaller Proposition, “Some Members of the Subject are Members of the Predicate,” and suppose that this is all we have been told; and let us proceed to inquire what else we need to be told, in order to know that “All Members of the Subject are Members of the Predicate”. [Thus, we may suppose that the Proposition “Some bankers are rich men” is all the information we possess; and we may proceed to inquire what other Proposition needs to be added to it, in order to make up the entire Proposition “All bankers are rich men”.] Let us also suppose that the ‘Univ.’ (i.e. the Genus, of which both the Subject and the Predicate are Specieses) has been divided (by the Process of Dichotomy) into two smaller Classes, viz. (1) the Predicate; (2) the Class whose Differentia is contradictory to that of the Predicate. [Thus, we may suppose that the Genus “men,” (of which both “bankers” and “rich men” are Specieses) has been divided into the two smaller Classes, “rich men”, “poor men”.] pg018Now we know that every Member of the Subject is (as shown at p. 6) a Member of the Univ. Hence every Member of the Subject is either in Class (1) or else in Class (2). [Thus, we know that every banker is a Member of the Genus “men”. Hence, every banker is either in the Class “rich men”, or else in the Class “poor men”.] Also we have been told that, in the case we are discussing, some Members of the Subject are in Class (1). What else do we need to be told, in order to know that all of them are there? Evidently we need to be told that none of them are in Class (2); i.e. that none of them are Members of the Class whose Differentia is contradictory to that of the Predicate. [Thus, we may suppose we have been told that some bankers are in the Class “rich men”. What else do we need to be told, in order to know that all of them are there? Evidently we need to be told that none of them are in the Class “poor men”.] Hence a Proposition of Relation, beginning with “All”, is a Double Proposition, and is ‘equivalent’ to (i.e. gives the same information as) the two Propositions (1) “Some Members of the Subject are Members of the Predicate”; (2) “No Members of the Subject are Members of the Class whose Differentia is contradictory to that of the Predicate”. [Thus, the Proposition “All bankers are rich men” is a Double Proposition, and is equivalent to the two Propositions (1) “Some bankers are rich men”; (2) “No bankers are poor men”.] pg019§ 4. What is implied, in a Proposition of Relation, as to the Reality of its Terms? Note that the rules, here laid down, are arbitrary, and only apply to Part I of my “Symbolic Logic.” A Proposition of Relation, beginning with “Some”, is henceforward to be understood as asserting that there are some existing Things, which, being Members of the Subject, are also Members of the Predicate; i.e. that some existing Things are Members of both Terms at once. Hence it is to be understood as implying that each Term, taken by itself, is Real. [Thus, the Proposition “Some rich men are invalids” is to be understood as asserting that some existing Things are “rich invalids”. Hence it implies that each of the two Classes, “rich men” and “invalids”, taken by itself, is Real.] A Proposition of Relation, beginning with “No”, is henceforward to be understood as asserting that there are no existing Things which, being Members of the Subject, are also Members of the Predicate; i.e. that no existing Things are Members of both Terms at once. But this implies nothing as to the Reality of either Term taken by itself. [Thus, the Proposition “No mermaids are milliners” is to be understood as asserting that no existing Things are “mermaid-milliners”. But this implies nothing as to the Reality, or the Unreality, of either of the two Classes, “mermaids” and “milliners”, taken by itself. In this case as it happens, the Subject is Imaginary, and the Predicate Real.] A Proposition of Relation, beginning with “All”, contains (see § 3) a similar Proposition beginning with “Some”. Hence it is to be understood as implying that each Term, taken by itself, is Real. [Thus, the Proposition “All hyænas are savage animals” contains the Proposition “Some hyænas are savage animals”. Hence it implies that each of the two Classes, “hyænas” and “savage animals”, taken by itself, is Real.] pg020§ 5. Translation of a Proposition of Relation into one or more Propositions of Existence. We have seen that a Proposition of Relation, beginning with “Some,” asserts that some existing Things, being Members of its Subject, are also Members of its Predicate. Hence, it asserts that some existing Things are Members of both; i.e. it asserts that some existing Things are Members of the Class of Things which have all the Attributes of the Subject and the Predicate. Hence, to translate it into a Proposition of Existence, we take “existing Things” as the new Subject, and Things, which have all the Attributes of the Subject and the Predicate, as the new Predicate. Similarly for a Proposition of Relation beginning with “No”. A Proposition of Relation, beginning with “All”, is (as shown in § 3) equivalent to two Propositions, one beginning with “Some” and the other with “No”, each of which we now know how to translate. [Let us work a few Examples, to illustrate these Rules. (1) “Some apples are not ripe.” Here we arrange thus:— “Some” Sign of Quantity. “existing Things” Subject. “are” Copula. “not-ripe apples” Predicate. or thus:— “Some | existing Things | are | not-ripe apples.” pg021(2) “Some farmers always grumble at the weather, whatever it may be.” Here we arrange thus:— “Some | existing Things | are | farmers who always grumble at the weather, whatever it may be.” (3) “No lambs are accustomed to smoke cigars.” Here we arrange thus:— “No | existing Things |are | lambs accustomed to smoke cigars.” (4) “None of my speculations have brought me as much as 5 per cent.” Here we arrange thus:— “No | existing Things | are | speculations of mine, which have brought me as much as 5 per cent.” (5) “None but the brave deserve the fair.” Here we note, to begin with, that the phrase “none but the brave” is equivalent to “no not-brave men.” We then arrange thus:— “No | existing Things | are | not-brave men deserving of the fair.” (6) “All bankers are rich men.” This is equivalent to the two Propositions “Some bankers are rich men” and “No bankers are poor men.” Here we arrange thus:— “Some | existing Things | are | rich bankers”; and “No | existing Things | are | poor bankers.”] [Work Examples § 1, 1–4 (p. 97).] pg022BOOK III. THE BILITERAL DIAGRAM. An annotated biliteral diagram CHAPTER I. SYMBOLS AND CELLS. First, let us suppose that the above Diagram is an enclosure assigned to a certain Class of Things, which we have selected as our ‘Universe of Discourse.’ or, more briefly, as our ‘Univ’. [For example, we might say “Let Univ. be ‘books’”; and we might imagine the Diagram to be a large table, assigned to all “books.”] [The Reader is strongly advised, in reading this Chapter, not to refer to the above Diagram, but to draw a large one for himself, without any letters, and to have it by him while he reads, and keep his finger on that particular part of it, about which he is reading.] pg023Secondly, let us suppose that we have selected a certain Adjunct, which we may call “x,” and have divided the large Class, to which we have assigned the whole Diagram, into the two smaller Classes whose Differentiæ are “x” and “not-x” (which we may call “x'”), and that we have assigned the North Half of the Diagram to the one (which we may call “the Class of x-Things,” or “the x-Class”), and the South Half to the other (which we may call “the Class of x'-Things,” or “the x'-Class”). [For example, we might say “Let x mean ‘old,’ so that x' will mean ‘new’,” and we might suppose that we had divided books into the two Classes whose Differentiæ are “old” and “new,” and had assigned the North Half of the table to “old books” and the South Half to “new books.”] Thirdly, let us suppose that we have selected another Adjunct, which we may call “y”, and have subdivided the x-Class into the two Classes whose Differentiæ are “y” and “y'”, and that we have assigned the North-West Cell to the one (which we may call “the xy-Class”), and the North-East Cell to the other (which we may call “the xy'-Class”). [For example, we might say “Let y mean ‘English,’ so that y' will mean ‘foreign’”, and we might suppose that we had subdivided “old books” into the two Classes whose Differentiæ are “English” and “foreign”, and had assigned the North-West Cell to “old English books”, and the North-East Cell to “old foreign books.”] Fourthly, let us suppose that we have subdivided the x'-Class in the same manner, and have assigned the South-West Cell to the x'y-Class, and the South-East Cell to the x'y'-Class. [For example, we might suppose that we had subdivided “new books” into the two Classes “new English books” and “new foreign books”, and had assigned the South-West Cell to the one, and the South-East Cell to the other.] It is evident that, if we had begun by dividing for y and y', and had then subdivided for x and x', we should have got the pg024same four Classes. Hence we see that we have assigned the West Half to the y-Class, and the East Half to the y'-Class. Diagram representing books [Thus, in the above Example, we should find that we had assigned the West Half of the table to “English books” and the East Half to “foreign books.” We have, in fact, assigned the four Quarters of the table to four different Classes of books, as here shown.] The Reader should carefully remember that, in such a phrase as “the x-Things,” the word “Things” means that particular kind of Things, to which the whole Diagram has been assigned. [Thus, if we say “Let Univ. be ‘books’,” we mean that we have assigned the whole Diagram to “books.” In that case, if we took “x” to mean “old”, the phrase “the x-Things” would mean “the old books.”] The Reader should not go on to the next Chapter until he is quite familiar with the blank Diagram I have advised him to draw. He ought to be able to name, instantly, the Adjunct assigned to any Compartment named in the right-hand column of the following Table. Also he ought to be able to name, instantly, the Compartment assigned to any Adjunct named in the left-hand column. To make sure of this, he had better put the book into the hands of some genial friend, while he himself has nothing but the blank Diagram, and get that genial friend to question him on this Table, dodging about as much as possible. The Questions and Answers should be something like this:— pg025TABLE I. Adjuncts of Classes. Compartments, or Cells, assigned to them. x North Half. x' South ? y West ? y' East ? xy North - West Cell. xy' ? East ? x'y South - West ? x'y' ? East ? Q. “Adjunct for West Half?” A. “y.” Q. “Compartment for xy'?” A. “North-East Cell.” Q. “Adjunct for South-West Cell?” A. “x'y.” &c., &c. After a little practice, he will find himself able to do without the blank Diagram, and will be able to see it mentally (“in my mind’s eye, Horatio!”) while answering the questions of his genial friend. When this result has been reached, he may safely go on to the next Chapter. pg026CHAPTER II. COUNTERS. Let us agree that a Red Counter, placed within a Cell, shall mean “This Cell is occupied” (i.e. “There is at least one Thing in it”). Let us also agree that a Red Counter, placed on the partition between two Cells, shall mean “The Compartment, made up of these two Cells, is occupied; but it is not known whereabouts, in it, its occupants are.” Hence it may be understood to mean “At least one of these two Cells is occupied: possibly both are.” Our ingenious American cousins have invented a phrase to describe the condition of a man who has not yet made up his mind which of two political parties he will join: such a man is said to be “sitting on the fence.” This phrase exactly describes the condition of the Red Counter. Let us also agree that a Grey Counter, placed within a Cell, shall mean “This Cell is empty” (i.e. “There is nothing in it”). [The Reader had better provide himself with 4 Red Counters and 5 Grey ones.] pg027CHAPTER III. REPRESENTATION OF PROPOSITIONS. § 1. Introductory. Henceforwards, in stating such Propositions as “Some x-Things exist” or “No x-Things are y-Things”, I shall omit the word “Things”, which the Reader can supply for himself, and shall write them as “Some x exist” or “No x are y”. [Note that the word “Things” is here used with a special meaning, as explained at p. 23.] A Proposition, containing only one of the Letters used as Symbols for Attributes, is said to be ‘Uniliteral’. [For example, “Some x exist”, “No y' exist”, &c.] A Proposition, containing two Letters, is said to be ‘Biliteral’. [For example, “Some xy' exist”, “No x' are y”, &c.] A Proposition is said to be ‘in terms of’ the Letters it contains, whether with or without accents. [Thus, “Some xy' exist”, “No x' are y”, &c., are said to be in terms of x and y.] pg028§ 2. Representation of Propositions of Existence. Let us take, first, the Proposition “Some x exist”. [Note that this Proposition is (as explained at p. 12) equivalent to “Some existing Things are x-Things.”] Diagram representing x exists This tells us that there is at least one Thing in the North Half; that is, that the North Half is occupied. And this we can evidently represent by placing a Red Counter (here represented by a dotted circle) on the partition which divides the North Half. [In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “Some old books exist”.] Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions “Some x' exist”, “Some y exist”, and “Some y' exist”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself. In the “books” example, these Propositions would be “Some new books exist”, &c.] Let us take, next, the Proposition “No x exist”. Diagram representing x does not exist This tells us that there is nothing in the North Half; that is, that the North Half is empty; that is, that the North-West Cell and the North-East Cell are both of them empty. And this we can represent by placing two Grey Counters in the North Half, one in each Cell. [The Reader may perhaps think that it would be enough to place a Grey Counter on the partition in the North Half, and that, just as a Red Counter, so placed, would mean “This Half is occupied”, so a Grey one would mean “This Half is empty”. This, however, would be a mistake. We have seen that a Red Counter, so placed, would mean “At least one of these two Cells is occupied: possibly both are.” Hence a Grey one would merely mean “At least one of these two Cells is empty: possibly both are”. But what we have to represent is, that both Cells are certainly empty: and this can only be done by placing a Grey Counter in each of them. In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “No old books exist”.] pg029Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions “No x' exist”, “No y exist”, and “No y' exist”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself. In the “books” example, these three Propositions would be “No new books exist”, &c.] Let us take, next, the Proposition “Some xy exist”. Diagram representing x y exists This tells us that there is at least one Thing in the North-West Cell; that is, that the North-West Cell is occupied. And this we can represent by placing a Red Counter in it. [In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “Some old English books exist”.] Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions “Some xy' exist”, “Some x'y exist”, and “Some x'y' exist”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself. In the “books” example, these three Propositions would be “Some old foreign books exist”, &c.] Let us take, next, the Proposition “No xy exist”. Diagram representing x y does not exist This tells us that there is nothing in the North-West Cell; that is, that the North-West Cell is empty. And this we can represent by placing a Grey Counter in it. [In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “No old English books exist”.] Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions “No xy' exist”, “No x'y exist”, and “No x'y' exist”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself. In the “books” example, these three Propositions would be “No old foreign books exist”, &c.] pg030Diagram representing x does not exist We have seen that the Proposition “No x exist” may be represented by placing two Grey Counters in the North Half, one in each Cell. We have also seen that these two Grey Counters, taken separately, represent the two Propositions “No xy exist” and “No xy' exist”. Hence we see that the Proposition “No x exist” is a Double Proposition, and is equivalent to the two Propositions “No xy exist” and “No xy' exist”. [In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “No old books exist”. Hence this is a Double Proposition, and is equivalent to the two Propositions “No old English books exist” and “No old foreign books exist”.] § 3. Representation of Propositions of Relation. Let us take, first, the Proposition “Some x are y”. Diagram representing x y exists This tells us that at least one Thing, in the North Half, is also in the West Half. Hence it must be in the space common to them, that is, in the North-West Cell. Hence the North-West Cell is occupied. And this we can represent by placing a Red Counter in it. [Note that the Subject of the Proposition settles which Half we are to use; and that the Predicate settles in which portion of it we are to place the Red Counter. In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “Some old books are English”.] Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions “Some x are y'”, “Some x' are y”, and “Some x' are y'”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself. In the “books” example, these three Propositions would be “Some old books are foreign”, &c.] pg031Let us take, next, the Proposition “Some y are x”. Diagram representing x y exists This tells us that at least one Thing, in the West Half, is also in the North Half. Hence it must be in the space common to them, that is, in the North-West Cell. Hence the North-West Cell is occupied. And this we can represent by placing a Red Counter in it. [In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “Some English books are old”.] Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions “Some y are x'”, “Some y' are x”, and “Some y' are x'”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself. In the “books” example, these three Propositions would be “Some English books are new”, &c.] Diagram representing x y exists We see that this one Diagram has now served to represent no less than three Propositions, viz. (1) “Some xy exist; (2) Some x are y; (3) Some y are x”. Hence these three Propositions are equivalent. [In the “books” example, these Propositions would be (1) “Some old English books exist; (2) Some old books are English; (3) Some English books are old”.] The two equivalent Propositions, “Some x are y” and “Some y are x”, are said to be ‘Converse’ to each other; and the Process, of changing one into the other, is called ‘Converting’, or ‘Conversion’. [For example, if we were told to convert the Proposition “Some apples are not ripe,” we should first choose our Univ. (say “fruit”), and then complete the Proposition, by supplying the Substantive “fruit” in the Predicate, so that it would be “Some apples are not-ripe fruit”; and we should then convert it by interchanging its Terms, so that it would be “Some not-ripe fruit are apples”.] pg032Similarly we may represent the three similar Trios of equivalent Propositions; the whole Set of four Trios being as follows:— (1) “Some xy exist” = “Some x are y” = “Some y are x”. (2) “Some xy' exist” = “Some x are y'” = “Some y' are x”. (3) “Some x'y exist” = “Some x' are y” = “Some y are x'”. (4) “Some x'y' exist” = “Some x' are y'” = “Some y' are x'”. Let us take, next, the Proposition “No x are y”. Diagram representing x y does not exist This tell us that no Thing, in the North Half, is also in the West Half. Hence there is nothing in the space common to them, that is, in the North-West Cell. Hence the North-West Cell is empty. And this we can represent by placing a Grey Counter in it. [In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “No old books are English”.] Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions “No x are y'”, and “No x' are y”, and “No x' are y'”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself. In the “books” example, these three Propositions would be “No old books are foreign”, &c.] Let us take, next, the Proposition “No y are x”. Diagram representing x y does not exist This tells us that no Thing, in the West Half, is also in the North Half. Hence there is nothing in the space common to them, that is, in the North-West Cell. That is, the North-West Cell is empty. And this we can represent by placing a Grey Counter in it. [In the “books” example, this Proposition would be “No English books are old”.] Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions “No y are x'”, “No y' are x”, and “No y' are x'”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself. In the “books” example, these three Propositions would be “No English books are new”, &c.] pg033Diagram representing x y does not exist We see that this one Diagram has now served to present no less than three Propositions, viz. (1) “No xy exist; (2) No x are y; (3) No y are x.” Hence these three Propositions are equivalent. [In the “books” example, these Propositions would be (1) “No old English books exist; (2) No old books are English; (3) No English books are old”.] The two equivalent Propositions, “No x are y” and “No y are x”, are said to be ‘Converse’ to each other. [For example, if we were told to convert the Proposition “No porcupines are talkative”, we should first choose our Univ. (say “animals”), and then complete the Proposition, by supplying the Substantive “animals” in the Predicate, so that it would be “No porcupines are talkative animals”, and we should then convert it, by interchanging its Terms, so that it would be “No talkative animals are porcupines”.] Similarly we may represent the three similar Trios of equivalent Propositions; the whole Set of four Trios being as follows:— (1) “No xy exist” = “No x are y” = “No y are x”. (2) “No xy' exist” = “No x are y'” = “No y' are x”. (3) “No x'y exist” = “No x' are y” = “No y are x'”. (4) “No x'y' exist” = “No x' are y'” = “No y' are x'”. Diagram representing all x are y Let us take, next, the Proposition “All x are y”. We know (see p. 17) that this is a Double Proposition, and equivalent to the two Propositions “Some x are y” and “No x are y'”, each of which we already know how to represent. [Note that the Subject of the given Proposition settles which Half we are to use; and that its Predicate settles in which portion of that Half we are to place the Red Counter.] pg034TABLE II. Some x exist Diagram representing x exists No x exist Diagram representing x does not exist Some x' exist Diagram representing x prime exists No x' exist Diagram representing x prime does not exist Some y exist Diagram representing y exists No y exist Diagram representing y does not exist Some y' exist Diagram representing y prime exists No y' exist Diagram representing y prime does not exist Similarly we may represent the seven similar Propositions “All x are y'”, “All x' are y”, “All x' are y'”, “All y are x”, “All y are x'”, “All y' are x”, and “All y' are x'”. Diagram representing x exists Let us take, lastly, the Double Proposition “Some x are y and some are y'”, each part of which we already know how to represent. Similarly we may represent the three similar Propositions, “Some x' are y and some are y'”, “Some y are x and some are x'”, “Some y' are x and some are x'”. The Reader should now get his genial friend to question him, severely, on these two Tables. The Inquisitor should have the Tables before him: but the Victim should have nothing but a blank Diagram, and the Counters with which he is to represent the various Propositions named by his friend, e.g. “Some y exist”, “No y' are x”, “All x are y”, &c. &c. pg035TABLE III. Some xy exist = Some x are y = Some y are x Diagram representing x y exists All x are y Diagram representing all x are y Some xy' exist = Some x are y' = Some y' are x Diagram representing x y exists All x are y' Diagram representing all x are y prime Some x'y exist = Some x' are y = Some y are x' Diagram representing x y exists All x' are y Diagram representing all x prime are y Some x'y' exist = Some x' are y' = Some y' are x' Diagram representing x prime y prime exists All x' are y' Diagram representing all x prime are y prime No xy exist = No x are y = No y are x Diagram representing x y does not exist All y are x Diagram representing all y are x No xy' exist = No x are y' = No y' are x Diagram representing x y prime does not exist All y are x' Diagram representing all y are x prime No x'y exist = No x' are y = No y are x' Diagram representing x prime y does not exist All y' are x Diagram representing all y prime are x No x'y' exist = No x' are y' = No y' are x' Diagram representing x prime y prime does not exist All y' are x' Diagram representing all y prime are x prime Some x are y, and some are y' Diagram representing x exists with and without y Some y are x and some are x' Diagram representing y exists with and without x Some x' are y, and some are y' Diagram representing x prime exists with and without y Some y' are x and some are x' Diagram representing y prime exists with and without x pg036CHAPTER IV. INTERPRETATION OF BILITERAL DIAGRAM WHEN MARKED WITH COUNTERS. The Diagram is supposed to be set before us, with certain Counters placed upon it; and the problem is to find out what Proposition, or Propositions, the Counters represent. As the process is simply the reverse of that discussed in the previous Chapter, we can avail ourselves of the results there obtained, as far as they go. Diagram representing x y exists First, let us suppose that we find a Red Counter placed in the North-West Cell. We know that this represents each of the Trio of equivalent Propositions “Some xy exist” = “Some x are y” = “Some y are x”. Similarly we may interpret a Red Counter, when placed in the North-East, or South-West, or South-East Cell. Diagram representing x y does not exist Next, let us suppose that we find a Grey Counter placed in the North-West Cell. We know that this represents each of the Trio of equivalent Propositions “No xy exist” = “No x are y” = “No y are x”. Similarly we may interpret a Grey Counter, when placed in the North-East, or South-West, or South-East Cell. pg037Diagram representing x exists Next, let us suppose that we find a Red Counter placed on the partition which divides the North Half. We know that this represents the Proposition “Some x exist.” Similarly we may interpret a Red Counter, when placed on the partition which divides the South, or West, or East Half. Diagram representing x exists with and without y Next, let us suppose that we find two Red Counters placed in the North Half, one in each Cell. We know that this represents the Double Proposition “Some x are y and some are y'”. Similarly we may interpret two Red Counters, when placed in the South, or West, or East Half. Diagram representing x does not exist Next, let us suppose that we find two Grey Counters placed in the North Half, one in each Cell. We know that this represents the Proposition “No x exist”. Similarly we may interpret two Grey Counters, when placed in the South, or West, or East Half. Diagram representing all x are y Lastly, let us suppose that we find a Red and a Grey Counter placed in the North Half, the Red in the North-West Cell, and the Grey in the North-East Cell. We know that this represents the Proposition, “All x are y”. [Note that the Half, occupied by the two Counters, settles what is to be the Subject of the Proposition, and that the Cell, occupied by the Red Counter, settles what is to be its Predicate.] pg038Similarly we may interpret a Red and a Grey counter, when placed in any one of the seven similar positions Red in North-East, Grey in North-West; Red in South-West, Grey in South-East; Red in South-East, Grey in South-West; Red in North-West, Grey in South-West; Red in South-West, Grey in North-West; Red in North-East, Grey in South-East; Red in South-East, Grey in North-East. Once more the genial friend must be appealed to, and requested to examine the Reader on Tables II and III, and to make him not only represent Propositions, but also interpret Diagrams when marked with Counters. The Questions and Answers should be like this:— Q. Represent “No x' are y'.” A. Grey Counter in S.E. Cell. Q. Interpret Red Counter on E. partition. A. “Some y' exist.” Q. Represent “All y' are x.” A. Red in N.E. Cell; Grey in S.E. Q. Interpret Grey Counter in S.W. Cell. A. “No x'y exist” = “No x' are y” = “No y are x'”. &c., &c. At first the Examinee will need to have the Board and Counters before him; but he will soon learn to dispense with these, and to answer with his eyes shut or gazing into vacancy. [Work Examples § 1, 5–8 (p. 97).] pg039BOOK IV. THE TRILITERAL DIAGRAM. An annotated biliteral diagram An annotated triliteral diagram CHAPTER I. SYMBOLS AND CELLS. First, let us suppose that the above left-hand Diagram is the Biliteral Diagram that we have been using in Book III., and that we change it into a Triliteral Diagram by drawing an Inner Square, so as to divide each of its 4 Cells into 2 portions, thus making 8 Cells altogether. The right-hand Diagram shows the result. [The Reader is strongly advised, in reading this Chapter, not to refer to the above Diagrams, but to make a large copy of the right-hand one for himself, without any letters, and to have it by him while he reads, and keep his finger on that particular part of it, about which he is reading.] pg040Secondly, let us suppose that we have selected a certain Adjunct, which we may call “m”, and have subdivided the xy-Class into the two Classes whose Differentiæ are m and m', and that we have assigned the N.W. Inner Cell to the one (which we may call “the Class of xym-Things”, or “the xym-Class”), and the N.W. Outer Cell to the other (which we may call “the Class of xym'-Things”, or “the xym'-Class”). [Thus, in the “books” example, we might say “Let m mean ‘bound’, so that m' will mean ‘unbound’”, and we might suppose that we had subdivided the Class “old English books” into the two Classes, “old English bound books” and “old English unbound books”, and had assigned the N.W. Inner Cell to the one, and the N.W. Outer Cell to the other.] Thirdly, let us suppose that we have subdivided the xy'-Class, the x'y-Class, and the x'y'-Class in the same manner, and have, in each case, assigned the Inner Cell to the Class possessing the Attribute m, and the Outer Cell to the Class possessing the Attribute m'. [Thus, in the “books” example, we might suppose that we had subdivided the “new English books” into the two Classes, “new English bound books” and “new English unbound books”, and had assigned the S.W. Inner Cell to the one, and the S.W. Outer Cell to the other.] It is evident that we have now assigned the Inner Square to the m-Class, and the Outer Border to the m'-Class. [Thus, in the “books” example, we have assigned the Inner Square to “bound books” and the Outer Border to “unbound books”.] When the Reader has made himself familiar with this Diagram, he ought to be able to find, in a moment, the Compartment assigned to a particular pair of Attributes, or the Cell assigned to a particular trio of Attributes. The following Rules will help him in doing this:— (1) Arrange the Attributes in the order x, y, m. pg041 (2) Take the first of them and find the Compartment assigned to it. (3) Then take the second, and find what portion of that compartment is assigned to it. (4) Treat the third, if there is one, in the same way. [For example, suppose we have to find the Compartment assigned to ym. We say to ourselves “y has the West Half; and m has the Inner portion of that West Half.” Again, suppose we have to find the Cell assigned to x'ym'. We say to ourselves “x' has the South Half; y has the West portion of that South Half, i.e. has the South-West Quarter; and m' has the Outer portion of that South-West Quarter.”] The Reader should now get his genial friend to question him on the Table given on the next page, in the style of the following specimen-Dialogue. Q. Adjunct for South Half, Inner Portion? A. x'm. Q. Compartment for m'? A. The Outer Border. Q. Adjunct for North-East Quarter, Outer Portion? A. xy'm'. Q. Compartment for ym? A. West Half, Inner Portion. Q. Adjunct for South Half? A. x'. Q. Compartment for x'y'm? A. South-East Quarter, Inner Portion. &c. &c. pg042TABLE IV. Adjunct of Classes. Compartments, or Cells, assigned to them. x North Half. x' South ? y West ? y' East ? m Inner Square. m' Outer Border. xy North- West Quarter. xy' ? East ? x'y South- West ? x'y' ? East ? xm North Half, Inner Portion. xm' ? ? Outer ? x'm South ? Inner ? x'm' ? ? Outer ? ym West ? Inner ? ym' ? ? Outer ? y'm East ? Inner ? y'm' ? ? Outer ? xym North- West Quarter, Inner Portion. xym' ? ? ? Outer ? xy'm ? East ? Inner ? xy'm' ? ? ? Outer ? x'ym South- West ? Inner ? x'ym' ? ? ? Outer ? x'y'm ? East ? Inner ? x'y'm' ? ? ? Outer ? pg043CHAPTER II. REPRESENTATION OF PROPOSITIONS IN TERMS OF x AND m, OR OF y AND m. § 1. Representation of Propositions of Existence in terms of x and m, or of y and m. Diagram representing x m exists Let us take, first, the Proposition “Some xm exist”. [Note that the full meaning of this Proposition is (as explained at p. 12) “Some existing Things are xm-Things”.] This tells us that there is at least one Thing in the Inner portion of the North Half; that is, that this Compartment is occupied. And this we can evidently represent by placing a Red Counter on the partition which divides it. [In the “books” example, this Proposition would mean “Some old bound books exist” (or “There are some old bound books”).] Similarly we may represent the seven similar Propositions, “Some xm' exist”, “Some x'm exist”, “Some x'm' exist”, “Some ym exist”, “Some ym' exist”, “Some y'm exist”, and “Some y'm' exist”. Diagram representing x m does not exist pg044Let us take, next, the Proposition “No xm exist”. This tells us that there is nothing in the Inner portion of the North Half; that is, that this Compartment is empty. And this we can represent by placing two Grey Counters in it, one in each Cell. Similarly we may represent the seven similar Propositions, in terms of x and m, or of y and m, viz. “No xm' exist”, “No x'm exist”, &c. These sixteen Propositions of Existence are the only ones that we shall have to represent on this Diagram. § 2. Representation of Propositions of Relation in terms of x and m, or of y and m. Diagram representing x m exists Let us take, first, the Pair of Converse Propositions “Some x are m” = “Some m are x.” We know that each of these is equivalent to the Proposition of Existence “Some xm exist”, which we already know how to represent. Similarly for the seven similar Pairs, in terms of x and m, or of y and m. Diagram representing x m does not exist Let us take, next, the Pair of Converse Propositions “No x are m” = “No m are x.” We know that each of these is equivalent to the Proposition of Existence “No xm exist”, which we already know how to represent. Similarly for the seven similar Pairs, in terms of x and m, or of y and m. Diagram representing all x are m pg045Let us take, next, the Proposition “All x are m.” We know (see p. 18) that this is a Double Proposition, and equivalent to the two Propositions “Some x are m” and “No x are m' ”, each of which we already know how to represent. Similarly for the fifteen similar Propositions, in terms of x and m, or of y and m. These thirty-two Propositions of Relation are the only ones that we shall have to represent on this Diagram. The Reader should now get his genial friend to question him on the following four Tables. The Victim should have nothing before him but a blank Triliteral Diagram, a Red Counter, and 2 Grey ones, with which he is to represent the various Propositions named by the Inquisitor, e.g. “No y' are m”, “Some xm' exist”, &c., &c. pg046TABLE V. Diagram representing x m exists Some xm exist = Some x are m = Some m are x Diagram representing x m does not exist No xm exist = No x are m = No m are x Diagram representing x m prime exists Some xm' exist = Some x are m' = Some m' are x Diagram representing x m prime does not exist No xm' exist = No x are m' = No m' are x Diagram representing x prime m exists Some x'm exist = Some x' are m = Some m are x' Diagram representing x prime m does not exist No x'm exist = No x' are m = No m are x' Diagram representing x prime m prime exists Some x'm' exist = Some x' are m' = Some m' are x' Diagram representing x prime m prime does not exist No x'm' exist = No x' are m' = No m' are x' pg047TABLE VI. Diagram representing y m exists Some ym exist = Some y are m = Some m are y Diagram representing y m does not exist No ym exist = No y are m = No m are y Diagram representing y m prime exists Some ym' exist = Some y are m' = Some m' are y Diagram representing y m prime does not exist No ym' exist = No y are m' = No m' are y Diagram representing y prime m exists Some y'm exist = Some y' are m = Some m are y' Diagram representing y prime m does not exist No y'm exist = No y' are m = No m are y' Diagram representing y prime m prime exists Some y'm' exist = Some y' are m' = Some m' are y' Diagram representing y prime m prime does not exist No y'm' exist = No y' are m' = No m' are y' pg048TABLE VII. Diagram representing all x are m All x are m Diagram representing all x are m prime All x are m' Diagram representing all x prime are m All x' are m Diagram representing all x prime are m prime All x' are m' Diagram representing all m are x All m are x Diagram representing all m are x prime All m are x' Diagram representing all m prime are x All m' are x Diagram representing all m prime are x prime All m' are x' pg049TABLE VIII. Diagram representing all y are m All y are m Diagram representing all y are m prime All y are m' Diagram representing all y prime are m All y' are m Diagram representing all y prime are m prime All y' are m' Diagram representing all m are y All m are y Diagram representing all m are y prime All m are y' Diagram representing all m prime are y All m' are y Diagram representing all m prime are y prime All m' are y' pg050CHAPTER III. REPRESENTATION OF TWO PROPOSITIONS OF RELATION, ONE IN TERMS OF x AND m, AND THE OTHER IN TERMS OF y AND m, ON THE SAME DIAGRAM. The Reader had better now begin to draw little Diagrams for himself, and to mark them with the Digits “I” and “O”, instead of using the Board and Counters: he may put a “I” to represent a Red Counter (this may be interpreted to mean “There is at least one Thing here”), and a “O” to represent a Grey Counter (this may be interpreted to mean “There is nothing here”). The Pair of Propositions, that we shall have to represent, will always be, one in terms of x and m, and the other in terms of y and m. When we have to represent a Proposition beginning with “All”, we break it up into the two Propositions to which it is equivalent. When we have to represent, on the same Diagram, Propositions, of which some begin with “Some” and others with “No”, we represent the negative ones first. This will sometimes save us from having to put a “I” “on a fence” and afterwards having to shift it into a Cell. [Let us work a few examples. (1) “No x are m'; No y' are m”. Let us first represent “No x are m'”. This gives us Diagram a. Then, representing “No y' are m” on the same Diagram, we get Diagram b. pg051a b Diagram representing x m prime does not exist Diagram representing x m prime and y prime m do not exist (2) “Some m are x; No m are y”. If, neglecting the Rule, we were begin with “Some m are x”, we should get Diagram a. And if we were then to take “No m are y”, which tells us that the Inner N.W. Cell is empty, we should be obliged to take the “I” off the fence (as it no longer has the choice of two Cells), and to put it into the Inner N.E. Cell, as in Diagram c. This trouble may be saved by beginning with “No m are y”, as in Diagram b. And now, when we take “Some m are x”, there is no fence to sit on! The “I” has to go, at once, into the N.E. Cell, as in Diagram c. a b c Diagram a representing x m exists Diagram b representing y m does not exist Diagram c representing x m exists and y m does not exist (3) “No x' are m'; All m are y”. Here we begin by breaking up the Second into the two Propositions to which it is equivalent. Thus we have three Propositions to represent, viz.— (1) “No x' are m'; (2) Some m are y; (3) No m are y'”. These we will take in the order 1, 3, 2. First we take No. (1), viz. “No x' are m'”. This gives us Diagram a. pg052Adding to this, No. (3), viz. “No m are y'”, we get Diagram b. This time the “I”, representing No. (2), viz. “Some m are y,” has to sit on the fence, as there is no “O” to order it off! This gives us Diagram c. a b c Diagram a representing x prime m prime does not exist Diagram b representing x prime m prime and y prime m do not exist Diagram c representing x prime m prime and y prime m do not exist and y m does exist (4) “All m are x; All y are m”. Here we break up both Propositions, and thus get four to represent, viz.— (1) “Some m are x; (2) No m are x'; (3) Some y are m; (4) No y are m'”. These we will take in the order 2, 4, 1, 3. First we take No. (2), viz. “No m are x'”. This gives us Diagram a. To this we add No. (4), viz. “No y are m'”, and thus get Diagram b. If we were to add to this No. (1), viz. “Some m are x”, we should have to put the “I” on a fence: so let us try No. (3) instead, viz. “Some y are m”. This gives us Diagram c. And now there is no need to trouble about No. (1), as it would not add anything to our information to put a “I” on the fence. The Diagram already tells us that “Some m are x”.] a b c Diagram a representing x prime m does not exist Diagram b representing x prime m prime and y m prime do not exist Diagram c representing x prime m prime and y prime m do not exist and y m does exist [Work Examples § 1, 9–12 (p. 97); § 2, 1–20 (p. 98).] pg053CHAPTER IV. INTERPRETATION, IN TERMS OF x AND y, OF TRILITERAL DIAGRAM, WHEN MARKED WITH COUNTERS OR DIGITS. The problem before us is, given a marked Triliteral Diagram, to ascertain what Propositions of Relation, in terms of x and y, are represented on it. The best plan, for a beginner, is to draw a Biliteral Diagram alongside of it, and to transfer, from the one to the other, all the information he can. He can then read off, from the Biliteral Diagram, the required Propositions. After a little practice, he will be able to dispense with the Biliteral Diagram, and to read off the result from the Triliteral Diagram itself. To transfer the information, observe the following Rules:— (1) Examine the N.W. Quarter of the Triliteral Diagram. (2) If it contains a “I”, in either Cell, it is certainly occupied, and you may mark the N.W. Quarter of the Biliteral Diagram with a “I”. (3) If it contains two “O”s, one in each Cell, it is certainly empty, and you may mark the N.W. Quarter of the Biliteral Diagram with a “O”. pg054(4) Deal in the same way with the N.E., the S.W., and the S.E. Quarter. [Let us take, as examples, the results of the four Examples worked in the previous Chapters. (1) Diagram representing example 1 In the N.W. Quarter, only one of the two Cells is marked as empty: so we do not know whether the N.W. Quarter of the Biliteral Diagram is occupied or empty: so we cannot mark it. Diagram representing conclusion of example 1 In the N.E. Quarter, we find two “O”s: so this Quarter is certainly empty; and we mark it so on the Biliteral Diagram. In the S.W. Quarter, we have no information at all. In the S.E. Quarter, we have not enough to use. We may read off the result as “No x are y'”, or “No y' are x,” whichever we prefer. (2) Diagram representing example 2 In the N.W. Quarter, we have not enough information to use. Diagram representing conclusion of example 2 In the N.E. Quarter, we find a “I”. This shows us that it is occupied: so we may mark the N.E. Quarter on the Biliteral Diagram with a “I”. In the S.W. Quarter, we have not enough information to use. In the S.E. Quarter, we have none at all. We may read off the result as “Some x are y'”, or “Some y' are x”, whichever we prefer. pg055(3) Diagram representing example 3 In the N.W. Quarter, we have no information. (The “I”, sitting on the fence, is of no use to us until we know on which side he means to jump down!) Diagram representing conclusion of example 2 In the N.E. Quarter, we have not enough information to use. Neither have we in the S.W. Quarter. The S.E. Quarter is the only one that yields enough information to use. It is certainly empty: so we mark it as such on the Biliteral Diagram. We may read off the results as “No x' are y'”, or “No y' are x'”, whichever we prefer. (4) Diagram representing example 4 Diagram representing partial conclusion of example 4 The N.W. Quarter is occupied, in spite of the “O” in the Outer Cell. So we mark it with a “I” on the Biliteral Diagram. The N.E. Quarter yields no information. Diagram representing complete conclusion of example 4 The S.W. Quarter is certainly empty. So we mark it as such on the Biliteral Diagram. The S.E. Quarter does not yield enough information to use. We read off the result as “All y are x.”] [Review Tables V, VI (pp. 46, 47). Work Examples § 1, 13–16 (p. 97); § 2, 21–32 (p. 98); § 3, 1–20 (p. 99).] pg056BOOK V. SYLLOGISMS. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY When a Trio of Biliteral Propositions of Relation is such that (1) all their six Terms are Species of the same Genus, (2) every two of them contain between them a Pair of codivisional Classes, (3) the three Propositions are so related that, if the first two were true, the third would be true, the Trio is called a ‘Syllogism’; the Genus, of which each of the six Terms is a Species, is called its ‘Universe of Discourse’, or, more briefly, its ‘Univ.’; the first two Propositions are called its ‘Premisses’, and the third its ‘Conclusion’; also the Pair of codivisional Terms in the Premisses are called its ‘Eliminands’, and the other two its ‘Retinends’. The Conclusion of a Syllogism is said to be ‘consequent’ from its Premisses: hence it is usual to prefix to it the word “Therefore” (or the Symbol “?”). pg057[Note that the ‘Eliminands’ are so called because they are eliminated, and do not appear in the Conclusion; and that the ‘Retinends’ are so called because they are retained, and do appear in the Conclusion. Note also that the question, whether the Conclusion is or is not consequent from the Premisses, is not affected by the actual truth or falsity of any of the Trio, but depends entirely on their relationship to each other. As a specimen-Syllogism, let us take the Trio “No x-Things are m-Things; No y-Things are m'-Things. No x-Things are y-Things.” which we may write, as explained at p. 26, thus:— “No x are m; No y are m'. No x are y”. Here the first and second contain the Pair of codivisional Classes m and m'; the first and third contain the Pair x and x; and the second and third contain the Pair y and y. Also the three Propositions are (as we shall see hereafter) so related that, if the first two were true, the third would also be true. Hence the Trio is a Syllogism; the two Propositions, “No x are m” and “No y are m'”, are its Premisses; the Proposition “No x are y” is its Conclusion; the Terms m and m' are its Eliminands; and the Terms x and y are its Retinends. Hence we may write it thus:— “No x are m; No y are m'. ? No x are y”. As a second specimen, let us take the Trio “All cats understand French; Some chickens are cats. Some chickens understand French”. These, put into normal form, are “All cats are creatures understanding French; Some chickens are cats. Some chickens are creatures understanding French”. Here all the six Terms are Species of the Genus “creatures.” Also the first and second Propositions contain the Pair of codivisional Classes “cats” and “cats”; the first and third contain the Pair “creatures understanding French” and “creatures understanding French”; and the second and third contain the Pair “chickens” and “chickens”. pg058Also the three Propositions are (as we shall see at p. 64) so related that, if the first two were true, the third would be true. (The first two are, as it happens, not strictly true in our planet. But there is nothing to hinder them from being true in some other planet, say Mars or Jupiter—in which case the third would also be true in that planet, and its inhabitants would probably engage chickens as nursery-governesses. They would thus secure a singular contingent privilege, unknown in England, namely, that they would be able, at any time when provisions ran short, to utilise the nursery-governess for the nursery-dinner!) Hence the Trio is a Syllogism; the Genus “creatures” is its ‘Univ.’; the two Propositions, “All cats understand French“ and ”Some chickens are cats”, are its Premisses, the Proposition “Some chickens understand French” is its Conclusion; the Terms “cats” and “cats” are its Eliminands; and the Terms, “creatures understanding French” and “chickens”, are its Retinends. Hence we may write it thus:— “All cats understand French; Some chickens are cats; ? Some chickens understand French”.] pg059CHAPTER II. PROBLEMS IN SYLLOGISMS. § 1. Introductory. When the Terms of a Proposition are represented by words, it is said to be ‘concrete’; when by letters, ‘abstract.’ To translate a Proposition from concrete into abstract form, we fix on a Univ., and regard each Term as a Species of it, and we choose a letter to represent its Differentia. [For example, suppose we wish to translate “Some soldiers are brave” into abstract form. We may take “men” as Univ., and regard “soldiers” and “brave men” as Species of the Genus “men”; and we may choose x to represent the peculiar Attribute (say “military”) of “soldiers,” and y to represent “brave.” Then the Proposition may be written “Some military men are brave men”; i.e. “Some x-men are y-men”; i.e. (omitting “men,” as explained at p. 26) “Some x are y.” In practice, we should merely say “Let Univ. be “men”, x = soldiers, y = brave”, and at once translate “Some soldiers are brave” into “Some x are y.”] The Problems we shall have to solve are of two kinds, viz. (1) “Given a Pair of Propositions of Relation, which contain between them a pair of codivisional Classes, and which are proposed as Premisses: to ascertain what Conclusion, if any, is consequent from them.” (2) “Given a Trio of Propositions of Relation, of which every two contain a pair of codivisional Classes, and which are proposed as a Syllogism: to ascertain whether the proposed Conclusion is consequent from the proposed Premisses, and, if so, whether it is complete.” These Problems we will discuss separately. pg060§ 2. Given a Pair of Propositions of Relation, which contain between them a pair of codivisional Classes, and which are proposed as Premisses: to ascertain what Conclusion, if any, is consequent from them. The Rules, for doing this, are as follows:— (1) Determine the ‘Universe of Discourse’. (2) Construct a Dictionary, making m and m (or m and m') represent the pair of codivisional Classes, and x (or x') and y (or y') the other two. (3) Translate the proposed Premisses into abstract form. (4) Represent them, together, on a Triliteral Diagram. (5) Ascertain what Proposition, if any, in terms of x and y, is also represented on it. (6) Translate this into concrete form. It is evident that, if the proposed Premisses were true, this other Proposition would also be true. Hence it is a Conclusion consequent from the proposed Premisses. [Let us work some examples. (1) “No son of mine is dishonest; People always treat an honest man with respect”. Taking “men” as Univ., we may write these as follows:— “No sons of mine are dishonest men; All honest men are men treated with respect”. We can now construct our Dictionary, viz. m = honest; x = sons of mine; y = treated with respect. (Note that the expression “x = sons of mine” is an abbreviated form of “x = the Differentia of ‘sons of mine’, when regarded as a Species of ‘men’”.) The next thing is to translate the proposed Premisses into abstract form, as follows:— “No x are m'; All m are y”. Diagram representing x m prime does not exist and all m are y pg061Next, by the process described at p. 50, we represent these on a Triliteral Diagram, thus:— Diagram representing x y prime does not exist Next, by the process described at p. 53, we transfer to a Biliteral Diagram all the information we can. The result we read as “No x are y'” or as “No y' are x,” whichever we prefer. So we refer to our Dictionary, to see which will look best; and we choose “No x are y'”, which, translated into concrete form, is “No son of mine fails to be treated with respect”. (2) “All cats understand French; Some chickens are cats”. Taking “creatures” as Univ., we write these as follows:— “All cats are creatures understanding French; Some chickens are cats”. We can now construct our Dictionary, viz. m = cats; x = understanding French; y = chickens. The proposed Premisses, translated into abstract form, are “All m are x; Some y are m”. In order to represent these on a Triliteral Diagram, we break up the first into the two Propositions to which it is equivalent, and thus get the three Propositions (1) “Some m are x; (2) No m are x'; (3) Some y are m”. Diagram representing x m and y m exist and x prime m does not exist The Rule, given at p. 50, would make us take these in the order 2, 1, 3. This, however, would produce the result Alternative diagram representing x m and y m exist and x prime m does not exist pg062So it would be better to take them in the order 2, 3, 1. Nos. (2) and (3) give us the result here shown; and now we need not trouble about No. (1), as the Proposition “Some m are x” is already represented on the Diagram. Diagram representing x y exists Transferring our information to a Biliteral Diagram, we get This result we can read either as “Some x are y” or “Some y are x”. After consulting our Dictionary, we choose “Some y are x”, which, translated into concrete form, is “Some chickens understand French.” (3) “All diligent students are successful; All ignorant students are unsuccessful”. Let Univ. be “students”; m = successful; x = diligent; y = ignorant. These Premisses, in abstract form, are “All x are m; All y are m'”. These, broken up, give us the four Propositions (1) “Some x are m; (2) No x are m'; (3) Some y are m'; (4) No y are m”. Diagram representing four propositions which we will take in the order 2, 4, 1, 3. Representing these on a Triliteral Diagram, we get Diagram representing all x are y prime and all y are x prime And this information, transferred to a Biliteral Diagram, is Here we get two Conclusions, viz. “All x are y'; All y are x'.” pg063And these, translated into concrete form, are “All diligent students are (not-ignorant, i.e.) learned; All ignorant students are (not-diligent, i.e.) idle”. (See p. 4.) (4) “Of the prisoners who were put on their trial at the last Assizes, all, against whom the verdict ‘guilty’ was returned, were sentenced to imprisonment; Some, who were sentenced to imprisonment, were also sentenced to hard labour”. Let Univ. be “the prisoners who were put on their trial at the last Assizes”; m = who were sentenced to imprisonment; x = against whom the verdict ‘guilty’ was returned; y = who were sentenced to hard labour. The Premisses, translated into abstract form, are “All x are m; Some m are y”. Breaking up the first, we get the three (1) “Some x are m; (2) No x are m'; (3) Some m are y”. Diagram representing x m and y m exist and x m does not exist Representing these, in the order 2, 1, 3, on a Triliteral Diagram, we get Here we get no Conclusion at all. You would very likely have guessed, if you had seen only the Premisses, that the Conclusion would be “Some, against whom the verdict ‘guilty’ was returned, were sentenced to hard labour”. But this Conclusion is not even true, with regard to the Assizes I have here invented. “Not true!” you exclaim. “Then who were they, who were sentenced to imprisonment and were also sentenced to hard labour? They must have had the verdict ‘guilty’ returned against them, or how could they be sentenced?” Well, it happened like this, you see. They were three ruffians, who had committed highway-robbery. When they were put on their trial, they pleaded ‘guilty’. So no verdict was returned at all; and they were sentenced at once.] I will now work out, in their briefest form, as models for the Reader to imitate in working examples, the above four concrete Problems. pg064(1) [see p. 60] “No son of mine is dishonest; People always treat an honest man with respect.” Univ. “men”; m = honest; x = my sons; y = treated with respect. “No x are m'; All m are y.” Diagram representing x m prime does not exist and all m are y Diagram representing x y prime does not exist ? “No x are y'.” i.e. “No son of mine ever fails to be treated with respect.” (2) [see p. 61] “All cats understand French; Some chickens are cats”. Univ. “creatures”; m = cats; x = understanding French; y = chickens. “All m are x; Some y are m.” Diagram representing all m are x and y m exists Diagram representing x y exists ? “Some y are x.” i.e. “Some chickens understand French.” (3) [see p. 62] “All diligent students are successful; All ignorant students are unsuccessful”. Univ. “students”; m = successful; x = diligent; y = ignorant. “All x are m; All y are m'.” Diagram representing all x are m and all y are m prime Diagram representing all x are y prime and all y are x prime ? “All x are y'; All y are x'.” i.e. “All diligent students are learned; and all ignorant students are idle”. pg065(4) [see p. 63] “Of the prisoners who were put on their trial at the last Assizes, all, against whom the verdict ‘guilty’ was returned, were sentenced to imprisonment; Some, who were sentenced to imprisonment, were also sentenced to hard labour”. Univ. “prisoners who were put on their trial at the last Assizes”, m = sentenced to imprisonment; x = against whom the verdict ‘guilty’ was returned; y = sentenced to hard labour. “All x are m; Some m are y.” Diagram representing all x are m and y m exists There is no Conclusion. [Review Tables VII, VIII (pp. 48, 49). Work Examples § 1, 17–21 (p. 97); § 4, 1–6 (p. 100); § 5, 1–6 (p. 101).] pg066§ 3. Given a Trio of Propositions of Relation, of which every two contain a Pair of codivisional Classes, and which are proposed as a Syllogism; to ascertain whether the proposed Conclusion is consequent from the proposed Premisses, and, if so, whether it is complete. The Rules, for doing this, are as follows:— (1) Take the proposed Premisses, and ascertain, by the process described at p. 60, what Conclusion, if any, is consequent from them. (2) If there be no Conclusion, say so. (3) If there be a Conclusion, compare it with the proposed Conclusion, and pronounce accordingly. I will now work out, in their briefest form, as models for the Reader to imitate in working examples, six Problems. (1) “All soldiers are strong; All soldiers are brave. Some strong men are brave.” Univ. “men”; m = soldiers; x = strong; y = brave. pg067 “All m are x; All m are y. Some x are y.” Diagram representing all m are x and all m are y Diagram representing x y exists ? “Some x are y.” Hence proposed Conclusion is right. (2) “I admire these pictures; When I admire anything I wish to examine it thoroughly. I wish to examine some of these pictures thoroughly.” Univ. “things”; m = admired by me; x = these pictures; y = things which I wish to examine thoroughly. “All x are m; All m are y. Some x are y.” Diagram representing all x are m and all m are y Diagram representing all x are y ? “All x are y.” Hence proposed Conclusion is incomplete, the complete one being “I wish to examine all these pictures thoroughly”. (3) “None but the brave deserve the fair; Some braggarts are cowards. Some braggarts do not deserve the fair.” Univ. “persons”; m = brave; x = deserving of the fair; y = braggarts. “No m' are x; Some y are m'. Some y are x'.” Diagram representing x m prime does not exist and y m prime exists Diagram representing x prime y exists ? “Some y are x'.” Hence proposed Conclusion is right. pg068(4) “All soldiers can march; Some babies are not soldiers. Some babies cannot march”. Univ. “persons”; m = soldiers; x = able to march; y = babies. “All m are x; Some y are m'. Some y are x'.” Diagram representing all m are x and y m prime exists There is no Conclusion. (5) “All selfish men are unpopular; All obliging men are popular. All obliging men are unselfish”. Univ. “men”; m = popular; x = selfish; y = obliging. “All x are m'; All y are m. All y are x'.” Diagram representing all x are m prime and all y are x prime Diagram representing all x are y prime and all y are x prime ? “All x are y'; All y are x'.” Hence proposed Conclusion is incomplete, the complete one containing, in addition, “All selfish men are disobliging”. (6) ”No one, who means to go by the train and cannot get a conveyance, and has not enough time to walk to the station, can do without running; This party of tourists mean to go by the train and cannot get a conveyance, but they have plenty of time to walk to the station. This party of tourists need not run.” Univ. “persons meaning to go by the train, and unable to get a conveyance”; m = having enough time to walk to the station; x = needing to run; y = these tourists. pg069 “No m' are x'; All y are m. All y are x'.” Diagram representing x prime m prime does not exist and all y are m There is no Conclusion. [Here is another opportunity, gentle Reader, for playing a trick on your innocent friend. Put the proposed Syllogism before him, and ask him what he thinks of the Conclusion. He will reply “Why, it’s perfectly correct, of course! And if your precious Logic-book tells you it isn’t, don’t believe it! You don’t mean to tell me those tourists need to run? If I were one of them, and knew the Premisses to be true, I should be quite clear that I needn’t run—and I should walk!” And you will reply “But suppose there was a mad bull behind you?” And then your innocent friend will say “Hum! Ha! I must think that over a bit!” You may then explain to him, as a convenient test of the soundness of a Syllogism, that, if circumstances can be invented which, without interfering with the truth of the Premisses, would make the Conclusion false, the Syllogism must be unsound.] [Review Tables V–VIII (pp. 46–49). Work Examples § 4, 7–12 (p. 100); § 5, 7–12 (p. 101); § 6, 1–10 (p. 106); § 7, 1–6 (pp. 107, 108).] pg070BOOK VI. THE METHOD OF SUBSCRIPTS. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. Let us agree that “x1” shall mean “Some existing Things have the Attribute x”, i.e. (more briefly) “Some x exist”; also that “xy1” shall mean “Some xy exist”, and so on. Such a Proposition may be called an ‘Entity.’ [Note that, when there are two letters in the expression, it does not in the least matter which stands first: “xy1” and “yx1” mean exactly the same.] Also that “x0” shall mean “No existing Things have the Attribute x”, i.e. (more briefly) “No x exist”; also that “xy0” shall mean “No xy exist”, and so on. Such a Proposition may be called a ‘Nullity’. Also that “†” shall mean “and”. [Thus “ab1 † cd0” means “Some ab exist and no cd exist”.] Also that “¶” shall mean “would, if true, prove”. [Thus, “x0 ¶ xy0” means “The Proposition ‘No x exist’ would, if true, prove the Proposition ‘No xy exist’”.] When two Letters are both of them accented, or both not accented, they are said to have ‘Like Signs’, or to be ‘Like’: when one is accented, and the other not, they are said to have ‘Unlike Signs’, or to be ‘Unlike’. pg071CHAPTER II. REPRESENTATION OF PROPOSITIONS OF RELATION. Let us take, first, the Proposition “Some x are y”. This, we know, is equivalent to the Proposition of Existence “Some xy exist”. (See p. 31.) Hence it may be represented by the expression “xy1”. The Converse Proposition “Some y are x” may of course be represented by the same expression, viz. “xy1”. Similarly we may represent the three similar Pairs of Converse Propositions, viz.— “Some x are y'” = “Some y' are x”, “Some x' are y” = “Some y are x'”, “Some x' are y'” = “Some y' are x'”. Let us take, next, the Proposition “No x are y”. This, we know, is equivalent to the Proposition of Existence “No xy exist”. (See p. 33.) Hence it may be represented by the expression “xy0”. The Converse Proposition “No y are x” may of course be represented by the same expression, viz. “xy0”. Similarly we may represent the three similar Pairs of Converse Propositions, viz.— “No x are y'” = “No y' are x”, “No x' are y” = “No y are x'”, “No x' are y'” = “No y' are x'”. pg072Let us take, next, the Proposition “All x are y”. Now it is evident that the Double Proposition of Existence “Some x exist and no xy' exist” tells us that some x-Things exist, but that none of them have the Attribute y': that is, it tells us that all of them have the Attribute y: that is, it tells us that “All x are y”. Also it is evident that the expression “x1 † xy'0” represents this Double Proposition. Hence it also represents the Proposition “All x are y”. [The Reader will perhaps be puzzled by the statement that the Proposition “All x are y” is equivalent to the Double Proposition “Some x exist and no xy' exist,” remembering that it was stated, at p. 33, to be equivalent to the Double Proposition “Some x are y and no x are y'” (i.e. “Some xy exist and no xy' exist”). The explanation is that the Proposition “Some xy exist” contains superfluous information. “Some x exist” is enough for our purpose.] This expression may be written in a shorter form, viz. “x1y'0”, since each Subscript takes effect back to the beginning of the expression. Similarly we may represent the seven similar Propositions “All x are y'”, “All x' are y”, “All x' are y'”, “All y are x”, “All y are x'”, “All y' are x”, and “All y' are x'”. [The Reader should make out all these for himself.] It will be convenient to remember that, in translating a Proposition, beginning with “All”, from abstract form into subscript form, or vice versâ, the Predicate changes sign (that is, changes from positive to negative, or else from negative to positive). [Thus, the Proposition “All y are x'” becomes “y1x0”, where the Predicate changes from x' to x. Again, the expression “x'1y'0” becomes “All x' are y”, where the Predicate changes for y' to y.] pg073CHAPTER III. SYLLOGISMS. § 1. Representation of Syllogisms. We already know how to represent each of the three Propositions of a Syllogism in subscript form. When that is done, all we need, besides, is to write the three expressions in a row, with “†” between the Premisses, and “¶” before the Conclusion. [Thus the Syllogism “No x are m'; All m are y. ? No x are y'.” may be represented thus:— xm'0 † m1y'0 ¶ xy'0 When a Proposition has to be translated from concrete form into subscript form, the Reader will find it convenient, just at first, to translate it into abstract form, and thence into subscript form. But, after a little practice, he will find it quite easy to go straight from concrete form to subscript form.] pg074§ 2. Formulæ for solving Problems in Syllogisms. When once we have found, by Diagrams, the Conclusion to a given Pair of Premisses, and have represented the Syllogism in subscript form, we have a Formula, by which we can at once find, without having to use Diagrams again, the Conclusion to any other Pair of Premisses having the same subscript forms. [Thus, the expression xm0 † ym'0 ¶ xy0 is a Formula, by which we can find the Conclusion to any Pair of Premisses whose subscript forms are xm0 † ym'0 For example, suppose we had the Pair of Propositions “No gluttons are healthy; No unhealthy men are strong”. proposed as Premisses. Taking “men” as our ‘Universe’, and making m = healthy; x = gluttons; y = strong; we might translate the Pair into abstract form, thus:— “No x are m; No m' are y”. These, in subscript form, would be xm0 † m'y0 which are identical with those in our Formula. Hence we at once know the Conclusion to be xy0 that is, in abstract form, “No x are y”; that is, in concrete form, “No gluttons are strong”.] I shall now take three different forms of Pairs of Premisses, and work out their Conclusions, once for all, by Diagrams; and thus obtain some useful Formulæ. I shall call them “Fig. I”, “Fig. II”, and “Fig. III”. pg075Fig. I. This includes any Pair of Premisses which are both of them Nullities, and which contain Unlike Eliminands. The simplest case is xm0 † ym'0 Diagram representing x m and y m prime do not exist Diagram representing x y does not exist ? xy0 In this case we see that the Conclusion is a Nullity, and that the Retinends have kept their Signs. And we should find this Rule to hold good with any Pair of Premisses which fulfil the given conditions. [The Reader had better satisfy himself of this, by working out, on Diagrams, several varieties, such as m1x0 † ym'0 (which ¶ xy0) xm'0 † m1y0 (which ¶ xy0) x'm0 † ym'0 (which ¶ x'y0) m'1x'0 † m1y'0 (which ¶ x'y'0).] If either Retinend is asserted in the Premisses to exist, of course it may be so asserted in the Conclusion. Hence we get two Variants of Fig. I, viz. (a) where one Retinend is so asserted; (ß) where both are so asserted. [The Reader had better work out, on Diagrams, examples of these two Variants, such as m1x0 † y1m'0 (which proves y1x0) x1m'0 † m1y0 (which proves x1y0) x'1m0 † y1m'0 (which proves x'1y0 † y1x'0).] The Formula, to be remembered, is xm0 † ym'0 ¶ xy0 with the following two Rules:— (1) Two Nullities, with Unlike Eliminands, yield a Nullity, in which both Retinends keep their Signs. pg076(2) A Retinend, asserted in the Premisses to exist, may be so asserted in the Conclusion. [Note that Rule (1) is merely the Formula expressed in words.] Fig. II. This includes any Pair of Premisses, of which one is a Nullity and the other an Entity, and which contain Like Eliminands. The simplest case is xm0 † ym1 Diagram representing x m does not exist and y m does exist Diagram representing x prime y exists ? x'y1 In this case we see that the Conclusion is an Entity, and that the Nullity-Retinend has changed its Sign. And we should find this Rule to hold good with any Pair of Premisses which fulfil the given conditions. [The Reader had better satisfy himself of this, by working out, on Diagrams, several varieties, such as x'm0 † ym1 (which ¶ xy1) x1m'0 † y'm'1 (which ¶ x'y'1) m1x0 † y'm1 (which ¶ x'y'1).] The Formula, to be remembered, is, xm0 † ym1 ¶ x'y1 with the following Rule:— A Nullity and an Entity, with Like Eliminands, yield an Entity, in which the Nullity-Retinend changes its Sign. [Note that this Rule is merely the Formula expressed in words.] pg077Fig. III. This includes any Pair of Premisses which are both of them Nullities, and which contain Like Eliminands asserted to exist. The simplest case is xm0 † ym0 † m1 [Note that “m1” is here stated separately, because it does not matter in which of the two Premisses it occurs: so that this includes the three forms “m1x0 † ym0”, “xm0 † m1y0”, and “m1x0 † m1y0”.] Diagram representing x m and y m do not exist and m does exist Diagram representing x prime y prime exists ? x'y'1 In this case we see that the Conclusion is an Entity, and that both Retinends have changed their Signs. And we should find this Rule to hold good with any Pair of Premisses which fulfil the given conditions. [The Reader had better satisfy himself of this, by working out, on Diagrams, several varieties, such as x'm0 † m1y0 (which ¶ xy'1) m'1x0 † m'y'0 (which ¶ x'y1) m1x'0 † m1y'0 (which ¶ xy1).] The Formula, to be remembered, is xm0 † ym0 † m1 ¶ x'y'1 with the following Rule (which is merely the Formula expressed in words):— Two Nullities, with Like Eliminands asserted to exist, yield an Entity, in which both Retinends change their Signs. In order to help the Reader to remember the peculiarities and Formulæ of these three Figures, I will put them all together in one Table. pg078TABLE IX. Fig. I. xm0 † ym'0 ¶ xy0 Two Nullities, with Unlike Eliminands, yield a Nullity, in which both Retinends keep their Signs. A Retinend, asserted in the Premisses to exist, may be so asserted in the Conclusion. Fig. II. xm0 † ym1 ¶ x'y1 A Nullity and an Entity, with Like Eliminands, yield an Entity, in which the Nullity-Retinend changes its Sign. Fig. III. xm0 † ym0 † m1 ¶ x'y'1 Two Nullities, with Like Eliminands asserted to exist, yield an Entity, in which both Retinends change their Signs. I will now work out, by these Formulæ, as models for the Reader to imitate, some Problems in Syllogisms which have been already worked, by Diagrams, in Book V., Chap. II. (1) [see p. 64] “No son of mine is dishonest; People always treat an honest man with respect.” Univ. “men”; m = honest; x = my sons; y = treated with respect. xm'0 † m1y'0 ¶ xy'0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No son of mine ever fails to be treated with respect.” pg079(2) [see p. 64] “All cats understand French; Some chickens are cats.” Univ. “creatures”; m = cats; x = understanding French; y = chickens. m1x'0 † ym1 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some chickens understand French.” (3) [see p. 64] “All diligent students are successful; All ignorant students are unsuccessful.” Univ. “students”; m = successful; x = diligent; y = ignorant. x1m'0 † y1m0 ¶ x1y0 † y1x0 [Fig. I (ß). i.e. “All diligent students are learned; and all ignorant students are idle.” (4) [see p. 66] “All soldiers are strong; All soldiers are brave. Some strong men are brave.” Univ. “men”; m = soldiers; x = strong; y = brave. m1x'0 † m1y'0 ¶ xy1 [Fig. III. Hence proposed Conclusion is right. (5) [see p. 67] “I admire these pictures; When I admire anything, I wish to examine it thoroughly. I wish to examine some of these pictures thoroughly.” Univ. “things”; m = admired by me; x = these; y = things which I wish to examine thoroughly. x1m'0 † m1y'0 ¶ x1y'0 [Fig. I (a). Hence proposed Conclusion, xy1, is incomplete, the complete one being “I wish to examine all these pictures thoroughly.” pg080(6) [see p. 67] “None but the brave deserve the fair; Some braggarts are cowards. Some braggarts do not deserve the fair.” Univ. “persons”; m = brave; x = deserving of the fair; y = braggarts. m'x0 † ym'1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. Hence proposed Conclusion is right. (7) [see p. 69] ”No one, who means to go by the train and cannot get a conveyance, and has not enough time to walk to the station, can do without running; This party of tourists mean to go by the train and cannot get a conveyance, but they have plenty of time to walk to the station. This party of tourists need not run.” Univ. “persons meaning to go by the train, and unable to get a conveyance”; m = having enough time to walk to the station; x = needing to run; y = these tourists. m'x'0 † y1m'0 do not come under any of the three Figures. Hence it is necessary to return to the Method of Diagrams, as shown at p. 69. Hence there is no Conclusion. [Work Examples § 4, 12–20 (p. 100); § 5, 13–24 (pp. 101, 102); § 6, 1–6 (p. 106); § 7, 1–3 (pp. 107, 108). Also read Note (A), at p. 164.] pg081§ 3. Fallacies. Any argument which deceives us, by seeming to prove what it does not really prove, may be called a ‘Fallacy’ (derived from the Latin verb fallo “I deceive”): but the particular kind, to be now discussed, consists of a Pair of Propositions, which are proposed as the Premisses of a Syllogism, but yield no Conclusion. When each of the proposed Premisses is a Proposition in I, or E, or A, (the only kinds with which we are now concerned,) the Fallacy may be detected by the ‘Method of Diagrams,’ by simply setting them out on a Triliteral Diagram, and observing that they yield no information which can be transferred to the Biliteral Diagram. But suppose we were working by the ‘Method of Subscripts,’ and had to deal with a Pair of proposed Premisses, which happened to be a ‘Fallacy,’ how could we be certain that they would not yield any Conclusion? Our best plan is, I think, to deal with Fallacies in the same was as we have already dealt with Syllogisms: that is, to take certain forms of Pairs of Propositions, and to work pg082 them out, once for all, on the Triliteral Diagram, and ascertain that they yield no Conclusion; and then to record them, for future use, as Formulæ for Fallacies, just as we have already recorded our three Formulæ for Syllogisms. Now, if we were to record the two Sets of Formulæ in the same shape, viz. by the Method of Subscripts, there would be considerable risk of confusing the two kinds. Hence, in order to keep them distinct, I propose to record the Formulæ for Fallacies in words, and to call them “Forms” instead of “Formulæ.” Let us now proceed to find, by the Method of Diagrams, three “Forms of Fallacies,” which we will then put on record for future use. They are as follows:— (1) Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. (2) Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. (3) Fallacy of two Entity-Premisses. These shall be discussed separately, and it will be seen that each fails to yield a Conclusion. (1) Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. It is evident that neither of the given Propositions can be an Entity, since that kind asserts the existence of both of its Terms (see p. 20). Hence they must both be Nullities. Hence the given Pair may be represented by (xm0 † ym0), with or without x1, y1. These, set out on Triliteral Diagrams, are xm0 † ym0 x1m0 † ym0 Diagram representing x m and y m do not exist Diagram representing all x are m prime and y m does not exist xm0 † y1m0 x1m0 † y1m0 Diagram representing x m does not exist and all y are m prime Diagram representing all x are m prime and all y are m prime pg083(2) Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. Here the given Pair may be represented by (xm0 † ym'1) with or without x1 or m1. These, set out on Triliteral Diagrams, are xm0 † ym'1 x1m0 † ym'1 m1x0 † ym'1 Diagram representing x m does not exist and y m prime does exist Diagram representing all x are m prime and y m prime exists Diagram representing all m are x prime and y m prime exists (3) Fallacy of two Entity-Premisses. Here the given Pair may be represented by either (xm1 † ym1) or (xm1 † ym'1). These, set out on Triliteral Diagrams, are xm1 † ym1 xm1 † ym'1 Diagram representing x m and y m exist Diagram representing x m and y m prime exist pg084§ 4. Method of proceeding with a given Pair of Propositions. Let us suppose that we have before us a Pair of Propositions of Relation, which contain between them a Pair of codivisional Classes, and that we wish to ascertain what Conclusion, if any, is consequent from them. We translate them, if necessary, into subscript-form, and then proceed as follows:— (1) We examine their Subscripts, in order to see whether they are (a) a Pair of Nullities; or (b) a Nullity and an Entity; or (c) a Pair of Entities. (2) If they are a Pair of Nullities, we examine their Eliminands, in order to see whether they are Unlike or Like. If their Eliminands are Unlike, it is a case of Fig. I. We then examine their Retinends, to see whether one or both of them are asserted to exist. If one Retinend is so asserted, it is a case of Fig. I (a); if both, it is a case of Fig. I (ß). If their Eliminands are Like, we examine them, in order to see whether either of them is asserted to exist. If so, it is a case of Fig. III.; if not, it is a case of “Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.” (3) If they are a Nullity and an Entity, we examine their Eliminands, in order to see whether they are Like or Unlike. If their Eliminands are Like, it is a case of Fig. II.; if Unlike, it is a case of “Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.” (4) If they are a Pair of Entities, it is a case of “Fallacy of two Entity-Premisses.” [Work Examples § 4, 1–11 (p. 100); § 5, 1–12 (p. 101); § 6, 7–12 (p. 106); § 7, 7–12 (p. 108).] pg085BOOK VII. SORITESES. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. When a Set of three or more Biliteral Propositions are such that all their Terms are Species of the same Genus, and are also so related that two of them, taken together, yield a Conclusion, which, taken with another of them, yields another Conclusion, and so on, until all have been taken, it is evident that, if the original Set were true, the last Conclusion would also be true. Such a Set, with the last Conclusion tacked on, is called a ‘Sorites’; the original Set of Propositions is called its ‘Premisses’; each of the intermediate Conclusions is called a ‘Partial Conclusion’ of the Sorites; the last Conclusion is called its ‘Complete Conclusion,’ or, more briefly, its ‘Conclusion’; the Genus, of which all the Terms are Species, is called its ‘Universe of Discourse’, or, more briefly, its ‘Univ.’; the Terms, used as Eliminands in the Syllogisms, are called its ‘Eliminands’; and the two Terms, which are retained, and therefore appear in the Conclusion, are called its ‘Retinends’. [Note that each Partial Conclusion contains one or two Eliminands; but that the Complete Conclusion contains Retinends only.] The Conclusion is said to be ‘consequent’ from the Premisses; for which reason it is usual to prefix to it the word “Therefore” (or the symbol “?”). [Note that the question, whether the Conclusion is or is not consequent from the Premisses, is not affected by the actual truth or falsity of any one of the Propositions which make up the Sorites, by depends entirely on their relationship to one another. pg086As a specimen-Sorites, let us take the following Set of 5 Propositions:— (1) ”No a are b'; (2) All b are c; (3) All c are d; (4) No e' are a'; (5) All h are e'”. Here the first and second, taken together, yield “No a are c'”. This, taken along with the third, yields “No a are d'”. This, taken along with the fourth, yields “No d' are e'”. And this, taken along with the fifth, yields “All h are d”. Hence, if the original Set were true, this would also be true. Hence the original Set, with this tacked on, is a Sorites; the original Set is its Premisses; the Proposition “All h are d” is its Conclusion; the Terms a, b, c, e are its Eliminands; and the Terms d and h are its Retinends. Hence we may write the whole Sorites thus:— ”No a are b'; All b are c; All c are d; No e' are a'; All h are e'. ? All h are d”. In the above Sorites, the 3 Partial Conclusions are the Positions “No a are e'”, “No a are d'”, “No d' are e'”; but, if the Premisses were arranged in other ways, other Partial Conclusions might be obtained. Thus, the order 41523 yields the Partial Conclusions “No c' are b'”, “All h are b”, “All h are c”. There are altogether nine Partial Conclusions to this Sorites, which the Reader will find it an interesting task to make out for himself.] pg087CHAPTER II. PROBLEMS IN SORITESES. § 1. Introductory. The Problems we shall have to solve are of the following form:— “Given three or more Propositions of Relation, which are proposed as Premisses: to ascertain what Conclusion, if any, is consequent from them.” We will limit ourselves, at present, to Problems which can be worked by the Formulæ of Fig. I. (See p. 75.) Those, that require other Formulæ, are rather too hard for beginners. Such Problems may be solved by either of two Methods, viz. (1) The Method of Separate Syllogisms; (2) The Method of Underscoring. These shall be discussed separately. pg088§ 2. Solution by Method of Separate Syllogisms. The Rules, for doing this, are as follows:— (1) Name the ‘Universe of Discourse’. (2) Construct a Dictionary, making a, b, c, &c. represent the Terms. (3) Put the Proposed Premisses into subscript form. (4) Select two which, containing between them a pair of codivisional Classes, can be used as the Premisses of a Syllogism. (5) Find their Conclusion by Formula. (6) Find a third Premiss which, along with this Conclusion, can be used as the Premisses of a second Syllogism. (7) Find a second Conclusion by Formula. (8) Proceed thus, until all the proposed Premisses have been used. (9) Put the last Conclusion, which is the Complete Conclusion of the Sorites, into concrete form. [As an example of this process, let us take, as the proposed Set of Premisses, (1) “All the policemen on this beat sup with our cook; (2) No man with long hair can fail to be a poet; (3) Amos Judd has never been in prison; (4) Our cook’s ‘cousins’ all love cold mutton; (5) None but policemen on this beat are poets; (6) None but her ‘cousins’ ever sup with our cook; (7) Men with short hair have all been in prison.” Univ. “men”; a = Amos Judd; b = cousins of our cook; c = having been in prison; d = long-haired; e = loving cold mutton; h = poets; k = policemen on this beat; l = supping with our cook pg089We now have to put the proposed Premisses into subscript form. Let us begin by putting them into abstract form. The result is (1) ”All k are l; (2) No d are h'; (3) All a are c'; (4) All b are e; (5) No k' are h; (6) No b' are l; (7) All d' are c.” And it is now easy to put them into subscript form, as follows:— (1) k1l'0 (2) dh'0 (3) a1c0 (4) b1e'0 (5) k'h0 (6) b'l0 (7) d'1c'0 We now have to find a pair of Premisses which will yield a Conclusion. Let us begin with No. (1), and look down the list, till we come to one which we can take along with it, so as to form Premisses belonging to Fig. I. We find that No. (5) will do, since we can take k as our Eliminand. So our first syllogism is (1) k1l'0 (5) k'h0 ? l'h0 … (8) We must now begin again with l'h0 and find a Premiss to go along with it. We find that No. (2) will do, h being our Eliminand. So our next Syllogism is (8) l'h0 (2) dh'0 ? l'd0 … (9) We have now used up Nos. (1), (5), and (2), and must search among the others for a partner for l'd0. We find that No. (6) will do. So we write (9) l'd0 (6) b'l0 ? db'0 … (10) Now what can we take along with db'0? No. (4) will do. (10) db'0 (4) b1e'0 ? de'0 … (11) pg090Along with this we may take No. (7). (11) de'0 (7) d'1c'0 ? c'e'0 … (12) And along with this we may take No. (3). (12) c'e'0 (3) a1c0 ? a1e'0 This Complete Conclusion, translated into abstract form, is “All a are e”; and this, translated into concrete form, is “Amos Judd loves cold mutton.” In actually working this Problem, the above explanations would, of course, be omitted, and all, that would appear on paper, would be as follows:— (1) k1l'0 (2) dh'0 (3) a1c0 (4) b1e'0 (5) k'h0 (6) b'l0 (7) d'1c'0 (1) k1l'0 (5) k'h0 ? l'h0 … (8) (8) l'h0 (2) dh'0 ? l'd0 … (9) (9) l'd0 (6) b'l0 ? db'0 … (10) (10) db'0 (4) b1e'0 ? de'0 … (11) (11) de'0 (7) d'1c'0 ? c'e'0 … (12) (12) c'e'0 (3) a1c0 ? a1e'0 Note that, in working a Sorites by this Process, we may begin with any Premiss we choose.] pg091§ 3. Solution by Method of Underscoring. Consider the Pair of Premisses xm0 † ym'0 which yield the Conclusion xy0 We see that, in order to get this Conclusion, we must eliminate m and m', and write x and y together in one expression. Now, if we agree to mark m and m' as eliminated, and to read the two expressions together, as if they were written in one, the two Premisses will then exactly represent the Conclusion, and we need not write it out separately. Let us agree to mark the eliminated letters by underscoring them, putting a single score under the first, and a double one under the second. The two Premisses now become xm0 † ym'0 which we read as “xy0”. In copying out the Premisses for underscoring, it will be convenient to omit all subscripts. As to the “0’s” we may always suppose them written, and, as to the “1’s”, we are not concerned to know which Terms are asserted to exist, except those which appear in the Complete Conclusion; and for them it will be easy enough to refer to the original list. pg092[I will now go through the process of solving, by this method, the example worked in § 2. The Data are 1k1l'0 † 2dh'0 † 3a1c0 † 4b1e'0 † 5k'h0 † 6b'l0 † 7d'1c'0 The Reader should take a piece of paper, and write out this solution for himself. The first line will consist of the above Data; the second must be composed, bit by bit, according to the following directions. We begin by writing down the first Premiss, with its numeral over it, but omitting the subscripts. We have now to find a Premiss which can be combined with this, i.e., a Premiss containing either k' or l. The first we find is No. 5; and this we tack on, with a †. To get the Conclusion from these, k and k' must be eliminated, and what remains must be taken as one expression. So we underscore them, putting a single score under k, and a double one under k'. The result we read as l'h. We must now find a Premiss containing either l or h'. Looking along the row, we fix on No. 2, and tack it on. Now these 3 Nullities are really equivalent to (l'h † dh'), in which h and h' must be eliminated, and what remains taken as one expression. So we underscore them. The result reads as l'd. We now want a Premiss containing l or d'. No. 6 will do. These 4 Nullities are really equivalent to (l'd † b'l). So we underscore l' and l. The result reads as db'. We now want a Premiss containing d' or b. No. 4 will do. Here we underscore b' and b. The result reads as de'. We now want a Premiss containing d' or e. No. 7 will do. Here we underscore d and d'. The result reads as c'e'. We now want a Premiss containing c or e. No. 3 will do—in fact must do, as it is the only one left. Here we underscore c' and c; and, as the whole thing now reads as e'a, we tack on e'a0 as the Conclusion, with a ¶. We now look along the row of Data, to see whether e' or a has been given as existent. We find that a has been so given in No. 3. So we add this fact to the Conclusion, which now stands as ¶ e'a0 † a1, i.e. ¶ a1e'0; i.e. “All a are e.” If the Reader has faithfully obeyed the above directions, his written solution will now stand as follows:— 1k1l'0 † 2dh'0 † 3a1c0 † 4b1e'0 † 5k'h0 † 6b'l0 † 7d'1c'0 1kl' † 5k'h † 2dh' † 6b'l † 4be' † 7d'c' † 3ac ¶ e'a0 † a1 i.e. ¶ a1e'0; i.e. “All a are e.” pg093The Reader should now take a second piece of paper, and copy the Data only, and try to work out the solution for himself, beginning with some other Premiss. If he fails to bring out the Conclusion a1e'0, I would advise him to take a third piece of paper, and begin again!] I will now work out, in its briefest form, a Sorites of 5 Premisses, to serve as a model for the Reader to imitate in working examples. (1) ”I greatly value everything that John gives me; (2) Nothing but this bone will satisfy my dog; (3) I take particular care of everything that I greatly value; (4) This bone was a present from John; (5) The things, of which I take particular care, are things I do not give to my dog”. Univ. “things”; a = given by John to me; b = given by me to my dog; c = greatly valued by me; d = satisfactory to my dog; e = taken particular care of by me; h = this bone. 1a1c'0 † 2h'd0 † 3c1e'0 † 4h1a'0 † 5e1b0 1ac' † 3ce' † 4ha' † 2h'd † 5eb ¶ db0 i.e. “Nothing, that I give my dog, satisfies him,” or, “My dog is not satisfied with anything that I give him!” [Note that, in working a Sorites by this process, we may begin with any Premiss we choose. For instance, we might begin with No. 5, and the result would then be 5eb † 3ce' † 1ac' † 4ha' † 2h'd ¶ bd0] [Work Examples § 4, 25–30 (p. 100); § 5, 25–30 (p. 102); § 6, 13–15 (p. 106); § 7, 13–15 (p. 108); § 8, 1–4, 13, 14, 19, 24 (pp. 110, 111); § 9, 1–4, 26, 27, 40, 48 (pp. 112, 116, 119, 121).] pg094The Reader, who has successfully grappled with all the Examples hitherto set, and who thirsts, like Alexander the Great, for “more worlds to conquer,” may employ his spare energies on the following 17 Examination-Papers. He is recommended not to attempt more than one Paper on any one day. The answers to the questions about words and phrases may be found by referring to the Index at p. 197. I. § 4, 31 (p. 100); § 5, 31–34 (p. 102); § 6, 16, 17 (p. 106); § 7, 16 (p. 108); § 8, 5, 6 (p. 110); § 9, 5, 22, 42 (pp. 112, 115, 119). What is ‘Classification’? And what is a ‘Class’? II. § 4, 32 (p. 100); § 5, 35–38 (pp. 102, 103); § 6, 18 (p. 107); § 7, 17, 18 (p. 108); § 8, 7, 8 (p. 110); § 9, 6, 23, 43 (pp. 112, 115, 119). What are ‘Genus’, ‘Species’, and ‘Differentia’? III. § 4, 33 (p. 100); § 5, 39–42 (p. 103); § 6, 19, 20 (p. 107); § 7, 19 (p. 109); § 8, 9, 10 (p. 111); § 9, 7, 24, 44 (pp. 113, 116, 120). What are ‘Real’ and ‘Imaginary’ Classes? IV. § 4, 34 (p. 100); § 5, 43–46 (p. 103); § 6, 21 (p. 107); § 7, 20, 21 (p. 109); § 8, 11, 12 (p. 111); § 9, 8, 25, 45 (pp. 113, 116, 120). What is ‘Division’? When are Classes said to be ‘Codivisional’? V. § 4, 35 (p. 100); § 5, 47–50 (p. 103); § 6, 22, 23 (p. 107); § 7, 22 (p. 109); § 8, 15, 16 (p. 111); § 9, 9, 28, 46 (pp. 113, 116, 120). What is ‘Dichotomy’? What arbitrary rule does it sometimes require? pg095 VI. § 4, 36 (p. 100); § 5, 51–54 (p. 103); § 6, 24 (p. 107); § 7, 23, 24 (p. 109); § 8, 17 (p. 111); § 9, 10, 29, 47 (pp. 113, 117, 120). What is a ‘Definition’? VII. § 4, 37 (p. 100); § 5, 55–58 (pp. 103, 104); § 6, 25, 26 (p. 107); § 7, 25 (p. 109); § 8, 18 (p. 111); § 9, 11, 30, 49 (pp. 113, 117, 121). What are the ‘Subject’ and the ‘Predicate’ of a Proposition? What is its ‘Normal’ form? VIII. § 4, 38 (p. 100); § 5, 59–62 (p. 104); § 6, 27 (p. 107); § 7, 26, 27 (p. 109); § 8, 20 (p. 111); § 9, 12, 31, 50 (pp. 113, 117, 121). What is a Proposition ‘in I’? ‘In E’? And ‘in A’? IX. § 4, 39 (p. 100); § 5, 63–66 (p. 104); § 6, 28, 29 (p. 107); § 7, 28 (p. 109); § 8, 21 (p. 111); § 9, 13, 32, 51 (pp. 114, 117, 121). What is the ‘Normal’ form of a Proposition of Existence? X. § 4, 40 (p. 100); § 5, 67–70 (p. 104); § 6, 30 (p. 107); § 7, 29, 30 (p. 109); § 8, 22 (p. 111); § 9, 14, 33, 52 (pp. 114, 117, 122). What is the ‘Universe of Discourse’? XI. § 4, 41 (p. 100); § 5, 71–74 (p. 104); § 6, 31, 32 (p. 107); § 7, 31 (p. 109); § 8, 23 (p. 111); § 9, 15, 34, 53 (pp. 114, 118, 122). What is implied, in a Proposition of Relation, as to the Reality of its Terms? XII. § 4, 42 (p. 100); § 5, 75–78 (p. 105); § 6, 33 (p. 107); § 7, 32, 33 (pp. 109, 110); § 8, 25 (p. 111); § 9, 16, 35, 54 (pp. 114, 118, 122). Explain the phrase “sitting on the fence”. XIII. § 5, 79–83 (p. 105); § 6, 34, 35 (p. 107); § 7, 34 (p. 110); § 8, 26 (p. 111); § 9, 17, 36, 55 (pp. 114, 118, 122). What are ‘Converse’ Propositions? XIV. § 5, 84–88 (p. 105); § 6, 36 (p. 107); § 7, 35, 36 (p. 110); § 8, 27 (p. 111); § 9, 18, 37, 56 (pp. 114, 118, 123). What are ‘Concrete’ and ‘Abstract’ Propositions? pg096 XV. § 5, 89–93 (p. 105); § 6, 37, 38 (p. 107); § 7, 37 (p. 110); § 8, 28 (p. 111); § 9, 19, 38, 57 (pp. 115, 118, 123). What is a ‘Syllogism’? And what are its ‘Premisses’ and its ‘Conclusion’? XVI. § 5, 94–97 (p. 106); § 6, 39 (p. 107); § 7, 38, 39 (p. 110); § 8, 29 (p. 111); § 9, 20, 39, 58 (pp. 115, 119, 123). What is a ‘Sorites’? And what are its ‘Premisses’, its ‘Partial Conclusions’, and its ‘Complete Conclusion’? XVII. § 5, 98–101 (p. 106); § 6, 40 (p. 107); § 7, 40 (p. 110); § 8, 30 (p. 111); § 9, 21, 41, 59, 60 (pp. 115, 119, 124). What are the ‘Universe of Discourse’, the ‘Eliminands’, and the ‘Retinends’, of a Syllogism? And of a Sorites? pg097BOOK VIII. EXAMPLES, ANSWERS, AND SOLUTIONS. [N.B. Reference tags for Examples, Answers & Solutions will be found in the right margin.] CHAPTER I. EXAMPLES. EX1§ 1. Propositions of Relation, to be reduced to normal form. 1. I have been out for a walk. 2. I am feeling better. 3. No one has read the letter but John. 4. Neither you nor I are old. 5. No fat creatures run well. 6. None but the brave deserve the fair. 7. No one looks poetical unless he is pale. 8. Some judges lose their tempers. 9. I never neglect important business. 10. What is difficult needs attention. 11. What is unwholesome should be avoided. 12. All the laws passed last week relate to excise. 13. Logic puzzles me. 14. There are no Jews in the house. 15. Some dishes are unwholesome if not well-cooked. 16. Unexciting books make one drowsy. 17. When a man knows what he’s about, he can detect a sharper. 18. You and I know what we’re about. 19. Some bald people wear wigs. 20. Those who are fully occupied never talk about their grievances. 21. No riddles interest me if they can be solved. pg098 EX2§ 2. Pairs of Abstract Propositions, one in terms of x and m, and the other in terms of y and m, to be represented on the same Triliteral Diagram. 1. No x are m; No m' are y. 2. No x' are m'; All m' are y. 3. Some x' are m; No m are y. 4. All m are x; All m' are y'. 5. All m' are x; All m' are y'. 6. All x' are m'; No y' are m. 7. All x are m; All y' are m'. 8. Some m' are x'; No m are y. 9. All m are x'; No m are y. 10. No m are x'; No y are m'. 11. No x' are m'; No m are y. 12. Some x are m; All y' are m. 13. All x' are m; No m are y. 14. Some x are m'; All m are y. 15. No m' are x'; All y are m. 16. All x are m'; No y are m. 17. Some m' are x; No m' are y'. 18. All x are m'; Some m' are y'. 19. All m are x; Some m are y'. 20. No x' are m; Some y are m. 21. Some x' are m'; All y' are m. 22. No m are x; Some m are y. 23. No m' are x; All y are m'. 24. All m are x; No y' are m'. 25. Some m are x; No y' are m. 26. All m' are x'; Some y are m'. 27. Some m are x'; No y' are m'. 28. No x are m'; All m are y'. 29. No x' are m; No m are y'. 30. No x are m; Some y' are m'. 31. Some m' are x; All y' are m; 32. All x are m'; All y are m. pg099 EX3§ 3. Marked Triliteral Diagrams, to be interpreted in terms of x and y. 1 2 Diagram including x y exists Diagram including no useful information 3 4 Diagram including all y prime are x prime Diagram including x y does not exist 5 6 Diagram including all y prime are x Diagram including all x prime are y 7 8 Diagram including all x are y Diagram including all x prime are y prime and all y are x 9 10 Diagram including all x prime are y prime Diagram including all x are y prime 11 12 Diagram including no useful information Diagram including x prime y prime exists 13 14 Diagram including x y prime exists Diagram including x y prime does not exist 15 16 Diagram including x y exists Diagram including all y are x 17 18 Diagram including all x prime are y and all y prime are x Diagram including all x are y prime and all y are x prime 19 20 Diagram including all x are y and all y prime are x prime Diagram including all y are x prime pg100 EX4§ 4. Pairs of Abstract Propositions, proposed as Premisses: Conclusions to be found. 1. No m are x'; All m' are y. 2. No m' are x; Some m' are y'. 3. All m' are x; All m' are y'. 4. No x' are m'; All y' are m. 5. Some m are x'; No y are m. 6. No x' are m; No m are y. 7. No m are x'; Some y' are m. 8. All m' are x'; No m' are y. 9. Some x' are m'; No m are y'. 10. All x are m; All y' are m'. 11. No m are x; All y' are m'. 12. No x are m; All y are m. 13. All m' are x; No y are m. 14. All m are x; All m' are y. 15. No x are m; No m' are y. 16. All x are m'; All y are m. 17. No x are m; All m' are y. 18. No x are m'; No m are y. 19. All m are x; All m are y'. 20. No m are x; All m' are y. 21. All x are m; Some m' are y. 22. Some x are m; All y are m. 23. All m are x; Some y are m. 24. No x are m; All y are m. 25. Some m are x'; All y' are m'. 26. No m are x'; All y are m. 27. All x are m'; All y' are m. 28. All m are x'; Some m are y. 29. No m are x; All y are m'. 30. All x are m'; Some y are m. 31. All x are m; All y are m. 32. No x are m'; All m are y. 33. No m are x; No m are y. 34. No m are x'; Some y are m. 35. No m are x; All y are m. 36. All m are x'; Some y are m. 37. All m are x; No y are m. 38. No m are x; No m' are y. 39. Some m are x'; No m are y. 40. No x' are m; All y' are m. 41. All x are m'; No y are m'. 42. No m' are x; No y are m. pg101 EX5§ 5. Pairs of Concrete Propositions, proposed as Premisses: Conclusions to be found. 1. I have been out for a walk; I am feeling better. 2. No one has read the letter but John; No one, who has not read it, knows what it is about. 3. Those who are not old like walking; You and I are young. 4. Your course is always honest; Your course is always the best policy. 5. No fat creatures run well; Some greyhounds run well. 6. Some, who deserve the fair, get their deserts; None but the brave deserve the fair. 7. Some Jews are rich; All Esquimaux are Gentiles. 8. Sugar-plums are sweet; Some sweet things are liked by children. 9. John is in the house; Everybody in the house is ill. 10. Umbrellas are useful on a journey; What is useless on a journey should be left behind. 11. Audible music causes vibration in the air; Inaudible music is not worth paying for. 12. Some holidays are rainy; Rainy days are tiresome. 13. No Frenchmen like plumpudding; All Englishmen like plumpudding. 14. No portrait of a lady, that makes her simper or scowl, is satisfactory; No photograph of a lady ever fails to make her simper or scowl. 15. All pale people are phlegmatic; No one looks poetical unless he is pale. 16. No old misers are cheerful; Some old misers are thin. 17. No one, who exercises self-control, fails to keep his temper; Some judges lose their tempers. pg102 18. All pigs are fat; Nothing that is fed on barley-water is fat. 19. All rabbits, that are not greedy, are black; No old rabbits are free from greediness. 20. Some pictures are not first attempts; No first attempts are really good. 21. I never neglect important business; Your business is unimportant. 22. Some lessons are difficult; What is difficult needs attention. 23. All clever people are popular; All obliging people are popular. 24. Thoughtless people do mischief; No thoughtful person forgets a promise. 25. Pigs cannot fly; Pigs are greedy. 26. All soldiers march well; Some babies are not soldiers. 27. No bride-cakes are wholesome; What is unwholesome should be avoided. 28. John is industrious; No industrious people are unhappy. 29. No philosophers are conceited; Some conceited persons are not gamblers. 30. Some excise laws are unjust; All the laws passed last week relate to excise. 31. No military men write poetry; None of my lodgers are civilians. 32. No medicine is nice; Senna is a medicine. 33. Some circulars are not read with pleasure; No begging-letters are read with pleasure. 34. All Britons are brave; No sailors are cowards. 35. Nothing intelligible ever puzzles me; Logic puzzles me. 36. Some pigs are wild; All pigs are fat. pg103 37. All wasps are unfriendly; All unfriendly creatures are unwelcome. 38. No old rabbits are greedy; All black rabbits are greedy. 39. Some eggs are hard-boiled; No eggs are uncrackable. 40. No antelope is ungraceful; Graceful creatures delight the eye. 41. All well-fed canaries sing loud; No canary is melancholy if it sings loud. 42. Some poetry is original; No original work is producible at will. 43. No country, that has been explored, is infested by dragons; Unexplored countries are fascinating. 44. No coals are white; No niggers are white. 45. No bridges are made of sugar; Some bridges are picturesque. 46. No children are patient; No impatient person can sit still. 47. No quadrupeds can whistle; Some cats are quadrupeds. 48. Bores are terrible; You are a bore. 49. Some oysters are silent; No silent creatures are amusing. 50. There are no Jews in the house; No Gentiles have beards a yard long. 51. Canaries, that do not sing loud, are unhappy; No well-fed canaries fail to sing loud. 52. All my sisters have colds; No one can sing who has a cold. 53. All that is made of gold is precious; Some caskets are precious. 54. Some buns are rich; All buns are nice. 55. All my cousins are unjust; All judges are just. pg104 56. Pain is wearisome; No pain is eagerly wished for. 57. All medicine is nasty; Senna is a medicine. 58. Some unkind remarks are annoying; No critical remarks are kind. 59. No tall men have woolly hair; Niggers have woolly hair. 60. All philosophers are logical; An illogical man is always obstinate. 61. John is industrious; All industrious people are happy. 62. These dishes are all well-cooked; Some dishes are unwholesome if not well-cooked. 63. No exciting books suit feverish patients; Unexciting books make one drowsy. 64. No pigs can fly; All pigs are greedy. 65. When a man knows what he’s about, he can detect a sharper; You and I know what we’re about. 66. Some dreams are terrible; No lambs are terrible. 67. No bald creature needs a hairbrush; No lizards have hair. 68. All battles are noisy; What makes no noise may escape notice. 69. All my cousins are unjust; No judges are unjust. 70. All eggs can be cracked; Some eggs are hard-boiled. 71. Prejudiced persons are untrustworthy; Some unprejudiced persons are disliked. 72. No dictatorial person is popular; She is dictatorial. 73. Some bald people wear wigs; All your children have hair. 74. No lobsters are unreasonable; No reasonable creatures expect impossibilities. pg105 75. No nightmare is pleasant; Unpleasant experiences are not eagerly desired. 76. No plumcakes are wholesome; Some wholesome things are nice. 77. Nothing that is nice need be shunned; Some kinds of jam are nice. 78. All ducks waddle; Nothing that waddles is graceful. 79. Sandwiches are satisfying; Nothing in this dish is unsatisfying. 80. No rich man begs in the street; Those who are not rich should keep accounts. 81. Spiders spin webs; Some creatures, that do not spin webs, are savage. 82. Some of these shops are not crowded; No crowded shops are comfortable. 83. Prudent travelers carry plenty of small change; Imprudent travelers lose their luggage. 84. Some geraniums are red; All these flowers are red. 85. None of my cousins are just; All judges are just. 86. No Jews are mad; All my lodgers are Jews. 87. Busy folk are not always talking about their grievances; Discontented folk are always talking about their grievances. 88. None of my cousins are just; No judges are unjust. 89. All teetotalers like sugar; No nightingale drinks wine. 90. No riddles interest me if they can be solved; All these riddles are insoluble. 91. All clear explanations are satisfactory; Some excuses are unsatisfactory. 92. All elderly ladies are talkative; All good-tempered ladies are talkative. 93. No kind deed is unlawful; What is lawful may be done without scruple. pg106 94. No babies are studious; No babies are good violinists. 95. All shillings are round; All these coins are round. 96. No honest men cheat; No dishonest men are trustworthy. 97. None of my boys are clever; None of my girls are greedy. 98. All jokes are meant to amuse; No Act of Parliament is a joke. 99. No eventful tour is ever forgotten; Uneventful tours are not worth writing a book about. 100. All my boys are disobedient; All my girls are discontented. 101. No unexpected pleasure annoys me; Your visit is an unexpected pleasure. EX6§ 6. Trios of Abstract Propositions, proposed as Syllogisms: to be examined. 1. Some x are m; No m are y'. Some x are y. 2. All x are m; No y are m'. No y are x'. 3. Some x are m'; All y' are m. Some x are y. 4. All x are m; No y are m. All x are y'. 5. Some m' are x'; No m' are y. Some x' are y'. 6. No x' are m; All y are m'. All y are x'. 7. Some m' are x'; All y' are m'. Some x' are y'. 8. No m' are x'; All y' are m'. All y' are x. 9. Some m are x'; No m are y. Some x' are y'. 10. All m' are x'; All m' are y. Some y are x'. 11. All x are m'; Some y are m. Some y are x'. 12. No x are m; No m' are y'. No x are y'. 13. No x are m; All y' are m. All y' are x'. 14. All m' are x'; All m' are y. Some y are x'. 15. Some m are x'; All y are m'. Some x' are y'. 16. No x' are m; All y' are m'. Some y' are x. 17. No m' are x; All m' are y'. Some x' are y'. pg10718. No x' are m; Some m are y. Some x are y. 19. Some m are x; All m are y. Some y are x'. 20. No x' are m'; Some m' are y'. Some x are y'. 21. No m are x; All m are y'. Some x' are y'. 22. All x' are m; Some y are m'. All x' are y'. 23. All m are x; No m' are y'. No x' are y'. 24. All x are m'; All m' are y. All x are y. 25. No x are m'; All m are y. No x are y'. 26. All m are x'; All y are m. All y are x'. 27. All x are m; No m are y'. All x are y. 28. All x are m; No y' are m'. All x are y. 29. No x' are m; No m' are y'. No x' are y'. 30. All x are m; All m are y'. All x are y'. 31. All x' are m'; No y' are m'. All x' are y. 32. No x are m; No y' are m'. No x are y'. 33. All m are x'; All y' are m. All y' are x'. 34. All x are m'; Some y are m'. Some y are x. 35. Some x are m; All m are y. Some x are y. 36. All m are x'; All y are m. All y are x'. 37. No m are x'; All m are y'. Some x are y'. 38. No x are m; No m are y'. No x are y'. 39. No m are x; Some m are y'. Some x' are y'. 40. No m are x'; Some y are m. Some x are y. EX7§ 7. Trios of Concrete Propositions, proposed as Syllogisms: to be examined. 1. No doctors are enthusiastic; You are enthusiastic. You are not a doctor. 2. Dictionaries are useful; Useful books are valuable. Dictionaries are valuable. 3. No misers are unselfish; None but misers save egg-shells. No unselfish people save egg-shells. 4. Some epicures are ungenerous; All my uncles are generous. My uncles are not epicures. pg108 5. Gold is heavy; Nothing but gold will silence him. Nothing light will silence him. 6. Some healthy people are fat; No unhealthy people are strong. Some fat people are not strong. 7. “I saw it in a newspaper.” “All newspapers tell lies.” It was a lie. 8. Some cravats are not artistic; I admire anything artistic. There are some cravats that I do not admire. 9. His songs never last an hour; A song, that lasts an hour, is tedious. His songs are never tedious. 10. Some candles give very little light; Candles are meant to give light. Some things, that are meant to give light, give very little. 11. All, who are anxious to learn, work hard; Some of these boys work hard. Some of these boys are anxious to learn. 12. All lions are fierce; Some lions do not drink coffee. Some creatures that drink coffee are not fierce. 13. No misers are generous; Some old men are ungenerous. Some old men are misers. 14. No fossil can be crossed in love; An oyster may be crossed in love. Oysters are not fossils. 15. All uneducated people are shallow; Students are all educated. No students are shallow. 16. All young lambs jump; No young animals are healthy, unless they jump. All young lambs are healthy. 17. Ill-managed business is unprofitable; Railways are never ill-managed. All railways are profitable. 18. No Professors are ignorant; All ignorant people are vain. No professors are vain. pg10919. A prudent man shuns hyænas; No banker is imprudent. No banker fails to shun hyænas. 20. All wasps are unfriendly; No puppies are unfriendly. Puppies are not wasps. 21. No Jews are honest; Some Gentiles are rich. Some rich people are dishonest. 22. No idlers win fame; Some painters are not idle. Some painters win fame. 23. No monkeys are soldiers; All monkeys are mischievous. Some mischievous creatures are not soldiers. 24. All these bonbons are chocolate-creams; All these bonbons are delicious. Chocolate-creams are delicious. 25. No muffins are wholesome; All buns are unwholesome. Buns are not muffins. 26. Some unauthorised reports are false; All authorised reports are trustworthy. Some false reports are not trustworthy. 27. Some pillows are soft; No pokers are soft. Some pokers are not pillows. 28. Improbable stories are not easily believed; None of his stories are probable. None of his stories are easily believed. 29. No thieves are honest; Some dishonest people are found out. Some thieves are found out. 30. No muffins are wholesome; All puffy food is unwholesome. All muffins are puffy. 31. No birds, except peacocks, are proud of their tails; Some birds, that are proud of their tails, cannot sing. Some peacocks cannot sing. 32. Warmth relieves pain; Nothing, that does not relieve pain, is useful in toothache. Warmth is useful in toothache. pg11033. No bankrupts are rich; Some merchants are not bankrupts. Some merchants are rich. 34. Bores are dreaded; No bore is ever begged to prolong his visit. No one, who is dreaded, is ever begged to prolong his visit. 35. All wise men walk on their feet; All unwise men walk on their hands. No man walks on both. 36. No wheelbarrows are comfortable; No uncomfortable vehicles are popular. No wheelbarrows are popular. 37. No frogs are poetical; Some ducks are unpoetical. Some ducks are not frogs. 38. No emperors are dentists; All dentists are dreaded by children. No emperors are dreaded by children. 39. Sugar is sweet; Salt is not sweet. Salt is not sugar. 40. Every eagle can fly; Some pigs cannot fly. Some pigs are not eagles. EX8§ 8. Sets of Abstract Propositions, proposed as Premisses for Soriteses: Conclusions to be found. [N.B. At the end of this Section instructions are given for varying these Examples.] 1. 1. No c are d; 2. All a are d; 3. All b are c. 2. 1. All d are b; 2. No a are c'; 3. No b are c. 3. 1. No b are a; 2. No c are d'; 3. All d are b. 4. 1. No b are c; 2. All a are b; 3. No c' are d. 5. 1. All b' are a'; 2. No b are c; 3. No a' are d. 6. 1. All a are b'; 2. No b' are c; 3. All d are a. 7. 1. No d are b'; 2. All b are a; 3. No c are d'. 8. 1. No b' are d; 2. No a' are b; 3. All c are d. pg111 9. 1. All b' are a; 2. No a are d; 3. All b are c. 10. 1. No c are d; 2. All b are c; 3. No a are d'. 11. 1. No b are c; 2. All d are a; 3. All c' are a'. 12. 1. No c are b'; 2. All c' are d'; 3. All b are a. 13. 1. All d are e; 2. All c are a; 3. No b are d'; 4. All e are a'. 14. 1. All e are b; 2. All a are e; 3. All d are b'; 4. All a' are c; 15. 1. No b' are d; 2. All e are c; 3. All b are a; 4. All d' are c'. 16. 1. No a' are e; 2. All d are c'; 3. All a are b; 4. All e' are d. 17. 1. All d are c; 2. All a are e; 3. No b are d'; 4. All c are e'. 18. 1. All a are b; 2. All d are e; 3. All a' are c'; 4. No b are e. 19. 1. No b are c; 2. All e are h; 3. All a are b; 4. No d are h; 5. All e' are c. 20. 1. No d are h'; 2. No c are e; 3. All h are b; 4. No a are d'; 5. No b are e'. 21. 1. All b are a; 2. No d are h; 3. No c are e; 4. No a are h'; 5. All c' are b. 22. 1. All e are d'; 2. No b' are h'; 3. All c' are d; 4. All a are e; 5. No c are h. 23. 1. All b' are a'; 2. No d are e'; 3. All h are b'; 4. No c are e; 5. All d' are a. 24. 1. All h' are k'; 2. No b' are a; 3. All c are d; 4. All e are h'; 5. No d are k'; 6. No b are c'. 25. 1. All a are d; 2. All k are b; 3. All e are h; 4. No a' are b; 5. All d are c; 6. All h are k. 26. 1. All a' are h; 2. No d' are k'; 3. All e are b'; 4. No h are k; 5. All a are e; 6. No b' are d. 27. 1. All c are d'; 2. No h are b; 3. All a' are k; 4. No c are e'; 5. All b' are d; 6. No a are c'. 28. 1. No a' are k; 2. All e are b; 3. No h are k'; 4. No d' are c; 5. No a are b; 6. All c' are h. 29. 1. No e are k; 2. No b' are m; 3. No a are c'; 4. All h' are e; 5. All d are k; 6. No c are b; 7. All d' are l; 8. No h are m'. 30. 1. All n are m; 2. All a' are e; 3. No c' are l; 4. All k are r'; 5. No a are h'; 6. No d are l'; 7. No c are n'; 8. All e are b; 9. All m are r; 10. All h are d. [N.B. In each Example, in Sections 8 and 9, it is possible to begin with any Premiss, at pleasure, and thus to get as many different Solutions (all of course yielding the same Complete Conclusion) as there are Premisses in the Example. Hence § 8 really contains 129 different Examples, and § 9 contains 273.] pg112 EX9§ 9. Sets of Concrete Propositions, proposed as Premisses for Soriteses: Conclusions to be found. 1. (1) Babies are illogical; (2) Nobody is despised who can manage a crocodile; (3) Illogical persons are despised. Univ. “persons”; a = able to manage a crocodile; b = babies; c = despised; d = logical. 2. (1) My saucepans are the only things I have that are made of tin; (2) I find all your presents very useful; (3) None of my saucepans are of the slightest use. Univ. “things of mine”; a = made of tin; b = my saucepans; c = useful; d = your presents. 3. (1) No potatoes of mine, that are new, have been boiled; (2) All my potatoes in this dish are fit to eat; (3) No unboiled potatoes of mine are fit to eat. Univ. “my potatoes”; a = boiled; b = eatable; c = in this dish; d = new. 4. (1) There are no Jews in the kitchen; (2) No Gentiles say “shpoonj”; (3) My servants are all in the kitchen. Univ. “persons”; a = in the kitchen; b = Jews; c = my servants; d = saying “shpoonj.” 5. (1) No ducks waltz; (2) No officers ever decline to waltz; (3) All my poultry are ducks. Univ. “creatures”; a = ducks; b = my poultry; c = officers; d = willing to waltz. 6. (1) Every one who is sane can do Logic; (2) No lunatics are fit to serve on a jury; (3) None of your sons can do Logic. Univ. “persons”; a = able to do Logic; b = fit to serve on a jury; c = sane; d = your sons. pg113 7. (1) There are no pencils of mine in this box; (2) No sugar-plums of mine are cigars; (3) The whole of my property, that is not in this box, consists of cigars. Univ. “things of mine”; a = cigars; b = in this box; c = pencils; d = sugar-plums. 8. (1) No experienced person is incompetent; (2) Jenkins is always blundering; (3) No competent person is always blundering. Univ. “persons”; a = always blundering; b = competent; c = experienced; d = Jenkins. 9. (1) No terriers wander among the signs of the zodiac; (2) Nothing, that does not wander among the signs of the zodiac, is a comet; (3) Nothing but a terrier has a curly tail. Univ. “things”; a = comets; b = curly-tailed; c = terriers; d = wandering among the signs of the zodiac. 10. (1) No one takes in the Times, unless he is well-educated; (2) No hedge-hogs can read; (3) Those who cannot read are not well-educated. Univ. “creatures”; a = able to read; b = hedge-hogs; c = taking in the Times; d = well-educated. 11. (1) All puddings are nice; (2) This dish is a pudding; (3) No nice things are wholesome. Univ. “things”; a = nice; b = puddings; c = this dish; d = wholesome. 12. (1) My gardener is well worth listening to on military subjects; (2) No one can remember the battle of Waterloo, unless he is very old; (3) Nobody is really worth listening to on military subjects, unless he can remember the battle of Waterloo. Univ. “persons”; a = able to remember the battle of Waterloo; b = my gardener; c = well worth listening to on military subjects; d = very old. pg11413. (1) All humming-birds are richly coloured; (2) No large birds live on honey; (3) Birds that do not live on honey are dull in colour. Univ. “birds”; a = humming-birds; b = large; c = living on honey; d = richly coloured. 14. (1) No Gentiles have hooked noses; (2) A man who is a good hand at a bargain always makes money; (3) No Jew is ever a bad hand at a bargain. Univ. “persons”; a = good hands at a bargain; b = hook-nosed; c = Jews; d = making money. 15. (1) All ducks in this village, that are branded ‘B,’ belong to Mrs. Bond; (2) Ducks in this village never wear lace collars, unless they are branded ‘B’; (3) Mrs. Bond has no gray ducks in this village. Univ. “ducks in this village”; a = belonging to Mrs. Bond; b = branded ‘B’; c = gray; d = wearing lace-collars. 16. (1) All the old articles in this cupboard are cracked; (2) No jug in this cupboard is new; (3) Nothing in this cupboard, that is cracked, will hold water. Univ. “things in this cupboard”; a = able to hold water; b = cracked; c = jugs; d = old. 17. (1) All unripe fruit is unwholesome; (2) All these apples are wholesome; (3) No fruit, grown in the shade, is ripe. Univ. “fruit”; a = grown in the shade; b = ripe; c = these apples; d = wholesome. 18. (1) Puppies, that will not lie still, are always grateful for the loan of a skipping-rope; (2) A lame puppy would not say “thank you” if you offered to lend it a skipping-rope. (3) None but lame puppies ever care to do worsted-work. Univ. “puppies”; a = caring to do worsted-work; b = grateful for the loan of a skipping-rope; c = lame; d = willing to lie still. pg11519. (1) No name in this list is unsuitable for the hero of a romance; (2) Names beginning with a vowel are always melodious; (3) No name is suitable for the hero of a romance, if it begins with a consonant. Univ. “names”; a = beginning with a vowel; b = in this list; c = melodious; d = suitable for the hero of a romance. 20. (1) All members of the House of Commons have perfect self-command; (2) No M.P., who wears a coronet, should ride in a donkey-race; (3) All members of the House of Lords wear coronets. Univ. “M.P.’s”; a = belonging to the House of Commons; b = having perfect self-command; c = one who may ride in a donkey-race; d = wearing a coronet. 21. (1) No goods in this shop, that have been bought and paid for, are still on sale; (2) None of the goods may be carried away, unless labeled “sold”; (3) None of the goods are labeled “sold,” unless they have been bought and paid for. Univ. “goods in this shop”; a = allowed to be carried away; b = bought and paid for; c = labeled “sold”; d = on sale. 22. (1) No acrobatic feats, that are not announced in the bills of a circus, are ever attempted there; (2) No acrobatic feat is possible, if it involves turning a quadruple somersault; (3) No impossible acrobatic feat is ever announced in a circus bill. Univ. “acrobatic feats”; a = announced in the bills of a circus; b = attempted in a circus; c = involving the turning of a quadruple somersault; d = possible. 23. (1) Nobody, who really appreciates Beethoven, fails to keep silence while the Moonlight-Sonata is being played; (2) Guinea-pigs are hopelessly ignorant of music; (3) No one, who is hopelessly ignorant of music, ever keeps silence while the Moonlight-Sonata is being played. Univ. “creatures”; a = guinea-pigs; b = hopelessly ignorant of music; c = keeping silence while the Moonlight-Sonata is being played; d = really appreciating Beethoven. pg11624. (1) Coloured flowers are always scented; (2) I dislike flowers that are not grown in the open air; (3) No flowers grown in the open air are colourless. Univ. “flowers”; a = coloured; b = grown in the open air; c = liked by me; d = scented. 25. (1) Showy talkers think too much of themselves; (2) No really well-informed people are bad company; (3) People who think too much of themselves are not good company. Univ. “persons”; a = good company; b = really well-informed; c = showy talkers; d = thinking too much of one’s self. 26. (1) No boys under 12 are admitted to this school as boarders; (2) All the industrious boys have red hair; (3) None of the day-boys learn Greek; (4) None but those under 12 are idle. Univ. “boys in this school”; a = boarders; b = industrious; c = learning Greek; d = red-haired; e = under 12. 27. (1) The only articles of food, that my doctor allows me, are such as are not very rich; (2) Nothing that agrees with me is unsuitable for supper; (3) Wedding-cake is always very rich; (4) My doctor allows me all articles of food that are suitable for supper. Univ. “articles of food”; a = agreeing with me; b = allowed by my doctor; c = suitable for supper; d = very rich; e = wedding-cake. 28. (1) No discussions in our Debating-Club are likely to rouse the British Lion, so long as they are checked when they become too noisy; (2) Discussions, unwisely conducted, endanger the peacefulness of our Debating-Club; (3) Discussions, that go on while Tomkins is in the Chair, are likely to rouse the British Lion; (4) Discussions in our Debating-Club, when wisely conducted, are always checked when they become too noisy. Univ. “discussions in our Debating-Club”; a = checked when too noisy; b = dangerous to the peacefulness of our Debating-Club; c = going on while Tomkins is in the chair; d = likely to rouse the British Lion; e = wisely conducted. pg11729. (1) All my sons are slim; (2) No child of mine is healthy who takes no exercise; (3) All gluttons, who are children of mine, are fat; (4) No daughter of mine takes any exercise. Univ. “my children”; a = fat; b = gluttons; c = healthy; d = sons; e = taking exercise. 30. (1) Things sold in the street are of no great value; (2) Nothing but rubbish can be had for a song; (3) Eggs of the Great Auk are very valuable; (4) It is only what is sold in the street that is really rubbish. Univ. “things”; a = able to be had for a song; b = eggs of the Great Auk; c = rubbish; d = sold in the street; e = very valuable. 31. (1) No books sold here have gilt edges, except what are in the front shop; (2) All the authorised editions have red labels; (3) All the books with red labels are priced at 5s. and upwards; (4) None but authorised editions are ever placed in the front shop. Univ. “books sold here”; a = authorised editions; b = gilt-edged; c = having red labels; d = in the front shop; e = priced at 5s. and upwards. 32. (1) Remedies for bleeding, which fail to check it, are a mockery; (2) Tincture of Calendula is not to be despised; (3) Remedies, which will check the bleeding when you cut your finger, are useful; (4) All mock remedies for bleeding are despicable. Univ. “remedies for bleeding”; a = able to check bleeding; b = despicable; c = mockeries; d = Tincture of Calendula; e = useful when you cut your finger. 33. (1) None of the unnoticed things, met with at sea, are mermaids; (2) Things entered in the log, as met with at sea, are sure to be worth remembering; (3) I have never met with anything worth remembering, when on a voyage; (4) Things met with at sea, that are noticed, are sure to be recorded in the log; Univ. “things met with at sea”; a = entered in log; b = mermaids; c = met with by me; d = noticed; e = worth remembering. pg11834. (1) The only books in this library, that I do not recommend for reading, are unhealthy in tone; (2) The bound books are all well-written; (3) All the romances are healthy in tone; (4) I do not recommend you to read any of the unbound books. Univ. “books in this library”; a = bound; b = healthy in tone; c = recommended by me; d = romances; e = well-written. 35. (1) No birds, except ostriches, are 9 feet high; (2) There are no birds in this aviary that belong to any one but me; (3) No ostrich lives on mince-pies; (4) I have no birds less than 9 feet high. Univ. “birds”; a = in this aviary; b = living on mince-pies; c = my; d = 9 feet high; e = ostriches. 36. (1) A plum-pudding, that is not really solid, is mere porridge; (2) Every plum-pudding, served at my table, has been boiled in a cloth; (3) A plum-pudding that is mere porridge is indistinguishable from soup; (4) No plum-puddings are really solid, except what are served at my table. Univ. “plum-puddings”; a = boiled in a cloth; b = distinguishable from soup; c = mere porridge; d = really solid; e = served at my table. 37. (1) No interesting poems are unpopular among people of real taste; (2) No modern poetry is free from affectation; (3) All your poems are on the subject of soap-bubbles; (4) No affected poetry is popular among people of real taste; (5) No ancient poem is on the subject of soap-bubbles. Univ. “poems”; a = affected; b = ancient; c = interesting; d = on the subject of soap-bubbles; e = popular among people of real taste; h = written by you. 38. (1) All the fruit at this Show, that fails to get a prize, is the property of the Committee; (2) None of my peaches have got prizes; (3) None of the fruit, sold off in the evening, is unripe; (4) None of the ripe fruit has been grown in a hot-house; (5) All fruit, that belongs to the Committee, is sold off in the evening. Univ. “fruit at this Show”; a = belonging to the Committee; b = getting prizes; c = grown in a hot-house; d = my peaches; e = ripe; h = sold off in the evening. pg11939. (1) Promise-breakers are untrustworthy; (2) Wine-drinkers are very communicative; (3) A man who keeps his promises is honest; (4) No teetotalers are pawnbrokers; (5) One can always trust a very communicative person. Univ. “persons”; a = honest; b = pawnbrokers; c = promise-breakers; d = trustworthy; e = very communicative; h = wine-drinkers. 40. (1) No kitten, that loves fish, is unteachable; (2) No kitten without a tail will play with a gorilla; (3) Kittens with whiskers always love fish; (4) No teachable kitten has green eyes; (5) No kittens have tails unless they have whiskers. Univ. “kittens”; a = green-eyed; b = loving fish; c = tailed; d = teachable; e = whiskered; h = willing to play with a gorilla. 41. (1) All the Eton men in this College play cricket; (2) None but the Scholars dine at the higher table; (3) None of the cricketers row; (4) My friends in this College all come from Eton; (5) All the Scholars are rowing-men. Univ. “men in this College”; a = cricketers; b = dining at the higher table; c = Etonians; d = my friends; e = rowing-men; h = Scholars. 42. (1) There is no box of mine here that I dare open; (2) My writing-desk is made of rose-wood; (3) All my boxes are painted, except what are here; (4) There is no box of mine that I dare not open, unless it is full of live scorpions; (5) All my rose-wood boxes are unpainted. Univ. “my boxes”; a = boxes that I dare open; b = full of live scorpions; c = here; d = made of rose-wood; e = painted; h = writing-desks. 43. (1) Gentiles have no objection to pork; (2) Nobody who admires pigsties ever reads Hogg’s poems; (3) No Mandarin knows Hebrew; (4) Every one, who does not object to pork, admires pigsties; (5) No Jew is ignorant of Hebrew. Univ. “persons”; a = admiring pigsties; b = Jews; c = knowing Hebrew; d = Mandarins; e = objecting to pork; h = reading Hogg’s poems. pg12044. (1) All writers, who understand human nature, are clever; (2) No one is a true poet unless he can stir the hearts of men; (3) Shakespeare wrote “Hamlet”; (4) No writer, who does not understand human nature, can stir the hearts of men; (5) None but a true poet could have written “Hamlet.”; Univ. “writers”; a = able to stir the hearts of men; b = clever; c = Shakespeare; d = true poets; e = understanding human nature; h = writer of ‘Hamlet.’ 45. (1) I despise anything that cannot be used as a bridge; (2) Everything, that is worth writing an ode to, would be a welcome gift to me; (3) A rainbow will not bear the weight of a wheel-barrow; (4) Whatever can be used as a bridge will bear the weight of a wheel-barrow; (5) I would not take, as a gift, a thing that I despise. Univ. “things”; a = able to bear the weight of a wheel-barrow; b = acceptable to me; c = despised by me; d = rainbows; e = useful as a bridge; h = worth writing an ode to. 46. (1) When I work a Logic-example without grumbling, you may be sure it is one that I can understand; (2) These Soriteses are not arranged in regular order, like the examples I am used to; (3) No easy example ever make my head ache; (4) I ca’n’t understand examples that are not arranged in regular order, like those I am used to; (5) I never grumble at an example, unless it gives me a headache. Univ. “Logic-examples worked by me”; a = arranged in regular order, like the examples I am used to; b = easy; c = grumbled at by me; d = making my head ache; e = these Soriteses; h = understood by me. 47. (1) Every idea of mine, that cannot be expressed as a Syllogism, is really ridiculous; (2) None of my ideas about Bath-buns are worth writing down; (3) No idea of mine, that fails to come true, can be expressed as a Syllogism; (4) I never have any really ridiculous idea, that I do not at once refer to my solicitor; (5) My dreams are all about Bath-buns; (6) I never refer any idea of mine to my solicitor, unless it is worth writing down. Univ. “my ideas”; a = able to be expressed as a Syllogism; b = about Bath-buns; c = coming true; d = dreams; e = really ridiculous h = referred to my solicitor; k = worth writing down. pg12148. (1) None of the pictures here, except the battle-pieces, are valuable; (2) None of the unframed ones are varnished; (3) All the battle-pieces are painted in oils; (4) All those that have been sold are valuable; (5) All the English ones are varnished; (6) All those in frames have been sold. Univ. “the pictures here”; a = battle-pieces; b = English; c = framed; d = oil-paintings; e = sold; h = valuable; k = varnished. 49. (1) Animals, that do not kick, are always unexcitable; (2) Donkeys have no horns; (3) A buffalo can always toss one over a gate; (4) No animals that kick are easy to swallow; (5) No hornless animal can toss one over a gate; (6) All animals are excitable, except buffaloes. Univ. “animals”; a = able to toss one over a gate; b = buffaloes; c = donkeys; d = easy to swallow; e = excitable; h = horned; k = kicking. 50. (1) No one, who is going to a party, ever fails to brush his hair; (2) No one looks fascinating, if he is untidy; (3) Opium-eaters have no self-command; (4) Every one, who has brushed his hair, looks fascinating; (5) No one wears white kid gloves, unless he is going to a party; (6) A man is always untidy, if he has no self-command. Univ. “persons”; a = going to a party; b = having brushed one’s hair; c = having self-command; d = looking fascinating; e = opium-eaters; h = tidy; k = wearing white kid gloves. 51. (1) No husband, who is always giving his wife new dresses, can be a cross-grained man; (2) A methodical husband always comes home for his tea; (3) No one, who hangs up his hat on the gas-jet, can be a man that is kept in proper order by his wife; (4) A good husband is always giving his wife new dresses; (5) No husband can fail to be cross-grained, if his wife does not keep him in proper order; (6) An unmethodical husband always hangs up his hat on the gas-jet. Univ. “husbands”; a = always coming home for his tea; b = always giving his wife new dresses; c = cross-grained; d = good; e = hanging up his hat on the gas-jet; h = kept in proper order; k = methodical. pg12252. (1) Everything, not absolutely ugly, may be kept in a drawing-room; (2) Nothing, that is encrusted with salt, is ever quite dry; (3) Nothing should be kept in a drawing-room, unless it is free from damp; (4) Bathing-machines are always kept near the sea; (5) Nothing, that is made of mother-of-pearl, can be absolutely ugly; (6) Whatever is kept near the sea gets encrusted with salt. Univ. “things”; a = absolutely ugly; b = bathing-machines; c = encrusted with salt; d = kept near the sea; e = made of mother-of-pearl; h = quite dry; k = things that may be kept in a drawing-room. 53. (1) I call no day “unlucky,” when Robinson is civil to me; (2) Wednesdays are always cloudy; (3) When people take umbrellas, the day never turns out fine; (4) The only days when Robinson is uncivil to me are Wednesdays; (5) Everybody takes his umbrella with him when it is raining; (6) My “lucky” days always turn out fine. Univ. “days”; a = called by me ‘lucky’; b = cloudy; c = days when people take umbrellas; d = days when Robinson is civil to me; e = rainy; h = turning out fine; k = Wednesdays. 54. (1) No shark ever doubts that it is well fitted out; (2) A fish, that cannot dance a minuet, is contemptible; (3) No fish is quite certain that it is well fitted out, unless it has three rows of teeth; (4) All fishes, except sharks, are kind to children; (5) No heavy fish can dance a minuet; (6) A fish with three rows of teeth is not to be despised. Univ. “fishes”; a = able to dance a minuet; b = certain that he is well fitted out; c = contemptible; d = having 3 rows of teeth; e = heavy; h = kind to children; k = sharks. 55. (1) All the human race, except my footmen, have a certain amount of common-sense; (2) No one, who lives on barley-sugar, can be anything but a mere baby; (3) None but a hop-scotch player knows what real happiness is; (4) No mere baby has a grain of common sense; (5) No engine-driver ever plays hop-scotch; (6) No footman of mine is ignorant of what true happiness is. Univ. “human beings”; a = engine-drivers; b = having common sense; c = hop-scotch players; d = knowing what real happiness is; e = living on barley-sugar; h = mere babies; k = my footmen. pg12356. (1) I trust every animal that belongs to me; (2) Dogs gnaw bones; (3) I admit no animals into my study, unless they will beg when told to do so; (4) All the animals in the yard are mine; (5) I admit every animal, that I trust, into my study; (6) The only animals, that are really willing to beg when told to do so, are dogs. Univ. “animals”; a = admitted to my study; b = animals that I trust; c = dogs; d = gnawing bones; e = in the yard; h = my; k = willing to beg when told. 57. (1) Animals are always mortally offended if I fail to notice them; (2) The only animals that belong to me are in that field; (3) No animal can guess a conundrum, unless it has been properly trained in a Board-School; (4) None of the animals in that field are badgers; (5) When an animal is mortally offended, it always rushes about wildly and howls; (6) I never notice any animal, unless it belongs to me; (7) No animal, that has been properly trained in a Board-School, ever rushes about wildly and howls. Univ. “animals”; a = able to guess a conundrum; b = badgers; c = in that field; d = mortally offended; e = my; h = noticed by me; k = properly trained in a Board-School; l = rushing about wildly and howling. 58. (1) I never put a cheque, received by me, on that file, unless I am anxious about it; (2) All the cheques received by me, that are not marked with a cross, are payable to bearer; (3) None of them are ever brought back to me, unless they have been dishonoured at the Bank; (4) All of them, that are marked with a cross, are for amounts of over £100; (5) All of them, that are not on that file, are marked “not negotiable”; (6) No cheque of yours, received by me, has ever been dishonoured; (7) I am never anxious about a cheque, received by me, unless it should happen to be brought back to me; (8) None of the cheques received by me, that are marked “not negotiable,” are for amounts of over £100. Univ. “cheques received by me”; a = brought back to me; b = cheques that I am anxious about; c = honoured; d = marked with a cross; e = marked ‘not negotiable’; h = on that file; k = over £100; l = payable to bearer; m = your. pg12459. (1) All the dated letters in this room are written on blue paper; (2) None of them are in black ink, except those that are written in the third person; (3) I have not filed any of them that I can read; (4) None of them, that are written on one sheet, are undated; (5) All of them, that are not crossed, are in black ink; (6) All of them, written by Brown, begin with “Dear Sir”; (7) All of them, written on blue paper, are filed; (8) None of them, written on more than one sheet, are crossed; (9) None of them, that begin with “Dear Sir,” are written in the third person. Univ. “letters in this room”; a = beginning with “Dear Sir”; b = crossed; c = dated; d = filed; e = in black ink; h = in third person; k = letters that I can read; l = on blue paper; m = on one sheet; n = written by Brown. 60. (1) The only animals in this house are cats; (2) Every animal is suitable for a pet, that loves to gaze at the moon; (3) When I detest an animal, I avoid it; (4) No animals are carnivorous, unless they prowl at night; (5) No cats fails to kill mice; (6) No animals ever take to me, except what are in this house; (7) Kangaroos are not suitable for pets; (8) None but carnivora kill mice; (9) I detest animals that do not take to me; (10) Animals, that prowl at night, always love to gaze at the moon. Univ. “animals”; a = avoided by me; b = carnivora; c = cats; d = detested by me; e = in this house; h = kangaroos; k = killing mice; l = loving to gaze at the moon; m = prowling at night; n = suitable for pets; r = taking to me. pg125CHAPTER II. ANSWERS. AN1Answers to § 1. 1.“All” Sign of Quantity. “persons represented by the Name ‘I’” (or “I’s”) Subject. “are” Copula. “persons who have been out for a walk” Predicate. or, more briefly, “All | ‘I’s | are | persons who have been out for a walk”. 2. “All | ‘I’s | are | persons who feel better”. 3. “No | persons who are not ‘John’ | are | persons who have read the letter”. 4. “No | Members of the Class ‘you and I’ | are | old persons”. 5. “No | fat creatures | are | creatures that run well”. 6. “No | not-brave persons | are | persons deserving of the fair”. 7. “No | not-pale persons | are | persons who look poetical”. 8. “Some | judges | are | persons who lose their tempers”. 9. “All | ‘I’s | are | persons who do not neglect important business”. 10. “All | difficult things | are | things that need attention”. 11. “All | unwholesome things | are | things that should be avoided”. 12. “All | laws passed last week | are | laws relating to excise”. 13. “All | logical studies | are | things that puzzle me”. 14. “No | persons in the house | are | Jews”. 15. “Some | not well-cooked dishes | are | unwholesome dishes”. 16. “All | unexciting books | are | books that make one drowsy”. 17. “All | men who know what they’re about | are | men who can detect a sharper”. 18. “All | Members of the Class ‘you and I’ | are | persons who know what they’re about”. 19. “Some | bald persons | are | persons accustomed to wear wigs”. 20. “All | fully occupied persons | are | persons who do not talk about their grievances”. 21. “No | riddles that can be solved | are | riddles that interest me”. pg126 AN2Answers to § 2. 1 2 Diagram representing x m and m prime y do not exist Diagram representing x prime m prime does not exist and all m prime are y 3 4 Diagram representing x prime m exists and m y does not exist Diagram representing all m are x and all m prime are y prime 5 6 Diagram representing all m prime are x and all m prime are y prime Diagram representing all x prime are m prime and y prime m does not exist 7 8 Diagram representing all x are m and all y prime are m prime Diagram representing x prime m prime exists and y m does not exist 9 10 Diagram representing all m are x prime Diagram representing x prime m and y m prime do not exist 11 12 Diagram representing x prime m prime and y m do not exist Diagram representing x m exists and all y prime are m 13 14 Diagram representing all x prime are m and y m does not exist Diagram representing x m prime exists and all m are y 15 16 Diagram representing x prime m prime does not exist and all y are m Diagram representing all x are m prime and y m does not exist 17 18 Diagram representing x m prime exists and y prime m prime does not exist Diagram representing all x are m prime and y prime m prime exists 19 20 Diagram representing all m are x and y prime m exists Diagram representing x prime m does not exist and y m exists 21 22 Diagram representing x prime m prime exists and all y prime are m Diagram representing x m does not exist and y m exists 23 24 Diagram representing x m prime does not exist and all y are m prime Diagram representing all m are x and y prime m prime does not exist pg12725 26 Diagram representing x m exists and y prime m does not exist Diagram representing all m prime are x prime and y m prime exists 27 28 Diagram representing x prime m exists and y prime m prime does not exists Diagram representing x m prime does not exist andall m are y prime 29 30 Diagram representing x prime m and y prime m do not exist Diagram representing x m does not exist and y prime m prime does exist 31 32 Diagram representing x m prime exists and all y prime are m Diagram representing all x are m prime and all y are m AN3Answers to § 3. 1. Some xy exist, or some x are y, or some y are x. 2. No information. 3. All y' are x'. 4. No xy exist, &c. 5. All y' are x. 6. All x' are y. 7. All x are y. 8. All x' are y', and all y are x. 9. All x' are y'. 10. All x are y'. 11. No information. 12. Some x'y' exist, &c. 13. Some xy' exist, &c. 14. No xy' exist, &c. 15. Some xy exist, &c. 16. All y are x. 17. All x' are y, and all y' are x. 18. All x are y', and all y are x'. 19. All x are y, and all y' are x'. 20. All y are x'. AN4Answers to § 4. 1. No x' are y'. 2. Some x' are y'. 3. Some x are y'. 4. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 5. Some x' are y'. 6. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 7. Some x are y'. 8. Some x' are y'. 9. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 10. All x are y, and all y' are x'. 11. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 12. All y are x'. 13. No x' are y. 14. No x' are y'. 15. No x are y. 16. All x are y', and all y are x'. pg12817. No x are y'. 18. No x are y. 19. Some x are y'. 20. No x are y'. 21. Some y are x'. 22. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 23. Some x are y. 24. All y are x'. 25. Some y are x'. 26. All y are x. 27. All x are y, and all y' are x'. 28. Some y are x'. 29. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 30. Some y are x'. 31. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 32. No x are y'. 33. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 34. Some x are y. 35. All y are x'. 36. Some y are x'. 37. Some x are y'. 38. No x are y. 39. Some x' are y'. 40. All y' are x. 41. All x are y'. 42. No x are y. AN5Answers to § 5. 1. Somebody who has been out for a walk is feeling better. 2. No one but John knows what the letter is about. 3. You and I like walking. 4. Honesty is sometimes the best policy. 5. Some greyhounds are not fat. 6. Some brave persons get their deserts. 7. Some rich persons are not Esquimaux. 8. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 9. John is ill. 10. Some things, that are not umbrellas, should be left behind on a journey. 11. No music is worth paying for, unless it causes vibration in the air. 12. Some holidays are tiresome. 13. Englishmen are not Frenchmen. 14. No photograph of a lady is satisfactory. 15. No one looks poetical unless he is phlegmatic. 16. Some thin persons are not cheerful. 17. Some judges do not exercise self-control. 18. Pigs are not fed on barley-water. 19. Some black rabbits are not old. pg129 20. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 21. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 22. Some lessons need attention. 23. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 24. No one, who forgets a promise, fails to do mischief. 25. Some greedy creatures cannot fly. 26. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 27. No bride-cakes are things that need not be avoided. 28. John is happy. 29. Some people, who are not gamblers, are not philosophers. 30. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 31. None of my lodgers write poetry. 32. Senna is not nice. 33. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 34. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 35. Logic is unintelligible. 36. Some wild creatures are fat. 37. All wasps are unwelcome. 38. All black rabbits are young. 39. Some hard-boiled things can be cracked. 40. No antelopes fail to delight the eye. 41. All well-fed canaries are cheerful. 42. Some poetry is not producible at will. 43. No country infested by dragons fails to be fascinating. 44. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 45. Some picturesque things are not made of sugar. 46. No children can sit still. 47. Some cats cannot whistle. 48. You are terrible. 49. Some oysters are not amusing. 50. Nobody in the house has a beard a yard long. 51. Some ill-fed canaries are unhappy. 52. My sisters cannot sing. 53. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 54. Some rich things are nice. 55. My cousins are none of them judges, and judges are none of them cousins of mine. 56. Something wearisome is not eagerly wished for. 57. Senna is nasty. 58. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 59. Niggers are not any of them tall. 60. Some obstinate persons are not philosophers. 61. John is happy. 62. Some unwholesome dishes are not present here (i.e. cannot be spoken of as “these”). 63. No books suit feverish patients unless they make one drowsy. 64. Some greedy creatures cannot fly. 65. You and I can detect a sharper. 66. Some dreams are not lambs. pg130 67. No lizard needs a hairbrush. 68. Some things, that may escape notice, are not battles. 69. My cousins are not any of them judges. 70. Some hard-boiled things can be cracked. 71. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 72. She is unpopular. 73. Some people, who wear wigs, are not children of yours. 74. No lobsters expect impossibilities. 75. No nightmare is eagerly desired. 76. Some nice things are not plumcakes. 77. Some kinds of jam need not be shunned. 78. All ducks are ungraceful. 79. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 80. No man, who begs in the street, should fail to keep accounts. 81. Some savage creatures are not spiders. 82. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 83. No travelers, who do not carry plenty of small change, fail to lose their luggage. 84. [No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 85. Judges are none of them cousins of mine. 86. All my lodgers are sane. 87. Those who are busy are contented, and discontented people are not busy. 88. None of my cousins are judges. 89. No nightingale dislikes sugar. 90. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 91. Some excuses are not clear explanations. 92. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 93. No kind deed need cause scruple. 94. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 95. [No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 96. No cheats are trustworthy. 97. No clever child of mine is greedy. 98. Some things, that are meant to amuse, are not Acts of Parliament. 99. No tour, that is ever forgotten, is worth writing a book about. 100. No obedient child of mine is contented. 101. Your visit does not annoy me. AN6Answers to § 6. 1. Conclusion right. 2. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 3. Concl. right. 4. Concl. right. 5. Concl. right. 6. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 7. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 8. Concl. right. 9. Concl. right. 10. Concl. right. 11. Concl. right. 12. Concl. right. 13. Concl. right. 14. Concl. right. 15. Concl. right. pg13116. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 17. Concl. right. 18. Concl. right. 19. Concl. right. 20. Concl. right. 21. Concl. right. 22. Concl. wrong: the right one is “Some x are y.” 23. Concl. right. 24. Concl. right. 25. Concl. right. 26. Concl. right. 27. Concl. right. 28. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 29. Concl. right. 30. Concl. right. 31. Concl. right. 32. Concl. right. 33. Concl. right. 34. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 35. Concl. right. 36. Concl. right. 37. Concl. right. 38. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 39. Concl. right. 40. Concl. right. AN7Answers to § 7. 1. Concl. right. 2. Concl. right. 3. Concl. right. 4. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some epicures are not uncles of mine.” 5. Concl. right. 6. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 7. Concl. wrong: right one is “The publication, in which I saw it, tells lies.” 8. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 9. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some tedious songs are not his.” 10. Concl. right. 11. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 12. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some fierce creatures do not drink coffee.” 13. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 14. Concl. right. 15. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some shallow persons are not students.” 16. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 17. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some business, other than railways, is unprofitable.” 18. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some vain persons are not Professors.” 19. Concl. right. 20. Concl. wrong: right one is “Wasps are not puppies.” 21. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 22. No Concl. Same Fallacy. 23. Concl. right. 24. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some chocolate-creams are delicious.” 25. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 26. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 27. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some pillows are not pokers.” 28. Concl. right. 29. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 30. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 31. Concl. right. 32. No Concl. Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 33. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. pg13234. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some dreaded persons are not begged to prolong their visits.” 35. Concl. wrong: right one is “No man walks on neither.” 36. Concl. right. 37. No Concl. Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 38. Concl. wrong: right one is “Some persons, dreaded by children, are not emperors.” 39. Concl. incomplete: the omitted portion is “Sugar is not salt.” 40. Concl. right. AN8Answers to § 8. 1. a1b0 † b1a0. 2. d1a0. 3. ac0. 4. a1d0. 5. cd0. 6. d1c0. 7. a'c0. 8. c1a'0. 9. c'd0. 10. b1a0. 11. d1b0. 12. a'd0. 13. e1b0. 14. d1e'0. 15. e1a'0. 16. b'c0. 17. a1b0. 18. d1c0. 19. a1d0. 20. ac0. 21. de0. 22. a1b'0. 23. h1c0. 24. e1a0. 25. e1c'0. 26. e1c'0. 27. hk'0. 28. e1d'0. 29. l'a0. 30. k1b'0. AN9Answers to § 9. 1. Babies cannot manage crocodiles. 2. Your presents to me are not made of tin. 3. All my potatoes in this dish are old ones. 4. My servants never say “shpoonj.” 5. My poultry are not officers. 6. None of your sons are fit to serve on a jury. 7. No pencils of mine are sugar-plums. 8. Jenkins is inexperienced. 9. No comet has a curly tail. 10. No hedge-hog takes in the Times. 11. This dish is unwholesome. 12. My gardener is very old. 13. All humming-birds are small. 14. No one with a hooked nose ever fails to make money. 15. No gray ducks in this village wear lace collars. 16. No jug in this cupboard will hold water. 17. These apples were grown in the sun. 18. Puppies, that will not lie still, never care to do worsted work. 19. No name in this list is unmelodious. 20. No M.P. should ride in a donkey-race, unless he has perfect self-command. 21. No goods in this shop, that are still on sale, may be carried away. pg13322. No acrobatic feat, which involves turning a quadruple somersault, is ever attempted in a circus. 23. Guinea-pigs never really appreciate Beethoven. 24. No scentless flowers please me. 25. Showy talkers are not really well-informed. 26. None but red-haired boys learn Greek in this school. 27. Wedding-cake always disagrees with me. 28. Discussions, that go on while Tomkins is in the chair, endanger the peacefulness of our Debating-Club. 29. All gluttons, who are children of mine, are unhealthy. 30. An egg of the Great Auk is not to be had for a song. 31. No books sold here have gilt edges, unless they are priced at 5s. and upwards. 32. When you cut your finger, you will find Tincture of Calendula useful. 33. I have never come across a mermaid at sea. 34. All the romances in this library are well-written. 35. No bird in this aviary lives on mince-pies. 36. No plum-pudding, that has not been boiled in a cloth, can be distinguished from soup. 37. All your poems are uninteresting. 38. None of my peaches have been grown in a hot-house. 39. No pawnbroker is dishonest. 40. No kitten with green eyes will play with a gorilla. 41. All my friends dine at the lower table. 42. My writing-desk is full of live scorpions. 43. No Mandarin ever reads Hogg’s poems. 44. Shakespeare was clever. 45. Rainbows are not worth writing odes to. 46. These Sorites-examples are difficult. 47. All my dreams come true. 48. All the English pictures here are painted in oils. 49. Donkeys are not easy to swallow. 50. Opium-eaters never wear white kid gloves. 51. A good husband always comes home for his tea. 52. Bathing-machines are never made of mother-of-pearl. 53. Rainy days are always cloudy. 54. No heavy fish is unkind to children. 55. No engine-driver lives on barley-sugar. 56. All the animals in the yard gnaw bones. 57. No badger can guess a conundrum. 58. No cheque of yours, received by me, is payable to order. 59. I cannot read any of Brown’s letters. 60. I always avoid a kangaroo. pg134CHAPTER III. SOLUTIONS. § 1. Propositions of Relation reduced to normal form. SL1Solutions for § 1. 1. The Univ. is “persons.” The Individual “I” may be regarded as a Class, of persons, whose peculiar Attribute is “represented by the Name ‘I’”, and may be called the Class of “I’s”. It is evident that this Class cannot possibly contain more than one Member: hence the Sign of Quantity is “all”. The verb “have been” may be replaced by the phrase “are persons who have been”. The Proposition may be written thus:— “All” Sign of Quantity. “I’s” Subject. “are” Copula. “persons who have been out for a walk” Predicate. or, more briefly, “All | I’s | are | persons who have been out for a walk”. 2. The Univ. and the Subject are the same as in Ex. 1. The Proposition may be written “All | I’s | are | persons who feel better”. 3. Univ. is “persons”. The Subject is evidently the Class of persons from which John is excluded; i.e. it is the Class containing all persons who are not “John”. The Sign of Quantity is “no”. The verb “has read” may be replaced by the phrase “are persons who have read”. The Proposition may be written “No | persons who are not ‘John’ | are | persons who have read the letter”. 4. Univ. is “persons”. The Subject is evidently the Class of persons whose only two Members are “you and I”. Hence the Sign of Quantity is “no”. The Proposition may be written “No | Members of the Class ‘you and I’ | are | old persons”. pg1355. Univ. is “creatures”. The verb “run well” may be replaced by the phrase “are creatures that run well”. The Proposition may be written “No | fat creatures | are | creatures that run well”. 6. Univ. is “persons”. The Subject is evidently the Class of persons who are not brave. The verb “deserve” may be replaced by the phrase “are deserving of”. The Proposition may be written “No | not-brave persons | are | persons deserving of the fair”. 7. Univ. is “persons”. The phrase “looks poetical” evidently belongs to the Predicate; and the Subject is the Class, of persons, whose peculiar Attribute is “not-pale”. The Proposition may be written “No | not-pale persons | are | persons who look poetical”. 8. Univ. is “persons”. The Proposition may be written “Some | judges | are | persons who lose their tempers”. 9. Univ. is “persons”. The phrase “never neglect” is merely a stronger form of the phrase “am a person who does not neglect”. The Proposition may be written “All | ‘I’s’ | are | persons who do not neglect important business”. 10. Univ. is “things”. The phrase “what is difficult” (i.e. “that which is difficult”) is equivalent to the phrase “all difficult things”. The Proposition may be written “All | difficult things | are | things that need attention”. 11. Univ. is “things”. The phrase “what is unwholesome” may be interpreted as in Ex. 10. The Proposition may be written “All | unwholesome things | are | things that should be avoided”. 12. Univ. is “laws”. The Predicate is evidently a Class whose peculiar Attribute is “relating to excise”. The Proposition may be written “All | laws passed last week | are | laws relating to excise”. 13. Univ. is “things”. The Subject is evidently the Class, of studies, whose peculiar Attribute is “logical”; hence the Sign of Quantity is “all”. The Proposition may be written “All | logical studies | are | things that puzzle me”. 14. Univ. is “persons”. The Subject is evidently “persons in the house”. The Proposition may be written “No | persons in the house | are | Jews”. 15. Univ. is “dishes”. The phrase “if not well-cooked” is equivalent to the Attribute “not well-cooked”. The Proposition may be written “Some | not well-cooked dishes | are | unwholesome dishes”. pg13616. Univ. is “books”. The phrase “make one drowsy” may be replaced by the phrase “are books that make one drowsy”. The Sign of Quantity is evidently “all”. The Proposition may be written “All | unexciting books | are | books that make one drowsy”. 17. Univ. is “men”. The Subject is evidently “a man who knows what he’s about”; and the word “when” shows that the Proposition is asserted of every such man, i.e. of all such men. The verb “can” may be replaced by “are men who can”. The Proposition may be written “All | men who know what they’re about | are | men who can detect a sharper”. 18. The Univ. and the Subject are the same as in Ex. 4. The Proposition may be written “All | Members of the Class ‘you and I’ | are | persons who know what they’re about”. 19. Univ. is “persons”. The verb “wear” may be replaced by the phrase “are accustomed to wear”. The Proposition may be written “Some | bald persons | are | persons accustomed to wear wigs”. 20. Univ. is “persons”. The phrase “never talk” is merely a stronger form of “are persons who do not talk”. The Proposition may be written “All | fully occupied persons | are | persons who do not talk about their grievances”. 21. Univ. is “riddles”. The phrase “if they can be solved” is equivalent to the Attribute “that can be solved”. The Proposition may be written “No | riddles that can be solved | are | riddles that interest me”. § 2. Method of Diagrams. SL4-ASolutions for § 4, Nos. 1–12. 1. No m are x'; All m' are y. Diagram representing x prime m does not exist and all m prime are y Diagram representing x prime y prime does not exist ? No x' are y'. pg137 2. No m' are x; Some m' are y'. Diagram representing x m prime does not exist and y prime m prime exists Diagram representing x y prime exists ? Some x are y'. 3. All m' are x; All m' are y'. Diagram representing all m prime are x and all m prime are y prime Diagram representing x y prime exists ? Some x are y'. 4. No x' are m'; All y' are m. Diagram representing x prime m prime does not exist and all y prime are m There is no Conclusion. 5. Some m are x'; No y are m. Diagram representing x prime m exists and y m does not exist Diagram representing x prime y prime exists ? Some x' are y'. 6. No x' are m; No m are y. Diagram representing x prime m and y m do not exist There is no Conclusion. 7. No m are x'; Some y' are m. Diagram representing x prime m does not exist and y prime m exists Diagram representing x y prime exists ? Some x are y'. 8. All m' are x'; No m' are y. Diagram representing all m prime are x prime and y m prime does not exist Diagram representing x prime y prime exists ? Some x' are y'. pg138 9. Some x' are m'; No m are y'. Diagram representing x prime m prime exists and y prime m does not exist There is no Conclusion. 10. All x are m; All y' are m'. Diagram representing all x are m and all y prime are m prime Diagram representing all x are y and all y prime are x prime ? All x are y; All y' are x'. 11. No m are x; All y' are m'. Diagram representing x m does not exist and all y prime are m prime There is no Conclusion. 12. No x are m; All y are m. Diagram representing x m does not exist and all y are m Diagram representing all y are x prime ? All y are x'. SL5-ASolutions for § 5, Nos. 1–12. 1. I have been out for a walk; I am feeling better. Univ. is “persons”; m = the Class of I’s; x = persons who have been out for a walk; y = persons who are feeling better. All m are x; All m are y. Diagram representing all m are x and all m are y Diagram representing x y exists ? Some x are y. i.e. Somebody, who has been out for a walk, is feeling better. pg139 2. No one has read the letter but John; No one, who has not read it, knows what it is about. Univ. is “persons”; m = persons who have read the letter; x = the Class of Johns; y = persons who know what the letter is about. No x' are m; No m' are y. Diagram representing x prime m and y m prime do not exist Diagram representing x prime y does not exist ? No x' are y. i.e. No one, but John, knows what the letter is about. 3. Those who are not old like walking; You and I are young. Univ. is “persons”; m = old; x = persons who like walking; y = you and I. All m' are x; All y are m'. Diagram representing all m prime are x and all y are m prime Diagram representing all y are x ? All y are x. i.e. You and I like walking. 4. Your course is always honest; Your course is always the best policy. Univ. is “courses”; m = your; x = honest; y = courses which are the best policy. All m are x; All m are y. Diagram representing all m are x and all m are y Diagram representing x y exists ? Some x are y. i.e. Honesty is sometimes the best policy. 5. No fat creatures run well; Some greyhounds run well. Univ. is “creatures”; m = creatures that run well; x = fat; y = greyhounds. No x are m; Some y are m. Diagram representing x m does not exist and y m exists Diagram representing x prime y exists ? Some y are x'. i.e. Some greyhounds are not fat. pg140 6. Some, who deserve the fair, get their deserts; None but the brave deserve the fair. Univ. is “persons”; m = persons who deserve the fair; x = persons who get their deserts; y = brave. Some m are x; No y' are m. Diagram representing x m exists and y prime m does not exist Diagram representing x y exists ? Some y are x. i.e. Some brave persons get their deserts. 7. Some Jews are rich; All Esquimaux are Gentiles. Univ. is “persons”; m = Jews; x = rich; y = Esquimaux. Some m are x; All y are m'. Diagram representing x m exists all y are m Diagram representing x y prime exists ? Some x are y'. i.e. Some rich persons are not Esquimaux. 8. Sugar-plums are sweet; Some sweet things are liked by children. Univ. is “things”; m = sweet; x = sugar-plums; y = things that are liked by children. All x are m; Some m are y. Diagram representing all x are m and y m exists There is no Conclusion. 9. John is in the house; Everybody in the house is ill. Univ. is “persons”; m = persons in the house; x = the Class of Johns; y = ill. All x are m; All m are y. Diagram representing all x are m and all m are y Diagram representing all x are y ? All x are y. i.e. John is ill. pg14110. Umbrellas are useful on a journey; What is useless on a journey should be left behind. Univ. is “things”; m = useful on a journey; x = umbrellas; y = things that should be left behind. All x are m; All m' are y. Diagram representing all x are m and all m prime are y Diagram representing x prime y exists ? Some x' are y. i.e. Some things, that are not umbrellas, should be left behind on a journey. 11. Audible music causes vibration in the air; Inaudible music is not worth paying for. Univ. is “music”; m = audible; x = music that causes vibration in the air; y = worth paying for. All m are x; All m' are y'. Diagram representing all m are x and all m prime are y prime Diagram representing x prime y does not exist ? No x' are y. i.e. No music is worth paying for, unless it causes vibration in the air. 12. Some holidays are rainy; Rainy days are tiresome. Univ. is “days”; m = rainy; x = holidays; y = tiresome. Some x are m; All m are y. Diagram representing x m exists and all m are y Diagram representing x y exists ? Some x are y. i.e. Some holidays are tiresome. SL6-ASolutions for § 6, Nos. 1–10. 1. Some x are m; No m are y'. Some x are y. Diagram representing x m and y prime m does not exist Diagram representing x y exists Hence proposed Conclusion is right. pg142 2. All x are m; No y are m'. No y are x'. Diagram representing all x are m and y m prime does not exist There is no Conclusion. 3. Some x are m'; All y' are m. Some x are y. Diagram representing x m prime exists and all y prime are m Diagram representing x y exists Hence proposed Conclusion is right. 4. All x are m; No y are m. All x are y'. Diagram representing all x are m and y m does not exist Diagram representing all x are y prime Hence proposed Conclusion is right. 5. Some m' are x'; No m' are y. Some x' are y'. Diagram representing x prime m prime exists and y m prime does not exist Diagram representing x prime y prime exists Hence proposed Conclusion is right. 6. No x' are m; All y are m'. All y are x. Diagram representing x prime m does not exist and all y are m prime There is no Conclusion. pg143 7. Some m' are x'; All y' are m'. Some x' are y'. Diagram representing x prime m prime exists and all y prime are m prime There is no Conclusion. 8. No m' are x'; All y' are m'. All y' are x. Diagram representing x prime m prime does not exist and all y prime are m prime Diagram representing all y prime are x Hence proposed Conclusion is right. 9. Some m are x'; No m are y. Some x' are y'. Diagram representing x prime m exists and y m does not exist Diagram representing x prime y prime exists Hence proposed Conclusion is right. 10. All m' are x'; All m are y. Some y are x'. Diagram representing all m prime are x prime and all m are y Diagram representing x prime y exists Hence proposed Conclusion is right. pg144 SL7-ASolutions for § 7, Nos. 1–6. 1. No doctors are enthusiastic; You are enthusiastic. You are not a doctor. Univ. “persons”; m = enthusiastic; x = doctors; y = you. No x are m; All y are m. All y are x'. Diagram representing x m does not exist and all y are m Diagram representing all y are x prime ? All y are x'. Hence proposed Conclusion is right. 2. All dictionaries are useful; Useful books are valuable. Dictionaries are valuable. Univ. “books”; m = useful; x = dictionaries; y = valuable. All x are m; All m are y. All x are y. Diagram representing all x are m and all m are y Diagram representing all x are y ? All x are y. Hence proposed Conclusion is right. 3. No misers are unselfish; None but misers save egg-shells. No unselfish people save egg-shells. Univ. “people”; m = misers; x = selfish; y = people who save egg-shells. No m are x'; No m' are y. No x' are y. Diagram representing x prime m and y m prime do not exist Diagram representing x prime y does not exist ? No x' are y. Hence proposed Conclusion is right. pg1454. Some epicures are ungenerous; All my uncles are generous. My uncles are not epicures. Univ. “persons”; m = generous; x = epicures; y = my uncles. Some x are m'. All y are m. All y are x'. Diagram representing x m prime exists and all y are m Diagram representing x y prime exists ? Some x are y'. Hence proposed Conclusion is wrong, the right one being “Some epicures are not uncles of mine.” 5. Gold is heavy; Nothing but gold will silence him. Nothing light will silence him. Univ. “things”; m = gold; x = heavy; y = able to silence him. All m are x; No m' are y. No x' are y. Diagram representing all m are x and y m prime does not exist Diagram representing x prime y does not exist ? No x' are y. Hence proposed Conclusion is right. 6. Some healthy people are fat; No unhealthy people are strong. Some fat people are not strong. Univ. “persons”; m = healthy; x = fat; y = strong. Some m are x; No m' are y. Some x are y'. Diagram representing x m exists and y m prime does not exist There is no Conclusion. pg146§ 3. Method of Subscripts. SL4-BSolutions for § 4. 1. mx'0 † m'1y'0 ¶ x'y'0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x' are y'.” 2. m'x0 † m'y'1 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x' are y'.” 3. m'1x'0 † m'1y0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. III. i.e. “Some x are y'.” 4. x'm'0 † y'1m'0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 5. mx'1 † ym0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x' are y'.” 6. x'm0 † my0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 7. mx'0 † y'm1 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x are y'.” 8. m'1x0 † m'y0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. III. i.e. “Some x' are y'.” 9. x'm'1 † my0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 10. x1m'0 † y'1m0 ¶ x1y'0 † y'1x0 [Fig. I (ß). i.e. “All x are y, and all y' are x'.” 11. mx0 † y'1m0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 12. xm0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x0 [Fig. I (a). i.e. “All y are x'.” 13. m'1x'0 † ym0 ¶ x'y0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x' are y.” 14. m1x'0 † m'1y'0 ¶ x'y'0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x' are y'.” 15. xm0 † m'y0 ¶ xy0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x are y.” 16. x1m0 † y1m'0 ¶ (x1y0 † y1x0) [Fig. I (ß). i.e. “All x are y' and all y are x'.” 17. xm0 † m'1y'0 ¶ xy'0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x are y'.” 18. xm'0 † my0 ¶ xy0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x are y.” 19. m1x'0 † m1y0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. III. i.e. “Some x are y'.” 20. mx0 † m'1y'0 ¶ xy'0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x are y'.” 21. x1m'0 † m'y1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x' are y.” 22. xm1 † y1m'0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 23. m1x'0 † ym1 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x are y.” 24. xm0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x0 [Fig. I (a). i.e. “All y are x'.” 25. mx'1 † my'0 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x' are y.” 26. mx'0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x'0 [Fig. I (a). i.e. “All y are x.” 27. x1m0 † y'1m'0 ¶ (x1y'0 † y'1x0) [Fig. I (ß). i.e. “All x are y, and all y' are x'.” 28. m1x0 † my1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x' are y.” 29. mx0 † y1m0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 30. x1m0 † ym1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some y are x'.” 31. x1m'0 † y1m'0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] pg14732. xm'0 † m1y'0 ¶ xy'0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x are y'.” 33. mx0 † my0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 34. mx'0 † ym1 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x are y.” 35. mx0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x0 [Fig. I (a). i.e. “All y are x'.” 36. m1x0 † ym1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x' are y.” 37. m1x'0 † ym0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. III. i.e. “Some x are y'.” 38. mx0 † m'y0 ¶ xy0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x are y.” 39. mx'1 † my0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. II. i.e. “Some x' are y'.” 40. x'm0 † y'1m'0 ¶ y'1x'0 [Fig. I (a). i.e. “All y' are x.” 41. x1m0 † ym'0 ¶ x1y0 [Fig. I (a). i.e. “All x are y'.” 42. m'x0 † ym0 ¶ xy0 [Fig. I. i.e. “No x are y.” SL5-BSolutions for § 5, Nos. 13–24. 13. No Frenchmen like plumpudding; All Englishmen like plumpudding. Univ. “men”; m = liking plumpudding; x = French; y = English. xm0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x0 [Fig. I (a). i.e. Englishmen are not Frenchmen. 14. No portrait of a lady, that makes her simper or scowl, is satisfactory; No photograph of a lady ever fails to make her simper or scowl. Univ. “portraits of ladies”; m = making the subject simper or scowl; x = satisfactory; y = photographic. mx0 † ym'0 ¶ xy0 [Fig. I. i.e. No photograph of a lady is satisfactory. 15. All pale people are phlegmatic; No one looks poetical unless he is pale. Univ. “people”; m = pale; x = phlegmatic; y = looking poetical. m1x'0 † m'y0 ¶ x'y0 [Fig. I. i.e. No one looks poetical unless he is phlegmatic. 16. No old misers are cheerful; Some old misers are thin. Univ. “persons”; m = old misers; x = cheerful; y = thin. mx0 † my1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. i.e. Some thin persons are not cheerful. 17. No one, who exercises self-control, fails to keep his temper; Some judges lose their tempers. Univ. “persons”; m = keeping their tempers; x = exercising self-control; y = judges. xm'0 † ym'1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. i.e. Some judges do not exercise self-control. pg14818. All pigs are fat; Nothing that is fed on barley-water is fat. Univ. is “things”; m = fat; x = pigs; y = fed on barley-water. x1m'0 † ym0 ¶ x1y0 [Fig. I (a). i.e. Pigs are not fed on barley-water. 19. All rabbits, that are not greedy, are black; No old rabbits are free from greediness. Univ. is “rabbits”; m = greedy; x = black; y = old. m'1x'0 † ym'0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. III. i.e. Some black rabbits are not old. 20. Some pictures are not first attempts; No first attempts are really good. Univ. is “things”; m = first attempts; x = pictures; y = really good. xm'1 † my0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 21. I never neglect important business; Your business is unimportant. Univ. is “business”; m = important; x = neglected by me; y = your. mx0 † y1m0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 22. Some lessons are difficult; What is difficult needs attention. Univ. is “things”; m = difficult; x = lessons; y = needing attention. xm1 † m1y'0 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II. i.e. Some lessons need attention. 23. All clever people are popular; All obliging people are popular. Univ. is “people”; m = popular; x = clever; y = obliging. x1m'0 † y1m'0 ¶ nothing. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 24. Thoughtless people do mischief; No thoughtful person forgets a promise. Univ. is “persons”; m = thoughtful; x = mischievous; y = forgetful of promises. m'1x'0 † my0 ¶ x'y0 i.e. No one, who forgets a promise, fails to do mischief. SL6-BSolutions for § 6. 1. xm1 † my'0 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 2. x1m'0 † ym'0 Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 3. xm'1 † y'1m'0 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. pg149 4. x1m'0 † ym0 ¶ x1y0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 5. m'x'1 † m'y0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 6. x'm0 † y1m0 Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 7. m'x'1 † y'1m0 Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 8. m'x'0 † y'1m0 ¶ y'1x'0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 9. mx'1 † my0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 10. m'1x0 † m'1y'0 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. III.] Concl. right. 11. x1m0 † ym1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 12. xm0 † m'y'0 ¶ xy'0 [Fig. I.] Concl. right. 13. xm0 † y'1m'0 ¶ y'1x0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 14. m'1x0 † m'1y'0 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. III.] Concl. right. 15. mx'1 † y1m0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 16. x'm0 † y'1m0 Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 17. m'x0 † m'1y0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. III.] Concl. right. 18. x'm0 † my1 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 19. mx'1 † m1y'0 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 20. x'm'0 † m'y'1 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 21. mx0 † m1y0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. III.] Concl. right. 22. x'1m'0 † ym'1 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II.] Concl. wrong: the right one is “Some x are y.” 23. m1x'0 † m'y'0 ¶ x'y'0 [Fig. I.] Concl. right. 24. x1m0 † m'1y'0 ¶ x1y'0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 25. xm'0 † m1y'0 ¶ xy'0 [Fig. I.] Concl. right. 26. m1x0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 27. x1m'0 † my'0 ¶ x1y'0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 28. x1m'0 † y'm'0 Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 29. x'm0 † m'y'0 ¶ x'y'0 [Fig. I.] Concl. right. 30. x1m'0 † m1y0 ¶ x1y0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 31. x'1m0 † y'm'0 ¶ x'1y'0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 32. xm0 † y'm'0 ¶ xy'0 [Fig. I.] Concl. right. 33. m1x0 † y'1m'0 ¶ y'1x0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 34. x1m0 † ym'1 Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss. 35. xm1 † m1y'0 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 36. m1x0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x0 [Fig. I (a).] Concl. right. 37. mx'0 † m1y0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. III.] Concl. right. 38. xm0 † my'0 Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist. 39. mx0 † my'1 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. 40. mx'0 † ym1 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II.] Concl. right. pg150 SL7-BSolutions for § 7. 1. No doctors are enthusiastic; You are enthusiastic. You are not a doctor. Univ. “persons”; m = enthusiastic; x = doctors; y = you. xm0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x0 [Fig. I (a). Conclusion right. 2. Dictionaries are useful; Useful books are valuable. Dictionaries are valuable. Univ. “books”; m = useful; x = dictionaries; y = valuable. x1m'0 † m1y'0 ¶ x1y'0 [Fig. I (a). Conclusion right. 3. No misers are unselfish; None but misers save egg-shells. No unselfish people save egg-shells. Univ. “people”; m = misers; x = selfish; y = people who save egg-shells. mx'0 † m'y0 ¶ x'y0 [Fig. I. Conclusion right. 4. Some epicures are ungenerous; All my uncles are generous. My uncles are not epicures. Univ. “persons”; m = generous; x = epicures; y = my uncles. xm'1 † y1m'0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. II. Conclusion wrong: right one is “Some epicures are not uncles of mine.” 5. Gold is heavy; Nothing but gold will silence him. Nothing light will silence him. Univ. “things”; m = gold; x = heavy; y = able to silence him. m1x'0 † m'y0 ¶ x'y0 [Fig. I. Conclusion right. 6. Some healthy people are fat; No unhealthy people are strong. Some fat people are not strong. Univ. “people”; m = healthy; x = fat; y = strong. mx1 † m'y0 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 7. I saw it in a newspaper; All newspapers tell lies. It was a lie. Univ. “publications”; m = newspapers; x = publications in which I saw it; y = telling lies. x1m'0 † m1y'0 ¶ x1y'0 [Fig. I (a). Conclusion wrong: right one is “The publication, in which I saw it, tells lies.” pg151 8. Some cravats are not artistic; I admire anything artistic. There are some cravats that I do not admire. Univ. “things”; m = artistic; x = cravats; y = things that I admire. xm1 † m1y0 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 9. His songs never last an hour. A song, that lasts an hour, is tedious. His songs are never tedious. Univ. “songs”; m = lasting an hour; x = his; y = tedious. x1m0 † m1y'0 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. III. Conclusion wrong: right one is “Some tedious songs are not his.” 10. Some candles give very little light; Candles are meant to give light. Some things, that are meant to give light, give very little. Univ. “things”; m = candles; x = giving &c.; y = meant &c. mx1 † m1y'0 ¶ xy1 [Fig. II. Conclusion right. 11. All, who are anxious to learn, work hard. Some of these boys work hard. Some of these boys are anxious to learn. Univ. “persons”; m = hard-working; x = anxious to learn; y = these boys. x1m'0 † ym1 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 12. All lions are fierce; Some lions do not drink coffee. Some creatures that drink coffee are not fierce. Univ. “creatures”; m = lions; x = fierce; y = creatures that drink coffee. m1x'0 † my'1 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. II. Conclusion wrong: right one is “Some fierce creatures do not drink coffee.” 13. No misers are generous; Some old men are ungenerous. Some old men are misers. Univ. “persons”; m = generous; x = misers; y = old men. xm0 † ym'1 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 14. No fossil can be crossed in love; An oyster may be crossed in love. Oysters are not fossils. Univ. “things”; m = things that can be crossed in love; x = fossils; y = oysters. xm0 † y1m'0 ¶ y1x0 [Fig. I (a). Conclusion right. pg15215. All uneducated people are shallow; Students are all educated. No students are shallow. Univ. “people”; m = educated; x = shallow; y = students. m'1x'0 † y1m'0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. III. Conclusion wrong: right one is “Some shallow people are not students.” 16. All young lambs jump; No young animals are healthy, unless they jump. All young lambs are healthy. Univ. “young animals”; m = young animals that jump; x = lambs; y = healthy. x1m'0 † m'y0 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 17. Ill-managed business is unprofitable; Railways are never ill-managed. All railways are profitable. Univ. “business”; m = ill-managed; x = profitable; y = railways. m1x0 † y1m0 ¶ x'y'1 [Fig. III. Conclusion wrong: right one is “Some business, other than railways, is profitable.” 18. No Professors are ignorant; All ignorant people are vain. No Professors are vain. Univ. “people”; m = ignorant; x = Professors; y = vain. xm0 † m1y'0 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. III. Conclusion wrong: right one is “Some vain persons are not Professors.” 19. A prudent man shuns hyænas. No banker is imprudent. No banker fails to shun hyænas. Univ. “men”; m = prudent; x = shunning hyænas; y = bankers. m1x'0 † ym'0 ¶ x'y0 [Fig. I. Conclusion right. 20. All wasps are unfriendly; No puppies are unfriendly. No puppies are wasps. Univ. “creatures”; m = friendly; x = wasps; y = puppies. x1m0 † ym'0 ¶ x1y0 [Fig. I (a). Conclusion incomplete: complete one is “Wasps are not puppies”. 21. No Jews are honest; Some Gentiles are rich. Some rich people are dishonest. Univ. “persons”; m = Jews; x = honest; y = rich. mx0 † m'y1 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] pg15322. No idlers win fame; Some painters are not idle. Some painters win fame. Univ. “persons”; m = idlers; x = persons who win fame; y = painters. mx0 † ym'1 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 23. No monkeys are soldiers; All monkeys are mischievous. Some mischievous creatures are not soldiers. Univ. “creatures”; m = monkeys; x = soldiers; y = mischievous. mx0 † m1y'0 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. III. Conclusion right. 24. All these bonbons are chocolate-creams; All these bonbons are delicious. Chocolate-creams are delicious. Univ. “food”; m = these bonbons; x = chocolate-creams; y = delicious. m1x'0 † m1y'0 ¶ xy1 [Fig. III. Conclusion wrong, being in excess of the right one, which is “Some chocolate-creams are delicious.” 25. No muffins are wholesome; All buns are unwholesome. Buns are not muffins. Univ. “food”; m = wholesome; x = muffins; y = buns. xm0 † y1m0 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 26. Some unauthorised reports are false; All authorised reports are trustworthy. Some false reports are not trustworthy. Univ. “reports”; m = authorised; x = true; y = trustworthy. m'x'1 † m1y'0 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 27. Some pillows are soft; No pokers are soft. Some pokers are not pillows. Univ. “things”; m = soft; x = pillows; y = pokers. xm1 † ym0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. II. Conclusion wrong: right one is “Some pillows are not pokers.” 28. Improbable stories are not easily believed; None of his stories are probable. None of his stories are easily believed. Univ. “stories”; m = probable; x = easily believed; y = his. m'1x0 † ym0 ¶ xy0 [Fig. I. Conclusion right. pg15429. No thieves are honest; Some dishonest people are found out. Some thieves are found out. Univ. “people”; m = honest; x = thieves; y = found out. xm0 † m'y1 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 30. No muffins are wholesome; All puffy food is unwholesome. All muffins are puffy. Univ. is “food”; m = wholesome; x = muffins; y = puffy. xm0 † y1m0 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 31. No birds, except peacocks, are proud of their tails; Some birds, that are proud of their tails, cannot sing. Some peacocks cannot sing. Univ. “birds”; m = proud of their tails; x = peacocks; y = birds that cannot sing. x'm0 † my'1 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. II. Conclusion right. 32. Warmth relieves pain; Nothing, that does not relieve pain, is useful in toothache. Warmth is useful in toothache. Univ. “applications”; m = relieving pain; x = warmth; y = useful in toothache. x1m'0 † m'y0 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Like Eliminands not asserted to exist.] 33. No bankrupts are rich; Some merchants are not bankrupts. Some merchants are rich. Univ. “persons”; m = bankrupts; x = rich; y = merchants. mx0 † ym'1 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 34. Bores are dreaded; No bore is ever begged to prolong his visit. No one, who is dreaded, is ever begged to prolong his visit. Univ. “persons”; m = bores; x = dreaded; y = begged to prolong their visits. m1x'0 † my0 ¶ xy'1 [Fig. III. Conclusion wrong: the right one is “Some dreaded persons are not begged to prolong their visits.” 35. All wise men walk on their feet; All unwise men walk on their hands. No man walks on both. Univ. “men”; m = wise; x = walking on their feet; y = walking on their hands. m1x'0 † m'1y'0 ¶ x'y'0 [Fig. I. Conclusion wrong: right one is “No man walks on neither.” pg15536. No wheelbarrows are comfortable; No uncomfortable vehicles are popular. No wheelbarrows are popular. Univ. “vehicles”; m = comfortable; x = wheelbarrows; y = popular. xm0 † m'x0 ¶ xy0 [Fig. I. Conclusion right. 37. No frogs are poetical; Some ducks are unpoetical. Some ducks are not frogs. Univ. “creatures”; m = poetical; x = frogs; y = ducks. xm0 † ym'1 No Conclusion. [Fallacy of Unlike Eliminands with an Entity-Premiss.] 38. No emperors are dentists; All dentists are dreaded by children. No emperors are dreaded by children. Univ. “persons”; m = dentists; x = emperors; y = dreaded by children. xm0 † m1y'0 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. III. Conclusion wrong: right one is “Some persons, dreaded by children, are not emperors.” 39. Sugar is sweet; Salt is not sweet. Salt is not sugar. Univ. “things”; m = sweet; x = sugar; y = salt. x1m'0 † y1m0 ¶ (x1y0 † y1x0) [Fig. I (ß). Conclusion incomplete: omitted portion is “Sugar is not salt.” 40. Every eagle can fly; Some pigs cannot fly. Some pigs are not eagles. Univ. “creatures”; m = creatures that can fly; x = eagles; y = pigs. x1m'0 † ym'1 ¶ x'y1 [Fig. II. Conclusion right. SL8Solutions for § 8. 1. 1cd0 † 2a1d'0 † 3b1c'0; 1cd † 2ad' † 3bc' ¶ ab0 † a1 † b1 i.e. ¶ a1b0 † b1a0 2. 1d1b'0 † 2ac'0 † 3bc0; 1db' † 3bc † 2ac' ¶ da0 † d1 i.e. ¶ d1a0 3. 1ba0 † 2cd'0 † 3d1b'0; 1ba † 3db' † 2cd' ¶ ac0 4. 1bc0 † 2a1b'0 † 3c'd0; 1bc † 2ab' † 3c'd ¶ ad0 † a1 i.e. ¶ a1d0 pg156 5. 1b'1a0 † 2bc0 † 3a'd0; 1b'a † 2bc † 3a'd ¶ cd0 6. 1a1b0 † 2b'c0 † 3d1a'0; 1ab † 2b'c † 3da' ¶ cd0 † d1 i.e. ¶ d1c0 7. 1db'0 † 2b1a'0 † 3cd'0; 1db' † 2ba' † 3cd' ¶ a'c0 8. 1b'd0 † 2a'b0 † 3c1d'0; 1b'd † 2a'b † 3cd' ¶ a'c0 † c1 i.e. ¶ c1a'0 9. 1b'1a'0 † 2ad0 † 3b1c'0; 1b'a' † 2ad † 3bc' ¶ dc'0 10. 1cd0 † 2b1c'0 † 3ad'0; 1cd † 2bc' † 3ad' ¶ ba0 † b1 i.e. ¶ b1a0 11. 1bc0 † 2d1a'0 † 3c'1a0; 1bc † 3c'a † 2da' ¶ bd0 † d1 i.e. ¶ d1b0 12. 1cb'0 † 2c'1d0 † 3b1a'0; 1cb' † 2c'd † 3ba' ¶ da'0 13. 1d1e'0 † 2c1a'0 † 3bd'0 † 4e1a0; 1de' † 3bd' † 4ea † 2ca' ¶ bc0 † c1 i.e. ¶ c1b0 14. 1c1b'0 † 2a1e'0 † 3d1b0 † 4a'1c'0; 1cb' † 3db † 4a'c' † 2ae' ¶ de'0 † d1 i.e. ¶ d1e'0 15. 1b'd0 † 2e1c'0 † 3b1a'0 † 4d'1c0; 1b'd † 3ba' † 4d'c † 2ec' ¶ a'e0 † e1 i.e. ¶ e1a'0 16. 1a'e0 † 2d1c0 † 3a1b'0 † 4e'1d'0; 1a'e † 3ab' † 4e'd' † 2dc ¶ b'c0 17. 1d1c'0 † 2a1e'0 † 3bd'0 † 4c1e0; 1dc' † 3bd' † 4ce † 2ae' ¶ ba0 † a1 i.e. ¶ a1b0 18. 1a1b'0 † 2d1e'0 † 3a'1c0 † 4be0; 1ab' † 3a'c † 4be † 2de' ¶ cd0 † d1 i.e. ¶ d1c0 19. 1bc0 † 2e1h'0 † 3a1b'0 † 4dh0 † 5e'1c'0; 1bc † 3ab' † 5e'c' † 2eh' † 4dh ¶ ad0 † a1 i.e. ¶ a1d0 20. 1dh'0 † 2ce0 † 3h1b'0 † 4ad'0 † 5be'0; 1dh' † 3hb' † 4ad' † 5be' † 2ce ¶ ac0 21. 1b1a'0 † 2dh0 † 3ce0 † 4ah'0 † 5c'1b'0; 1ba' † 4ah' † 2dh † 5c'b' † 3ce ¶ de0 22. 1e1d0 † 2b'h'0 † 3c'1d'0 † 4a1e'0 † 5ch0; 1ed † 3c'd' † 4ae' † 5ch † 2b'h' ¶ ab'0 † a1 i.e. ¶ a1b0 pg157 23. 1b'1a0 † 2de'0 † 3h1b0 † 4ce0 † 5d'1a'0; 1b'a † 3hb † 5d'a' † 2de' † 4ce ¶ hc0 † h1 i.e. ¶ h1c0 24. 1h'1k0 † 2b'a0 † 3c1d'0 † 4e1h0 † 5dk'0 † 6bc'0; 1h'k † 4eh † 5dk' † 3cd' † 6bc' † 2b'a ¶ ea0 † e1 i.e. ¶ e1a0 25. 1a1d'0 † 1k1b'0 † 1e1h'0 † 1a'b0 † 5d1c'0 † 6h1k'0; 1ad' † 4a'b † 2kb' † 5dc' † 6hk' † 3eh' ¶ c'e0 † e1 i.e. ¶ e1c'0 26. 1a'1h'0 † 2d'k'0 † 3e1b0 † 4hk0 † 5a1c'0 † 6b'd0; 1a'h' † 4hk † 2d'k' † 5ac' † 6b'd † 3eb ¶ c'e0 † e1 i.e. ¶ e1c'0 27. 1e1d0 † 2hb0 † 3a'1k'0 † 4ce'0 † 5b'1d'0 † 6ac'0; 1ed † 4ce' † 5b'd' † 2hb † 6ac' † 3a'k' ¶ hk'0 28. 1a'k0 † 2e1b'0 † 3hk'0 † 4d'c0 † 5ab0 † 6c'1h'0; 1a'k † 3hk' † 5ab † 2eb' † 6c'h' † 4d'c ¶ ed'0 † e1 i.e. ¶ e1d'0 29. 1ek0 † 2b'm0 † 3ac'0 † 4h'1e'0 † 5d1k'0 † 6cb0 † 7d'1l'0 † 8hm'0; 1ek † 4h'e' † 5dk' † 7d'l' † 8hm' † 2b'm † 6cb † 3ac' ¶ l'a0 30. 1n1m'0 † 2a'1e'0 † 3c'l0 † 5k1r0 † 5ah'0 † 6dl'0 † 7cn'0 † 8e1b'0 † 9m1r'0 † 10h1d'0; 1nm' † 7cn' † 3c'l † 6dl' † 9mr' † 4kr † 10hd' † 5ah' † 2a'e' † 8eb' ¶ kb'0 † k1 i.e. ¶ k1b'0 SL9Solutions for § 9. 1. 1b1d0 † 2ac0 † 3d'1c'0; 1bd † 3d'c' † 2ac ¶ ba0 † b1, i.e. ¶ b1a0 i.e. Babies cannot manage crocodiles. 2. 1a1b'0 † 2d1c'0 † 3bc0; 1ab' † 3bc † 2dc' ¶ ad0 † d1, i.e. ¶ d1a0 i.e. Your presents to me are not made of tin. pg158 3. 1da0 † 2c1b'0 † 3a'b0; 1da † 3a'b † 2cb' ¶ dc0 † c1, i.e. ¶ c1d0 i.e. All my potatoes in this dish are old ones. 4. 1ba0 † 2b'd0 † 3c1a'0; 1ba † 2b'd † 3ca' ¶ dc0 † c1, i.e. ¶ c1d0 i.e. My servants never say “shpoonj.” 5. 1ad0 † 2cd'0 † 3b1a'0; 1ad † 2cd' † 3ba' ¶ cb0 † b1, i.e. ¶ b1c0 i.e. My poultry are not officers. 6. 1c1a'0 † 2c'b0 † 3da0; 1ca' † 2c'b † 3da ¶ bd0 i.e. None of your sons are fit to serve on a jury. 7. 1cb0 † 2da0 † 3b'1a'0; 1cb † 3b'a' † 2da ¶ cd0 i.e. No pencils of mine are sugarplums. 8. 1cb'0 † 2d1a'0 † 3ba0; 1cb' † 3ba † 2da' ¶ cd0 † d1, i.e. ¶ d1c0 i.e. Jenkins is inexperienced. 9. 1cd0 † 2d'a0 † 3c'b0; 1cd † 2d'a † 3c'b ¶ ab0 i.e. No comet has a curly tail. 10. 1d'c0 † 2ba0 † 3a'1d0; 1d'c † 3a'd † 2ba ¶ cb0 i.e. No hedgehog takes in the Times. 11. 1b1a'0 † 2c1b'0 † 3ad0; 1ba' † 2cb' † 3ad ¶ cd0 † c1, i.e. ¶ c1d0 i.e. This dish is unwholesome. 12. 1b1c'0 † 2d'a0 † 3a'c0; 1bc' † 3a'c † 2d'a ¶ bd'0 † b1, i.e. ¶ b1d'0 i.e. My gardener is very old. 13. 1a1d'0 † 2bc0 † 3c'1d0; 1ad' † 3c'd † 2bc ¶ ab0 † a1, i.e. ¶ a1b0 i.e. All humming-birds are small. pg15914. 1c'b0 † 2a1d'0 † 3ca'0; 1c'b † 3ca' † 2ad' ¶ bd'0 i.e. No one with a hooked nose ever fails to make money. 15. 1b1a'0 † 2b'1d0 † 3ca0; 1ba' † 2b'd † 3ca ¶ dc0 i.e. No gray ducks in this village wear lace collars. 16. 1d1b'0 † 2cd'0 † 3ba0; 1db' † 2cd' † 3ba ¶ ca0 i.e. No jug in this cupboard will hold water. 17. 1b'1d0 † 2c1d'0 † 3ab0; 1b'd † 2cd' † 3ab ¶ ca0 † c1, i.e. ¶ c1a0 i.e. These apples were grown in the sun. 18. 1d'1b'0 † 2c1b0 † 3c'a0; 1d'b' † 2cb † 3c'a ¶ d'a0 † d'1, i.e. ¶ d'1a0 i.e. Puppies, that will not lie still, never care to do worsted-work. 19. 1bd'0 † 2a1c'0 † 3a'd0; 1bd' † 3a'd † 2ac' ¶ bc'0 i.e. No name in this list is unmelodious. 20. 1a1b'0 † 2dc0 † 3a'1d'0; 1ab' † 3a'd' † 2dc ¶ b'c0 i.e. No M.P. should ride in a donkey-race, unless he has perfect self-command. 21. 1bd0 † 2c'a0 † 3b'c0; 1bd † 3b'c † 2c'a ¶ da0 i.e. No goods in this shop, that are still on sale, may be carried away. 22. 1a'b0 † 2cd0 † 3d'a0; 1a'b † 3d'a † 2cd ¶ bc0 i.e. No acrobatic feat, which involves turning a quadruple somersault, is ever attempted in a circus. 23. 1dc'0 † 2a1b'0 † 3bc0; 1dc' † 3bc † 2ab' ¶ da0 † a1, i.e. ¶ a1d0 i.e. Guinea-pigs never really appreciate Beethoven. pg16024. 1a1d'0 † 2b'1c0 † 3ba'0; 1ad' † 3ba' † 2b'c ¶ d'c0 i.e. No scentless flowers please me. 25. 1c1d'0 † 2ba'0 † 3d1a0; 1cd' † 3da † 2ba' ¶ cb0 † c1, i.e. ¶ c1b0 i.e. Showy talkers are not really well-informed. 26. 1ea0 † 2b1d'0 † 3a'1c0 † 4e'b'0; 1ea † 3a'c † 4e'b' † 2bd' ¶ cd'0 i.e. None but red-haired boys learn Greek in this school. 27. 1b1d0 † 2ac'0 † 3e1d'0 † 4c1b'0; 1bd † 3ed' † 4cb' † 2ac' ¶ ea0 † e1, i.e. ¶ e1a0 i.e. Wedding-cake always disagrees with me. 28. 1ad0 † 2e'1b'0 † 3c1d'0 † 4e1a'0; 1ad † 3cd' † 4ea' † 2e'b' ¶ cb'0 † c1, i.e. ¶ c1b'0 i.e. Discussions, that go on while Tomkins is in the chair, endanger the peacefulness of our Debating-Club. 29. 1d1a0 † 2e'c0 † 3b1a'0 † 4d'e0; 1da † 3ba' † 4d'e † 2e'c ¶ bc0 † b1, i.e. ¶ b1c0 i.e. All gluttons in my family are unhealthy. 30. 1d1e0 † 2c'a0 † 3b1e'0 † 4c1d'0; 1de † 3be' † 4cd' † 2c'a ¶ ba0 † b1, i.e. ¶ b1a0 i.e. An egg of the Great Auk is not to be had for a song. 31. 1d'b0 † 2a1c'0 † 3c1e'0 † 4a'd0; 1d'b † 4a'd † 2ac' † 3ce' ¶ be'0 i.e. No books sold here have gilt edges unless they are priced at 5s. and upwards. 32. 1a'1c'0 † 2d1b0 † 3a1e'0 † 4c1b'0; 1a'c' † 3ae' † 4cb' † 2db ¶ e'd0 † d1, i.e. ¶ d1e'0 i.e. When you cut your finger, you will find Tincture of Calendula useful. 33. 1d'b0 † 2a1e'0 † 3ec0 † 4d1a'0; 1d'b † 4da' † 2ae' † 3ec ¶ bc0 i.e. I have never come across a mermaid at sea. pg16134. 1c'1b0 † 2a1e'0 † 3d1b'0 † 4a'1c0; 1c'b † 3db' † 4a'c † 2ae' ¶ de'0 † d1, i.e. ¶ d1e'0 i.e. All the romances in this library are well-written. 35. 1e'd0 † 2c'a0 † 3eb0 † 4d'c0; 1e'd † 3eb † 4d'c † 2c'a ¶ ba0 i.e. No bird in this aviary lives on mince-pies. 36. 1d'1c'0 † 2e1a'0 † 3c1b0 † 4e'd0; 1d'c' † 3cb † 4e'd † 2ea' ¶ ba'0 i.e. No plum-pudding, that has not been boiled in a cloth, can be distinguished from soup. 37. 1ce'0 † 2b'a'0 † 3h1d'0 † 4ae0 † 5bd0; 1ce' † 4ae † 2b'a' † 5bd † 3hd' ¶ ch0 † h1, i.e. ¶ h1c0 i.e. All your poems are uninteresting. 38. 1b'1a'0 † 2db0 † 3he'0 † 4ec0 † 5a1h'0; 1b'a' † 2db † 5ah' † 3he' † 4ec ¶ dc0 i.e. None of my peaches have been grown in a hothouse. 39. 1c1d0 † 2h1e'0 † 3c'1a'0 † 4h'b0 † 5e1d'0; 1cd † 3c'a' † 5ed' † 2he' † 4h'b ¶ a'b0 i.e. No pawnbroker is dishonest. 40. 1bd'0 † 2c'h0 † 3e1b'0 † 4da0 † 5e'c0; 1bd' † 3eb' † 4da † 5e'c † 2c'h ¶ ah0 i.e. No kitten with green eyes will play with a gorilla. 41. 1c1a'0 † 2h'b0 † 3ae0 † 4d1c'0 † 5h1e'0; 1ca' † 3ae † 4dc' † 5he' † 2h'b ¶ db0 † d1, i.e. ¶ d1b0 i.e. All my friends in this College dine at the lower table. 42. 1ca0 † 2h1d'0 † 3c'1e'0 † 4b'a'0 † 5d1e0; 1ca † 3c'e' † 4b'a' † 5de † 2hd' ¶ b'h0 † h1, i.e. ¶ h1b'0 i.e. My writing-desk is full of live scorpions. 43. 1b'1e0 † 2ah0 † 3dc0 † 4e'1a'0 † 5bc'0 1b'e † 4e'a' † 2ah † 5bc' † 3dc ¶ hd0 i.e. No Mandarin ever reads Hogg’s poems. pg16244. 1e1b'0 † 2a'd0 † 3c1h'0 † 4e'a0 † 5d'h0; 1eb' † 4e'a † 2a'd † 5d'h † 3ch' ¶ b'c0 † c1, i.e. ¶ c1b'0 i.e. Shakespeare was clever. 45. 1e'1c'0 † 2hb'0 † 3d1a0 † 4e1a'0 † 5c1b0; 1e'c' † 4ea' † 3da † 5cb † 2hb' ¶ dh0 † d1, i.e. ¶ d1h0 i.e. Rainbows are not worth writing odes to. 46. 1c'1h'0 † 2e1a0 † 3bd0 † 4a'1h0 † 5d'c0; 1c'h' † 4a'h † 2ea † 5d'c † 3bd ¶ eb0 † e1, i.e. ¶ e1b0 i.e. These Sorites-examples are difficult. 47. 1a'1e'0 † 2bk0 † 3c'a0 † 4eh'0 † 5d1b'0 † 6k'h0; 1a'e' † 3c'a † 4eh' † 6k'h † 2bk † 5db' ¶ c'd0 † d1, i.e. ¶ d1c'0 i.e. All my dreams come true. 48. 1a'h0 † 2c'k0 † 3a1d'0 † 4e1h'0 † 5b1k'0 † 6c1e'0; 1a'h † 3ad' † 4eh' † 6ce' † 2c'k † 5bk' ¶ d'b0 † b1, i.e. ¶ b1d'0 i.e. All the English pictures here are painted in oils. 49. 1k'1e0 † 2c1h0 † 3b1a'0 † 4kd0 † 5h'a0 † 6b'1e'0; 1k'e † 4kd † 6b'e' † 3ba' † 5h'a † 2ch ¶ dc0 † c1, i.e. ¶ c1d0 i.e. Donkeys are not easy to swallow. 50. 1ab'0 † 2h'd0 † 3e1c0 † 4b1d'0 † 5a'k0 † 6c'1h0; 1ab' † 4bd' † 2h'd † 6a'k † 5c'h † 3ec ¶ ke0 † e1, i.e. ¶ e1k0 i.e. Opium-eaters never wear white kid gloves. 51. 1bc0 † 2k1a'0 † 3eh0 † 4d1b'0 † 5h'c'0 † 6k'1e'0; 1bc † 4db' † 5h'c' † 3eh † 6k'e' † 2ka' ¶ da'0 † d1, i.e. ¶ d1a'0 i.e. A good husband always comes home for his tea. 52. 1a'1k'0 † 2ch0 † 3h'k0 † 4b1d'0 † 5ea0 † 6d1c'0 1a'k' † 3h'k † 2ch † 6dc' † 4bd' † 5ea ¶ be0 † b1, i.e. ¶ b1e0 i.e. Bathing-machines are never made of mother-of-pearl. pg16353. 1da'0 † 2k1b'0 † 3c1h0 † 4d'1k'0 † 5e1c'0 † 6a1h'0; 1da' † 4d'k' † 2kb' † 6ah' † 5ch † 3ec' ¶ b'e0 † e1, i.e. ¶ e1b'0 i.e. Rainy days are always cloudy. 54. 1kb'0 † 1a'1c'0 † 3d'b0 † 4k'1h'0 † 5ea0 † 6d1c0; 1kb' † 3d'b † 4k'h' † 6dc † 2a'c' † 5ea ¶ h'e0 i.e. No heavy fish is unkind to children. 55. 1k'1b'0 † 2eh'0 † 3c'd0 † 4hb0 † 5ac0 † 6kd'0; 1k'b' † 4hb † 2eh' † 6kd' † 3c'd † 5ac ¶ ea0 i.e. No engine-driver lives on barley-sugar. 56. 1h1b'0 † 2c1d'0 † 3k'a0 † 4e1h'0 † 5b1a'0 † 6k1c'0; 1hb' † 4eh' † 5ba' † 3k'a † 6kc' † 2cd' ¶ ed'0 † e1, i.e. ¶ e1d'0 i.e. All the animals in the yard gnaw bones. 57. 1h'1d'0 † 2e1c'0 † 3k'a0 † 4cb0 † 5d1l'0 † 6e'h0 † 7kl0; 1h'd' † 5dl' † 7kl † 3k'a † 6e'h † 2ec' † 4cb ¶ ab0 i.e. No badger can guess a conundrum. 58. 1b'h0 † 2d'1l'0 † 3ca0 † 4d1k'0 † 5h'1e'0 † 6mc'0 † 7a'b0 † 8ek0; 1b'h † 5h'e' † 7a'b † 3ca † 6mc' † 8ek † 4dk' † 2d'l' ¶ ml'0 i.e. No cheque of yours, received by me, is payable to order. 59. 1c1l'0 † 2h'e0 † 3kd0 † 4mc'0 † 5b'1e'0 † 6n1a'0 † 7l1d'0 † 8m'b0 † 9ah0; 1cl' † 4mc' † 7ld' † 3kd † 8m'b † 5b'e' † 2h'e † 9ah † 6na' ¶ kn0 i.e. I cannot read any of Brown’s letters. 60. 1e1c'0 † 2l1n'0 † 3d1a'0 † 4m'b0 † 5ck'0 † 6e'r0 † 7h1n0 † 8b'k0 † 9r'1d'0 † 10m1l'0; 1ec' † 5ck' † 6e'r † 8b'k † 4m'b † 9r'd' † 3da' † 10ml' † 2ln' † 7hn ¶ a'h0 † h1, i.e. ¶ h1a'0 i.e. I always avoid a kangaroo. pg164NOTES. (A) [See p. 80]. One of the favourite objections, brought against the Science of Logic by its detractors, is that a Syllogism has no real validity as an argument, since it involves the Fallacy of Petitio Principii (i.e. “Begging the Question”, the essence of which is that the whole Conclusion is involved in one of the Premisses). This formidable objection is refuted, with beautiful clearness and simplicity, by these three Diagrams, which show us that, in each of the three Figures, the Conclusion is really involved in the two Premisses taken together, each contributing its share. Thus, in Fig. I., the Premiss xm0 empties the Inner Cell of the N.W. Quarter, while the Premiss ym0 empties its Outer Cell. Hence it needs the two Premisses to empty the whole of the N.W. Quarter, and thus to prove the Conclusion xy0. Again, in Fig. II., the Premiss xm0 empties the Inner Cell of the N.W. Quarter. The Premiss ym1 merely tells us that the Inner Portion of the W. Half is occupied, so that we may place a ‘I’ in it, somewhere; but, if this were the whole of our information, we should not know in which Cell to place it, so that it would have to ‘sit on the fence’: it is only when we learn, from the other Premiss, that the upper of these two Cells is empty, that we feel authorised to place the ‘I’ in the lower Cell, and thus to prove the Conclusion x'y1. Lastly, in Fig. III., the information, that m exists, merely authorises us to place a ‘I’ somewhere in the Inner Square——but it has large choice of fences to sit upon! It needs the Premiss xm0 to drive it out of the N. Half of that Square; and it needs the Premiss ym0 to drive it out of the W. Half. Hence it needs the two Premisses to drive it into the Inner Portion of the S.E. Quarter, and thus to prove the Conclusion x'y'1. pg165APPENDIX, ADDRESSED TO TEACHERS. § 1. Introductory. There are several matters, too hard to discuss with Learners, which nevertheless need to be explained to any Teachers, into whose hands this book may fall, in order that they may thoroughly understand what my Symbolic Method is, and in what respects it differs from the many other Methods already published. These matters are as follows:— The “Existential Import” of Propositions. The use of “is-not” (or “are-not”) as a Copula. The theory “two Negative Premisses prove nothing.” Euler’s Method of Diagrams. Venn’s Method of Diagrams. My Method of Diagrams. The Solution of a Syllogism by various Methods. My Method of treating Syllogisms and Sorites. Some account of Parts II, III. § 2. The “Existential Import” of Propositions. The writers, and editors, of the Logical text-books which run in the ordinary grooves——to whom I shall hereafter refer by the (I hope inoffensive) title “The Logicians”——take, on this subject, what seems to me to be a more humble position than is at all necessary. They speak of the Copula of a Proposition “with bated breath”, almost as if it were a living, conscious Entity, capable of declaring for itself what it chose to mean, and that we, poor human creatures, had nothing to do but to ascertain what was its sovereign will and pleasure, and submit to it. pg166In opposition to this view, I maintain that any writer of a book is fully authorised in attaching any meaning he likes to any word or phrase he intends to use. If I find an author saying, at the beginning of his book, “Let it be understood that by the word ‘black’ I shall always mean ‘white’, and that by the word ‘white’ I shall always mean ‘black’,” I meekly accept his ruling, however injudicious I may think it. And so, with regard to the question whether a Proposition is or is not to be understood as asserting the existence of its Subject, I maintain that every writer may adopt his own rule, provided of course that it is consistent with itself and with the accepted facts of Logic. Let us consider certain views that may logically be held, and thus settle which of them may conveniently be held; after which I shall hold myself free to declare which of them I intend to hold. The kinds of Propositions, to be considered, are those that begin with “some”, with “no”, and with “all”. These are usually called Propositions “in I”, “in E”, and “in A”. First, then, a Proposition in I may be understood as asserting, or else as not asserting, the existence of its Subject. (By “existence” I mean of course whatever kind of existence suits its nature. The two Propositions, “dreams exist” and “drums exist”, denote two totally different kinds of “existence”. A dream is an aggregate of ideas, and exists only in the mind of a dreamer: whereas a drum is an aggregate of wood and parchment, and exists in the hands of a drummer.) First, let us suppose that I “asserts” (i.e. “asserts the existence of its Subject”). Here, of course, we must regard a Proposition in A as making the same assertion, since it necessarily contains a Proposition in I. We now have I and A “asserting”. Does this leave us free to make what supposition we choose as to E? My answer is “No. We are tied down to the supposition that E does not assert.” This can be proved as follows:— If possible, let E “assert”. Then (taking x, y, and z to represent Attributes) we see that, if the Proposition “No xy are z” be true, some things exist with the Attributes x and y: i.e. “Some x are y.” pg167Also we know that, if the Proposition “Some xy are z” be true, the same result follows. But these two Propositions are Contradictories, so that one or other of them must be true. Hence this result is always true: i.e. the Proposition “Some x are y” is always true! Quod est absurdum. (See Note (A), p. 195). We see, then, that the supposition “I asserts” necessarily leads to “A asserts, but E does not”. And this is the first of the various views that may conceivably be held. Next, let us suppose that I does not “assert.” And, along with this, let us take the supposition that E does “assert.” Hence the Proposition “No x are y” means “Some x exist, and none of them are y”: i.e. “all of them are not-y,” which is a Proposition in A. We also know, of course, that the Proposition “All x are not-y” proves “No x are y.” Now two Propositions, each of which proves the other, are equivalent. Hence every Proposition in A is equivalent to one in E, and therefore “asserts”. Hence our second conceivable view is “E and A assert, but I does not.” This view does not seen to involve any necessary contradiction with itself or with the accepted facts of Logic. But, when we come to test it, as applied to the actual facts of life, we shall find I think, that it fits in with them so badly that its adoption would be, to say the least of it, singularly inconvenient for ordinary folk. Let me record a little dialogue I have just held with my friend Jones, who is trying to form a new Club, to be regulated on strictly Logical principles. Author. “Well, Jones! Have you got your new Club started yet?” Jones (rubbing his hands). “You’ll be glad to hear that some of the Members (mind, I only say ‘some’) are millionaires! Rolling in gold, my boy!” Author. “That sounds well. And how many Members have entered?” Jones (staring). “None at all. We haven’t got it started yet. What makes you think we have?” Author. “Why, I thought you said that some of the Members——” pg168Jones (contemptuously). “You don’t seem to be aware that we’re working on strictly Logical principles. A Particular Proposition does not assert the existence of its Subject. I merely meant to say that we’ve made a Rule not to admit any Members till we have at least three Candidates whose incomes are over ten thousand a year!” Author. “Oh, that’s what you meant, is it? Let’s hear some more of your Rules.” Jones. “Another is, that no one, who has been convicted seven times of forgery, is admissible.” Author. “And here, again, I suppose you don’t mean to assert there are any such convicts in existence?” Jones. “Why, that’s exactly what I do mean to assert! Don’t you know that a Universal Negative asserts the existence of its Subject? Of course we didn’t make that Rule till we had satisfied ourselves that there are several such convicts now living.” The Reader can now decide for himself how far this second conceivable view would fit in with the facts of life. He will, I think, agree with me that Jones’ view, of the ‘Existential Import’ of Propositions, would lead to some inconvenience. Thirdly, let us suppose that neither I nor E “asserts”. Now the supposition that the two Propositions, “Some x are y” and “No x are not-y”, do not “assert”, necessarily involves the supposition that “All x are y” does not “assert”, since it would be absurd to suppose that they assert, when combined, more than they do when taken separately. Hence the third (and last) of the conceivable views is that neither I, nor E, nor A, “asserts”. The advocates of this third view would interpret the Proposition “Some x are y” to mean “If there were any x in existence, some of them would be y”; and so with E and A. It admits of proof that this view, as regards A, conflicts with the accepted facts of Logic. Let us take the Syllogism Darapti, which is universally accepted as valid. Its form is “All m are x; All m are y. ? Some y are x”. pg169This they would interpret as follows:— ”If there were any m in existence, all of them would be x; If there were any m in existence, all of them would be y. ? If there were any y in existence, some of them would be x”. That this Conclusion does not follow has been so briefly and clearly explained by Mr. Keynes (in his “Formal Logic”, dated 1894, pp. 356, 357), that I prefer to quote his words:— “Let no proposition imply the existence either of its subject or of its predicate. “Take, as an example, a syllogism in Darapti:— ‘All M is P, All M is S, ? Some S is P.’ “Taking S, M, P, as the minor, middle, and major terms respectively, the conclusion will imply that, if there is an S, there is some P. Will the premisses also imply this? If so, then the syllogism is valid; but not otherwise. “The conclusion implies that if S exists P exists; but, consistently with the premisses, S may be existent while M and P are both non-existent. An implication is, therefore, contained in the conclusion, which is not justified by the premisses.” This seems to me entirely clear and convincing. Still, “to make sicker”, I may as well throw the above (soi-disant) Syllogism into a concrete form, which will be within the grasp of even a non-logical Reader. Let us suppose that a Boys’ School has been set up, with the following system of Rules:— “All boys in the First (the highest) Class are to do French, Greek, and Latin. All in the Second Class are to do Greek only. All in the Third Class are to do Latin only.” Suppose also that there are boys in the Third Class, and in the Second; but that no boy has yet risen into the First. It is evident that there are no boys in the School doing French: still we know, by the Rules, what would happen if there were any. pg170We are authorised, then, by the Data, to assert the following two Propositions:— “If there were any boys doing French, all of them would be doing Greek; If there were any boys doing French, all of them would be doing Latin.” And the Conclusion, according to “The Logicians” would be “If there were any boys doing Latin, some of them would be doing Greek.” Here, then, we have two true Premisses and a false Conclusion (since we know that there are boys doing Latin, and that none of them are doing Greek). Hence the argument is invalid. Similarly it may be shown that this “non-existential” interpretation destroys the validity of Disamis, Datisi, Felapton, and Fresison. Some of “The Logicians” will, no doubt, be ready to reply “But we are not Aldrichians! Why should we be responsible for the validity of the Syllogisms of so antiquated an author as Aldrich?” Very good. Then, for the special benefit of these “friends” of mine (with what ominous emphasis that name is sometimes used! “I must have a private interview with you, my young friend,” says the bland Dr. Birch, “in my library, at 9 a.m. tomorrow. And you will please to be punctual!”), for their special benefit, I say, I will produce another charge against this “non-existential” interpretation. It actually invalidates the ordinary Process of “Conversion”, as applied to Proposition in ‘I’. Every logician, Aldrichian or otherwise, accepts it as an established fact that “Some x are y” may be legitimately converted into “Some y are x.” But is it equally clear that the Proposition “If there were any x, some of them would be y” may be legitimately converted into “If there were any y, some of them would be x”? I trow not. The example I have already used——of a Boys’ School pg171with a non-existent First Class——will serve admirably to illustrate this new flaw in the theory of “The Logicians.” Let us suppose that there is yet another Rule in this School, viz. “In each Class, at the end of the Term, the head boy and the second boy shall receive prizes.” This Rule entirely authorises us to assert (in the sense in which “The Logicians” would use the words) “Some boys in the First Class will receive prizes”, for this simply means (according to them) “If there were any boys in the First Class, some of them would receive prizes.” Now the Converse of this Proposition is, of course, “Some boys, who will receive prizes, are in the First Class”, which means (according to “The Logicians”) “If there were any boys about to receive prizes, some of them would be in the First Class” (which Class we know to be empty). Of this Pair of Converse Propositions, the first is undoubtedly true: the second, as undoubtedly, false. It is always sad to see a batsman knock down his own wicket: one pities him, as a man and a brother, but, as a cricketer, one can but pronounce him “Out!” We see, then, that, among all the conceivable views we have here considered, there are only two which can logically be held, viz. I and A “assert”, but E does not. E and A “assert”, but I does not. The second of these I have shown to involve great practical inconvenience. The first is the one adopted in this book. (See p. 19.) Some further remarks on this subject will be found in Note (B), at p. 196. § 3. The use of “is-not” (or “are-not”) as a Copula. Is it better to say “John is-not in-the-house” or “John is not-in-the-house”? “Some of my acquaintances are-not men-I-should-like-to-be-seen-with” or “Some of my acquaintances are men-I-should-not-like-to-be-seen-with”? That is the sort of question we have now to discuss. pg172This is no question of Logical Right and Wrong: it is merely a matter of taste, since the two forms mean exactly the same thing. And here, again, “The Logicians” seem to me to take much too humble a position. When they are putting the final touches to the grouping of their Proposition, just before the curtain goes up, and when the Copula——always a rather fussy ‘heavy father’, asks them “Am I to have the ‘not’, or will you tack it on to the Predicate?” they are much too ready to answer, like the subtle cab-driver, “Leave it to you, Sir!” The result seems to be, that the grasping Copula constantly gets a “not” that had better have been merged in the Predicate, and that Propositions are differentiated which had better have been recognised as precisely similar. Surely it is simpler to treat “Some men are Jews” and “Some men are Gentiles” as being both of them, affirmative Propositions, instead of translating the latter into “Some men are-not Jews”, and regarding it as a negative Propositions? The fact is, “The Logicians” have somehow acquired a perfectly morbid dread of negative Attributes, which makes them shut their eyes, like frightened children, when they come across such terrible Propositions as “All not-x are y”; and thus they exclude from their system many very useful forms of Syllogisms. Under the influence of this unreasoning terror, they plead that, in Dichotomy by Contradiction, the negative part is too large to deal with, so that it is better to regard each Thing as either included in, or excluded from, the positive part. I see no force in this plea: and the facts often go the other way. As a personal question, dear Reader, if you were to group your acquaintances into the two Classes, men that you would like to be seen with, and men that you would not like to be seen with, do you think the latter group would be so very much the larger of the two? For the purposes of Symbolic Logic, it is so much the most convenient plan to regard the two sub-divisions, produced by Dichotomy, on the same footing, and to say, of any Thing, either that it “is” in the one, or that it “is” in the other, that I do not think any Reader of this book is likely to demur to my adopting that course. pg173§ 4. The theory that “two Negative Premisses prove nothing”. This I consider to be another craze of “The Logicians”, fully as morbid as their dread of a negative Attribute. It is, perhaps, best refuted by the method of Instantia Contraria. Take the following Pairs of Premisses:— “None of my boys are conceited; None of my girls are greedy”. “None of my boys are clever; None but a clever boy could solve this problem”. “None of my boys are learned; Some of my boys are not choristers”. (This last Proposition is, in my system, an affirmative one, since I should read it “are not-choristers”; but, in dealing with “The Logicians,” I may fairly treat it as a negative one, since they would read it “are-not choristers”.) If you, dear Reader, declare, after full consideration of these Pairs of Premisses, that you cannot deduce a Conclusion from any of them——why, all I can say is that, like the Duke in Patience, you “will have to be contented with our heart-felt sympathy”! [See Note (C), p. 196.] § 5. Euler’s Method of Diagrams. Diagrams seem to have been used, at first, to represent Propositions only. In Euler’s well-known Circles, each was supposed to contain a class, and the Diagram consisted of two circles, which exhibited the relations, as to inclusion and exclusion, existing between the two Classes. Diagram of circle x inside circle y Thus, the Diagram, here given, exhibits the two Classes, whose respective Attributes are x and y, as so related to each other that the following Propositions are all simultaneously true:—“All x are y”, “No x are not-y”, “Some x are y”, “Some y are not-x”, “Some not-y are not-x”, and, of course, the Converses of the last four. pg174Diagram of circle y inside circle x Similarly, with this Diagram, the following Propositions are true:—“All y are x”, “No y are not-x”, “Some y are x”, “Some x are not-y”, “Some not-x are not-y”, and, of course, the Converses of the last four. Diagram of two separate circles x and y Similarly, with this Diagram, the following are true:—“All x are not-y”, “All y are not-x”, “No x are y”, “Some x are not-y”, “Some y are not-x”, “Some not-x are not-y”, and the Converses of the last four. Diagram of two intersecting circles x and y Similarly, with this Diagram, the following are true:—“Some x are y”, “Some x are not-y”, “Some not-x are y”, “Some not-x are not-y”, and of course, their four Converses. Note that all Euler’s Diagrams assert “Some not-x are not-y.” Apparently it never occured to him that it might sometimes fail to be true! Now, to represent “All x are y”, the first of these Diagrams would suffice. Similarly, to represent “No x are y”, the third would suffice. But to represent any Particular Proposition, at least three Diagrams would be needed (in order to include all the possible cases), and, for “Some not-x are not-y”, all the four. § 6. Venn’s Method of Diagrams. Let us represent “not-x” by “x'”. Mr. Venn’s Method of Diagrams is a great advance on the above Method. He uses the last of the above Diagrams to represent any desired relation between x and y, by simply shading a Compartment known to be empty, and placing a + in one known to be occupied. Thus, he would represent the three Propositions “Some x are y”, “No x are y”, and “All x are y”, as follows:— Venn diagram representing x y exists Venn diagram representing x y does not exist Venn diagram representing all x are y pg175It will be seen that, of the four Classes, whose peculiar Sets of Attributes are xy, xy', x'y, and x'y', only three are here provided with closed Compartments, while the fourth is allowed the rest of the Infinite Plane to range about in! This arrangement would involve us in very serious trouble, if we ever attempted to represent “No x' are y'.” Mr. Venn once (at p. 281) encounters this awful task; but evades it, in a quite masterly fashion, by the simple foot-note “We have not troubled to shade the outside of this diagram”! To represent two Propositions (containing a common Term) together, a three-letter Diagram is needed. This is the one used by Mr. Venn. Venn diagram of three intersecting circles x y and z Here, again, we have only seven closed Compartments, to accommodate the eight Classes whose peculiar Sets of Attributes are xym, xym', &c. “With four terms in request,” Mr. Venn says, “the most simple and symmetrical diagram seems to me that produced by making four ellipses intersect one another in the desired manner”. This, however, provides only fifteen closed compartments. Venn diagram of four intersecting ellipses a b c and d For five letters, “the simplest diagram I can suggest,” Mr. Venn says, “is one like this (the small ellipse in the centre is to be regarded as a portion of the outside of c; i.e. its four component portions are inside b and d but are no part of c). It must be admitted that such a diagram is not quite so simple to draw as one might wish it to be; but then consider what the alternative is of one undertakes to deal with five terms and all their combinations—nothing short of the disagreeable task of writing out, or in some way putting before us, all the 32 combinations involved.” Venn diagram of five intersecting ellipses a b c d and e and an interior ellipse pg176This Diagram gives us 31 closed compartments. For six letters, Mr. Venn suggests that we might use two Diagrams, like the above, one for the f-part, and the other for the not-f-part, of all the other combinations. “This”, he says, “would give the desired 64 subdivisions.” This, however, would only give 62 closed Compartments, and one infinite area, which the two Classes, a'b'c'd'e'f and a'b'c'd'e'f', would have to share between them. Beyond six letters Mr. Venn does not go. § 7. My Method of Diagrams. My Method of Diagrams resembles Mr. Venn’s, in having separate Compartments assigned to the various Classes, and in marking these Compartments as occupied or as empty; but it differs from his Method, in assigning a closed area to the Universe of Discourse, so that the Class which, under Mr. Venn’s liberal sway, has been ranging at will through Infinite Space, is suddenly dismayed to find itself “cabin’d, cribb’d, confined”, in a limited Cell like any other Class! Also I use rectilinear, instead of curvilinear, Figures; and I mark an occupied Cell with a ‘I’ (meaning that there is at least one Thing in it), and an empty Cell with a ‘O’ (meaning that there is no Thing in it). For two letters, I use this Diagram, in which the North Half is assigned to ‘x’, the South to ‘not-x’ (or ‘x'’), the West to y, and the East to y'. Thus the N.W. Cell contains the xy-Class, the N.E. Cell the xy'-Class, and so on. Empty biliteral diagram For three letters, I subdivide these four Cells, by drawing an Inner Square, which I assign to m, the Outer Border being assigned to m'. I thus get eight Cells that are needed to accommodate the eight Classes, whose peculiar Sets of Attributes are xym, xym', &c. Empty triliteral diagram This last Diagram is the most complex that I use in the Elementary Part of my ‘Symbolic Logic.’ But I may as well take this opportunity of describing the more complex ones which will appear in Part II. pg177For four letters (which I call a, b, c, d) I use this Diagram; assigning the North Half to a (and of course the rest of the Diagram to a'), the West Half to b, the Horizontal Oblong to c, and the Upright Oblong to d. We have now got 16 Cells. Empty quadriliteral diagram For five letters (adding e) I subdivide the 16 Cells of the previous Diagram by oblique partitions, assigning all the upper portions to e, and all the lower portions to e'. Here, I admit, we lose the advantage of having the e-Class all together, “in a ring-fence”, like the other 4 Classes. Still, it is very easy to find; and the operation, of erasing it, is nearly as easy as that of erasing any other Class. We have now got 32 Cells. Empty pentaliteral diagram For six letters (adding h, as I avoid tailed letters) I substitute upright crosses for the oblique partitions, assigning the 4 portions, into which each of the 16 Cells is thus divided, to the four Classes eh, eh', e'h, e'h'. We have now got 64 Cells. Empty hexaliteral diagram pg178For seven letters (adding k) I add, to each upright cross, a little inner square. All these 16 little squares are assigned to the k-Class, and all outside them to the k'-Class; so that 8 little Cells (into which each of the 16 Cells is divided) are respectively assigned to the 8 Classes ehk, ehk', &c. We have now got 128 Cells. Empty heptaliteral diagram For eight letters (adding l) I place, in each of the 16 Cells, a lattice, which is a reduced copy of the whole Diagram; and, just as the 16 large Cells of the whole Diagram are assigned to the 16 Classes abcd, abcd', &c., so the 16 little Cells of each lattice are assigned to the 16 Classes ehkl, ehkl', &c. Thus, the lattice in the N.W. corner serves to accommodate the 16 Classes abc'd'ehkl, abc'd'eh'kl', &c. This Octoliteral Diagram (see next page) contains 256 Cells. For nine letters, I place 2 Octoliteral Diagrams side by side, assigning one of them to m, and the other to m'. We have now got 512 Cells. pg179 Empty octoliteral diagram Finally, for ten letters, I arrange 4 Octoliteral Diagrams, like the above, in a square, assigning them to the 4 Classes mn, mn', m'n, m'n'. We have now got 1024 Cells. § 8. Solution of a Syllogism by various Methods. The best way, I think, to exhibit the differences between these various Methods of solving Syllogisms, will be to take a concrete example, and solve it by each Method in turn. Let us take, as our example, No. 29 (see p. 102). “No philosophers are conceited; Some conceited persons are not gamblers. ? Some persons, who are not gamblers, are not philosophers.” pg180(1) Solution by ordinary Method. These Premisses, as they stand, will give no Conclusion, as they are both negative. If by ‘Permutation’ or ‘Obversion’, we write the Minor Premiss thus, ‘Some conceited persons are not-gamblers,’ we can get a Conclusion in Fresison, viz. “No philosophers are conceited; Some conceited persons are not-gamblers. ? Some not-gamblers are not philosophers” This can be proved by reduction to Ferio, thus:— “No conceited persons are philosophers; Some not-gamblers are conceited. ? Some not-gamblers are not philosophers”. The validity of Ferio follows directly from the Axiom ‘De Omni et Nullo’. (2) Symbolic Representation. Before proceeding to discuss other Methods of Solution, it is necessary to translate our Syllogism into an abstract form. Let us take “persons” as our ‘Universe of Discourse’; and let x = “philosophers”, m = “conceited”, and y = “gamblers.” Then the Syllogism may be written thus:— “No x are m; Some m are y'. ? Some y' are x'.” (3) Solution by Euler’s Method of Diagrams. The Major Premiss requires only one Diagram, viz. 1 Diagram representing x m does not exist pg181The Minor requires three, viz. 2 Diagram representing y m does not exist 3 Diagram representing y m exists 4 Diagram representing all y are m The combination of Major and Minor, in every possible way requires nine, viz. Figs. 1 and 2 give 5 Diagram representing no x y or x m or y m exist 6 Diagram representing x m and y m do not exist and x y exists 7 Diagram representing x and y are identical and x m does not exist 8 Diagram representing x m does not exist and all y are x 9 Diagram representing y m does not exist and all x are y Figs. 1 and 3 give 10 Diagram representing no x y or x m exist and y m exists 11 Diagram representing no x are m and x y and y m exist 12 Diagram representing all x are y and y m exists and x m does not exist Figs. 1 and 4 give 13 Diagram representing no x are y and all m are y From this group (Figs. 5 to 13) we have, by disregarding m, to find the relation of x and y. On examination we find that Figs. 5, 10, 13 express the relation of entire mutual exclusion; that Figs. 6, 11 express partial inclusion and partial exclusion; that Fig. 7 expresses coincidence; that Figs. 8, 12 express entire inclusion of x in y; and that Fig. 9 expresses entire inclusion of y in x. pg182We thus get five Biliteral Diagrams for x and y, viz. 14 Diagram representing x y does not exist 15 Diagram representing x y exists 16 Diagram representing x and y are identical 17 Diagram representing all x are y 18 Diagram representing all y are x where the only Proposition, represented by them all, is “Some not-y are not-x,” i.e. “Some persons, who are not gamblers, are not philosophers”——a result which Euler would hardly have regarded as a valuable one, since he seems to have assumed that a Proposition of this form is always true! (4) Solution by Venn’s Method of Diagrams. The following Solution has been kindly supplied to me Mr. Venn himself. ”The Minor Premiss declares that some of the constituents in my' must be saved: mark these constituents with a cross. Venn diagram of three intersecting circles The Major declares that all xm must be destroyed; erase it. Then, as some my' is to be saved, it must clearly be my'x'. That is, there must exist my'x'; or eliminating m, y'x'. In common phraseology, ‘Some y' are x',’ or, ‘Some not-gamblers are not-philosophers.’” pg183(5) Solution by my Method of Diagrams. The first Premiss asserts that no xm exist: so we mark the xm-Compartment as empty, by placing a ‘O’ in each of its Cells. The second asserts that some my' exist: so we mark the my'-Compartment as occupied, by placing a ‘I’ in its only available Cell. Diagram representing x m does not exist and y prime m exists The only information, that this gives us as to x and y, is that the x'y'-Compartment is occupied, i.e. that some x'y' exist. Hence “Some x' are y'”: i.e. “Some persons, who are not philosophers, are not gamblers”. (6) Solution by my Method of Subscripts. xm0 † my'1 ¶ x'y'1 i.e. “Some persons, who are not philosophers, are not gamblers.” § 9. My Method of treating Syllogisms and Sorites. Of all the strange things, that are to be met with in the ordinary text-books of Formal Logic, perhaps the strangest is the violent contrast one finds to exist between their ways of dealing with these two subjects. While they have elaborately discussed no less than nineteen different forms of Syllogisms——each with its own special and exasperating Rules, while the whole constitute an almost useless machine, for practical purposes, many of the Conclusions being incomplete, and many quite legitimate forms being ignored——they have limited Sorites to two forms only, of childish simplicity; and these they have dignified with special names, apparently under the impression that no other possible forms existed! As to Syllogisms, I find that their nineteen forms, with about a score of others which they have ignored, can all be arranged under three forms, each with a very simple Rule of its own; and the only question the Reader has to settle, in working any one of the 101 Examples given at p. 101 of this book, is “Does it belong to Fig. I., II., or III.?” pg184As to Sorites, the only two forms, recognised by the text-books, are the Aristotelian, whose Premisses are a series of Propositions in A, so arranged that the Predicate of each is the Subject of the next, and the Goclenian, whose Premisses are the very same series, written backwards. Goclenius, it seems, was the first who noticed the startling fact that it does not affect the force of a Syllogism to invert the order of its Premisses, and who applied this discovery to a Sorites. If we assume (as surely we may?) that he is the same man as that transcendent genius who first noticed that 4 times 5 is the same thing as 5 times 4, we may apply to him what somebody (Edmund Yates, I think it was) has said of Tupper, viz., “here is a man who, beyond all others of his generation, has been favoured with Glimpses of the Obvious!” These puerile——not to say infantine——forms of a Sorites I have, in this book, ignored from the very first, and have not only admitted freely Propositions in E, but have purposely stated the Premisses in random order, leaving to the Reader the useful task of arranging them, for himself, in an order which can be worked as a series of regular Syllogisms. In doing this, he can begin with any one of them he likes. I have tabulated, for curiosity, the various orders in which the Premisses of the Aristotelian Sorites 1. All a are b; 2. All b are c; 3. All c are d; 4. All d are e; 5. All e are h. ? All a are h. may be syllogistically arranged, and I find there are no less than sixteen such orders, viz., 12345, 21345, 23145, 23415, 23451, 32145, 32415, 32451, 34215, 34251, 34521, 43215, 43251, 43521, 45321, 54321. Of these the first and the last have been dignified with names; but the other fourteen——first enumerated by an obscure Writer on Logic, towards the end of the Nineteenth Century——remain without a name! pg185§ 10. Some account of Parts II, III. In Part II. will be found some of the matters mentioned in this Appendix, viz., the “Existential Import” of Propositions, the use of a negative Copula, and the theory that “two negative Premisses prove nothing.” I shall also extend the range of Syllogisms, by introducing Propositions containing alternatives (such as “Not-all x are y”), Propositions containing 3 or more Terms (such as “All ab are c”, which, taken along with “Some bc' are d”, would prove “Some d are a'”), &c. I shall also discuss Sorites containing Entities, and the very puzzling subjects of Hypotheticals and Dilemmas. I hope, in the course of Part II., to go over all the ground usually traversed in the text-books used in our Schools and Universities, and to enable my Readers to solve Problems of the same kind as, and far harder than, those that are at present set in their Examinations. In Part III. I hope to deal with many curious and out-of-the-way subjects, some of which are not even alluded to in any of the treatises I have met with. In this Part will be found such matters as the Analysis of Propositions into their Elements (let the Reader, who has never gone into this branch of the subject, try to make out for himself what additional Proposition would be needed to convert “Some a are b” into “Some a are bc”), the treatment of Numerical and Geometrical Problems, the construction of Problems, and the solution of Syllogisms and Sorites containing Propositions more complex than any that I have used in Part II. I will conclude with eight Problems, as a taste of what is coming in Part II. I shall be very glad to receive, from any Reader, who thinks he has solved any one of them (more especially if he has done so without using any Method of Symbols), what he conceives to be its complete Conclusion. It may be well to explain what I mean by the complete Conclusion of a Syllogism or a Sorites. I distinguish their Terms as being of two kinds——those which can be eliminated pg186(e.g. the Middle Term of a Syllogism), which I call the “Eliminands,” and those which cannot, which I call the “Retinends”; and I do not call the Conclusion complete, unless it states all the relations among the Retinends only, which can be deduced from the Premisses. 1. All the boys, in a certain School, sit together in one large room every evening. They are of no less than five nationalities——English, Scotch, Welsh, Irish, and German. One of the Monitors (who is a great reader of Wilkie Collins’ novels) is very observant, and takes MS. notes of almost everything that happens, with the view of being a good sensational witness, in case any conspiracy to commit a murder should be on foot. The following are some of his notes:— (1) Whenever some of the English boys are singing “Rule Britannia”, and some not, some of the Monitors are wide-awake; (2) Whenever some of the Scotch are dancing reels, and some of the Irish fighting, some of the Welsh are eating toasted cheese; (3) Whenever all the Germans are playing chess, some of the Eleven are not oiling their bats; (4) Whenever some of the Monitors are asleep, and some not, some of the Irish are fighting; (5) Whenever some of the Germans are playing chess, and none of the Scotch are dancing reels, some of the Welsh are not eating toasted cheese; (6) Whenever some of the Scotch are not dancing reels, and some of the Irish not fighting, some of the Germans are playing chess; (7) Whenever some of the Monitors are awake, and some of the Welsh are eating toasted cheese, none of the Scotch are dancing reels; (8) Whenever some of the Germans are not playing chess, and some of the Welsh are not eating toasted cheese, none of the Irish are fighting; pg187(9) Whenever all the English are singing “Rule Britannia,” and some of the Scotch are not dancing reels, none of the Germans are playing chess; (10) Whenever some of the English are singing “Rule Britannia”, and some of the Monitors are asleep, some of the Irish are not fighting; (11) Whenever some of the Monitors are awake, and some of the Eleven are not oiling their bats, some of the Scotch are dancing reels; (12) Whenever some of the English are singing “Rule Britannia”, and some of the Scotch are not dancing reels, * * * * Here the MS. breaks off suddenly. The Problem is to complete the sentence, if possible. [N.B. In solving this Problem, it is necessary to remember that the Proposition “All x are y” is a Double Proposition, and is equivalent to “Some x are y, and none are y'.” See p. 17.] 2. (1) A logician, who eats pork-chops for supper, will probably lose money; (2) A gambler, whose appetite is not ravenous, will probably lose money; (3) A man who is depressed, having lost money and being likely to lose more, always rises at 5 a.m.; (4) A man, who neither gambles nor eats pork-chops for supper, is sure to have a ravenous appetite; (5) A lively man, who goes to bed before 4 a.m., had better take to cab-driving; (6) A man with a ravenous appetite, who has not lost money and does not rise at 5 a.m., always eats pork-chops for supper; (7) A logician, who is in danger of losing money, had better take to cab-driving; (8) An earnest gambler, who is depressed though he has not lost money, is in no danger of losing any; (9) A man, who does not gamble, and whose appetite is not ravenous, is always lively; pg188(10) A lively logician, who is really in earnest, is in no danger of losing money; (11) A man with a ravenous appetite has no need to take to cab-driving, if he is really in earnest; (12) A gambler, who is depressed though in no danger of losing money, sits up till 4 a.m. (13) A man, who has lost money and does not eat pork-chops for supper, had better take to cab-driving, unless he gets up at 5 a.m. (14) A gambler, who goes to bed before 4 a.m., need not take to cab-driving, unless he has a ravenous appetite; (15) A man with a ravenous appetite, who is depressed though in no danger of losing, is a gambler. Univ. “men”; a = earnest; b = eating pork-chops for supper; c = gamblers; d = getting up at 5; e = having lost money; h = having a ravenous appetite; k = likely to lose money; l = lively; m = logicians; n = men who had better take to cab-driving; r = sitting up till 4. [N.B. In this Problem, clauses, beginning with “though”, are intended to be treated as essential parts of the Propositions in which they occur, just as if they had begun with “and”.] 3. (1) When the day is fine, I tell Froggy “You’re quite the dandy, old chap!”; (2) Whenever I let Froggy forget that £10 he owes me, and he begins to strut about like a peacock, his mother declares “He shall not go out a-wooing!”; (3) Now that Froggy’s hair is out of curl, he has put away his gorgeous waistcoat; (4) Whenever I go out on the roof to enjoy a quiet cigar, I’m sure to discover that my purse is empty; (5) When my tailor calls with his little bill, and I remind Froggy of that £10 he owes me, he does not grin like a hyæna; pg189(6) When it is very hot, the thermometer is high; (7) When the day is fine, and I’m not in the humour for a cigar, and Froggy is grinning like a hyæna, I never venture to hint that he’s quite the dandy; (8) When my tailor calls with his little bill and finds me with an empty purse, I remind Froggy of that £10 he owes me; (9) My railway-shares are going up like anything! (10) When my purse is empty, and when, noticing that Froggy has got his gorgeous waistcoat on, I venture to remind him of that £10 he owes me, things are apt to get rather warm; (11) Now that it looks like rain, and Froggy is grinning like a hyæna, I can do without my cigar; (12) When the thermometer is high, you need not trouble yourself to take an umbrella; (13) When Froggy has his gorgeous waistcoat on, but is not strutting about like a peacock, I betake myself to a quiet cigar; (14) When I tell Froggy that he’s quite the dandy, he grins like a hyæna; (15) When my purse is tolerably full, and Froggy’s hair is one mass of curls, and when he is not strutting about like a peacock, I go out on the roof; (16) When my railway-shares are going up, and when it is chilly and looks like rain, I have a quiet cigar; (17) When Froggy’s mother lets him go a-wooing, he seems nearly mad with joy, and puts on a waistcoat that is gorgeous beyond words; (18) When it is going to rain, and I am having a quiet cigar, and Froggy is not intending to go a-wooing, you had better take an umbrella; (19) When my railway-shares are going up, and Froggy seems nearly mad with joy, that is the time my tailor always chooses for calling with his little bill; (20) When the day is cool and the thermometer low, and I say nothing to Froggy about his being quite the dandy, and there’s not the ghost of a grin on his face, I haven’t the heart for my cigar! pg1904. (1) Any one, fit to be an M.P., who is not always speaking, is a public benefactor; (2) Clear-headed people, who express themselves well, have had a good education; (3) A woman, who deserves praise, is one who can keep a secret; (4) People, who benefit the public, but do not use their influence for good purpose, are not fit to go into Parliament; (5) People, who are worth their weight in gold and who deserve praise, are always unassuming; (6) Public benefactors, who use their influence for good objects, deserve praise; (7) People, who are unpopular and not worth their weight in gold, never can keep a secret; (8) People, who can talk for ever and are fit to be Members of Parliament, deserve praise; (9) Any one, who can keep a secret and who is unassuming, is a never-to-be-forgotten public benefactor; (10) A woman, who benefits the public, is always popular; (11) People, who are worth their weight in gold, who never leave off talking, and whom it is impossible to forget, are just the people whose photographs are in all the shop-windows; (12) An ill-educated woman, who is not clear-headed, is not fit to go into Parliament; (13) Any one, who can keep a secret and is not for ever talking, is sure to be unpopular; (14) A clear-headed person, who has influence and uses it for good objects, is a public benefactor; (15) A public benefactor, who is unassuming, is not the sort of person whose photograph is in every shop-window; (16) People, who can keep a secret and who use their influence for good purposes, are worth their weight in gold; (17) A person, who has no power of expression and who cannot influence others, is certainly not a woman; pg191(18) People, who are popular and worthy of praise, either are public benefactors or else are unassuming. Univ. “persons”; a = able to keep a secret; b = clear-headed; c = constantly talking; d = deserving praise; e = exhibited in shop-windows; h = expressing oneself well; k = fit to be an M.P.; l = influential; m = never-to-be-forgotten; n = popular; r = public benefactors; s = unassuming; t = using one’s influence for good objects; v = well-educated; w = women; z = worth one’s weight in gold. 5. Six friends, and their six wives, are staying in the same hotel; and they all walk out daily, in parties of various size and composition. To ensure variety in these daily walks, they have agree to observe the following Rules:— (1) If Acres is with (i.e. is in the same party with) his wife, and Barry with his, and Eden with Mrs. Hall, Cole must be with Mrs. Dix; (2) If Acres is with his wife, and Hall with his, and Barry with Mrs. Cole, Dix must not be with Mrs. Eden; (3) If Cole and Dix and their wives are all in the same party, and Acres not with Mrs. Barry, Eden must not be with Mrs. Hall; (4) If Acres is with his wife, and Dix with his, and Barry not with Mrs. Cole, Eden must be with Mrs. Hall; (5) If Eden is with his wife, and Hall with his, and Cole with Mrs. Dix, Acres must not be with Mrs. Barry; (6) If Barry and Cole and their wives are all in the same party, and Eden not with Mrs. Hall, Dix must be with Mrs. Eden. The Problem is to prove that there must be, every day, at least one married couple who are not in the same party. pg1926. After the six friends, named in Problem 5, had returned from their tour, three of them, Barry, Cole, and Dix, agreed, with two other friends of theirs, Lang and Mill, that the five should meet, every day, at a certain table d’hôte. Remembering how much amusement they had derived from their code of rules for walking-parties, they devised the following rules to be observed whenever beef appeared on the table:— (1) If Barry takes salt, then either Cole or Lang takes one only of the two condiments, salt and mustard: if he takes mustard, then either Dix takes neither condiment, or Mill takes both. (2) If Cole takes salt, then either Barry takes only one condiment, or Mill takes neither: if he takes mustard, then either Dix or Lang takes both. (3) If Dix takes salt, then either Barry takes neither condiment or Cole take both: if he takes mustard, then either Lang or Mill takes neither. (4) If Lang takes salt, then Barry or Dix takes only one condiment: if he takes mustard, then either Cole or Mill takes neither. (5) If Mill takes salt, then either Barry or Lang takes both condiments: if he takes mustard, then either Cole or Dix takes only one. The Problem is to discover whether these rules are compatible; and, if so, what arrangements are possible. [N.B. In this Problem, it is assumed that the phrase “if Barry takes salt” allows of two possible cases, viz. (1) “he takes salt only”; (2) “he takes both condiments”. And so with all similar phrases. It is also assumed that the phrase “either Cole or Lang takes one only of the two condiments” allows three possible cases, viz. (1) “Cole takes one only, Lang takes both or neither”; (2) “Cole takes both or neither, Lang takes one only”; (3) “Cole takes one only, Lang takes one only”. And so with all similar phrases. It is also assumed that every rule is to be understood as implying the words “and vice versâ.” Thus the first rule would imply the addition “and, if either Cole or Lang takes only one condiment, then Barry takes salt.”] pg1937. (1) Brothers, who are much admired, are apt to be self-conscious; (2) When two men of the same height are on opposite sides in Politics, if one of them has his admirers, so also has the other; (3) Brothers, who avoid general Society, look well when walking together; (4) Whenever you find two men, who differ in Politics and in their views of Society, and who are not both of them ugly, you may be sure that they look well when walking together; (5) Ugly men, who look well when walking together, are not both of them free from self-consciousness; (6) Brothers, who differs in Politics, and are not both of them handsome, never give themselves airs; (7) John declines to go into Society, but never gives himself airs; (8) Brothers, who are apt to be self-conscious, though not both of them handsome, usually dislike Society; (9) Men of the same height, who do not give themselves airs, are free from self-consciousness; (10) Men, who agree on questions of Art, though they differ in Politics, and who are not both of them ugly, are always admired; (11) Men, who hold opposite views about Art and are not admired, always give themselves airs; (12) Brothers of the same height always differ in Politics; (13) Two handsome men, who are neither both of them admired nor both of them self-conscious, are no doubt of different heights; (14) Brothers, who are self-conscious, and do not both of them like Society, never look well when walking together. [N.B. See Note at end of Problem 2.] pg1948. (1) A man can always master his father; (2) An inferior of a man’s uncle owes that man money; (3) The father of an enemy of a friend of a man owes that man nothing; (4) A man is always persecuted by his son’s creditors; (5) An inferior of the master of a man’s son is senior to that man; (6) A grandson of a man’s junior is not his nephew; (7) A servant of an inferior of a friend of a man’s enemy is never persecuted by that man; (8) A friend of a superior of the master of a man’s victim is that man’s enemy; (9) An enemy of a persecutor of a servant of a man’s father is that man’s friend. The Problem is to deduce some fact about great-grandsons. [N.B. In this Problem, it is assumed that all the men, here referred to, live in the same town, and that every pair of them are either “friends” or “enemies,” that every pair are related as “senior and junior”, “superior and inferior”, and that certain pairs are related as “creditor and debtor”, “father and son”, “master and servant”, “persecutor and victim”, “uncle and nephew”.] 9. “Jack Sprat could eat no fat: His wife could eat no lean: And so, between them both, They licked the platter clean.” Solve this as a Sorites-Problem, taking lines 3 and 4 as the Conclusion to be proved. It is permitted to use, as Premisses, not only all that is here asserted, but also all that we may reasonably understand to be implied. pg195NOTES TO APPENDIX. (A) [See p. 167, line 6.] It may, perhaps, occur to the Reader, who has studied Formal Logic that the argument, here applied to the Propositions I and E, will apply equally well to the Propositions I and A (since, in the ordinary text-books, the Propositions “All xy are z” and “Some xy are not z” are regarded as Contradictories). Hence it may appear to him that the argument might have been put as follows:— “We now have I and A ‘asserting.’ Hence, if the Proposition ‘All xy are z’ be true, some things exist with the Attributes x and y: i.e. ‘Some x are y.’ “Also we know that, if the Proposition ‘Some xy are not-z’ be true the same result follows. “But these two Propositions are Contradictories, so that one or other of them must be true. Hence this result is always true: i.e. the Proposition ‘Some x are y’ is always true! “Quod est absurdum. Hence I cannot assert.” This matter will be discussed in Part II; but I may as well give here what seems to me to be an irresistable proof that this view (that A and I are Contradictories), though adopted in the ordinary text-books, is untenable. The proof is as follows:— With regard to the relationship existing between the Class ‘xy’ and the two Classes ‘z’ and ‘not-z’, there are four conceivable states of things, viz. (1) Some xy are z, and some are not-z; (2) ? ? none ? (3) No xy ? some ? (4) ? ? none ? Of these four, No. (2) is equivalent to “All xy are z”, No. (3) is equivalent to “All xy are not-z”, and No. (4) is equivalent to “No xy exist.” Now it is quite undeniable that, of these four states of things, each is, a priori, possible, some one must be true, and the other three must be false. Hence the Contradictory to (2) is “Either (1) or (3) or (4) is true.” Now the assertion “Either (1) or (3) is true” is equivalent to “Some xy are not-z”; and the assertion “(4) is true” is equivalent to “No xy exist.” Hence the Contradictory to “All xy are z” may be expressed as the Alternative Proposition “Either some xy are not-z, or no xy exist,” but not as the Categorical Proposition “Some y are not-z.” pg196(B) [See p. 171, at end of Section 2.] There are yet other views current among “The Logicians”, as to the “Existential Import” of Propositions, which have not been mentioned in this Section. One is, that the Proposition “some x are y” is to be interpreted, neither as “Some x exist and are y”, nor yet as “If there were any x in existence, some of them would be y”, but merely as “Some x can be y; i.e. the Attributes x and y are compatible”. On this theory, there would be nothing offensive in my telling my friend Jones “Some of your brothers are swindlers”; since, if he indignantly retorted “What do you mean by such insulting language, you scoundrel?”, I should calmly reply “I merely mean that the thing is conceivable——that some of your brothers might possibly be swindlers”. But it may well be doubted whether such an explanation would entirely appease the wrath of Jones! Another view is, that the Proposition “All x are y” sometimes implies the actual existence of x, and sometimes does not imply it; and that we cannot tell, without having it in concrete form, which interpretation we are to give to it. This view is, I think, strongly supported by common usage; and it will be fully discussed in Part II: but the difficulties, which it introduces, seem to me too formidable to be even alluded to in Part I, which I am trying to make, as far as possible, easily intelligible to mere beginners. (C) [See p. 173, § 4.] The three Conclusions are “No conceited child of mine is greedy”; “None of my boys could solve this problem”; “Some unlearned boys are not choristers.” pg197INDEX. § 1. Tables. I. Biliteral Diagram. Attributes of Classes, and Compartments, or Cells, assigned to them 25 II. do. Representation of Uniliteral Propositions of Existence 34 III. do. Representation of Biliteral Propositions of Existence and of Relation 35 IV. Triliteral Diagram. Attributes of Classes, and Compartments, or Cells, assigned to them 42 V. do. Representation of Particular and Universal Negative Propositions, of Existence and of Relation, in terms of x and m 46 VI. do. do., in terms of y and m 47 VII. do. Representation of Universal Affirmative Propositions of Relation, in terms of x and m 48 VIII. do. do. in terms of y and m 49 IX. Method of Subscripts. Formulæ and Rules for Syllogisms 78 § 2. Words &c. explained. ‘Abstract’ Proposition 59 ‘Adjuncts’ 1 ‘Affirmative’ Proposition 10 ‘Attributes’ 1 ‘Biliteral’ Diagram 22 ‘Biliteral’ Proposition 27 ‘Class’ 1½ Classes, arbitrary limits of 3½ Classes, subdivision of 4 pg198 ‘Classification’ 1½ ‘Codivisional’ Classes 3 ‘Complete’ Conclusion of a Sorites 85 ‘Conclusion’ of a Sorites ? ‘Conclusion’ of a Syllogism 56 ‘Concrete’ Proposition 59 ‘Consequent’ in a Sorites 85 ‘Consequent’ in a Syllogism 56 ‘Converse’ Propositions 31 ‘Conversion’ of a Proposition ? ‘Copula’ of a Proposition 9 ‘Definition’ 6 ‘Dichotomy’ 3½ ‘Differentia’ 1½ ‘Division’ 3 ‘Eliminands’ of a Sorites 85 ‘Eliminands’ of a Syllogism 56 ‘Entity’ 70 ‘Equivalent’ Propositions 17 ‘Fallacy’ 81 ‘Genus’ 1½ ‘Imaginary’ Class ? ‘Imaginary’ Name 4½ ‘Individual’ 2 ‘Like’, and ‘Unlike’, Signs of Terms 70 ‘Name’ 4 ‘Negative’ Proposition 10 ‘Normal’ form of a Proposition 9 ‘Normal’ form of a Proposition of Existence 11 ‘Normal’ form of a Proposition of Relation 12 ‘Nullity’ 70 ‘Partial’ Conclusion of a Sorites 85 ‘Particular’ Proposition 9 ‘Peculiar’ Attributes 1½ ‘Predicate’ of a Proposition 9 ‘Predicate’ of a Proposition of Existence 11 ‘Predicate’ of a Proposition of Relation 12 ‘Premisses’ of a Sorites 85 ‘Premisses’ of a Syllogism 56 pg199 ‘Proposition’ 8 ‘Proposition’ ‘in I’, ‘in E’, and ‘in A’ 9 ‘Proposition’ ‘in terms of’ certain Letters 27 ‘Proposition’ of Existence 11 ‘Proposition’ of Relation 12 ‘Real’ Class 1½ ‘Retinends’ of a Sorites 85 ‘Retinends’ of a Syllogism 56 ‘Sign of Quantity’ in a Proposition 9 ‘Sitting on the Fence’ 26 ‘Some’, technical meaning of 8 ‘Sorites’ 85 ‘Species’ 1½ ‘Subject’ of a Proposition 9 ‘Subject’ of a Proposition of Existence 11 ‘Subject’ of a Proposition of Relation 12 ‘Subscripts’ of Terms 70 ‘Syllogism’ 56 Symbol ‘?’ ? 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Twelfth Thousand. N.B.—This book contains 395 pages—nearly as much as the two Alice’ books put together. SYLVIE AND BRUNO CONCLUDED. With Forty-six Illustrations by Harry Furniss. (First published in 1893.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 7s. 6d. net. Third Thousand. N.B.—This book contains 411 pages. ORIGINAL GAMES AND PUZZLES. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges. [In preparation. THREE SUNSETS, and Other Poems. With Twelve Illustrations by E. Gertrude Thomson. Fcap. 4to, cloth, gilt edges. N.B.—This will be a reprint, possibly with a few additions, of the serious portion of “Phantasmagoria, and other Poems,” published in 1869. ADVICE TO WRITERS. Buy “THE WONDERLAND CASE FOR POSTAGE-STAMPS,” invented by Lewis Carrol, Oct. 29, 1888, size 4 inches by 3, containing 12 separate pockets for stamps of different values, 2 Coloured Pictorial Surprises taken from Alice in Wonderland, and 8 or 9 Wise Words about Letter-Writing. It is published by Messrs. Emberlin & Son, 4 Magdalene Street, Oxford. Price 1s. N.B.—If ordered by Post, an additional payment will be required, to cover cost of postage, as follows:— One copy, 1½d. Two or three do., 2d. Four do., 2½d. Five to fourteen do., 3d. Each subsequent fourteen or fraction thereof, 1½d. px_4 Transcriber's Note This book contains a large number of line drawn illustrations which are un-credited. These did not reproduce well in this medium and have been re-drawn electronically as close as possible to the original. A number of transcription errors were found in the original book. As these were clearly not part of the Author’s intention they have, as far as possible, been identified and corrected in accordance with the methods given by the Author. These corrections have also been marked with an underline as e.g. construct, so that the original text may be seen by hovering the mouse cursor over the corrected element. In these notes the word ‘natural’ identifies a letter symbol occurring without a prime mark. In the original book at the top of page 97, the following text occurred: " [N.B. The numbers at the foot of each page indicate the pages where the corresponding matter may be found.] " In accordance with the un-paged medium here this has been changed to: " [N.B. Reference tags for Examples, Answers & Solutions will be found in the right margin.] " The part of the book to which this relates contains, by sections, “Examples” (Exercises for the student), “Answers” (to the Examples) & “Solutions” (Worked Answers). All Example sections have corresponding Answer sections. For Sections 2 & 3, worked Solutions are not supplied; for Sections 4–7, Solutions are given by 2 different methods. In association with this, the original text contained editorial notes at the foot of each page giving the page numbers for the related Sections. In this version, these notes are replaced with hyperlinks: for each Section the marginal marker which is given at the top of the Section identifies the current location and by clicking on it the reader is taken on a round tour of the related Sections. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Symbolic Logic, by Lewis Carroll *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYMBOLIC LOGIC *** ***** This file should be named 28696-h.htm or 28696-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/6/9/28696/ Produced by Tony Browne, Geetu Melwani, Greg Weeks, L. Lynn Smith and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ===== A Tangled Tale ===== A TANGLED TALE "AT A PACE OF SIX MILES IN THE HOUR." Frontispiece. "AT A PACE OF SIX MILES IN THE HOUR." Frontispiece. A TANGLED TALE BY LEWIS CARROLL WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR B. FROST Hoc meum tale quale est accipe. SECOND THOUSAND. London MACMILLAN AND CO. 1885 [All Rights Reserved] Richard Clay & Sons, BREAD STREET HILL, LONDON, E.C. And Bungay, Suffolk. To My Pupil. Beloved pupil! Tamed by thee, Addish-, Subtrac-, Multiplica-tion, Division, Fractions, Rule of Three, Attest thy deft manipulation! Then onward! Let the voice of Fame From Age to Age repeat thy story, Till thou hast won thyself a name Exceeding even Euclid's glory! PREFACE. This Tale originally appeared as a serial in The Monthly Packet, beginning in April, 1880. The writer's intention was to embody in each Knot (like the medicine so dexterously, but ineffectually, concealed in the jam of our early childhood) one or more mathematical questions--in Arithmetic, Algebra, or Geometry, as the case might be--for the amusement, and possible edification, of the fair readers of that Magazine. L. C. October, 1885. CONTENTS. KNOT PAGE I. Excelsior 1 II. Eligible Apartments 4 III. Mad Mathesis 13 IV. The Dead Reckoning 19 V. Oughts and Crosses 27 VI. Her Radiancy 34 VII. Petty Cash 43 VIII. De Omnibus Rebus 52 IX. A Serpent with Corners 58 X. Chelsea Buns 66 Answers to Knot I. 77 " " II. 84 " " III. 90 " " IV. 96 " " V. 102 " " VI. 106 " " VII. 112 " " VIII. 132 " " IX. 135 " " X. 142 [1] A TANGLED TALE. KNOT I. EXCELSIOR. "Goblin, lead them up and down." The ruddy glow of sunset was already fading into the sombre shadows of night, when two travellers might have been observed swiftly--at a pace of six miles in the hour--descending the rugged side of a mountain; the younger bounding from crag to crag with the agility of a fawn, while his companion, whose aged limbs seemed ill at ease in the heavy chain armour habitually worn by tourists in that district, toiled on painfully at his side. As is always the case under such circumstances, the younger knight was the first to break the silence.[2] "A goodly pace, I trow!" he exclaimed. "We sped not thus in the ascent!" "Goodly, indeed!" the other echoed with a groan. "We clomb it but at three miles in the hour." "And on the dead level our pace is----?" the younger suggested; for he was weak in statistics, and left all such details to his aged companion. "Four miles in the hour," the other wearily replied. "Not an ounce more," he added, with that love of metaphor so common in old age, "and not a farthing less!" "'Twas three hours past high noon when we left our hostelry," the young man said, musingly. "We shall scarce be back by supper-time. Perchance mine host will roundly deny us all food!" "He will chide our tardy return," was the grave reply, "and such a rebuke will be meet." "A brave conceit!" cried the other, with a merry laugh. "And should we bid him bring us yet another course, I trow his answer will be tart!" "We shall but get our deserts," sighed the elder knight, who had never seen a joke in his life, and was somewhat displeased at his companion's untimely levity. "'Twill be nine of the clock," he[3] added in an undertone, "by the time we regain our hostelry. Full many a mile shall we have plodded this day!" "How many? How many?" cried the eager youth, ever athirst for knowledge. The old man was silent. "Tell me," he answered, after a moment's thought, "what time it was when we stood together on yonder peak. Not exact to the minute!" he added hastily, reading a protest in the young man's face. "An' thy guess be within one poor half-hour of the mark, 'tis all I ask of thy mother's son! Then will I tell thee, true to the last inch, how far we shall have trudged betwixt three and nine of the clock." A groan was the young man's only reply; while his convulsed features and the deep wrinkles that chased each other across his manly brow, revealed the abyss of arithmetical agony into which one chance question had plunged him. [4] KNOT II. ELIGIBLE APARTMENTS. "Straight down the crooked lane, And all round the square." "Let's ask Balbus about it," said Hugh. "All right," said Lambert. "He can guess it," said Hugh. "Rather," said Lambert. No more words were needed: the two brothers understood each other perfectly. [5] "BALBUS WAS ASSISTING HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW TO CONVINCE THE DRAGON." "BALBUS WAS ASSISTING HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW TO CONVINCE THE DRAGON." Balbus was waiting for them at the hotel: the journey down had tired him, he said: so his two pupils had been the round of the place, in search of lodgings, without the old tutor who had been their inseparable companion from their childhood. They had named him after the hero of their Latin exercise-book, which overflowed with anecdotes of that versatile genius--anecdotes whose vagueness[6] in detail was more than compensated by their sensational brilliance. "Balbus has overcome all his enemies" had been marked by their tutor, in the margin of the book, "Successful Bravery." In this way he had tried to extract a moral from every anecdote about Balbus--sometimes one of warning, as in "Balbus had borrowed a healthy dragon," against which he had written "Rashness in Speculation"--sometimes of encouragement, as in the words "Influence of Sympathy in United Action," which stood opposite to the anecdote "Balbus was assisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon"--and sometimes it dwindled down to a single word, such as "Prudence," which was all he could extract from the touching record that "Balbus, having scorched the tail of the dragon, went away." His pupils liked the short morals best, as it left them more room for marginal illustrations, and in this instance they required all the space they could get to exhibit the rapidity of the hero's departure. Their report of the state of things was discouraging. That most fashionable of watering-places, Little Mendip, was "chockfull" (as the boys expressed it) from end to end. But in one Square they had seen no less than four cards, in[7] different houses, all announcing in flaming capitals "ELIGIBLE APARTMENTS." "So there's plenty of choice, after all, you see," said spokesman Hugh in conclusion. "That doesn't follow from the data," said Balbus, as he rose from the easy chair, where he had been dozing over The Little Mendip Gazette. "They may be all single rooms. However, we may as well see them. I shall be glad to stretch my legs a bit." An unprejudiced bystander might have objected that the operation was needless, and that this long, lank creature would have been all the better with even shorter legs: but no such thought occurred to his loving pupils. One on each side, they did their best to keep up with his gigantic strides, while Hugh repeated the sentence in their father's letter, just received from abroad, over which he and Lambert had been puzzling. "He says a friend of his, the Governor of----what was that name again, Lambert?" ("Kgovjni," said Lambert.) "Well, yes. The Governor of----what-you-may-call-it----wants to give a very small dinner-party, and he means to ask his father's brother-in-law, his brother's father-in-law, his father-in-law's brother,[8] and his brother-in-law's father: and we're to guess how many guests there will be." There was an anxious pause. "How large did he say the pudding was to be?" Balbus said at last. "Take its cubical contents, divide by the cubical contents of what each man can eat, and the quotient----" "He didn't say anything about pudding," said Hugh, "--and here's the Square," as they turned a corner and came into sight of the "eligible apartments." "It is a Square!" was Balbus' first cry of delight, as he gazed around him. "Beautiful! Beau-ti-ful! Equilateral! And rectangular!" The boys looked round with less enthusiasm. "Number nine is the first with a card," said prosaic Lambert; but Balbus would not so soon awake from his dream of beauty. "See, boys!" he cried. "Twenty doors on a side! What symmetry! Each side divided into twenty-one equal parts! It's delicious!" "Shall I knock, or ring?" said Hugh, looking in some perplexity at a square brass plate which bore the simple inscription "RING ALSO." "Both," said Balbus. "That's an Ellipsis,[9] my boy. Did you never see an Ellipsis before?" "I couldn't hardly read it," said Hugh, evasively. "It's no good having an Ellipsis, if they don't keep it clean." "Which there is one room, gentlemen," said the smiling landlady. "And a sweet room too! As snug a little back-room----" "We will see it," said Balbus gloomily, as they followed her in. "I knew how it would be! One room in each house! No view, I suppose?" "Which indeed there is, gentlemen!" the landlady indignantly protested, as she drew up the blind, and indicated the back garden. "Cabbages, I perceive," said Balbus. "Well, they're green, at any rate." "Which the greens at the shops," their hostess explained, "are by no means dependable upon. Here you has them on the premises, and of the best." "Does the window open?" was always Balbus' first question in testing a lodging: and "Does the chimney smoke?" his second. Satisfied on all points, he secured the refusal of the room, and they moved on to Number Twenty-five. This landlady was grave and stern. "I've[10] nobbut one room left," she told them: "and it gives on the back-gyardin." "But there are cabbages?" Balbus suggested. The landlady visibly relented. "There is, sir," she said: "and good ones, though I say it as shouldn't. We can't rely on the shops for greens. So we grows them ourselves." "A singular advantage," said Balbus: and, after the usual questions, they went on to Fifty-two. "And I'd gladly accommodate you all, if I could," was the greeting that met them. "We are but mortal," ("Irrelevant!" muttered Balbus) "and I've let all my rooms but one." "Which one is a back-room, I perceive," said Balbus: "and looking out on--on cabbages, I presume?" "Yes, indeed, sir!" said their hostess. "Whatever other folks may do, we grows our own. For the shops----" "An excellent arrangement!" Balbus interrupted. "Then one can really depend on their being good. Does the window open?" The usual questions were answered satisfactorily: but this time Hugh added one of his own invention--"Does the cat scratch?"[11] The landlady looked round suspiciously, as if to make sure the cat was not listening, "I will not deceive you, gentlemen," she said. "It do scratch, but not without you pulls its whiskers! It'll never do it," she repeated slowly, with a visible effort to recall the exact words of some written agreement between herself and the cat, "without you pulls its whiskers!" "Much may be excused in a cat so treated," said Balbus, as they left the house and crossed to Number Seventy-three, leaving the landlady curtseying on the doorstep, and still murmuring to herself her parting words, as if they were a form of blessing, "---- not without you pulls its whiskers!" At Number Seventy-three they found only a small shy girl to show the house, who said "yes'm" in answer to all questions. "The usual room," said Balbus, as they marched in: "the usual back-garden, the usual cabbages. I suppose you can't get them good at the shops?" "Yes'm," said the girl. "Well, you may tell your mistress we will take the room, and that her plan of growing her own cabbages is simply admirable!"[12] "Yes'm," said the girl, as she showed them out. "One day-room and three bed-rooms," said Balbus, as they returned to the hotel. "We will take as our day-room the one that gives us the least walking to do to get to it." "Must we walk from door to door, and count the steps?" said Lambert. "No, no! Figure it out, my boys, figure it out!" Balbus gaily exclaimed, as he put pens, ink, and paper before his hapless pupils, and left the room. "I say! It'll be a job!" said Hugh. "Rather!" said Lambert. [13] KNOT III. MAD MATHESIS. "I waited for the train." "Well, they call me so because I am a little mad, I suppose," she said, good-humouredly, in answer to Clara's cautiously-worded question as to how she came by so strange a nick-name. "You see, I never do what sane people are expected to do now-a-days. I never wear long trains, (talking of trains, that's the Charing Cross Metropolitan Station--I've something to tell you about that), and I never play lawn-tennis. I can't cook an omelette. I can't even set a broken limb! There's an ignoramus for you!" Clara was her niece, and full twenty years her junior; in fact, she was still attending a High School--an institution of which Mad Mathesis spoke with undisguised aversion. "Let a woman[14] be meek and lowly!" she would say. "None of your High Schools for me!" But it was vacation-time just now, and Clara was her guest, and Mad Mathesis was showing her the sights of that Eighth Wonder of the world--London. "The Charing Cross Metropolitan Station!" she resumed, waving her hand towards the entrance as if she were introducing her niece to a friend. "The Bayswater and Birmingham Extension is just completed, and the trains now run round and round continuously--skirting the border of Wales, just touching at York, and so round by the east coast back to London. The way the trains run is most peculiar. The westerly ones go round in two hours; the easterly ones take three; but they always manage to start two trains from here, opposite ways, punctually every quarter-of-an-hour." "They part to meet again," said Clara, her eyes filling with tears at the romantic thought. "No need to cry about it!" her aunt grimly remarked. "They don't meet on the same line of rails, you know. Talking of meeting, an idea strikes me!" she added, changing the subject with her usual abruptness. "Let's go opposite ways[15] round, and see which can meet most trains. No need for a chaperon--ladies' saloon, you know. You shall go whichever way you like, and we'll have a bet about it!" "I never make bets," Clara said very gravely. "Our excellent preceptress has often warned us----" "You'd be none the worse if you did!" Mad Mathesis interrupted. "In fact, you'd be the better, I'm certain!" "Neither does our excellent preceptress approve of puns," said Clara. "But we'll have a match, if you like. Let me choose my train," she added after a brief mental calculation, "and I'll engage to meet exactly half as many again as you do." "Not if you count fair," Mad Mathesis bluntly interrupted. "Remember, we only count the trains we meet on the way. You mustn't count the one that starts as you start, nor the one that arrives as you arrive." "That will only make the difference of one train," said Clara, as they turned and entered the station. "But I never travelled alone before. There'll be no one to help me to alight. However, I don't mind. Let's have a match."[16] A ragged little boy overheard her remark, and came running after her. "Buy a box of cigar-lights, Miss!" he pleaded, pulling her shawl to attract her attention. Clara stopped to explain. "I never smoke cigars," she said in a meekly apologetic tone. "Our excellent preceptress----," but Mad Mathesis impatiently hurried her on, and the little boy was left gazing after her with round eyes of amazement. The two ladies bought their tickets and moved slowly down the central platform, Mad Mathesis prattling on as usual--Clara silent, anxiously reconsidering the calculation on which she rested her hopes of winning the match. "Mind where you go, dear!" cried her aunt, checking her just in time. "One step more, and you'd have been in that pail of cold water!" "I know, I know," Clara said, dreamily. "The pale, the cold, and the moony----" "Take your places on the spring-boards!" shouted a porter. "What are they for!" Clara asked in a terrified whisper. "Merely to help us into the trains." The elder lady spoke with the nonchalance of one quite used[17] to the process. "Very few people can get into a carriage without help in less than three seconds, and the trains only stop for one second." At this moment the whistle was heard, and two trains rushed into the station. A moment's pause, and they were gone again; but in that brief interval several hundred passengers had been shot into them, each flying straight to his place with the accuracy of a Minie bullet--while an equal number were showered out upon the side-platforms. Three hours had passed away, and the two friends met again on the Charing Cross platform, and eagerly compared notes. Then Clara turned away with a sigh. To young impulsive hearts, like hers, disappointment is always a bitter pill. Mad Mathesis followed her, full of kindly sympathy. "Try again, my love!" she said, cheerily. "Let us vary the experiment. We will start as we did before, but not to begin counting till our trains meet. When we see each other, we will say 'One!' and so count on till we come here again." Clara brightened up. "I shall win that," she exclaimed eagerly, "if I may choose my train!" Another shriek of engine whistles, another upheaving of spring-boards, another living avalanche[18] plunging into two trains as they flashed by: and the travellers were off again. Each gazed eagerly from her carriage window, holding up her handkerchief as a signal to her friend. A rush and a roar. Two trains shot past each other in a tunnel, and two travellers leaned back in their corners with a sigh--or rather with two sighs--of relief. "One!" Clara murmured to herself. "Won! It's a word of good omen. This time, at any rate, the victory will be mine!" But was it? [19] KNOT IV. THE DEAD RECKONING. "I did dream of money-bags to-night." Noonday on the open sea within a few degrees of the Equator is apt to be oppressively warm; and our two travellers were now airily clad in suits of dazzling white linen, having laid aside the chain-armour which they had found not only endurable in the cold mountain air they had lately been breathing, but a necessary precaution against the daggers of the banditti who infested the heights. Their holiday-trip was over, and they were now on their way home, in the monthly packet which plied between the two great ports of the island they had been exploring. Along with their armour, the tourists had laid aside the antiquated speech it had pleased them to affect while in knightly disguise, and had[20] returned to the ordinary style of two country gentlemen of the Twentieth Century. Stretched on a pile of cushions, under the shade of a huge umbrella, they were lazily watching some native fishermen, who had come on board at the last landing-place, each carrying over his shoulder a small but heavy sack. A large weighing-machine, that had been used for cargo at the last port, stood on the deck; and round this the fishermen had gathered, and, with much unintelligible jabber, seemed to be weighing their sacks. "More like sparrows in a tree than human talk, isn't it?" the elder tourist remarked to his son, who smiled feebly, but would not exert himself so far as to speak. The old man tried another listener. "What have they got in those sacks, Captain?" he inquired, as that great being passed them in his never ending parade to and fro on the deck. The Captain paused in his march, and towered over the travellers--tall, grave, and serenely self-satisfied. "Fishermen," he explained, "are often passengers in My ship. These five are from Mhruxi--the[21] place we last touched at--and that's the way they carry their money. The money of this island is heavy, gentlemen, but it costs little, as you may guess. We buy it from them by weight--about five shillings a pound. I fancy a ten pound-note would buy all those sacks." By this time the old man had closed his eyes--in order, no doubt, to concentrate his thoughts on these interesting facts; but the Captain failed to realise his motive, and with a grunt resumed his monotonous march. Meanwhile the fishermen were getting so noisy over the weighing-machine that one of the sailors took the precaution of carrying off all the weights, leaving them to amuse themselves with such substitutes in the form of winch-handles, belaying-pins, &c., as they could find. This brought their excitement to a speedy end: they carefully hid their sacks in the folds of the jib that lay on the deck near the tourists, and strolled away. When next the Captain's heavy footfall passed, the younger man roused himself to speak. "What did you call the place those fellows came from, Captain?" he asked. "Mhruxi, sir."[22] "And the one we are bound for?" The Captain took a long breath, plunged into the word, and came out of it nobly. "They call it Kgovjni, sir." "K--I give it up!" the young man faintly said. He stretched out his hand for a glass of iced water which the compassionate steward had brought him a minute ago, and had set down, unluckily, just outside the shadow of the umbrella. It was scalding hot, and he decided not to drink it. The effort of making this resolution, coming close on the fatiguing conversation he had just gone through, was too much for him: he sank back among the cushions in silence. His father courteously tried to make amends for his nonchalance. "Whereabouts are we now, Captain?" said he, "Have you any idea?" The Captain cast a pitying look on the ignorant landsman. "I could tell you that, sir," he said, in a tone of lofty condescension, "to an inch!" "You don't say so!" the old man remarked, in a tone of languid surprise. "And mean so," persisted the Captain. "Why, what do you suppose would become of My[23] ship, if I were to lose My Longitude and My Latitude? Could you make anything of My Dead Reckoning?" "Nobody could, I'm sure!" the other heartily rejoined. But he had overdone it. "It's perfectly intelligible," the Captain said, in an offended tone, "to any one that understands such things." With these words he moved away, and began giving orders to the men, who were preparing to hoist the jib. Our tourists watched the operation with such interest that neither of them remembered the five money-bags, which in another moment, as the wind filled out the jib, were whirled overboard and fell heavily into the sea. But the poor fishermen had not so easily forgotten their property. In a moment they had rushed to the spot, and stood uttering cries of fury, and pointing, now to the sea, and now to the sailors who had caused the disaster. The old man explained it to the Captain. "Let us make it up among us," he added in conclusion. "Ten pounds will do it, I think you said?"[24] But the Captain put aside the suggestion with a wave of the hand. "No, sir!" he said, in his grandest manner. "You will excuse Me, I am sure; but these are My passengers. The accident has happened on board My ship, and under My orders. It is for Me to[25] make compensation." He turned to the angry fishermen. "Come here, my men!" he said, in the Mhruxian dialect. "Tell me the weight of each sack. I saw you weighing them just now." Then ensued a perfect Babel of noise, as the five natives explained, all screaming together, how the sailors had carried off the weights, and they had done what they could with whatever came handy. Two iron belaying-pins, three blocks, six holystones, four winch-handles, and a large hammer, were now carefully weighed, the Captain superintending and noting the results. But the matter did not seem to be settled, even then: an angry discussion followed, in which the sailors and the five natives all joined: and at last the Captain approached our tourists with a disconcerted look, which he tried to conceal under a laugh. "It's an absurd difficulty," he said. "Perhaps one of you gentlemen can suggest something. It seems they weighed the sacks two at a time!" "If they didn't have five separate weighings, of course you can't value them separately," the youth hastily decided.[26] "Let's hear all about it," was the old man's more cautious remark. "They did have five separate weighings," the Captain said, "but--Well, it beats me entirely!" he added, in a sudden burst of candour. "Here's the result. First and second sack weighed twelve pounds; second and third, thirteen and a half; third and fourth, eleven and a half; fourth and fifth, eight: and then they say they had only the large hammer left, and it took three sacks to weigh it down--that's the first, third and fifth--and they weighed sixteen pounds. There, gentlemen! Did you ever hear anything like that?" The old man muttered under his breath "If only my sister were here!" and looked helplessly at his son. His son looked at the five natives. The five natives looked at the Captain. The Captain looked at nobody: his eyes were cast down, and he seemed to be saying softly to himself "Contemplate one another, gentlemen, if such be your good pleasure. I contemplate Myself!" [27] KNOT V. OUGHTS AND CROSSES. "Look here, upon this picture, and on this." "And what made you choose the first train, Goosey?" said Mad Mathesis, as they got into the cab. "Couldn't you count better than that?" "I took an extreme case," was the tearful reply. "Our excellent preceptress always says 'When in doubt, my dears, take an extreme case.' And I was in doubt." "Does it always succeed?" her aunt enquired. Clara sighed. "Not always," she reluctantly admitted. "And I can't make out why. One day she was telling the little girls--they make such a noise at tea, you know--'The more noise you make, the less jam you will have, and vice versâ.' And I thought they wouldn't know what 'vice versâ' meant: so I explained it to them. I[28] said 'If you make an infinite noise, you'll get no jam: and if you make no noise, you'll get an infinite lot of jam.' But our excellent preceptress said that wasn't a good instance. Why wasn't it?" she added plaintively. Her aunt evaded the question. "One sees certain objections to it," she said. "But how did you work it with the Metropolitan trains? None of them go infinitely fast, I believe." "I called them hares and tortoises," Clara said--a little timidly, for she dreaded being laughed at. "And I thought there couldn't be so many hares as tortoises on the Line: so I took an extreme case--one hare and an infinite number of tortoises." "An extreme case, indeed," her aunt remarked with admirable gravity: "and a most dangerous state of things!" "And I thought, if I went with a tortoise, there would be only one hare to meet: but if I went with the hare--you know there were crowds of tortoises!" "It wasn't a bad idea," said the elder lady, as they left the cab, at the entrance of Burlington House. "You shall have another chance to-day. We'll have a match in marking pictures."[29] Clara brightened up. "I should like to try again, very much," she said. "I'll take more care this time. How are we to play?" To this question Mad Mathesis made no reply: she was busy drawing lines down the margins of the catalogue. "See," she said after a minute, "I've drawn three columns against the names of the pictures in the long room, and I want you to fill them with oughts and crosses--crosses for good marks and oughts for bad. The first column is for choice of subject, the second for arrangement, the third for colouring. And these are the conditions of the match. You must give three crosses to two or three pictures. You must give two crosses to four or five----" "Do you mean only two crosses?" said Clara. "Or may I count the three-cross pictures among the two-cross pictures?" "Of course you may," said her aunt. "Any one, that has three eyes, may be said to have two eyes, I suppose?" Clara followed her aunt's dreamy gaze across the crowded gallery, half-dreading to find that there was a three-eyed person in sight. "And you must give one cross to nine or ten."[30] "And which wins the match?" Clara asked, as she carefully entered these conditions on a blank leaf in her catalogue. "Whichever marks fewest pictures." "But suppose we marked the same number?" "Then whichever uses most marks." Clara considered. "I don't think it's much of a match," she said. "I shall mark nine pictures, and give three crosses to three of them, two crosses to two more, and one cross each to all the rest." "Will you, indeed?" said her aunt. "Wait till you've heard all the conditions, my impetuous child. You must give three oughts to one or two pictures, two oughts to three or four, and one ought to eight or nine. I don't want you to be too hard on the R.A.'s." Clara quite gasped as she wrote down all these fresh conditions. "It's a great deal worse than Circulating Decimals!" she said. "But I'm determined to win, all the same!" Her aunt smiled grimly. "We can begin here," she said, as they paused before a gigantic picture, which the catalogue informed them was the "Portrait of Lieutenant Brown, mounted on his favorite elephant."[31] "He looks awfully conceited!" said Clara. "I don't think he was the elephant's favorite Lieutenant. What a hideous picture it is! And it takes up room enough for twenty!" "Mind what you say, my dear!" her aunt interposed. "It's by an R.A.!" But Clara was quite reckless. "I don't care who it's by!" she cried. "And I shall give it three bad marks!" Aunt and niece soon drifted away from each other in the crowd, and for the next half-hour Clara was hard at work, putting in marks and rubbing them out again, and hunting up and down for suitable pictures. This she found the hardest part of all. "I can't find the one I want!" she exclaimed at last, almost crying with vexation. "What is it you want to find, my dear?" The voice was strange to Clara, but so sweet and gentle that she felt attracted to the owner of it, even before she had seen her; and when she turned, and met the smiling looks of two little old ladies, whose round dimpled faces, exactly alike, seemed never to have known a care, it was as much as she could do--as she confessed to Aunt Mattie afterwards--to keep herself from hugging them both.[32] "I was looking for a picture," she said, "that has a good subject--and that's well arranged--but badly coloured." The little old ladies glanced at each other in some alarm. "Calm yourself, my dear," said the one who had spoken first, "and try to remember which it was. What was the subject?" "Was it an elephant, for instance?" the other sister suggested. They were still in sight of Lieutenant Brown. "I don't know, indeed!" Clara impetuously replied. "You know it doesn't matter a bit what the subject is, so long as it's a good one!" Once more the sisters exchanged looks of alarm, and one of them whispered something to the other, of which Clara caught only the one word "mad." "They mean Aunt Mattie, of course," she said to herself--fancying, in her innocence, that London was like her native town, where everybody knew everybody else. "If you mean my aunt," she added aloud, "she's there--just three pictures beyond Lieutenant Brown." "Ah, well! Then you'd better go to her, my dear!" her new friend said, soothingly. "She'll find you the picture you want. Good-bye, dear!"[33] "Good-bye, dear!" echoed the other sister, "Mind you don't lose sight of your aunt!" And the pair trotted off into another room, leaving Clara rather perplexed at their manner. "They're real darlings!" she soliloquised. "I wonder why they pity me so!" And she wandered on, murmuring to herself "It must have two good marks, and----" [34] KNOT VI. HER RADIANCY. "One piecee thing that my have got, Maskee[A] that thing my no can do. You talkee you no sabey what? Bamboo." They landed, and were at once conducted to the Palace. About half way they were met by the Governor, who welcomed them in English--a great relief to our travellers, whose guide could speak nothing but Kgovjnian. "I don't half like the way they grin at us as we go by!" the old man whispered to his son. "And why do they say 'Bamboo!' so often?" "It alludes to a local custom," replied the Governor, who had overheard the question. "Such persons as happen in any way to displease Her Radiancy are usually beaten with rods."[35] "WHY DO THEY SAY 'BAMBOO!' SO OFTEN?" "WHY DO THEY SAY 'BAMBOO!' SO OFTEN?" [36] The old man shuddered. "A most objectional local custom!" he remarked with strong emphasis. "I wish we had never landed! Did you notice that black fellow, Norman, opening his great mouth at us? I verily believe he would like to eat us!" Norman appealed to the Governor, who was walking at his other side. "Do they often eat distinguished strangers here?" he said, in as indifferent a tone as he could assume. "Not often--not ever!" was the welcome reply. "They are not good for it. Pigs we eat, for they are fat. This old man is thin." "And thankful to be so!" muttered the elder traveller. "Beaten we shall be without a doubt. It's a comfort to know it won't be Beaten without the B! My dear boy, just look at the peacocks!" They were now walking between two unbroken lines of those gorgeous birds, each held in check, by means of a golden collar and chain, by a black slave, who stood well behind, so as not to interrupt the view of the glittering tail, with its network of rustling feathers and its hundred eyes. The Governor smiled proudly. "In your honour," he said, "Her Radiancy has ordered up ten thousand additional peacocks. She will, no doubt,[37] decorate you, before you go, with the usual Star and Feathers." "It'll be Star without the S!" faltered one of his hearers. "Come, come! Don't lose heart!" said the other. "All this is full of charm for me." "You are young, Norman," sighed his father; "young and light-hearted. For me, it is Charm without the C." "The old one is sad," the Governor remarked with some anxiety. "He has, without doubt, effected some fearful crime?" "But I haven't!" the poor old gentleman hastily exclaimed. "Tell him I haven't, Norman!" "He has not, as yet," Norman gently explained. And the Governor repeated, in a satisfied tone, "Not as yet." "Yours is a wondrous country!" the Governor resumed, after a pause. "Now here is a letter from a friend of mine, a merchant, in London. He and his brother went there a year ago, with a thousand pounds apiece; and on New-Year's-day they had sixty thousand pounds between them!" "How did they do it?" Norman eagerly exclaimed. Even the elder traveller looked excited.[38] The Governor handed him the open letter. "Anybody can do it, when once they know how," so ran this oracular document. "We borrowed nought: we stole nought. We began the year with only a thousand pounds apiece: and last New-Year's-day we had sixty thousand pounds between us--sixty thousand golden sovereigns!" Norman looked grave and thoughtful as he handed back the letter. His father hazarded one guess. "Was it by gambling?" "A Kgovjnian never gambles," said the Governor gravely, as he ushered them through the palace gates. They followed him in silence down a long passage, and soon found themselves in a lofty hall, lined entirely with peacocks' feathers. In the centre was a pile of crimson cushions, which almost concealed the figure of Her Radiancy--a plump little damsel, in a robe of green satin dotted with silver stars, whose pale round face lit up for a moment with a half-smile as the travellers bowed before her, and then relapsed into the exact expression of a wax doll, while she languidly murmured a word or two in the Kgovjnian dialect. The Governor interpreted. "Her Radiancy welcomes you. She notes the Impenetrable Placidity[39] of the old one, and the Imperceptible Acuteness of the youth." Here the little potentate clapped her hands, and a troop of slaves instantly appeared, carrying trays of coffee and sweetmeats, which they offered to the guests, who had, at a signal from the Governor, seated themselves on the carpet. "Sugar-plums!" muttered the old man. "One might as well be at a confectioner's! Ask for a penny bun, Norman!" "Not so loud!" his son whispered. "Say something complimentary!" For the Governor was evidently expecting a speech. "We thank Her Exalted Potency," the old man timidly began. "We bask in the light of her smile, which----" "The words of old men are weak!" the Governor interrupted angrily. "Let the youth speak!" "Tell her," cried Norman, in a wild burst of eloquence, "that, like two grasshoppers in a volcano, we are shrivelled up in the presence of Her Spangled Vehemence!" "It is well," said the Governor, and translated this into Kgovjnian. "I am now to tell you," he proceeded, "what Her Radiancy requires of you[40] before you go. The yearly competition for the post of Imperial Scarf-maker is just ended; you are the judges. You will take account of the rate of work, the lightness of the scarves, and their warmth. Usually the competitors differ in one point only. Thus, last year, Fifi and Gogo made the same number of scarves in the trial-week, and they were equally light; but Fifi's were twice as warm as Gogo's and she was pronounced twice as good. But this year, woe is me, who can judge it? Three competitors are here, and they differ in all points! While you settle their claims, you shall be lodged, Her Radiancy bids me say, free of expense--in the best dungeon, and abundantly fed on the best bread and water." The old man groaned. "All is lost!" he wildly exclaimed. But Norman heeded him not: he had taken out his note-book, and was calmly jotting down the particulars. "Three they be," the Governor proceeded, "Lolo, Mimi, and Zuzu. Lolo makes 5 scarves while Mimi makes 2; but Zuzu makes 4 while Lolo makes 3! Again, so fairylike is Zuzu's handiwork, 5 of her scarves weigh no more than one of Lolo's; yet Mimi's is lighter still--5 of hers will but balance[41] 3 of Zuzu's! And for warmth one of Mimi's is equal to 4 of Zuzu's; yet one of Lolo's is as warm as 3 of Mimi's!" Here the little lady once more clapped her hands. "It is our signal of dismissal!" the Governor hastily said. "Pay Her Radiancy your farewell compliments--and walk out backwards." The walking part was all the elder tourist could manage. Norman simply said "Tell Her Radiancy we are transfixed by the spectacle of Her Serene Brilliance, and bid an agonized farewell to her Condensed Milkiness!" "Her Radiancy is pleased," the Governor reported, after duly translating this. "She casts on you a glance from Her Imperial Eyes, and is confident that you will catch it!" "That I warrant we shall!" the elder traveller moaned to himself distractedly. Once more they bowed low, and then followed the Governor down a winding staircase to the Imperial Dungeon, which they found to be lined with coloured marble, lighted from the roof, and splendidly though not luxuriously furnished with a bench of polished malachite. "I trust you will[42] not delay the calculation," the Governor said, ushering them in with much ceremony. "I have known great inconvenience--great and serious inconvenience--result to those unhappy ones who have delayed to execute the commands of Her Radiancy! And on this occasion she is resolute: she says the thing must and shall be done: and she has ordered up ten thousand additional bamboos!" With these words he left them, and they heard him lock and bar the door on the outside. "I told you how it would end!" moaned the elder traveller, wringing his hands, and quite forgetting in his anguish that he had himself proposed the expedition, and had never predicted anything of the sort. "Oh that we were well out of this miserable business!" "Courage!" cried the younger cheerily. "Hæc olim meminisse juvabit! The end of all this will be glory!" "Glory without the L!" was all the poor old man could say, as he rocked himself to and fro on the malachite bench. "Glory without the L!" FOOTNOTE: [A] "Maskee," in Pigeon-English, means "without." [43] KNOT VII. PETTY CASH. "Base is the slave that pays." "Aunt Mattie!" "My child?" "Would you mind writing it down at once? I shall be quite certain to forget it if you don't!" "My dear, we really must wait till the cab stops. How can I possibly write anything in the midst of all this jolting?" "But really I shall be forgetting it!" Clara's voice took the plaintive tone that her aunt never knew how to resist, and with a sigh the old lady drew forth her ivory tablets and prepared to record the amount that Clara had just spent at the confectioner's shop. Her expenditure was always made out of her aunt's purse, but the poor girl knew, by bitter experience, that sooner or later[44] "Mad Mathesis" would expect an exact account of every penny that had gone, and she waited, with ill-concealed impatience, while the old lady turned the tablets over and over, till she had found the one headed "PETTY CASH." "Here's the place," she said at last, "and here we have yesterday's luncheon duly entered. One glass lemonade (Why can't you drink water, like me?) three sandwiches (They never put in half mustard enough. I told the young woman so, to her face; and she tossed her head--like her impudence!) and seven biscuits. Total one-and-two-pence. Well, now for to-day's?" "One glass of lemonade----" Clara was beginning to say, when suddenly the cab drew up, and a courteous railway-porter was handing out the bewildered girl before she had had time to finish her sentence. Her aunt pocketed the tablets instantly. "Business first," she said: "petty cash--which is a form of pleasure, whatever you may think--afterwards." And she proceeded to pay the driver, and to give voluminous orders about the luggage, quite deaf to the entreaties of her unhappy niece that she would enter the rest of the luncheon account. [45] "My dear, you really must cultivate a more capacious mind!" was all the consolation she vouchsafed to the poor girl. "Are not the tablets of your memory wide enough to contain the record of one single luncheon?" "Not wide enough! Not half wide enough!" was the passionate reply. The words came in aptly enough, but the voice was not that of Clara, and both ladies turned in some surprise to see who it was that had so suddenly struck into their conversation. A fat little old lady was standing at the door of a cab, helping the driver to extricate what seemed an exact duplicate of herself: it would have been no easy task to decide which was the fatter, or which looked the more good-humoured of the two sisters. "I tell you the cab-door isn't half wide enough!" she repeated, as her sister finally emerged, somewhat after the fashion of a pellet from a pop-gun, and she turned to appeal to Clara. "Is it, dear?" she said, trying hard to bring a frown into a face that dimpled all over with smiles. "Some folks is too wide for 'em," growled the cab-driver. [46] "I TELL YOU THE CAB-DOOR ISN'T HALF WIDE ENOUGH!" "I TELL YOU THE CAB-DOOR ISN'T HALF WIDE ENOUGH!" "Don't provoke me, man!" cried the little old[47] lady, in what she meant for a tempest of fury. "Say another word and I'll put you into the County Court, and sue you for a Habeas Corpus!" The cabman touched his hat, and marched off, grinning. "Nothing like a little Law to cow the ruffians, my dear!" she remarked confidentially to Clara. "You saw how he quailed when I mentioned the Habeas Corpus? Not that I've any idea what it means, but it sounds very grand, doesn't it?" "It's very provoking," Clara replied, a little vaguely. "Very!" the little old lady eagerly repeated. "And we're very much provoked indeed. Aren't we, sister?" "I never was so provoked in all my life!" the fatter sister assented, radiantly. By this time Clara had recognised her picture-gallery acquaintances, and, drawing her aunt aside, she hastily whispered her reminiscences. "I met them first in the Royal Academy--and they were very kind to me--and they were lunching at the next table to us, just now, you know--and they tried to help me to find the picture I wanted--and I'm sure they're dear old things!"[48] "Friends of yours, are they?" said Mad Mathesis. "Well, I like their looks. You can be civil to them, while I get the tickets. But do try and arrange your ideas a little more chronologically!" And so it came to pass that the four ladies found themselves seated side by side on the same bench waiting for the train, and chatting as if they had known one another for years. "Now this I call quite a remarkable coincidence!" exclaimed the smaller and more talkative of the two sisters--the one whose legal knowledge had annihilated the cab-driver. "Not only that we should be waiting for the same train, and at the same station--that would be curious enough--but actually on the same day, and the same hour of the day! That's what strikes me so forcibly!" She glanced at the fatter and more silent sister, whose chief function in life seemed to be to support the family opinion, and who meekly responded-- "And me too, sister!" "Those are not independent coincidences----" Mad Mathesis was just beginning, when Clara ventured to interpose.[49] "There's no jolting here," she pleaded meekly. "Would you mind writing it down now?" Out came the ivory tablets once more. "What was it, then?" said her aunt. "One glass of lemonade, one sandwich, one biscuit--Oh dear me!" cried poor Clara, the historical tone suddenly changing to a wail of agony. "Toothache?" said her aunt calmly, as she wrote down the items. The two sisters instantly opened their reticules and produced two different remedies for neuralgia, each marked "unequalled." "It isn't that!" said poor Clara. "Thank you very much. It's only that I can't remember how much I paid!" "Well, try and make it out, then," said her aunt. "You've got yesterday's luncheon to help you, you know. And here's the luncheon we had the day before--the first day we went to that shop--one glass lemonade, four sandwiches, ten biscuits. Total, one-and-fivepence." She handed the tablets to Clara, who gazed at them with eyes so dim with tears that she did not at first notice that she was holding them upside down. The two sisters had been listening to all this[50] with the deepest interest, and at this juncture the smaller one softly laid her hand on Clara's arm. "Do you know, my dear," she said coaxingly, "my sister and I are in the very same predicament! Quite identically the very same predicament! Aren't we, sister?" "Quite identically and absolutely the very----" began the fatter sister, but she was constructing her sentence on too large a scale, and the little one would not wait for her to finish it. "Yes, my dear," she resumed; "we were lunching at the very same shop as you were--and we had two glasses of lemonade and three sandwiches and five biscuits--and neither of us has the least idea what we paid. Have we, sister?" "Quite identically and absolutely----" murmured the other, who evidently considered that she was now a whole sentence in arrears, and that she ought to discharge one obligation before contracting any fresh liabilities; but the little lady broke in again, and she retired from the conversation a bankrupt. "Would you make it out for us, my dear?" pleaded the little old lady.[51] "You can do Arithmetic, I trust?" her aunt said, a little anxiously, as Clara turned from one tablet to another, vainly trying to collect her thoughts. Her mind was a blank, and all human expression was rapidly fading out of her face. A gloomy silence ensued. [52] KNOT VIII. DE OMNIBUS REBUS. "This little pig went to market: This little pig staid at home." "By Her Radiancy's express command," said the Governor, as he conducted the travellers, for the last time, from the Imperial presence, "I shall now have the ecstasy of escorting you as far as the outer gate of the Military Quarter, where the agony of parting--if indeed Nature can survive the shock--must be endured! From that gate grurmstipths start every quarter of an hour, both ways----" "Would you mind repeating that word?" said Norman. "Grurm----?" "Grurmstipths," the Governor repeated. "You call them omnibuses in England. They run both ways, and you can travel by one of them all the way down to the harbour."[53] The old man breathed a sigh of relief; four hours of courtly ceremony had wearied him, and he had been in constant terror lest something should call into use the ten thousand additional bamboos. In another minute they were crossing a large quadrangle, paved with marble, and tastefully decorated with a pigsty in each corner. Soldiers, carrying pigs, were marching in all directions: and in the middle stood a gigantic officer giving orders in a voice of thunder, which made itself heard above all the uproar of the pigs. "It is the Commander-in-Chief!" the Governor hurriedly whispered to his companions, who at once followed his example in prostrating themselves before the great man. The Commander gravely bowed in return. He was covered with gold lace from head to foot: his face wore an expression of deep misery: and he had a little black pig under each arm. Still the gallant fellow did his best, in the midst of the orders he was every moment issuing to his men, to bid a courteous farewell to the departing guests. "Farewell, oh old one--carry these three to the[54] South corner--and farewell to thee, thou young one--put this fat one on the top of the others in the Western sty--may your shadows never be less--woe is me, it is wrongly done! Empty out all the sties, and begin again!" And the soldier leant upon his sword, and wiped away a tear. "He is in distress," the Governor explained as they left the court. "Her Radiancy has commanded him to place twenty-four pigs in those four sties, so that, as she goes round the court, she may always find the number in each sty nearer to ten than the number in the last." "Does she call ten nearer to ten than nine is?" said Norman. "Surely," said the Governor. "Her Radiancy would admit that ten is nearer to ten than nine is--and also nearer than eleven is." "Then I think it can be done," said Norman. The Governor shook his head. "The Commander has been transferring them in vain for four months," he said. "What hope remains? And Her Radiancy has ordered up ten thousand additional----" "The pigs don't seem to enjoy being transferred,"[55] the old man hastily interrupted. He did not like the subject of bamboos. "They are only provisionally transferred, you know," said the Governor. "In most cases they are immediately carried back again: so they need not mind it. And all is done with the greatest care, under the personal superintendence of the Commander-in-Chief." "Of course she would only go once round?" said Norman. "Alas, no!" sighed their conductor. "Round and round. Round and round. These are Her Radiancy's own words. But oh, agony! Here is the outer gate, and we must part!" He sobbed as he shook hands with them, and the next moment was briskly walking away. "He might have waited to see us off!" said the old man, piteously. "And he needn't have begun whistling the very moment he left us!" said the young one, severely. "But look sharp--here are two what's-his-names in the act of starting!" Unluckily, the sea-bound omnibus was full. "Never mind!" said Norman, cheerily. "We'll walk on till the next one overtakes us."[56] They trudged on in silence, both thinking over the military problem, till they met an omnibus coming from the sea. The elder traveller took out his watch. "Just twelve minutes and a half since we started," he remarked in an absent manner. Suddenly the vacant face brightened; the old man had an idea. "My boy!" he shouted, bringing his hand down upon Norman's shoulder so suddenly as for a moment to transfer his centre of gravity beyond the base of support. Thus taken off his guard, the young man wildly staggered forwards, and seemed about to plunge into space: but in another moment he had gracefully recovered himself. "Problem in Precession and Nutation," he remarked--in tones where filial respect only just managed to conceal a shade of annoyance. "What is it?" he hastily added, fearing his father might have been taken ill. "Will you have some brandy?" "When will the next omnibus overtake us? When? When?" the old man cried, growing more excited every moment. Norman looked gloomy. "Give me time," he[57] said. "I must think it over." And once more the travellers passed on in silence--a silence only broken by the distant squeals of the unfortunate little pigs, who were still being provisionally transferred from sty to sty, under the personal superintendence of the Commander-in-Chief. [58] KNOT IX. A SERPENT WITH CORNERS. "Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink." "It'll just take one more pebble." "What ever are you doing with those buckets?" The speakers were Hugh and Lambert. Place, the beach of Little Mendip. Time, 1.30, P.M. Hugh was floating a bucket in another a size larger, and trying how many pebbles it would carry without sinking. Lambert was lying on his back, doing nothing. For the next minute or two Hugh was silent, evidently deep in thought. Suddenly he started. "I say, look here, Lambert!" he cried. "If it's alive, and slimy, and with legs, I don't care to," said Lambert. "Didn't Balbus say this morning that, if a body[59] is immersed in liquid, it displaces as much liquid as is equal to its own bulk?" said Hugh. "He said things of that sort," Lambert vaguely replied. "Well, just look here a minute. Here's the little bucket almost quite immersed: so the water displaced ought to be just about the same bulk. And now just look at it!" He took out the little bucket as he spoke, and handed the big one to Lambert. "Why, there's hardly a teacupful! Do you mean to say that water is the same bulk as the little bucket?" "Course it is," said Lambert. "Well, look here again!" cried Hugh, triumphantly, as he poured the water from the big bucket into the little one. "Why, it doesn't half fill it!" "That's its business," said Lambert. "If Balbus says it's the same bulk, why, it is the same bulk, you know." "Well, I don't believe it," said Hugh. "You needn't," said Lambert. "Besides, it's dinner-time. Come along." They found Balbus waiting dinner for them, and to him Hugh at once propounded his difficulty. "Let's get you helped first," said Balbus, briskly[60] cutting away at the joint. "You know the old proverb 'Mutton first, mechanics afterwards'?" The boys did not know the proverb, but they accepted it in perfect good faith, as they did every piece of information, however startling, that came from so infallible an authority as their tutor. They ate on steadily in silence, and, when dinner was over, Hugh set out the usual array of pens, ink, and paper, while Balbus repeated to them the problem he had prepared for their afternoon's task. "A friend of mine has a flower-garden--a very pretty one, though no great size--" "How big is it?" said Hugh. "That's what you have to find out!" Balbus gaily replied. "All I tell you is that it is oblong in shape--just half a yard longer than its width--and that a gravel-walk, one yard wide, begins at one corner and runs all round it." "Joining into itself?" said Hugh. "Not joining into itself, young man. Just before doing that, it turns a corner, and runs round the garden again, alongside of the first portion, and then inside that again, winding in and in, and each lap touching the last one, till it has used up the whole of the area."[61] "Like a serpent with corners?" said Lambert. "Exactly so. And if you walk the whole length of it, to the last inch, keeping in the centre of the path, it's exactly two miles and half a furlong. Now, while you find out the length and breadth of the garden, I'll see if I can think out that sea-water puzzle." "You said it was a flower-garden?" Hugh inquired, as Balbus was leaving the room. "I did," said Balbus. "Where do the flowers grow?" said Hugh. But Balbus thought it best not to hear the question. He left the boys to their problem, and, in the silence of his own room, set himself to unravel Hugh's mechanical paradox. "To fix our thoughts," he murmured to himself, as, with hands deep-buried in his pockets, he paced up and down the room, "we will take a cylindrical glass jar, with a scale of inches marked up the side, and fill it with water up to the 10-inch mark: and we will assume that every inch depth of jar contains a pint of water. We will now take a solid cylinder, such that every inch of it is equal in bulk to half a pint of water, and plunge 4 inches of it into the water, so that the end of the cylinder[62] comes down to the 6-inch mark. Well, that displaces 2 pints of water. What becomes of them? Why, if there were no more cylinder, they would lie comfortably on the top, and fill the jar up to the 12-inch mark. But unfortunately there is more cylinder, occupying half the space between the 10-inch and the 12-inch marks, so that only one pint of water can be accommodated there. What becomes of the other pint? Why, if there were no more cylinder, it would lie on the top, and fill the jar up to the 13-inch mark. But unfortunately----Shade of Newton!" he exclaimed, in sudden accents of terror. "When does the water stop rising?" A bright idea struck him. "I'll write a little essay on it," he said. Balbus's Essay. "When a solid is immersed in a liquid, it is well known that it displaces a portion of the liquid equal to itself in bulk, and that the level of the liquid rises just so much as it would rise if a quantity of liquid had been added to it, equal in[63] bulk to the solid. Lardner says, precisely the same process occurs when a solid is partially immersed: the quantity of liquid displaced, in this case, equalling the portion of the solid which is immersed, and the rise of the level being in proportion. "Suppose a solid held above the surface of a liquid and partially immersed: a portion of the liquid is displaced, and the level of the liquid rises. But, by this rise of level, a little bit more of the solid is of course immersed, and so there is a new displacement of a second portion of the liquid, and a consequent rise of level. Again, this second rise of level causes a yet further immersion, and by consequence another displacement of liquid and another rise. It is self-evident that this process must continue till the entire solid is immersed, and that the liquid will then begin to immerse whatever holds the solid, which, being connected with it, must for the time be considered a part of it. If you hold a stick, six feet long, with its end in a tumbler of water, and wait long enough, you must eventually be immersed. The question as to the source from which the water is supplied--which belongs to a high branch of mathematics, and is therefore beyond our present scope--does not apply[64] to the sea. Let us therefore take the familiar instance of a man standing at the edge of the sea, at ebb-tide, with a solid in his hand, which he partially immerses: he remains steadfast and unmoved, and we all know that he must be drowned. The multitudes who daily perish in this manner to attest a philosophical truth, and whose bodies the unreasoning wave casts sullenly upon our thankless shores, have a truer claim to be called the martyrs of science than a Galileo or a Kepler. To use Kossuth's eloquent phrase, they are the unnamed demigods of the nineteenth century."[B] "There's a fallacy somewhere," he murmured drowsily, as he stretched his long legs upon the sofa. "I must think it over again." He closed his eyes, in order to concentrate his attention more perfectly, and for the next hour or so his slow and regular breathing bore witness to the careful deliberation with which he was investigating this new and perplexing view of the subject.[65] "HE REMAINS STEADFAST AND UNMOVED." "HE REMAINS STEADFAST AND UNMOVED." FOOTNOTE: [B] Note by the writer.--For the above Essay I am indebted to a dear friend, now deceased. [66] KNOT X. CHELSEA BUNS. "Yea, buns, and buns, and buns!" Old Song. "How very, very sad!" exclaimed Clara; and the eyes of the gentle girl filled with tears as she spoke. "Sad--but very curious when you come to look at it arithmetically," was her aunt's less romantic reply. "Some of them have lost an arm in their country's service, some a leg, some an ear, some an eye----" "And some, perhaps, all!" Clara murmured dreamily, as they passed the long rows of weather-beaten heroes basking in the sun. "Did you notice that very old one, with a red face, who was drawing a map in the dust with his wooden[67] leg, and all the others watching? I think it was a plan of a battle----" "The battle of Trafalgar, no doubt," her aunt interrupted, briskly. "Hardly that, I think," Clara ventured to say. "You see, in that case, he couldn't well be alive----" "Couldn't well be alive!" the old lady contemptuously repeated. "He's as lively as you and me put together! Why, if drawing a map in the dust--with one's wooden leg--doesn't prove one to be alive, perhaps you'll kindly mention what does prove it!" Clara did not see her way out of it. Logic had never been her forte. "To return to the arithmetic," Mad Mathesis resumed--the eccentric old lady never let slip an opportunity of driving her niece into a calculation--"what percentage do you suppose must have lost all four--a leg, an arm, an eye, and an ear?" "How can I tell?" gasped the terrified girl. She knew well what was coming. "You can't, of course, without data," her aunt replied: "but I'm just going to give you----" "Give her a Chelsea bun, Miss! That's what[68] most young ladies likes best!" The voice was rich and musical, and the speaker dexterously whipped back the snowy cloth that covered his basket, and disclosed a tempting array of the familiar square buns, joined together in rows, richly egged and browned, and glistening in the sun. "No, sir! I shall give her nothing so indigestible! Be off!" The old lady waved her parasol threateningly: but nothing seemed to disturb the good-humour of the jolly old man, who marched on, chanting his melodious refrain:-- Chel-sea Listen "Far too indigestible, my love!" said the old lady. "Percentages will agree with you ever so much better!" Clara sighed, and there was a hungry look in her eyes as she watched the basket lessening in the distance: but she meekly listened to the relentless[69] old lady, who at once proceeded to count off the data on her fingers. "Say that 70 per cent. have lost an eye--75 per cent. an ear--80 per cent. an arm--85 per cent. a leg--that'll do it beautifully. Now, my dear, what percentage, at least, must have lost all four?" No more conversation occurred--unless a smothered exclamation of "Piping hot!" which escaped from Clara's lips as the basket vanished round a corner could be counted as such--until they reached the old Chelsea mansion, where Clara's father was then staying, with his three sons and their old tutor. Balbus, Lambert, and Hugh had entered the house only a few minutes before them. They had been out walking, and Hugh had been propounding a difficulty which had reduced Lambert to the depths of gloom, and had even puzzled Balbus. "It changes from Wednesday to Thursday at midnight, doesn't it?" Hugh had begun. "Sometimes," said Balbus, cautiously. "Always," said Lambert, decisively. "Sometimes," Balbus gently insisted. "Six midnights out of seven, it changes to some other name."[70] "I meant, of course," Hugh corrected himself, "when it does change from Wednesday to Thursday, it does it at midnight--and only at midnight." "Surely," said Balbus. Lambert was silent. "Well, now, suppose it's midnight here in Chelsea. Then it's Wednesday west of Chelsea (say in Ireland or America) where midnight hasn't arrived yet: and it's Thursday east of Chelsea (say in Germany or Russia) where midnight has just passed by?" "Surely," Balbus said again. Even Lambert nodded this time. "But it isn't midnight, anywhere else; so it can't be changing from one day to another anywhere else. And yet, if Ireland and America and so on call it Wednesday, and Germany and Russia and so on call it Thursday, there must be some place--not Chelsea--that has different days on the two sides of it. And the worst of it is, the people there get their days in the wrong order: they've got Wednesday east of them, and Thursday west--just as if their day had changed from Thursday to Wednesday!" "I've heard that puzzle before!" cried Lambert. "And I'll tell you the explanation. When a ship[71] goes round the world from east to west, we know that it loses a day in its reckoning: so that when it gets home, and calls its day Wednesday, it finds people here calling it Thursday, because we've had one more midnight than the ship has had. And when you go the other way round you gain a day." "I know all that," said Hugh, in reply to this not very lucid explanation: "but it doesn't help me, because the ship hasn't proper days. One way round, you get more than twenty-four hours to the day, and the other way you get less: so of course the names get wrong: but people that live on in one place always get twenty-four hours to the day." "I suppose there is such a place," Balbus said, meditatively, "though I never heard of it. And the people must find it very queer, as Hugh says, to have the old day east of them, and the new one west: because, when midnight comes round to them, with the new day in front of it and the old one behind it, one doesn't see exactly what happens. I must think it over." So they had entered the house in the state I have described--Balbus puzzled, and Lambert buried in gloomy thought. "Yes, m'm, Master is at home, m'm," said the[72] stately old butler. (N.B.--It is only a butler of experience who can manage a series of three M's together, without any interjacent vowels.) "And the ole party is a-waiting for you in the libery." "I don't like his calling your father an old party," Mad Mathesis whispered to her niece, as they crossed the hall. And Clara had only just time to whisper in reply "he meant the whole party," before they were ushered into the library, and the sight of the five solemn faces there assembled chilled her into silence. Her father sat at the head of the table, and mutely signed to the ladies to take the two vacant chairs, one on each side of him. His three sons and Balbus completed the party. Writing materials had been arranged round the table, after the fashion of a ghostly banquet: the butler had evidently bestowed much thought on the grim device. Sheets of quarto paper, each flanked by a pen on one side and a pencil on the other, represented the plates--penwipers did duty for rolls of bread--while ink-bottles stood in the places usually occupied by wine-glasses. The pièce de resistance was a large green baize bag, which gave forth, as the old man restlessly lifted it from side[73] to side, a charming jingle, as of innumerable golden guineas. "Sister, daughter, sons--and Balbus--," the old man began, so nervously, that Balbus put in a gentle "Hear, hear!" while Hugh drummed on the table with his fists. This disconcerted the unpractised orator. "Sister--" he began again, then paused a moment, moved the bag to the other side, and went on with a rush, "I mean--this being--a critical occasion--more or less--being the year when one of my sons comes of age--" he paused again in some confusion, having evidently got into the middle of his speech sooner than he intended: but it was too late to go back. "Hear, hear!" cried Balbus. "Quite so," said the old gentleman, recovering his self-possession a little: "when first I began this annual custom--my friend Balbus will correct me if I am wrong--" (Hugh whispered "with a strap!" but nobody heard him except Lambert, who only frowned and shook his head at him) "--this annual custom of giving each of my sons as many guineas as would represent his age--it was a critical time--so Balbus informed me--as the ages of two of you were together equal to that of the third--so[74] on that occasion I made a speech----" He paused so long that Balbus thought it well to come to the rescue with the words "It was a most----" but the old man checked him with a warning look: "yes, made a speech," he repeated. "A few years after that, Balbus pointed out--I say pointed out--" ("Hear, hear"! cried Balbus. "Quite so," said the grateful old man.) "--that it was another critical occasion. The ages of two of you were together double that of the third. So I made another speech--another speech. And now again it's a critical occasion--so Balbus says--and I am making----" (Here Mad Mathesis pointedly referred to her watch) "all the haste I can!" the old man cried, with wonderful presence of mind. "Indeed, sister, I'm coming to the point now! The number of years that have passed since that first occasion is just two-thirds of the number of guineas I then gave you. Now, my boys, calculate your ages from the data, and you shall have the money!" "But we know our ages!" cried Hugh. "Silence, sir!" thundered the old man, rising to his full height (he was exactly five-foot five) in his indignation. "I say you must use the data[75] only! You mustn't even assume which it is that comes of age!" He clutched the bag as he spoke, and with tottering steps (it was about as much as he could do to carry it) he left the room. "And you shall have a similar cadeau," the old lady whispered to her niece, "when you've calculated that percentage!" And she followed her brother. Nothing could exceed the solemnity with which the old couple had risen from the table, and yet was it--was it a grin with which the father turned away from his unhappy sons? Could it be--could it be a wink with which the aunt abandoned her despairing niece? And were those--were those sounds of suppressed chuckling which floated into the room, just before Balbus (who had followed them out) closed the door? Surely not: and yet the butler told the cook--but no, that was merely idle gossip, and I will not repeat it. The shades of evening granted their unuttered petition, and "closed not o'er" them (for the butler brought in the lamp): the same obliging shades left them a "lonely bark" (the wail of a dog, in the back-yard, baying the moon) for "awhile": but neither "morn, alas," (nor any other epoch)[76] seemed likely to "restore" them--to that peace of mind which had once been theirs ere ever these problems had swooped upon them, and crushed them with a load of unfathomable mystery! "It's hardly fair," muttered Hugh, "to give us such a jumble as this to work out!" "Fair?" Clara echoed, bitterly. "Well!" And to all my readers I can but repeat the last words of gentle Clara-- Fare-well! [77] APPENDIX. "A knot!" said Alice. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" ANSWERS TO KNOT I. Problem.--"Two travellers spend from 3 o'clock till 9 in walking along a level road, up a hill, and home again: their pace on the level being 4 miles an hour, up hill 3, and down hill 6. Find distance walked: also (within half an hour) time of reaching top of hill." Answer.--"24 miles: half-past 6." Solution.--A level mile takes ¼ of an hour, up hill 1/3, down hill 1/6. Hence to go and return over the same mile, whether on the level or on the hill-side, takes ½ an hour. Hence in 6 hours they went 12 miles out and 12 back. If the 12 miles out had been nearly all level, they would have taken a little over 3 hours; if nearly all up hill, a little under 4. Hence 3½ hours must be within ½ an hour of the time taken in reaching the peak; thus, as they started at 3, they got there within ½ an hour of ½ past 6. [78] Twenty-seven answers have come in. Of these, 9 are right, 16 partially right, and 2 wrong. The 16 give the distance correctly, but they have failed to grasp the fact that the top of the hill might have been reached at any moment between 6 o'clock and 7. The two wrong answers are from Gerty Vernon and A Nihilist. The former makes the distance "23 miles," while her revolutionary companion puts it at "27." Gerty Vernon says "they had to go 4 miles along the plain, and got to the foot of the hill at 4 o'clock." They might have done so, I grant; but you have no ground for saying they did so. "It was 7½ miles to the top of the hill, and they reached that at ¼ before 7 o'clock." Here you go wrong in your arithmetic, and I must, however reluctantly, bid you farewell. 7½ miles, at 3 miles an hour, would not require 2¾ hours. A Nihilist says "Let x denote the whole number of miles; y the number of hours to hill-top; ? 3y = number of miles to hill-top, and x-3y = number of miles on the other side." You bewilder me. The other side of what? "Of the hill," you say. But then, how did they get home again? However, to accommodate your views we will build a new hostelry at the foot of the hill on the opposite side, and also assume (what I grant you is possible, though it is not necessarily true) that there was no level road at all. Even then you go wrong.[79] You say "y = 6 - (x - 3y)/6, ..... (i); x/4½ = 6 ..... (ii)." I grant you (i), but I deny (ii): it rests on the assumption that to go part of the time at 3 miles an hour, and the rest at 6 miles an hour, comes to the same result as going the whole time at 4½ miles an hour. But this would only be true if the "part" were an exact half, i.e., if they went up hill for 3 hours, and down hill for the other 3: which they certainly did not do. The sixteen, who are partially right, are Agnes Bailey, F. K., Fifee, G. E. B., H. P., Kit, M. E. T., Mysie, A Mother's Son, Nairam, A Redruthian, A Socialist, Spear Maiden, T. B. C, Vis Inertiæ, and Yak. Of these, F. K., Fifee, T. B. C, and Vis Inertiæ do not attempt the second part at all. F. K. and H. P. give no working. The rest make particular assumptions, such as that there was no level road--that there were 6 miles of level road--and so on, all leading to particular times being fixed for reaching the hill-top. The most curious assumption is that of Agnes Bailey, who says "Let x = number of hours occupied in ascent; then x/2 = hours occupied in descent; and 4x/3 = hours occupied on the[80] level." I suppose you were thinking of the relative rates, up hill and on the level; which we might express by saying that, if they went x miles up hill in a certain time, they would go 4x/3 miles on the level in the same time. You have, in fact, assumed that they took the same time on the level that they took in ascending the hill. Fifee assumes that, when the aged knight said they had gone "four miles in the hour" on the level, he meant that four miles was the distance gone, not merely the rate. This would have been--if Fifee will excuse the slang expression--a "sell," ill-suited to the dignity of the hero. And now "descend, ye classic Nine!" who have solved the whole problem, and let me sing your praises. Your names are Blithe, E. W., L. B., A Marlborough Boy, O. V. L., Putney Walker, Rose, Sea Breeze, Simple Susan, and Money Spinner. (These last two I count as one, as they send a joint answer.) Rose and Simple Susan and Co. do not actually state that the hill-top was reached some time between 6 and 7, but, as they have clearly grasped the fact that a mile, ascended and descended, took the same time as two level miles, I mark them as "right." A Marlborough Boy and Putney Walker deserve honourable mention for their algebraical solutions being the only two who have perceived[81] that the question leads to an indeterminate equation. E. W. brings a charge of untruthfulness against the aged knight--a serious charge, for he was the very pink of chivalry! She says "According to the data given, the time at the summit affords no clue to the total distance. It does not enable us to state precisely to an inch how much level and how much hill there was on the road." "Fair damsel," the aged knight replies, "--if, as I surmise, thy initials denote Early Womanhood--bethink thee that the word 'enable' is thine, not mine. I did but ask the time of reaching the hill-top as my condition for further parley. If now thou wilt not grant that I am a truth-loving man, then will I affirm that those same initials denote Envenomed Wickedness!" CLASS LIST. I. A Marlborough Boy. Putney Walker. II. Blithe. E. W. L. B. O. V. L. Rose. Sea Breeze. {Simple Susan. {Money-Spinner. [82] Blithe has made so ingenious an addition to the problem, and Simple Susan and Co. have solved it in such tuneful verse, that I record both their answers in full. I have altered a word or two in Blithe's--which I trust she will excuse; it did not seem quite clear as it stood. "Yet stay," said the youth, as a gleam of inspiration lighted up the relaxing muscles of his quiescent features. "Stay. Methinks it matters little when we reached that summit, the crown of our toil. For in the space of time wherein we clambered up one mile and bounded down the same on our return, we could have trudged the twain on the level. We have plodded, then, four-and-twenty miles in these six mortal hours; for never a moment did we stop for catching of fleeting breath or for gazing on the scene around!" "Very good," said the old man. "Twelve miles out and twelve miles in. And we reached the top some time between six and seven of the clock. Now mark me! For every five minutes that had fled since six of the clock when we stood on yonder peak, so many miles had we toiled upwards on the dreary mountainside!" The youth moaned and rushed into the hostel. Blithe. [83] The elder and the younger knight, They sallied forth at three; How far they went on level ground It matters not to me; What time they reached the foot of hill, When they began to mount, Are problems which I hold to be Of very small account. The moment that each waved his hat Upon the topmost peak-- To trivial query such as this No answer will I seek. Yet can I tell the distance well They must have travelled o'er: On hill and plain, 'twixt three and nine, The miles were twenty-four. Four miles an hour their steady pace Along the level track, Three when they climbed--but six when they Came swiftly striding back Adown the hill; and little skill It needs, methinks, to show, Up hill and down together told, Four miles an hour they go. For whether long or short the time Upon the hill they spent, Two thirds were passed in going up, One third in the descent. Two thirds at three, one third at six, If rightly reckoned o'er, Will make one whole at four--the tale Is tangled now no more. Simple Susan. Money Spinner. [84] ANSWERS TO KNOT II. § 1. The Dinner Party. Problem.--"The Governor of Kgovjni wants to give a very small dinner party, and invites his father's brother-in-law, his brother's father-in-law, his father-in-law's brother, and his brother-in-law's father. Find the number of guests." Answer.--"One." In this genealogy, males are denoted by capitals, and females by small letters. The Governor is E and his guest is C. Ten answers have been received. Of these, one is wrong, Galanthus Nivalis Major, who insists on inviting two guests, one being the Governor's wife's brother's father. If she had taken his sister's husband's father instead, she would have found it possible to reduce the guests to one.[85] Of the nine who send right answers, Sea-Breeze is the very faintest breath that ever bore the name! She simply states that the Governor's uncle might fulfill all the conditions "by intermarriages"! "Wind of the western sea," you have had a very narrow escape! Be thankful to appear in the Class-list at all! Bog-Oak and Bradshaw of the Future use genealogies which require 16 people instead of 14, by inviting the Governor's father's sister's husband instead of his father's wife's brother. I cannot think this so good a solution as one that requires only 14. Caius and Valentine deserve special mention as the only two who have supplied genealogies. CLASS LIST. I. Bee. Caius. M. M. Matthew Matticks. Old Cat. Valentine. II. Bog-Oak. Bradshaw of the Future. III. Sea-Breeze. [86] § 2. The Lodgings. Problem.--"A Square has 20 doors on each side, which contains 21 equal parts. They are numbered all round, beginning at one corner. From which of the four, Nos. 9, 25, 52, 73, is the sum of the distances, to the other three, least?" Answer.--"From No. 9." Let A be No. 9, B No. 25, C No. 52, and D No. 73. Then AB = ?(122 + 52) = ?169 = 13; AC = 21; AD = ?(92 + 82) = ?145 = 12 + (N.B. i.e. "between 12 and 13.") BC = ?(162 + 122) = ?400 = 20; BD = ?(32 + 212) = ?450 = 21+; CD = ?(92 + 132) = ?250 = 15+; Hence sum of distances from A is between 46 and 47; from B, between 54 and 55; from C, between 56 and 57; from D, between 48 and 51. (Why not "between 48 and 49"? Make this out for yourselves.) Hence the sum is least for A. [87] Twenty-five solutions have been received. Of these, 15 must be marked "0," 5 are partly right, and 5 right. Of the 15, I may dismiss Alphabetical Phantom, Bog-Oak, Dinah Mite, Fifee, Galanthus Nivalis Major (I fear the cold spring has blighted our Snowdrop), Guy, H.M.S. Pinafore, Janet, and Valentine with the simple remark that they insist on the unfortunate lodgers keeping to the pavement. (I used the words "crossed to Number Seventy-three" for the special purpose of showing that short cuts were possible.) Sea-Breeze does the same, and adds that "the result would be the same" even if they crossed the Square, but gives no proof of this. M. M. draws a diagram, and says that No. 9 is the house, "as the diagram shows." I cannot see how it does so. Old Cat assumes that the house must be No. 9 or No. 73. She does not explain how she estimates the distances. Bee's Arithmetic is faulty: she makes ?169 + ?442 + ?130 = 741. (I suppose you mean ?741, which would be a little nearer the truth. But roots cannot be added in this manner. Do you think ?9 + ?16 is 25, or even ?25?) But Ayr's state is more perilous still: she draws illogical conclusions with a frightful calmness. After pointing out (rightly) that AC is less than BD she says, "therefore the nearest house to the other three must be A or C." And again, after pointing out (rightly) that B and D are both within the half-square containing[88] A, she says "therefore" AB + AD must be less than BC + CD. (There is no logical force in either "therefore." For the first, try Nos. 1, 21, 60, 70: this will make your premiss true, and your conclusion false. Similarly, for the second, try Nos. 1, 30, 51, 71.) Of the five partly-right solutions, Rags and Tatters and Mad Hatter (who send one answer between them) make No. 25 6 units from the corner instead of 5. Cheam, E. R. D. L., and Meggy Potts leave openings at the corners of the Square, which are not in the data: moreover Cheam gives values for the distances without any hint that they are only approximations. Crophi and Mophi make the bold and unfounded assumption that there were really 21 houses on each side, instead of 20 as stated by Balbus. "We may assume," they add, "that the doors of Nos. 21, 42, 63, 84, are invisible from the centre of the Square"! What is there, I wonder, that Crophi and Mophi would not assume? Of the five who are wholly right, I think Bradshaw Of the Future, Caius, Clifton C., and Martreb deserve special praise for their full analytical solutions. Matthew Matticks picks out No. 9, and proves it to be the right house in two ways, very neatly and ingeniously, but why he picks it out does not appear. It is an excellent synthetical proof, but lacks the analysis which the other four supply. [89] CLASS LIST. I. Bradshaw of the Future Caius. Clifton C. Martreb. II. Matthew Matticks. III. Cheam. Crophi and Mophi. E. R. D. L. Meggy Potts. {Rags and Tatters. {Mad Hatter. A remonstrance has reached me from Scrutator on the subject of Knot I., which he declares was "no problem at all." "Two questions," he says, "are put. To solve one there is no data: the other answers itself." As to the first point, Scrutator is mistaken; there are (not "is") data sufficient to answer the question. As to the other, it is interesting to know that the question "answers itself," and I am sure it does the question great credit: still I fear I cannot enter it on the list of winners, as this competition is only open to human beings. [90] ANSWERS TO KNOT III. Problem.--(1) "Two travellers, starting at the same time, went opposite ways round a circular railway. Trains start each way every 15 minutes, the easterly ones going round in 3 hours, the westerly in 2. How many trains did each meet on the way, not counting trains met at the terminus itself?" (2) "They went round, as before, each traveller counting as 'one' the train containing the other traveller. How many did each meet?" Answers.--(1) 19. (2) The easterly traveller met 12; the other 8. The trains one way took 180 minutes, the other way 120. Let us take the L. C. M., 360, and divide the railway into 360 units. Then one set of trains went at the rate of 2 units a minute and at intervals of 30 units; the other at the rate of 3 units a minute and at intervals of 45 units. An easterly train starting has 45 units between it and the first train it will meet: it does 2-5ths of this while the other does 3-5ths, and[91] thus meets it at the end of 18 units, and so all the way round. A westerly train starting has 30 units between it and the first train it will meet: it does 3-5ths of this while the other does 2-5ths, and thus meets it at the end of 18 units, and so all the way round. Hence if the railway be divided, by 19 posts, into 20 parts, each containing 18 units, trains meet at every post, and, in (1), each traveller passes 19 posts in going round, and so meets 19 trains. But, in (2), the easterly traveller only begins to count after traversing 2-5ths of the journey, i.e., on reaching the 8th post, and so counts 12 posts: similarly the other counts 8. They meet at the end of 2-5ths of 3 hours, or 3-5ths of 2 hours, i.e., 72 minutes. Forty-five answers have been received. Of these 12 are beyond the reach of discussion, as they give no working. I can but enumerate their names. Ardmore, E. A., F. A. D., L. D., Matthew Matticks, M. E. T., Poo-Poo, and The Red Queen are all wrong. Beta and Rowena have got (1) right and (2) wrong. Cheeky Bob and Nairam give the right answers, but it may perhaps make the one less cheeky, and induce the other to take a less inverted view of things, to be informed that, if this had been a competition for a[92] prize, they would have got no marks. [N.B.--I have not ventured to put E. A.'s name in full, as she only gave it provisionally, in case her answer should prove right.] Of the 33 answers for which the working is given, 10 are wrong; 11 half-wrong and half-right; 3 right, except that they cherish the delusion that it was Clara who travelled in the easterly train--a point which the data do not enable us to settle; and 9 wholly right. The 10 wrong answers are from Bo-Peep, Financier, I. W. T., Kate B., M. A. H., Q. Y. Z., Sea-Gull, Thistledown, Tom-Quad, and an unsigned one. Bo-Peep rightly says that the easterly traveller met all trains which started during the 3 hours of her trip, as well as all which started during the previous 2 hours, i.e., all which started at the commencements of 20 periods of 15 minutes each; and she is right in striking out the one she met at the moment of starting; but wrong in striking out the last train, for she did not meet this at the terminus, but 15 minutes before she got there. She makes the same mistake in (2). Financier thinks that any train, met for the second time, is not to be counted. I. W. T. finds, by a process which is not stated, that the travellers met at the end of 71 minutes and 26½ seconds. Kate B. thinks the trains which are met on starting and on arriving[93] are never to be counted, even when met elsewhere. Q. Y. Z. tries a rather complex algebraical solution, and succeeds in finding the time of meeting correctly: all else is wrong. Sea-Gull seems to think that, in (1), the easterly train stood still for 3 hours; and says that, in (2), the travellers met at the end of 71 minutes 40 seconds. Thistledown nobly confesses to having tried no calculation, but merely having drawn a picture of the railway and counted the trains; in (1), she counts wrong; in (2) she makes them meet in 75 minutes. Tom-Quad omits (1): in (2) he makes Clara count the train she met on her arrival. The unsigned one is also unintelligible; it states that the travellers go "1-24th more than the total distance to be traversed"! The "Clara" theory, already referred to, is adopted by 5 of these, viz., Bo-Peep, Financier, Kate B., Tom-Quad, and the nameless writer. The 11 half-right answers are from Bog-Oak, Bridget, Castor, Cheshire Cat, G. E. B., Guy, Mary, M. A. H., Old Maid, R. W., and Vendredi. All these adopt the "Clara" theory. Castor omits (1). Vendredi gets (1) right, but in (2) makes the same mistake as Bo-Peep. I notice in your solution a marvellous proportion-sum:--"300 miles: 2 hours :: one mile: 24 seconds." May I venture to advise your acquiring, as soon as possible, an utter disbelief in the possibility of a ratio[94] existing between miles and hours? Do not be disheartened by your two friends' sarcastic remarks on your "roundabout ways." Their short method, of adding 12 and 8, has the slight disadvantage of bringing the answer wrong: even a "roundabout" method is better than that! M. A. H., in (2), makes the travellers count "one" after they met, not when they met. Cheshire Cat and Old Maid get "20" as answer for (1), by forgetting to strike out the train met on arrival. The others all get "18" in various ways. Bog-Oak, Guy, and R. W. divide the trains which the westerly traveller has to meet into 2 sets, viz., those already on the line, which they (rightly) make "11," and those which started during her 2 hours' journey (exclusive of train met on arrival), which they (wrongly) make "7"; and they make a similar mistake with the easterly train. Bridget (rightly) says that the westerly traveller met a train every 6 minutes for 2 hours, but (wrongly) makes the number "20"; it should be "21." G. E. B. adopts Bo-Peep's method, but (wrongly) strikes out (for the easterly traveller) the train which started at the commencement of the previous 2 hours. Mary thinks a train, met on arrival, must not be counted, even when met on a previous occasion. The 3, who are wholly right but for the unfortunate "Clara" theory, are F. Lee, G. S. C., and X. A. B. And now "descend, ye classic Ten!" who have[95] solved the whole problem. Your names are Aix-les-Bains, Algernon Bray (thanks for a friendly remark, which comes with a heart-warmth that not even the Atlantic could chill), Arvon, Bradshaw of the Future, Fifee, H. L. R., J. L. O., Omega, S. S. G., and Waiting for the Train. Several of these have put Clara, provisionally, into the easterly train: but they seem to have understood that the data do not decide that point. CLASS LIST. I. Aix-les-Bains. Algernon Bray. Bradshaw of the Future. Fifee. H. L. R. Omega. S. S. G. Waiting for the train. II. Arvon. J. L. O. III. F. Lee. G. S. C. X. A. B. [96] ANSWERS TO KNOT IV. Problem.--"There are 5 sacks, of which Nos. 1, 2, weigh 12 lbs.; Nos. 2, 3, 13½ lbs.; Nos. 3, 4, 11½ lbs.; Nos. 4, 5, 8 lbs.; Nos. 1, 3, 5, 16 lbs. Required the weight of each sack." Answer.--"5½, 6½, 7, 4½, 3½." The sum of all the weighings, 61 lbs., includes sack No. 3 thrice and each other twice. Deducting twice the sum of the 1st and 4th weighings, we get 21 lbs. for thrice No. 3, i.e., 7 lbs. for No. 3. Hence, the 2nd and 3rd weighings give 6½ lbs., 4½ lbs. for Nos. 2, 4; and hence again, the 1st and 4th weighings give 5½ lbs., 3½ lbs., for Nos. 1, 5. Ninety-seven answers have been received. Of these, 15 are beyond the reach of discussion, as they give no working. I can but enumerate their names, and I take this opportunity of saying that this is the last time I shall put on record the names of competitors who give no[97] sort of clue to the process by which their answers were obtained. In guessing a conundrum, or in catching a flea, we do not expect the breathless victor to give us afterwards, in cold blood, a history of the mental or muscular efforts by which he achieved success; but a mathematical calculation is another thing. The names of this "mute inglorious" band are Common Sense, D. E. R., Douglas, E. L., Ellen, I. M. T., J. M. C., Joseph, Knot I, Lucy, Meek, M. F. C., Pyramus, Shah, Veritas. Of the eighty-two answers with which the working, or some approach to it, is supplied, one is wrong: seventeen have given solutions which are (from one cause or another) practically valueless: the remaining sixty-four I shall try to arrange in a Class-list, according to the varying degrees of shortness and neatness to which they seem to have attained. The solitary wrong answer is from Nell. To be thus "alone in the crowd" is a distinction--a painful one, no doubt, but still a distinction. I am sorry for you, my dear young lady, and I seem to hear your tearful exclamation, when you read these lines, "Ah! This is the knell of all my hopes!" Why, oh why, did you assume that the 4th and 5th bags weighed 4 lbs. each? And why did you not test your answers? However, please try again: and please don't change your nom-de-plume: let us have Nell in the First Class next time![98] The seventeen whose solutions are practically valueless are Ardmore, A ready Reckoner, Arthur, Bog-Lark, Bog-Oak, Bridget, First Attempt, J. L. C., M. E. T., Rose, Rowena, Sea-Breeze, Sylvia, Thistledown, Three-Fifths Asleep, Vendredi, and Winifred. Bog-Lark tries it by a sort of "rule of false," assuming experimentally that Nos. 1, 2, weigh 6 lbs. each, and having thus produced 17½, instead of 16, as the weight of 1, 3, and 5, she removes "the superfluous pound and a half," but does not explain how she knows from which to take it. Three-fifths Asleep says that (when in that peculiar state) "it seemed perfectly clear" to her that, "3 out of the 5 sacks being weighed twice over, 2/5 of 45 = 27, must be the total weight of the 5 sacks." As to which I can only say, with the Captain, "it beats me entirely!" Winifred, on the plea that "one must have a starting-point," assumes (what I fear is a mere guess) that No. 1 weighed 5½ lbs. The rest all do it, wholly or partly, by guess-work. The problem is of course (as any Algebraist sees at once) a case of "simultaneous simple equations." It is, however, easily soluble by Arithmetic only; and, when this is the case, I hold that it is bad workmanship to use the more complex method. I have not, this time, given more credit to arithmetical solutions; but in future problems I shall (other things being equal) give the[99] highest marks to those who use the simplest machinery. I have put into Class I. those whose answers seemed specially short and neat, and into Class III. those that seemed specially long or clumsy. Of this last set, A. C. M., Furze-Bush, James, Partridge, R. W., and Waiting for the Train, have sent long wandering solutions, the substitutions having no definite method, but seeming to have been made to see what would come of it. Chilpome and Dublin Boy omit some of the working. Arvon Marlborough Boy only finds the weight of one sack.[100] CLASS LIST I. B. E. D. C. H. Constance Johnson. Greystead. Guy. Hoopoe. J. F. A. M. A. H. Number Five. Pedro. R. E. X. Seven Old Men. Vis Inertiæ. Willy B. Yahoo. II. American Subscriber. An appreciative schoolma'am. Ayr. Bradshaw of the Future. Cheam. C. M. G. Dinah Mite. Duckwing. E. C. M. E. N. Lowry. Era. Euroclydon. F. H. W. Fifee. G. E. B. Harlequin. Hawthorn. Hough Green. J. A. B. Jack Tar. J. B. B. Kgovjni. Land Lubber. [101]L. D. Magpie. Mary. Mhruxi. Minnie. Money-Spinner. Nairam. Old Cat. Polichinelle. Simple Susan. S. S. G. Thisbe. Verena. Wamba. Wolfe. Wykehamicus. Y. M. A. H. III. A. C. M. Arvon Marlborough Boy. Chilpome. Dublin Boy. Furze-Bush. James. Partridge. R. W. Waiting for the Train. [102] ANSWERS TO KNOT V. Problem.--To mark pictures, giving 3 x's to 2 or 3, 2 to 4 or 5, and 1 to 9 or 10; also giving 3 o's to 1 or 2, 2 to 3 or 4 and 1 to 8 or 9; so as to mark the smallest possible number of pictures, and to give them the largest possible number of marks. Answer.--10 pictures; 29 marks; arranged thus:-- x x x x x x x x x o x x x x x o o o o x x o o o o o o o o Solution.--By giving all the x's possible, putting into brackets the optional ones, we get 10 pictures marked thus:-- x x x x x x x x x (x) x x x x (x) x x (x) By then assigning o's in the same way, beginning at the other end, we get 9 pictures marked thus:-- (o) o (o) o o o (o) o o o o o o o o All we have now to do is to run these two wedges[103] as close together as they will go, so as to get the minimum number of pictures----erasing optional marks where by so doing we can run them closer, but otherwise letting them stand. There are 10 necessary marks in the 1st row, and in the 3rd; but only 7 in the 2nd. Hence we erase all optional marks in the 1st and 3rd rows, but let them stand in the 2nd. Twenty-two answers have been received. Of these 11 give no working; so, in accordance with what I announced in my last review of answers, I leave them unnamed, merely mentioning that 5 are right and 6 wrong. Of the eleven answers with which some working is supplied, 3 are wrong. C. H. begins with the rash assertion that under the given conditions "the sum is impossible. For," he or she adds (these initialed correspondents are dismally vague beings to deal with: perhaps "it" would be a better pronoun), "10 is the least possible number of pictures" (granted): "therefore we must either give 2 x's to 6, or 2 o's to 5." Why "must," oh alphabetical phantom? It is nowhere ordained that every picture "must" have 3 marks! Fifee sends a folio page of solution, which deserved a better fate: she offers 3 answers, in each of which 10 pictures are[104] marked, with 30 marks; in one she gives 2 x's to 6 pictures; in another to 7; in the 3rd she gives 2 o's to 5; thus in every case ignoring the conditions. (I pause to remark that the condition "2 x's to 4 or 5 pictures" can only mean "either to 4 or else to 5": if, as one competitor holds, it might mean any number not less than 4, the words "or 5" would be superfluous.) I. E. A. (I am happy to say that none of these bloodless phantoms appear this time in the class-list. Is it IDEA with the "D" left out?) gives 2 x's to 6 pictures. She then takes me to task for using the word "ought" instead of "nought." No doubt, to one who thus rebels against the rules laid down for her guidance, the word must be distasteful. But does not I. E. A. remember the parallel case of "adder"? That creature was originally "a nadder": then the two words took to bandying the poor "n" backwards and forwards like a shuttlecock, the final state of the game being "an adder." May not "a nought" have similarly become "an ought"? Anyhow, "oughts and crosses" is a very old game. I don't think I ever heard it called "noughts and crosses." In the following Class-list, I hope the solitary occupant of III. will sheathe her claws when she hears how narrow an escape she has had of not being named at all. Her account of the process by which she got the answer is so meagre that, like the nursery tale of "Jack-a-Minory" (I[105] trust I. E. A. will be merciful to the spelling), it is scarcely to be distinguished from "zero." CLASS LIST. I. Guy. Old Cat. Sea-Breeze. II. Ayr. Bradshaw of the Future. F. Lee. H. Vernon. III. Cat. [106] ANSWERS TO KNOT VI. Problem 1.--A and B began the year with only 1,000l. a-piece. They borrowed nought; they stole nought. On the next New-Year's Day they had 60,000l. between them. How did they do it? Solution.--They went that day to the Bank of England. A stood in front of it, while B went round and stood behind it. Two answers have been received, both worthy of much honour. Addlepate makes them borrow "0" and steal "0," and uses both cyphers by putting them at the right-hand end of the 1,000l., thus producing 100,000l., which is well over the mark. But (or to express it in Latin) At Spes infracta has solved it even more ingeniously: with the first cypher she turns the "1" of the 1,000l. into a "9," and adds the result to the original sum, thus getting 10,000l.: and in this, by means of the other "0," she turns the "1" into a "6," thus hitting the exact 60,000l.[107] CLASS LIST I. At Spes Infracta. II. Addlepate. Problem 2.--L makes 5 scarves, while M makes 2: Z makes 4 while L makes 3. Five scarves of Z's weigh one of L's; 5 of M's weigh 3 of Z's. One of M's is as warm as 4 of Z's: and one of L's as warm as 3 of M's. Which is best, giving equal weight in the result to rapidity of work, lightness, and warmth? Answer.--The order is M, L, Z. Solution.--As to rapidity (other things being constant) L's merit is to M's in the ratio of 5 to 2: Z's to L's in the ratio of 4 to 3. In order to get one set of 3 numbers fulfilling these conditions, it is perhaps simplest to take the one that occurs twice as unity, and reduce the others to fractions: this gives, for L, M, and Z, the marks 1, 2/5, 2/3. In estimating for lightness, we observe that the greater the weight, the less the merit, so that Z's merit is to L's as 5 to 1. Thus the marks for lightness are 1/5, 2/3, 1. And similarly, the marks for warmth are 3, 1, ¼. To get the[108] total result, we must multiply L's 3 marks together, and do the same for M and for Z. The final numbers are 1 × 1/5 × 3, 2/5 × 2/3 × 1, 2/3 × 1 × ¼; i.e. 3/5, 2/3, 1/3; i.e. multiplying throughout by 15 (which will not alter the proportion), 9, 10, 5; showing the order of merit to be M, L, Z. Twenty-nine answers have been received, of which five are right, and twenty-four wrong. These hapless ones have all (with three exceptions) fallen into the error of adding the proportional numbers together, for each candidate, instead of multiplying. Why the latter is right, rather than the former, is fully proved in text-books, so I will not occupy space by stating it here: but it can be illustrated very easily by the case of length, breadth, and depth. Suppose A and B are rival diggers of rectangular tanks: the amount of work done is evidently measured by the number of cubical feet dug out. Let A dig a tank 10 feet long, 10 wide, 2 deep: let B dig one 6 feet long, 5 wide, 10 deep. The cubical contents are 200, 300; i.e. B is best digger in the ratio of 3 to 2. Now try marking for length, width, and depth, separately; giving a maximum mark of 10 to the best in each contest, and then adding the results! Of the twenty-four malefactors, one gives no working, and so has no real claim to be named; but I break the rule for once, in deference to its success in Problem 1:[109] he, she, or it, is Addlepate. The other twenty-three may be divided into five groups. First and worst are, I take it, those who put the rightful winner last; arranging them as "Lolo, Zuzu, Mimi." The names of these desperate wrong-doers are Ayr, Bradshaw of the Future, Furze-bush and Pollux (who send a joint answer), Greystead, Guy, Old Hen, and Simple Susan. The latter was once best of all; the Old Hen has taken advantage of her simplicity, and beguiled her with the chaff which was the bane of her own chickenhood. Secondly, I point the finger of scorn at those who have put the worst candidate at the top; arranging them as "Zuzu, Mimi, Lolo." They are Graecia, M. M., Old Cat, and R. E. X. "'Tis Greece, but----." The third set have avoided both these enormities, and have even succeeded in putting the worst last, their answer being "Lolo, Mimi, Zuzu." Their names are Ayr (who also appears among the "quite too too"), Clifton C., F. B., Fifee, Grig, Janet, and Mrs. Sairey Gamp. F. B. has not fallen into the common error; she multiplies together the proportionate numbers she gets, but in getting them she goes wrong, by reckoning warmth as a de-merit. Possibly she is "Freshly Burnt," or comes "From Bombay." Janet and Mrs. Sairey Gamp have also avoided this error: the method they have adopted is[110] shrouded in mystery--I scarcely feel competent to criticize it. Mrs. Gamp says "if Zuzu makes 4 while Lolo makes 3, Zuzu makes 6 while Lolo makes 5 (bad reasoning), while Mimi makes 2." From this she concludes "therefore Zuzu excels in speed by 1" (i.e. when compared with Lolo; but what about Mimi?). She then compares the 3 kinds of excellence, measured on this mystic scale. Janet takes the statement, that "Lolo makes 5 while Mimi makes 2," to prove that "Lolo makes 3 while Mimi makes 1 and Zuzu 4" (worse reasoning than Mrs. Gamp's), and thence concludes that "Zuzu excels in speed by 1/8"! Janet should have been Adeline, "mystery of mysteries!" The fourth set actually put Mimi at the top, arranging them as "Mimi, Zuzu, Lolo." They are Marquis and Co., Martreb, S. B. B. (first initial scarcely legible: may be meant for "J"), and Stanza. The fifth set consist of An ancient Fish and Camel. These ill-assorted comrades, by dint of foot and fin, have scrambled into the right answer, but, as their method is wrong, of course it counts for nothing. Also An ancient Fish has very ancient and fishlike ideas as to how numbers represent merit: she says "Lolo gains 2½ on Mimi." Two and a half what? Fish, fish, art thou in thy duty? Of the five winners I put Balbus and The elder Traveller slightly below the other three--Balbus for[111] defective reasoning, the other for scanty working. Balbus gives two reasons for saying that addition of marks is not the right method, and then adds "it follows that the decision must be made by multiplying the marks together." This is hardly more logical than to say "This is not Spring: therefore it must be Autumn." CLASS LIST. I. Dinah Mite. E. B. D. L. Joram. II. Balbus. The Elder Traveller. With regard to Knot V., I beg to express to Vis Inertiæ and to any others who, like her, understood the condition to be that every marked picture must have three marks, my sincere regret that the unfortunate phrase "fill the columns with oughts and crosses" should have caused them to waste so much time and trouble. I can only repeat that a literal interpretation of "fill" would seem to me to require that every picture in the gallery should be marked. Vis Inertiæ would have been in the First Class if she had sent in the solution she now offers. [112] ANSWERS TO KNOT VII. Problem.--Given that one glass of lemonade, 3 sandwiches, and 7 biscuits, cost 1s. 2d.; and that one glass of lemonade, 4 sandwiches, and 10 biscuits, cost 1s. 5d.: find the cost of (1) a glass of lemonade, a sandwich, and a biscuit; and (2) 2 glasses of lemonade, 3 sandwiches, and 5 biscuits. Answer.--(1) 8d.; (2) 1s. 7d. Solution.--This is best treated algebraically. Let x = the cost (in pence) of a glass of lemonade, y of a sandwich, and z of a biscuit. Then we have x + 3y + 7z = 14, and x + 4y + 10z = 17. And we require the values of x + y + z, and of 2x + 3y + 5z. Now, from two equations only, we cannot find, separately, the values of three unknowns: certain combinations of them may, however, be found. Also we know that we can, by the help of the given equations, eliminate 2 of the 3 unknowns from the quantity whose value is required, which will then contain one only. If, then, the required value is ascertainable at all, it can only be by the 3rd unknown vanishing of itself: otherwise the problem is impossible.[113] Let us then eliminate lemonade and sandwiches, and reduce everything to biscuits--a state of things even more depressing than "if all the world were apple-pie"--by subtracting the 1st equation from the 2nd, which eliminates lemonade, and gives y + 3z = 3, or y = 3-3z; and then substituting this value of y in the 1st, which gives x-2z = 5, i.e. x = 5 + 2z. Now if we substitute these values of x, y, in the quantities whose values are required, the first becomes (5 + 2z) + (3-3z) + z, i.e. 8: and the second becomes 2(5 + 2z) + 3(3-3z) + 5z, i.e. 19. Hence the answers are (1) 8d., (2) 1s. 7d. The above is a universal method: that is, it is absolutely certain either to produce the answer, or to prove that no answer is possible. The question may also be solved by combining the quantities whose values are given, so as to form those whose values are required. This is merely a matter of ingenuity and good luck: and as it may fail, even when the thing is possible, and is of no use in proving it impossible, I cannot rank this method as equal in value with the other. Even when it succeeds, it may prove a very tedious process. Suppose the 26 competitors, who have sent in what I may call accidental solutions, had had a question to deal with where every number contained 8 or 10 digits! I suspect it would have been a case of "silvered is the raven hair" (see[114] "Patience") before any solution would have been hit on by the most ingenious of them. Forty-five answers have come in, of which 44 give, I am happy to say, some sort of working, and therefore deserve to be mentioned by name, and to have their virtues, or vices as the case may be, discussed. Thirteen have made assumptions to which they have no right, and so cannot figure in the Class-list, even though, in 10 of the 13 cases, the answer is right. Of the remaining 28, no less than 26 have sent in accidental solutions, and therefore fall short of the highest honours. I will now discuss individual cases, taking the worst first, as my custom is. Froggy gives no working--at least this is all he gives: after stating the given equations, he says "therefore the difference, 1 sandwich + 3 biscuits, = 3d.": then follow the amounts of the unknown bills, with no further hint as to how he got them. Froggy has had a very narrow escape of not being named at all! Of those who are wrong, Vis Inertiæ has sent in a piece of incorrect working. Peruse the horrid details, and shudder! She takes x (call it "y") as the cost of a sandwich, and concludes (rightly enough) that a biscuit will cost (3-y)/3. She then subtracts the second equation from the first, and deduces 3y + 7 × (3-y)/3-4y + 10 × (3-y)/3 = 3.[115] By making two mistakes in this line, she brings out y = 2/2. Try it again, oh Vis Inertiæ! Away with Inertiæ: infuse a little more Vis: and you will bring out the correct (though uninteresting) result, 0 = 0! This will show you that it is hopeless to try to coax any one of these 3 unknowns to reveal its separate value. The other competitor, who is wrong throughout, is either J. M. C. or T. M. C.: but, whether he be a Juvenile Mis-Calculator or a True Mathematician Confused, he makes the answers 7d. and 1s. 5d. He assumes, with Too Much Confidence, that biscuits were ½d. each, and that Clara paid for 8, though she only ate 7! We will now consider the 13 whose working is wrong, though the answer is right: and, not to measure their demerits too exactly, I will take them in alphabetical order. Anita finds (rightly) that "1 sandwich and 3 biscuits cost 3d.," and proceeds "therefore 1 sandwich = 1½d., 3 biscuits = 1½d., 1 lemonade = 6d." Dinah Mite begins like Anita: and thence proves (rightly) that a biscuit costs less than a 1d.: whence she concludes (wrongly) that it must cost ½d. F. C. W. is so beautifully resigned to the certainty of a verdict of "guilty," that I have hardly the heart to utter the word, without adding a "recommended to mercy owing to extenuating circumstances." But really, you know, where are the extenuating[116] circumstances? She begins by assuming that lemonade is 4d. a glass, and sandwiches 3d. each, (making with the 2 given equations, four conditions to be fulfilled by three miserable unknowns!). And, having (naturally) developed this into a contradiction, she then tries 5d. and 2d. with a similar result. (N.B. This process might have been carried on through the whole of the Tertiary Period, without gratifying one single Megatherium.) She then, by a "happy thought," tries half-penny biscuits, and so obtains a consistent result. This may be a good solution, viewing the problem as a conundrum: but it is not scientific. Janet identifies sandwiches with biscuits! "One sandwich + 3 biscuits" she makes equal to "4." Four what? Mayfair makes the astounding assertion that the equation, s + 3b = 3, "is evidently only satisfied by s = 2/2, b = ½"! Old Cat believes that the assumption that a sandwich costs 1½d. is "the only way to avoid unmanageable fractions." But why avoid them? Is there not a certain glow of triumph in taming such a fraction? "Ladies and gentlemen, the fraction now before you is one that for years defied all efforts of a refining nature: it was, in a word, hopelessly vulgar. Treating it as a circulating decimal (the treadmill of fractions) only made matters worse. As a last resource, I reduced it to its lowest terms, and extracted its square root!" Joking[117] apart, let me thank Old Cat for some very kind words of sympathy, in reference to a correspondent (whose name I am happy to say I have now forgotten) who had found fault with me as a discourteous critic. O. V. L. is beyond my comprehension. He takes the given equations as (1) and (2): thence, by the process [(2)-(1)] deduces (rightly) equation (3) viz. s + 3b = 3: and thence again, by the process [x3] (a hopeless mystery), deduces 3s + 4b = 4. I have nothing to say about it: I give it up. Sea-Breeze says "it is immaterial to the answer" (why?) "in what proportion 3d. is divided between the sandwich and the 3 biscuits": so she assumes s = l½d., b = ½d. Stanza is one of a very irregular metre. At first she (like Janet) identifies sandwiches with biscuits. She then tries two assumptions (s = 1, b = 2/3, and s = ½ b = 2/6), and (naturally) ends in contradictions. Then she returns to the first assumption, and finds the 3 unknowns separately: quod est absurdum. Stiletto identifies sandwiches and biscuits, as "articles." Is the word ever used by confectioners? I fancied "What is the next article, Ma'am?" was limited to linendrapers. Two Sisters first assume that biscuits are 4 a penny, and then that they are 2 a penny, adding that "the answer will of course be the same in both cases." It is a dreamy[118] remark, making one feel something like Macbeth grasping at the spectral dagger. "Is this a statement that I see before me?" If you were to say "we both walked the same way this morning," and I were to say "one of you walked the same way, but the other didn't," which of the three would be the most hopelessly confused? Turtle Pyate (what is a Turtle Pyate, please?) and Old Crow, who send a joint answer, and Y. Y., adopt the same method. Y. Y. gets the equation s + 3b = 3: and then says "this sum must be apportioned in one of the three following ways." It may be, I grant you: but Y. Y. do you say "must"? I fear it is possible for Y. Y. to be two Y's. The other two conspirators are less positive: they say it "can" be so divided: but they add "either of the three prices being right"! This is bad grammar and bad arithmetic at once, oh mysterious birds! Of those who win honours, The Shetland Snark must have the 3rd class all to himself. He has only answered half the question, viz. the amount of Clara's luncheon: the two little old ladies he pitilessly leaves in the midst of their "difficulty." I beg to assure him (with thanks for his friendly remarks) that entrance-fees and subscriptions are things unknown in that most economical of clubs, "The Knot-Untiers." The authors of the 26 "accidental" solutions differ only in the number of steps they have taken between the[119] data and the answers. In order to do them full justice I have arranged the 2nd class in sections, according to the number of steps. The two Kings are fearfully deliberate! I suppose walking quick, or taking short cuts, is inconsistent with kingly dignity: but really, in reading Theseus' solution, one almost fancied he was "marking time," and making no advance at all! The other King will, I hope, pardon me for having altered "Coal" into "Cole." King Coilus, or Coil, seems to have reigned soon after Arthur's time. Henry of Huntingdon identifies him with the King Coël who first built walls round Colchester, which was named after him. In the Chronicle of Robert of Gloucester we read:-- "Aftur Kyng Aruirag, of wam we habbeth y told, Marius ys sone was kyng, quoynte mon & bold. And ys sone was aftur hym, Coil was ys name, Bothe it were quoynte men, & of noble fame." Balbus lays it down as a general principle that "in order to ascertain the cost of any one luncheon, it must come to the same amount upon two different assumptions." (Query. Should not "it" be "we"? Otherwise the luncheon is represented as wishing to ascertain its own cost!) He then makes two assumptions--one, that sandwiches cost nothing; the other, that biscuits cost nothing, (either arrangement would lead to the shop being inconveniently crowded!)--and brings out the unknown[120] luncheons as 8d. and 19d., on each assumption. He then concludes that this agreement of results "shows that the answers are correct." Now I propose to disprove his general law by simply giving one instance of its failing. One instance is quite enough. In logical language, in order to disprove a "universal affirmative," it is enough to prove its contradictory, which is a "particular negative." (I must pause for a digression on Logic, and especially on Ladies' Logic. The universal affirmative "everybody says he's a duck" is crushed instantly by proving the particular negative "Peter says he's a goose," which is equivalent to "Peter does not say he's a duck." And the universal negative "nobody calls on her" is well met by the particular affirmative "I called yesterday." In short, either of two contradictories disproves the other: and the moral is that, since a particular proposition is much more easily proved than a universal one, it is the wisest course, in arguing with a Lady, to limit one's own assertions to "particulars," and leave her to prove the "universal" contradictory, if she can. You will thus generally secure a logical victory: a practical victory is not to be hoped for, since she can always fall back upon the crushing remark "that has nothing to do with it!"--a move for which Man has not yet discovered any satisfactory answer. Now let us return to Balbus.) Here is my "particular negative," on which to test his rule. Suppose the two[121] recorded luncheons to have been "2 buns, one queen-cake, 2 sausage-rolls, and a bottle of Zoëdone: total, one-and-ninepence," and "one bun, 2 queen-cakes, a sausage-roll, and a bottle of Zoëdone: total, one-and-fourpence." And suppose Clara's unknown luncheon to have been "3 buns, one queen-cake, one sausage-roll, and 2 bottles of Zoëdone:" while the two little sisters had been indulging in "8 buns, 4 queen-cakes, 2 sausage-rolls, and 6 bottles of Zoëdone." (Poor souls, how thirsty they must have been!) If Balbus will kindly try this by his principle of "two assumptions," first assuming that a bun is 1d. and a queen-cake 2d., and then that a bun is 3d. and a queen-cake 3d., he will bring out the other two luncheons, on each assumption, as "one-and-nine-pence" and "four-and-ten-pence" respectively, which harmony of results, he will say, "shows that the answers are correct." And yet, as a matter of fact, the buns were 2d. each, the queen-cakes 3d., the sausage-rolls 6d., and the Zoëdone 2d. a bottle: so that Clara's third luncheon had cost one-and-sevenpence, and her thirsty friends had spent four-and-fourpence! Another remark of Balbus I will quote and discuss: for I think that it also may yield a moral for some of my readers. He says "it is the same thing in substance whether in solving this problem we use words and call it Arithmetic, or use letters and signs and call it Algebra."[122] Now this does not appear to me a correct description of the two methods: the Arithmetical method is that of "synthesis" only; it goes from one known fact to another, till it reaches its goal: whereas the Algebraical method is that of "analysis": it begins with the goal, symbolically represented, and so goes backwards, dragging its veiled victim with it, till it has reached the full daylight of known facts, in which it can tear off the veil and say "I know you!" Take an illustration. Your house has been broken into and robbed, and you appeal to the policeman who was on duty that night. "Well, Mum, I did see a chap getting out over your garden-wall: but I was a good bit off, so I didn't chase him, like. I just cut down the short way to the Chequers, and who should I meet but Bill Sykes, coming full split round the corner. So I just ups and says 'My lad, you're wanted.' That's all I says. And he says 'I'll go along quiet, Bobby,' he says, 'without the darbies,' he says." There's your Arithmetical policeman. Now try the other method. "I seed somebody a running, but he was well gone or ever I got nigh the place. So I just took a look round in the garden. And I noticed the foot-marks, where the chap had come right across your flower-beds. They was good big foot-marks sure-ly. And I noticed as the left foot went down at the heel, ever so much deeper than the other. And I says to myself[123] 'The chap's been a big hulking chap: and he goes lame on his left foot.' And I rubs my hand on the wall where he got over, and there was soot on it, and no mistake. So I says to myself 'Now where can I light on a big man, in the chimbley-sweep line, what's lame of one foot?' And I flashes up permiscuous: and I says 'It's Bill Sykes!' says I." There is your Algebraical policeman--a higher intellectual type, to my thinking, than the other. Little Jack's solution calls for a word of praise, as he has written out what really is an algebraical proof in words, without representing any of his facts as equations. If it is all his own, he will make a good algebraist in the time to come. I beg to thank Simple Susan for some kind words of sympathy, to the same effect as those received from Old Cat. Hecla and Martreb are the only two who have used a method certain either to produce the answer, or else to prove it impossible: so they must share between them the highest honours.[124] CLASS LIST. I. Hecla. Martreb. II. § 1 (2 steps). Adelaide. Clifton C.... E. K. C. Guy. L'Inconnu. Little Jack. Nil desperandum. Simple Susan. Yellow-Hammer. Woolly One. § 2 (3 steps). A. A. A Christmas Carol. Afternoon Tea. An appreciative Schoolma'am. Baby. Balbus. Bog-Oak. The Red Queen. Wall-flower. § 3 (4 steps). Hawthorn. Joram. S. S. G. § 4 (5 steps). A Stepney Coach. § 5 (6 steps). Bay Laurel. Bradshaw of the Future. § 6 (9 steps). Old King Cole. § 7 (14 steps). Theseus. [125] ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. I have received several letters on the subjects of Knots II. and VI., which lead me to think some further explanation desirable. In Knot II., I had intended the numbering of the houses to begin at one corner of the Square, and this was assumed by most, if not all, of the competitors. Trojanus however says "assuming, in default of any information, that the street enters the square in the middle of each side, it may be supposed that the numbering begins at a street." But surely the other is the more natural assumption? In Knot VI., the first Problem was of course a mere jeu de mots, whose presence I thought excusable in a series of Problems whose aim is to entertain rather than to instruct: but it has not escaped the contemptuous criticisms of two of my correspondents, who seem to think that Apollo is in duty bound to keep his bow always on the stretch. Neither of them has guessed it: and this is true human nature. Only the other day--the 31st of September, to be quite exact--I met my old friend Brown, and gave him a riddle I had just heard. With one great effort of his colossal mind, Brown guessed it. "Right!" said I. "Ah," said[126] he, "it's very neat--very neat. And it isn't an answer that would occur to everybody. Very neat indeed." A few yards further on, I fell in with Smith and to him I propounded the same riddle. He frowned over it for a minute, and then gave it up. Meekly I faltered out the answer. "A poor thing, sir!" Smith growled, as he turned away. "A very poor thing! I wonder you care to repeat such rubbish!" Yet Smith's mind is, if possible, even more colossal than Brown's. The second Problem of Knot VI. is an example in ordinary Double Rule of Three, whose essential feature is that the result depends on the variation of several elements, which are so related to it that, if all but one be constant, it varies as that one: hence, if none be constant, it varies as their product. Thus, for example, the cubical contents of a rectangular tank vary as its length, if breadth and depth be constant, and so on; hence, if none be constant, it varies as the product of the length, breadth, and depth. When the result is not thus connected with the varying elements, the Problem ceases to be Double Rule of Three and often becomes one of great complexity. To illustrate this, let us take two candidates for a prize, A and B, who are to compete in French, German, and Italian: (a) Let it be laid down that the result is to depend[127] on their relative knowledge of each subject, so that, whether their marks, for French, be "1, 2" or "100, 200," the result will be the same: and let it also be laid down that, if they get equal marks on 2 papers, the final marks are to have the same ratio as those of the 3rd paper. This is a case of ordinary Double Rule of Three. We multiply A's 3 marks together, and do the same for B. Note that, if A gets a single "0," his final mark is "0," even if he gets full marks for 2 papers while B gets only one mark for each paper. This of course would be very unfair on A, though a correct solution under the given conditions. (b) The result is to depend, as before, on relative knowledge; but French is to have twice as much weight as German or Italian. This is an unusual form of question. I should be inclined to say "the resulting ratio is to be nearer to the French ratio than if we multiplied as in (a), and so much nearer that it would be necessary to use the other multipliers twice to produce the same result as in (a):" e.g. if the French Ratio were 2/10, and the others 2/9, 1/9 so that the ultimate ratio, by method (a), would be 2/45, I should multiply instead by 2/3, 1/3, giving the result, 1/3 which is nearer to 2/10 than if he had used method (a). (c) The result is to depend on actual amount of knowledge of the 3 subjects collectively. Here we have[128] to ask two questions. (1) What is to be the "unit" (i.e. "standard to measure by") in each subject? (2) Are these units to be of equal, or unequal value? The usual "unit" is the knowledge shown by answering the whole paper correctly; calling this "100," all lower amounts are represented by numbers between "0" and "100." Then, if these units are to be of equal value, we simply add A's 3 marks together, and do the same for B. (d) The conditions are the same as (c), but French is to have double weight. Here we simply double the French marks, and add as before. (e) French is to have such weight, that, if other marks be equal, the ultimate ratio is to be that of the French paper, so that a "0" in this would swamp the candidate: but the other two subjects are only to affect the result collectively, by the amount of knowledge shown, the two being reckoned of equal value. Here I should add A's German and Italian marks together, and multiply by his French mark. But I need not go on: the problem may evidently be set with many varying conditions, each requiring its own method of solution. The Problem in Knot VI. was meant to belong to variety (a), and to make this clear, I inserted the following passage: "Usually the competitors differ in one point only. Thus, last year, Fifi and Gogo made the same number of[129] scarves in the trial week, and they were equally light; but Fifi's were twice as warm as Gogo's, and she was pronounced twice as good." What I have said will suffice, I hope, as an answer to Balbus, who holds that (a) and (c) are the only possible varieties of the problem, and that to say "We cannot use addition, therefore we must be intended to use multiplication," is "no more illogical than, from knowledge that one was not born in the night, to infer that he was born in the daytime"; and also to Fifee, who says "I think a little more consideration will show you that our 'error of adding the proportional numbers together for each candidate instead of multiplying' is no error at all." Why, even if addition had been the right method to use, not one of the writers (I speak from memory) showed any consciousness of the necessity of fixing a "unit" for each subject. "No error at all!" They were positively steeped in error! One correspondent (I do not name him, as the communication is not quite friendly in tone) writes thus:--"I wish to add, very respectfully, that I think it would be in better taste if you were to abstain from the very trenchant expressions which you are accustomed to indulge in when criticising the answer. That such a tone must not be" ("be not"?) "agreeable to[130] the persons concerned who have made mistakes may possibly have no great weight with you, but I hope you will feel that it would be as well not to employ it, unless you are quite certain of being correct yourself." The only instances the writer gives of the "trenchant expressions" are "hapless" and "malefactors." I beg to assure him (and any others who may need the assurance: I trust there are none) that all such words have been used in jest, and with no idea that they could possibly annoy any one, and that I sincerely regret any annoyance I may have thus inadvertently given. May I hope that in future they will recognise the distinction between severe language used in sober earnest, and the "words of unmeant bitterness," which Coleridge has alluded to in that lovely passage beginning "A little child, a limber elf"? If the writer will refer to that passage, or to the preface to "Fire, Famine, and Slaughter," he will find the distinction, for which I plead, far better drawn out than I could hope to do in any words of mine. The writer's insinuation that I care not how much annoyance I give to my readers I think it best to pass over in silence; but to his concluding remark I must entirely demur. I hold that to use language likely to annoy any of my correspondents would not be in the least justified by the plea that I was "quite certain of[131] being correct." I trust that the knot-untiers and I are not on such terms as those! I beg to thank G. B. for the offer of a puzzle--which, however, is too like the old one "Make four 9's into 100." [132] ANSWERS TO KNOT VIII. § 1. The Pigs. Problem.--Place twenty-four pigs in four sties so that, as you go round and round, you may always find the number in each sty nearer to ten than the number in the last. Answer.--Place 8 pigs in the first sty, 10 in the second, nothing in the third, and 6 in the fourth: 10 is nearer ten than 8; nothing is nearer ten than 10; 6 is nearer ten than nothing; and 8 is nearer ten than 6. This problem is noticed by only two correspondents. Balbus says "it certainly cannot be solved mathematically, nor do I see how to solve it by any verbal quibble." Nolens Volens makes Her Radiancy change the direction of going round; and even then is obliged to add "the pigs must be carried in front of her"! § 2. The Grurmstipths. Problem.--Omnibuses start from a certain point, both ways, every 15 minutes. A traveller, starting on[133] foot along with one of them, meets one in 12½ minutes: when will he be overtaken by one? Answer.--In 6¼ minutes. Solution.--Let "a" be the distance an omnibus goes in 15 minutes, and "x" the distance from the starting-point to where the traveller is overtaken. Since the omnibus met is due at the starting-point in 2½ minutes, it goes in that time as far as the traveller walks in 12½; i.e. it goes 5 times as fast. Now the overtaking omnibus is "a" behind the traveller when he starts, and therefore goes "a + x" while he goes "x." Hence a + x = 5x; i.e. 4x = a, and x = a/4. This distance would be traversed by an omnibus in 15/4 minutes, and therefore by the traveller in 5 × 15/4. Hence he is overtaken in 18¾ minutes after starting, i.e. in 6¼ minutes after meeting the omnibus. Four answers have been received, of which two are wrong. Dinah Mite rightly states that the overtaking omnibus reached the point where they met the other omnibus 5 minutes after they left, but wrongly concludes that, going 5 times as fast, it would overtake them in another minute. The travellers are 5-minutes-walk ahead[134] of the omnibus, and must walk 1-4th of this distance farther before the omnibus overtakes them, which will be 1-5th of the distance traversed by the omnibus in the same time: this will require 1¼ minutes more. Nolens Volens tries it by a process like "Achilles and the Tortoise." He rightly states that, when the overtaking omnibus leaves the gate, the travellers are 1-5th of "a" ahead, and that it will take the omnibus 3 minutes to traverse this distance; "during which time" the travellers, he tells us, go 1-15th of "a" (this should be 1-25th). The travellers being now 1-15th of "a" ahead, he concludes that the work remaining to be done is for the travellers to go 1-60th of "a," while the omnibus goes l-12th. The principle is correct, and might have been applied earlier. CLASS LIST. I. Balbus. Delta. [135] ANSWERS TO KNOT IX. § 1. The Buckets. Problem.--Lardner states that a solid, immersed in a fluid, displaces an amount equal to itself in bulk. How can this be true of a small bucket floating in a larger one? Solution.--Lardner means, by "displaces," "occupies a space which might be filled with water without any change in the surroundings." If the portion of the floating bucket, which is above the water, could be annihilated, and the rest of it transformed into water, the surrounding water would not change its position: which agrees with Lardner's statement. Five answers have been received, none of which explains the difficulty arising from the well-known fact that a floating body is the same weight as the displaced fluid. Hecla says that "only that portion of the smaller bucket which descends below the original level of the water can be properly said to be immersed, and only an equal bulk of water is displaced." Hence, according to[136] Hecla, a solid, whose weight was equal to that of an equal bulk of water, would not float till the whole of it was below "the original level" of the water: but, as a matter of fact, it would float as soon as it was all under water. Magpie says the fallacy is "the assumption that one body can displace another from a place where it isn't," and that Lardner's assertion is incorrect, except when the containing vessel "was originally full to the brim." But the question of floating depends on the present state of things, not on past history. Old King Cole takes the same view as Hecla. Tympanum and Vindex assume that "displaced" means "raised above its original level," and merely explain how it comes to pass that the water, so raised, is less in bulk than the immersed portion of bucket, and thus land themselves--or rather set themselves floating--in the same boat as Hecla. I regret that there is no Class-list to publish for this Problem. § 2. Balbus' Essay. Problem.--Balbus states that if a certain solid be immersed in a certain vessel of water, the water will rise through a series of distances, two inches, one inch, half an inch, &c., which series has no end. He concludes that the water will rise without limit. Is this true? Solution.--No. This series can never reach 4 inches,[137] since, however many terms we take, we are always short of 4 inches by an amount equal to the last term taken. Three answers have been received--but only two seem to me worthy of honours. Tympanum says that the statement about the stick "is merely a blind, to which the old answer may well be applied, solvitur ambulando, or rather mergendo." I trust Tympanum will not test this in his own person, by taking the place of the man in Balbus' Essay! He would infallibly be drowned. Old King Cole rightly points out that the series, 2, 1, &c., is a decreasing Geometrical Progression: while Vindex rightly identifies the fallacy as that of "Achilles and the Tortoise." CLASS LIST. I. Old King Cole. Vindex. § 3. The Garden. Problem.--An oblong garden, half a yard longer than wide, consists entirely of a gravel-walk, spirally arranged, a yard wide and 3,630 yards long. Find the dimensions of the garden.[138] Answer.--60, 60½. Solution.--The number of yards and fractions of a yard traversed in walking along a straight piece of walk, is evidently the same as the number of square-yards and fractions of a square-yard, contained in that piece of walk: and the distance, traversed in passing through a square-yard at a corner, is evidently a yard. Hence the area of the garden is 3,630 square-yards: i.e., if x be the width, x (x + ½) = 3,630. Solving this Quadratic, we find x = 60. Hence the dimensions are 60, 60½. Twelve answers have been received--seven right and five wrong. C. G. L., Nabob, Old Crow, and Tympanum assume that the number of yards in the length of the path is equal to the number of square-yards in the garden. This is true, but should have been proved. But each is guilty of darker deeds. C. G. L.'s "working" consists of dividing 3,630 by 60. Whence came this divisor, oh Segiel? Divination? Or was it a dream? I fear this solution is worth nothing. Old Crow's is shorter, and so (if possible) worth rather less. He says the answer "is at once seen to be 60 × 60½"! Nabob's calculation is short, but "as rich as a Nabob" in error. He says that the square root of 3,630, multiplied by 2, equals the[139] length plus the breadth. That is 60.25 × 2 = 120½. His first assertion is only true of a square garden. His second is irrelevant, since 60.25 is not the square-root of 3,630! Nay, Bob, this will not do! Tympanum says that, by extracting the square-root of 3,630, we get 60 yards with a remainder of 30/60, or half-a-yard, which we add so as to make the oblong 60 × 60½. This is very terrible: but worse remains behind. Tympanum proceeds thus:--"But why should there be the half-yard at all? Because without it there would be no space at all for flowers. By means of it, we find reserved in the very centre a small plot of ground, two yards long by half-a-yard wide, the only space not occupied by walk." But Balbus expressly said that the walk "used up the whole of the area." Oh, Tympanum! My tympa is exhausted: my brain is num! I can say no more. Hecla indulges, again and again, in that most fatal of all habits in computation--the making two mistakes which cancel each other. She takes x as the width of the garden, in yards, and x + ½ as its length, and makes her first "coil" the sum of x½, x½, x-1, x-1, i.e. 4x-3: but the fourth term should be x-1½, so that her first coil is ½ a yard too long. Her second coil is the sum of x-2½, x-2½, x-3, x-3: here the first term should be x-2 and the last x-3½: these two[140] mistakes cancel, and this coil is therefore right. And the same thing is true of every other coil but the last, which needs an extra half-yard to reach the end of the path: and this exactly balances the mistake in the first coil. Thus the sum total of the coils comes right though the working is all wrong. Of the seven who are right, Dinah Mite, Janet, Magpie, and Taffy make the same assumption as C. G. L. and Co. They then solve by a Quadratic. Magpie also tries it by Arithmetical Progression, but fails to notice that the first and last "coils" have special values. Alumnus Etonæ attempts to prove what C. G. L. assumes by a particular instance, taking a garden 6 by 5½. He ought to have proved it generally: what is true of one number is not always true of others. Old King Cole solves it by an Arithmetical Progression. It is right, but too lengthy to be worth as much as a Quadratic. Vindex proves it very neatly, by pointing out that a yard of walk measured along the middle represents a square yard of garden, "whether we consider the straight stretches of walk or the square yards at the angles, in which the middle line goes half a yard in one direction and then turns a right angle and goes half a yard in another direction."[141] CLASS LIST. I. Vindex. II. Alumnus Etonæ. Old King Cole. III. Dinah Mite. Janet. Magpie. Taffy. [142] ANSWERS TO KNOT X. § 1. The Chelsea Pensioners. Problem.--If 70 per cent. have lost an eye, 75 per cent. an ear, 80 per cent. an arm, 85 per cent. a leg: what percentage, at least, must have lost all four? Answer.--Ten. Solution.--(I adopt that of Polar Star, as being better than my own). Adding the wounds together, we get 70 + 75 + 80 + 85 = 310, among 100 men; which gives 3 to each, and 4 to 10 men. Therefore the least percentage is 10. Nineteen answers have been received. One is "5," but, as no working is given with it, it must, in accordance with the rule, remain "a deed without a name." Janet makes it "35 and 2/10ths." I am sorry she has misunderstood the question, and has supposed that those who had lost an ear were 75 per cent. of those who had lost an eye; and so on. Of course, on this supposition, the percentages must all be multiplied together. This she has[143] done correctly, but I can give her no honours, as I do not think the question will fairly bear her interpretation, Three Score and Ten makes it "19 and 2/8ths." Her solution has given me--I will not say "many anxious days and sleepless nights," for I wish to be strictly truthful, but--some trouble in making any sense at all of it. She makes the number of "pensioners wounded once" to be 310 ("per cent.," I suppose!): dividing by 4, she gets 77 and a half as "average percentage:" again dividing by 4, she gets 19 and 2/8ths as "percentage wounded four times." Does she suppose wounds of different kinds to "absorb" each other, so to speak? Then, no doubt, the data are equivalent to 77 pensioners with one wound each, and a half-pensioner with a half-wound. And does she then suppose these concentrated wounds to be transferable, so that 2/4ths of these unfortunates can obtain perfect health by handing over their wounds to the remaining 1/4th? Granting these suppositions, her answer is right; or rather, if the question had been "A road is covered with one inch of gravel, along 77 and a half per cent. of it. How much of it could be covered 4 inches deep with the same material?" her answer would have been right. But alas, that wasn't the question! Delta makes some most amazing assumptions: "let every one who has not lost an eye have lost an ear," "let every one who has not lost both eyes and ears have lost an arm."[144] Her ideas of a battle-field are grim indeed. Fancy a warrior who would continue fighting after losing both eyes, both ears, and both arms! This is a case which she (or "it?") evidently considers possible. Next come eight writers who have made the unwarrantable assumption that, because 70 per cent. have lost an eye, therefore 30 per cent. have not lost one, so that they have both eyes. This is illogical. If you give me a bag containing 100 sovereigns, and if in an hour I come to you (my face not beaming with gratitude nearly so much as when I received the bag) to say "I am sorry to tell you that 70 of these sovereigns are bad," do I thereby guarantee the other 30 to be good? Perhaps I have not tested them yet. The sides of this illogical octagon are as follows, in alphabetical order:--Algernon Bray, Dinah Mite, G. S. C., Jane E., J. D. W., Magpie (who makes the delightful remark "therefore 90 per cent. have two of something," recalling to one's memory that fortunate monarch, with whom Xerxes was so much pleased that "he gave him ten of everything!"), S. S. G., and Tokio. Bradshaw of the Future and T. R. do the question in a piecemeal fashion--on the principle that the 70 per cent. and the 75 per cent., though commenced at opposite ends of the 100, must overlap by at least 45 per cent.; and so on. This is quite correct working, but not, I think, quite the best way of doing it.[145] The other five competitors will, I hope, feel themselves sufficiently glorified by being placed in the first class, without my composing a Triumphal Ode for each! CLASS LIST. I. Old Cat. Old Hen. Polar Star. Simple Susan. White Sugar. II. Bradshaw of the Future. T. R. III. Algernon Bray. Dinah Mite. G. S. C. Jane E. J. D. W. Magpie. S. S. G. Tokio. § 2. Change of Day. I must postpone, sine die, the geographical problem--partly because I have not yet received the statistics I am hoping for, and partly because I am myself so entirely puzzled by it; and when an examiner is himself dimly hovering between a second class and a third how is he to decide the position of others? [146] § 3. The Sons' Ages. Problem.--"At first, two of the ages are together equal to the third. A few years afterwards, two of them are together double of the third. When the number of years since the first occasion is two-thirds of the sum of the ages on that occasion, one age is 21. What are the other two? Answer.--"15 and 18." Solution.--Let the ages at first be x, y, (x + y). Now, if a + b = 2c, then (a-n) + (b-n) = 2(c-n), whatever be the value of n. Hence the second relationship, if ever true, was always true. Hence it was true at first. But it cannot be true that x and y are together double of (x + y). Hence it must be true of (x + y), together with x or y; and it does not matter which we take. We assume, then, (x + y) + x = 2y; i.e. y = 2x. Hence the three ages were, at first, x, 2x, 3x; and the number of years, since that time is two-thirds of 6x, i.e. is 4x. Hence the present ages are 5x, 6x, 7x. The ages are clearly integers, since this is only "the year when one of my sons comes of age." Hence 7x = 21, x = 3, and the other ages are 15, 18. [147] Eighteen answers have been received. One of the writers merely asserts that the first occasion was 12 years ago, that the ages were then 9, 6, and 3; and that on the second occasion they were 14, 11, and 8! As a Roman father, I ought to withhold the name of the rash writer; but respect for age makes me break the rule: it is Three Score and Ten. Jane E. also asserts that the ages at first were 9, 6, 3: then she calculates the present ages, leaving the second occasion unnoticed. Old Hen is nearly as bad; she "tried various numbers till I found one that fitted all the conditions"; but merely scratching up the earth, and pecking about, is not the way to solve a problem, oh venerable bird! And close after Old Hen prowls, with hungry eyes, Old Cat, who calmly assumes, to begin with, that the son who comes of age is the eldest. Eat your bird, Puss, for you will get nothing from me! There are yet two zeroes to dispose of. Minerva assumes that, on every occasion, a son comes of age; and that it is only such a son who is "tipped with gold." Is it wise thus to interpret "now, my boys, calculate your ages, and you shall have the money"? Bradshaw of the Future says "let" the ages at first be 9, 6, 3, then assumes that the second occasion was 6 years afterwards, and on these baseless assumptions brings out the right[148] answers. Guide future travellers, an thou wilt: thou art no Bradshaw for this Age! Of those who win honours, the merely "honourable" are two. Dinah Mite ascertains (rightly) the relationship between the three ages at first, but then assumes one of them to be "6," thus making the rest of her solution tentative. M. F. C. does the algebra all right up to the conclusion that the present ages are 5z, 6z, and 7z; it then assumes, without giving any reason, that 7z = 21. Of the more honourable, Delta attempts a novelty--to discover which son comes of age by elimination: it assumes, successively, that it is the middle one, and that it is the youngest; and in each case it apparently brings out an absurdity. Still, as the proof contains the following bit of algebra, "63 = 7x + 4y; ? 21 = x + 4 sevenths of y," I trust it will admit that its proof is not quite conclusive. The rest of its work is good. Magpie betrays the deplorable tendency of her tribe--to appropriate any stray conclusion she comes across, without having any strict logical right to it. Assuming A, B, C, as the ages at first, and D as the number of the years that have elapsed since then, she finds (rightly) the 3 equations, 2A = B, C = B + A, D = 2B. She then says "supposing that A = 1, then B = 2, C = 3, and D = 4. Therefore for A, B, C, D, four numbers are wanted which shall be to[149] each other as 1:2:3:4." It is in the "therefore" that I detect the unconscientiousness of this bird. The conclusion is true, but this is only because the equations are "homogeneous" (i.e. having one "unknown" in each term), a fact which I strongly suspect had not been grasped--I beg pardon, clawed--by her. Were I to lay this little pitfall, "A + 1 = B, B + 1 = C; supposing A = 1, then B = 2 and C = 3. Therefore for A, B, C, three numbers are wanted which shall be to one another as 1:2:3," would you not flutter down into it, oh Magpie, as amiably as a Dove? Simple Susan is anything but simple to me. After ascertaining that the 3 ages at first are as 3:2:1, she says "then, as two-thirds of their sum, added to one of them, = 21, the sum cannot exceed 30, and consequently the highest cannot exceed 15." I suppose her (mental) argument is something like this:--"two-thirds of sum, + one age, = 21; ? sum, + 3 halves of one age, = 31 and a half. But 3 halves of one age cannot be less than 1 and-a-half (here I perceive that Simple Susan would on no account present a guinea to a new-born baby!) hence the sum cannot exceed 30." This is ingenious, but her proof, after that, is (as she candidly admits) "clumsy and roundabout." She finds that there are 5 possible sets of ages, and eliminates four of them. Suppose that, instead of 5, there had been 5 million possible sets? Would Simple Susan have[150] courageously ordered in the necessary gallon of ink and ream of paper? The solution sent in by C. R. is, like that of Simple Susan, partly tentative, and so does not rise higher than being Clumsily Right. Among those who have earned the highest honours, Algernon Bray solves the problem quite correctly, but adds that there is nothing to exclude the supposition that all the ages were fractional. This would make the number of answers infinite. Let me meekly protest that I never intended my readers to devote the rest of their lives to writing out answers! E. M. Rix points out that, if fractional ages be admissible, any one of the three sons might be the one "come of age"; but she rightly rejects this supposition on the ground that it would make the problem indeterminate. White Sugar is the only one who has detected an oversight of mine: I had forgotten the possibility (which of course ought to be allowed for) that the son, who came of age that year, need not have done so by that day, so that he might be only 20. This gives a second solution, viz., 20, 24, 28. Well said, pure Crystal! Verily, thy "fair discourse hath been as sugar"! [151] CLASS LIST. I. Algernon Bray. An Old Fogey. E. M. Rix. G. S. C. S. S. G. Tokio. T. R. White Sugar. II. C. R. Delta. Magpie. Simple Susan. III. Dinah Mite. M. F. C. I have received more than one remonstrance on my assertion, in the Chelsea Pensioners' problem, that it was illogical to assume, from the datum "70 p. c. have lost an eye," that 30 p. c. have not. Algernon Bray states, as a parallel case, "suppose Tommy's father gives him 4 apples, and he eats one of them, how many has he left?" and says "I think we are justified in answering, 3." I think so too. There is no "must" here, and the data are evidently meant to fix the answer[152] exactly: but, if the question were set me "how many must he have left?", I should understand the data to be that his father gave him 4 at least, but may have given him more. I take this opportunity of thanking those who have sent, along with their answers to the Tenth Knot, regrets that there are no more Knots to come, or petitions that I should recall my resolution to bring them to an end. I am most grateful for their kind words; but I think it wisest to end what, at best, was but a lame attempt. "The stretched metre of an antique song" is beyond my compass; and my puppets were neither distinctly in my life (like those I now address), nor yet (like Alice and the Mock Turtle) distinctly out of it. Yet let me at least fancy, as I lay down the pen, that I carry with me into my silent life, dear reader, a farewell smile from your unseen face, and a kindly farewell pressure from your unfelt hand! And so, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say "good night!" till it be morrow. THE END LONDON: RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, PRINTERS. [TURN OVER. WORKS BY LEWIS CARROLL. ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With Forty-two Illustrations by Tenniel. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Seventy-fifth Thousand. TRANSLATIONS OF THE SAME--into French, by Henri Bué--into German, by Antonie Zimmermann--and into Italian, by T. Pietrocòla Rossetti--with Tenniel's Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. each. THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE. With Fifty Illustrations by Tenniel. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. Fifty-sixth Thousand. RHYME? AND REASON? With Sixty-five Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and Nine by Henry Holiday. (This book is a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portion of "Phantasmagoria and other Poems," and of "The Hunting of the Snark." Mr. Frost's pictures are new.) Crown 8vo, cloth, coloured edges, price 7s. Fifty Thousand. A TANGLED TALE. Reprinted from The Monthly Packet. With Six Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost. Crown 8vo, 4s. 6d. N.B. In selling the above-mentioned books to the Trade, Messrs. Macmillan and Co. will abate 2d. in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow 5 per cent. discount for payment within six months, and 10 per cent. for cash. In selling them to the Public (for cash only) they will allow 10 per cent. discount. Mr. Lewis Carroll, having been requested to allow "An Easter Greeting" (a leaflet, addressed to children, and frequently given with his books) to be sold separately, has arranged with Messrs. Harrison, of 59, Pall Mall, who will supply a single copy for 1d., or 12 for 9d., or 100 for 5s. MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. LONDON: RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, PRINTERS. Transcriber's note The following changes have been made to the text: Page 88: "he corners of the" changed to "the corners of the". Page 95: "Aix-le-Bains" changed to "Aix-les-Bains". Page 108: "3/5, 2, 1/3;" changed to "3/5, 2/3, 1/3;. Page 114: "10 of the 12 cases" changed to "10 of the 13 cases". Page 121: "four-and fourpence" changed to "four-and-fourpence". Last page: "Fifth Thousand" changed to "Fifty Thousand". Music Transcriber's note The following corrections have been made to the music: Bar 2 - The dotted notes should not be dotted. Bar 3 - The first note should be a dotted eighth, not a dotted quarter. Bar 5 - The dotted notes should not be dotted. Bar 6 - The first note should be a dotted eighth, not a dotted quarter. ===== Eight or Nine wise Words about Letter-Writing ===== The Project Gutenberg EBook of Eight or Nine Wise Words about Letter-Writing, by Lewis Carroll This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Eight or Nine Wise Words about Letter-Writing Author: Lewis Carroll Release Date: November 20, 2011 [EBook #38065] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WISE WORDS ABOUT LETTER-WRITING *** Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) EIGHT OR NINE WISE WORDS ABOUT Letter-Writing BY LEWIS CARROLL EMBERLIN AND SON 4, MAGDALEN STREET OXFORD [Pg 2] FIRST PUBLISHED 1890. [Pg 3] Contents. Page. On Stamp-Cases 5 How to begin a Letter 9 How to go on with a Letter 12 How to end a Letter 21 On registering Correspondence 23 [Pg 4] [Pg 5] § 1. On Stamp-Cases. Some American writer has said “the snakes in this district may be divided into one species—the venomous.” The same principle applies here. Postage-Stamp-Cases may be divided into one species, the “Wonderland.” Imitations of it will soon appear, no doubt: but they cannot include the two Pictorial Surprises, which are copyright. You don’t see why I call them ‘Surprises’? Well, take the Case in your left-hand, and regard it attentively. You see Alice nursing the Duchess’s Baby? (An entirely new combination, by the way: it doesn’t occur in the book.) Now, with your right thumb and forefinger, lay hold of the little book, and[Pg 6] suddenly pull it out. The Baby has turned into a Pig! If that doesn’t surprise you, why, I suppose you wouldn’t be surprised if your own Mother-in-law suddenly turned into a Gyroscope! This Case is not intended to carry about in your pocket. Far from it. People seldom want any other Stamps, on an emergency, than Penny-Stamps for Letters, Sixpenny-Stamps for Telegrams, and a bit of Stamp-edging for cut fingers (it makes capital sticking-plaster, and will stand three or four washings, cautiously conducted): and all these are easily carried in a purse or pocketbook. No, this is meant to haunt your envelope-case, or wherever you keep your writing-materials. What made me invent it was the constantly wanting Stamps of other values, for foreign Letters, Parcel Post, &c., and finding it very bothersome to get at the[Pg 7] kind I wanted in a hurry. Since I have possessed a “Wonderland Stamp Case”, Life has been bright and peaceful, and I have used no other. I believe the Queen’s laundress uses no other. Each of the pockets will hold 6 stamps, comfortably. I would recommend you to arrange the 6, before putting them in, something like a bouquet, making them lean to the right and to the left alternately: thus there will always be a free corner to get hold of, so as to take them out, quickly and easily, one by one: otherwise you will find them apt to come out two or three at a time. According to my experience, the 5d., 9d., and 1s. Stamps are hardly ever wanted, though I have constantly to replenish all the other pockets. If your experience agrees with mine, you may find it convenient to[Pg 8] keep only a couple (say) of each of these 3 kinds, in the 1s. pocket, and to fill the other 2 pockets with extra 1d. stamps. [Pg 9] § 2. How to begin a Letter. If the Letter is to be in answer to another, begin by getting out that other letter and reading it through, in order to refresh your memory, as to what it is you have to answer, and as to your correspondent’s present address (otherwise you will be sending your letter to his regular address in London, though he has been careful in writing to give you his Torquay address in full). Next, Address and Stamp the Envelope. “What! Before writing the Letter?” Most certainly. And I’ll tell you what will happen if you don’t. You will go on writing till the last moment, and just in the middle of the last sentence, you will become aware that ‘time’s up!’ Then comes the hurried [Pg 10]wind-up—the wildly-scrawled signature—the hastily-fastened envelope, which comes open in the post—the address, a mere hieroglyphic—the horrible discovery that you’ve forgotten to replenish your Stamp-Case—the frantic appeal, to every one in the house, to lend you a Stamp—the headlong rush to the Post Office, arriving, hot and gasping, just after the box has closed—and finally, a week afterwards, the return of the Letter, from the Dead-Letter Office, marked “address illegible”! Next, put your own address, in full, at the top of the note-sheet. It is an aggravating thing——I speak from bitter experience——when a friend, staying at some new address, heads his letter “Dover,” simply, assuming that you can get the rest of the address from his previous letter, which perhaps you have destroyed. [Pg 11]Next, put the date in full. It is another aggravating thing, when you wish, years afterwards, to arrange a series of letters, to find them dated “Feb. 17”, “Aug. 2”, without any year to guide you as to which comes first. And never, never, dear Madam (N.B. this remark is addressed to ladies only: no man would ever do such a thing), put “Wednesday”, simply, as the date! “That way madness lies.” [Pg 12] § 3. How to go on with a Letter. Here is a golden Rule to begin with. Write legibly. The average temper of the human race would be perceptibly sweetened, if everybody obeyed this Rule! A great deal of the bad writing in the world comes simply from writing too quickly. Of course you reply, “I do it to save time”. A very good object, no doubt: but what right have you to do it at your friend’s expense? Isn’t his time as valuable as yours? Years ago, I used to receive letters from a friend——and very interesting letters too——written in one of the most atrocious hands ever invented. It generally took me about a week to read one of his letters! I used to carry it about in my pocket, and take it out[Pg 13] at leisure times, to puzzle over the riddles which composed it——holding it in different positions, and at different distances, till at last the meaning of some hopeless scrawl would flash upon me, when I at once wrote down the English under it; and, when several had been thus guessed, the context would help one with the others, till at last the whole series of hieroglyphics was deciphered. If all one’s friends wrote like that, Life would be entirely spent in reading their letters! This Rule applies, specially, to names of people or places——and most specially to foreign names. I got a letter once, containing some Russian names, written in the same hasty scramble in which people often write “yours sincerely”. The context, of course, didn’t help in the least: and one spelling was just as likely as another, so far as I knew: it was[Pg 14] necessary to write and tell my friend that I couldn’t read any of them! My second Rule is, don’t fill more than a page and a half with apologies for not having written sooner! The best subject, to begin with, is your friend’s last letter. Write with the letter open before you. Answer his questions, and make any remarks his letter suggests. Then go on to what you want to say yourself. This arrangement is more courteous, and pleasanter for the reader, than to fill the letter with your own invaluable remarks, and then hastily answer your friend’s questions in a postscript. Your friend is much more likely to enjoy your wit, after his own anxiety for information has been satisfied. In referring to anything your friend has said in his letter, it is best to quote the exact words, and not to give a summary of them[Pg 15] in your words. A’s impression, of what B has said, expressed in A’s words, will never convey to B the meaning of his own words. This is specially necessary when some point has arisen as to which the two correspondents do not quite agree. There ought to be no opening for such writing as “You are quite mistaken in thinking I said so-and-so. It was not in the least my meaning, &c., &c.”, which tends to make a correspondence last for a lifetime. A few more Rules may fitly be given here, for correspondence that has unfortunately become controversial. One is, don’t repeat yourself. When once you have said your say, fully and clearly, on a certain point, and have failed to convince your friend, drop that subject: to repeat your arguments, all over again, will simply lead to his doing the same; and so you will go on,[Pg 16] like a Circulating Decimal. Did you ever know a Circulating Decimal come to an end? Another Rule is, when you have written a letter that you feel may possibly irritate your friend, however necessary you may have felt it to so express yourself, put it aside till the next day. Then read it over again, and fancy it addressed to yourself. This will often lead to your writing it all over again, taking out a lot of the vinegar and pepper, and putting in honey instead, and thus making a much more palatable dish of it! If, when you have done your best to write inoffensively, you still feel that it will probably lead to further controversy, keep a copy of it. There is very little use, months afterwards, in pleading “I am almost sure I never expressed myself as you say: to the best of my recollection I said so-and-so”. Far better to be able to write “I did not[Pg 17] express myself so: these are the words I used.” My fifth Rule is, if your friend makes a severe remark, either leave it unnoticed, or make your reply distinctly less severe: and if he makes a friendly remark, tending towards ‘making up’ the little difference that has arisen between you, let your reply be distinctly more friendly. If, in picking a quarrel, each party declined to go more than three-eighths of the way, and if, in making friends, each was ready to go five-eighths of the way—why, there would be more reconciliations than quarrels! Which is like the Irishman’s remonstrance to his gad-about daughter—“Shure, you’re always goin’ out! You go out three times, for wanst that you come in!” My sixth Rule (and my last remark about controversial correspondence) is, don’t try to[Pg 18] have the last word! How many a controversy would be nipped in the bud, if each was anxious to let the other have the last word! Never mind how telling a rejoinder you leave unuttered: never mind your friend’s supposing that you are silent from lack of anything to say: let the thing drop, as soon as it is possible without discourtesy: remember ‘speech is silvern, but silence is golden’! (N.B.—If you are a gentleman, and your friend a lady, this Rule is superfluous: you won’t get the last word!) My seventh Rule is, if it should ever occur to you to write, jestingly, in dispraise of your friend, be sure you exaggerate enough to make the jesting obvious: a word spoken in jest, but taken as earnest, may lead to very serious consequences. I have known it to lead to the breaking-off of a friendship. Suppose, for instance, you wish to remind[Pg 19] your friend of a sovereign you have lent him, which he has forgotten to repay—you might quite mean the words “I mention it, as you seem to have a conveniently bad memory for debts”, in jest: yet there would be nothing to wonder at if he took offence at that way of putting it. But, suppose you wrote “Long observation of your career, as a pickpocket and a burglar, has convinced me that my one lingering hope, for recovering that sovereign I lent you, is to say ‘Pay up, or I’ll summons yer!’” he would indeed be a matter-of-fact friend if he took that as seriously meant! My eighth Rule. When you say, in your letter, “I enclose cheque for £5”, or “I enclose John’s letter for you to see”, leave off writing for a moment—go and get the document referred to—and put it into the envelope. Otherwise, you are pretty certain[Pg 20] to find it lying about, after the Post has gone! My ninth Rule. When you get to the end of a note-sheet, and find you have more to say, take another piece of paper—a whole sheet, or a scrap, as the case may demand: but, whatever you do, don’t cross! 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’m afraid 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! [Pg 21] § 4. How to end a Letter. If doubtful whether to end with ‘yours faithfully’, or ‘yours truly’, or ‘yours most truly’, &c. (there are at least a dozen varieties, before you reach ‘yours affectionately’), refer to your correspondent’s last letter, and make your winding-up at least as friendly as his; in fact, even if a shade more friendly, it will do no harm! A Postscript is a very useful invention: but it is not meant (as so many ladies suppose) to contain the real gist of the letter: it serves rather to throw into the shade any little matter we do not wish to make a fuss about. For example, your friend had promised to execute a commission for you in town, but forgot it, thereby putting you to[Pg 22] great inconvenience: and he now writes to apologize for his negligence. It would be cruel, and needlessly crushing, to make it the main subject of your reply. How much more gracefully it comes in thus! “P.S. Don’t distress yourself any more about having omitted that little matter in town. I won’t deny that it did put my plans out a little, at the time: but it’s all right now. I often forget things, myself: and ‘those who live in glass-houses, mustn’t throw stones’, you know!” When you take your letters to the Post, carry them in your hand. If you put them in your pocket you will take a long country-walk (I speak from experience), passing the Post-Office twice, going and returning, and, when you get home, will find them still in your pocket. [Pg 23] § 5. On registering Correspondence. Let me recommend you to keep a record of Letters Received and Sent. I have kept one for many years, and have found it of the greatest possible service, in many ways: it secures my answering Letters, however long they have to wait; it enables me to refer, for my own guidance, to the details of previous correspondence, though the actual Letters may have been destroyed long ago; and, most valuable feature of all, if any difficulty arises, years afterwards, in connection with a half-forgotten correspondence, it enables me to say, with confidence, “I did not tell you that he was ‘an invaluable servant in[Pg 24] every way’, and that you couldn’t ‘trust him too much’. I have a précis of my letter. What I said was ‘he is a valuable servant in many ways, but don’t trust him too much’. So, if he’s cheated you, you really must not hold me responsible for it!” I will now give you a few simple Rules for making, and keeping, a Letter-Register. Get a blank book, containing (say) 200 leaves, about 4 inches wide and 7 high. It should be well fastened into its cover, as it will have to be opened and shut hundreds of times. Have a line ruled, in red ink, down each margin of every page, an inch off the edge (the margin should be wide enough to contain a number of 5 digits, easily: I manage with a ¾ inch margin: but, unless you write very small you will find an inch more comfortable). Write a précis of each Letter, received or[Pg 25] sent, in chronological order. Let the entry of a ‘received’ Letter reach from the left-hand edge to the right-hand marginal line; and the entry of a ‘sent’ Letter from the left-hand marginal line to the right-hand edge. Thus the two kinds will be quite distinct, and you can easily hunt through the ‘received’ Letters by themselves, without being bothered with the ‘sent’ Letters; and vice versâ. Use the right-hand pages only: and, when you come to the end of the book, turn it upside-down, and begin at the other end, still using right-hand pages. You will find this much more comfortable than using left-hand pages. You will find it convenient to write, at the top of every sheet of a ‘received’ Letter, its Register-Number in full. I will now give a few (ideal) specimen pages of my Letter-Register, and make a[Pg 26] few remarks on them: after which I think you will find it easy enough to manage one for yourself. [Pg 27] 29217 /90. (217) sendg, J., a Ap. 1 (Tu.) Jones, Mrs. am as present from self and Mr. white elephant. 27518 225 (218) grand do. Wilkins & Co. bill, for piano, £175 10s. 6d. [pd 28743 221, 2 (219) ‘Grand to borr do. Scareham, H. [writes from Hotel, Monte Carlo’] asking ow £50 for a few weeks (!) ? ? (220) do. Scareham, H. would know object, for wh loan is and security offered. like to asked, 218 246 (221) Ap. 3. Wilkins & Co. vious letter, now before me, undertook to supply one for decling to pay more. in pre- you £120: 23514 218 228 (222) do. Cheetham & Sharp. written 221—enclosing previo ter—is law on my side? have us let- [ (223) G. N. dresse ‘very Ap. 4. Manager, Goods Statn, R. White Elephant arrived, ad- d to you—send for it at once— savage’. 226 [Pg 28] 29225 /90. 217 230 (225) Ap. 4. (F) Jones, Mrs. th but no room for it at present, am ing it to Zoological Gardens. anks, send- 223 (226) do. Manager, Goods Sta N. R. please deliver, to bearer note, case containg White Ele- addressed to me. tn, G. of this phant 223 229 (227) do. Director Zool. Garde closing above note to R. W. Ma call for valuable animal, prese Gardens. ns. (en- nager) nted to (228) misquo is £18 Ap. 8. Cheetham & Sharp. you te enclosed letter, limit named 0. 222 237 (229) case de Port— quet— Ap. 9. Director, Zoo. Gardens. livered to us contained 1 doz. consumed at Directors’ Ban- many thanks. 227 230 225 ? (230) do. T Jones, Mrs. why doz. of Port a ‘White Elephant’? call a (231) joke’. do. T Jones, Mrs. ‘it was a ? [Pg 29] 29233 /90. 242 (233) Ap. 10. (Th) Page & Co. Macaulay’s Essays and “Jane (cheap edtn). orderg Eyre” (234) 2 or 3 do. Aunt Jemima—invitg for days after the 15th. [ 236 (235) recevd & Co. do. Lon. and West. Bk. have £250, pd to yr Acct fm Parkins Calcutta[en 234 239 (236) do. Aunt Jemima—can possibly come this month, will when able. not write [ 228 240 (237) Ap. 11. Cheetham and turn letter enclosed to you. Co. re- [× 245 (238) do. Morton, Philip. Co lend me Browning’s ‘Dramati sonæ’ for a day or 2? uld you s Per- (239) ing ho ‘136, Ap. 14. Aunt Jemima, leav- use at end of month: address Royal Avenue, Bath.’ [ 236 (240) returng Ap. 15. Cheetham and Co., letter as reqd, bill 6/6/8. [ 237 244 [Pg 30] 29242 /90. (242) for boo Ap. 15. (Tu) Page & Co. bill ks, as ordered, 15/6 [ 233 } 247 (243) do. ¶ do. books 240 248 (244) do. Cheetham and Co. c derstand the 6/8—what is £6 an un- for? (245) matis Ap. 17. ¶ Morton, P. ‘Dra- Personæ’, as asked for. [retd 238 249 221 250 (246) do. Wilkins and Co. w bill, 175/10/6, and ch. for do. ith [en 243 (247) do. Page and Co. bill, postal J/S107258 for 15/- and 15/6, 6 stps. (248) was a Ap. 18. Cheetham and Co. it ‘clerical error’ (!) 244 245 (249) Ap. 19. Morton, P. retu Browning with many thanks. rng (250) bill. do. Wilkins and Co. receptd 246 [Pg 31]I begin each page by putting, at the top left-hand corner, the next entry-number I am going to use, in full (the last 3 digits of each entry-number are enough afterwards); and I put the date of the year, at the top, in the centre. I begin each entry with the last 3 digits of the entry-number, enclosed in an oval (this is difficult to reproduce in print, so I have put round-parentheses here). Then, for the first entry in each page, I put the day of the month and the day of the week: afterwards, ‘do.’ is enough for the month-day, till it changes: I do not repeat the week-day. Next, if the entry is not a letter, I put a symbol for ‘parcel’ (see Nos. 243, 245) or ‘telegram’ (see Nos. 230, 231) as the case may be. Next, the name of the person, underlined (indicated here by italics). If an entry needs special further attention,[Pg 32] I put [ at the end: and, when it has been attended to, I fill in the appropriate symbol, e.g. in No. 218, it showed that the bill had to be paid; in No. 222, that an answer was really needed (the ‘×’ means ‘attended to’); in No. 234, that I owed the old lady a visit; in No. 235, that the item had to be entered in my account book; in No. 236, that I must not forget to write; in No. 239, that the address had to be entered in my address-book; in No. 245, that the book had to be returned. I give each entry the space of 2 lines, whether it fills them or not, in order to have room for references. And, at the foot of each page I leave 2 or 3 lines blank (often useful afterwards for entering omitted Letters) and miss one or 2 numbers before I begin the next page. At any odd moments of leisure, I ‘make up’ the entry-book, in various ways, as follows:— [Pg 33](1) I draw a second line, at the right-hand end of the ‘received’ entries, and at the left-hand end of the ‘sent’ entries. This I usually do pretty well ‘up to date’. In my Register the first line is red, the second blue: here I distinguish them by making the first thin, and the second thick. (2) Beginning with the last entry, and going backwards, I read over the names till I recognise one as having occurred already: I then link the two entries together, by giving the one, that comes first in chronological order, a ‘foot-reference’ (see Nos. 217, 225). I do not keep this ‘up-to-date’, but leave it till there are 4 or 5 pages to be done. I work back till I come among entries that are all supplied with ‘foot-references’, when I once more glance through the last few pages, to see if there are any entries not yet supplied with head-references: their [Pg 34]predecessors may need a special search. If an entry is connected, in subject, with another under a different name, I link them by cross-references, distinguished from the head- and foot-references by being written further from the marginal line (see No. 229). When 2 consecutive entries have the same name, and are both of the same kind (i.e. both ‘received’ or both ‘sent’) I bracket them (see Nos. 242, 243); if of different kinds, I link them with the symbol used for Nos. 219, 220. (3) Beginning at the earliest entry not yet done with, and going forwards, I cross out every entry that has got a head- and foot-reference, and is done with, by continuing the extra line through it (see Nos. 221, 223, 225). Thus, wherever a break occurs in this extra line, it shows there is some matter still needing attention. I do not keep this anything like ‘up to date’, but leave it till there[Pg 35] are 30 or 40 pages to look through at a time. When the first page in the volume is thus completely crossed out, I put a mark at the foot of the page to indicate this; and so with pages 2, 3, &c. Hence, whenever I do this part of the ‘making up’, I need not begin at the beginning of the volume, but only at the earliest page that has not got this mark. All this looks very complicated, when stated at full length: but you will find it perfectly simple, when you have had a little practice, and will come to regard the ‘making-up’ as a pleasant occupation for a rainy day, or at any time that you feel disinclined for more severe mental work. In the Game of Whist, Hoyle gives us one golden Rule, “When in doubt, win the trick”—I find that Rule admirable for real life: when in doubt what to do, I ‘make-up’ my Letter-Register! THE END. [Pg 36] Works by Lewis Carroll. PUBLISHED BY MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd., LONDON. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. With Forty-two Illustrations by Tenniel. (First published in 1865.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. net. Ninetieth Thousand. The same; People’s Edition. (First published in 1887.) Crown 8vo, cloth, price 2s. 6d. net. One hundred and forty-third Thousand. The same; Illustrated Pocket Classics for the Young. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, with full gilt back and gilt top, 2s. net. Limp leather, with full gilt back and gilt edges, 3s. net. The same. 8vo, sewed, 6d.; cloth, 1s. The same; Miniature Edition. Pott 8vo, 1s. net. The same; Little Folks’ Edition. Square 16mo. With Coloured Illustrations. 1s. net. Aventures d’Alice au pays des Merveilles. Traduit de l’Anglais par Henry Bue. Ouvrage illustré de 42 Vignettes par John Tenniel. (First published in 1869.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. net. Second Thousand. Le Avventure d’Alice nel paese delle Meraviglie. Tradotte dall’ Inglese da T. Pietrocola-Rossetti. Con 42 Vignette di Giovanni Tenniel. (First published in 1872.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. net. [Pg 37] Alice’s Adventures Under Ground. Being a Facsimile of the original MS. Book, which was afterwards developed into “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” With Thirty-seven Illustrations by the Author. (Begun, July, 1862; finished, Feb., 1863; first published, in facsimile, in 1886.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 4s. net. Fourth Thousand. Through the Looking-Glass; and what Alice found there. With Fifty Illustrations by Tenniel. (First published in 1871.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. net. Sixty-third Thousand. The same; People’s Edition. (First published in 1887.) Crown 8vo, cloth, price 2s. 6d. net. Eighty-fourth Thousand. The same; Illustrated Pocket Classics for the Young. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, with full gilt back and gilt top, 2s. net. Limp leather, with full gilt back and gilt edges, 3s. net. The same. 8vo, sewed, 6d.; cloth 1s. The same; Little Folks’ Edition. Square 16mo. With Coloured Illustrations. 1s. 6d. net. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; and Through the Looking-Glass; People’s Editions. Both Books together in One Volume. (First published in 1887.) Crown 8vo, cloth, price 4s. 6d. net. [Pg 38] The Hunting of the Snark. An Agony in Eight Fits. With Nine Illustrations, and two large gilt designs on cover, by Henry Holiday. (First published in 1876.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 4s. 6d. net. Twenty-third Thousand. Rhyme? and Reason? With Sixty-five Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and Nine by Henry Holiday. (First published in 1883, being a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portions of “Phantasmagoria, and other Poems,” published in 1869, and of “The Hunting of the Snark,” published in 1876.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. net. Eighth Thousand. Sylvie and Bruno concluded. With Forty-six Illustrations by Harry Furniss. (First published in 1893.) Fifth Thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 7s. 6d. net. People’s Edition, 2s. 6d. net. N.B.—This book contains 411 pages. The Story of Sylvie and Bruno, In One Volume. With Illustrations by Harry Furniss. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. Three Sunsets, and other Poems. With Twelve Illustrations by E. Gertrude Thomson. Fcap. 4to, cloth, gilt edges, price 4s. net. N.B.—This is a reprint, with a few additions, of the serious portion of “Phantasmagoria, and other Poems,” published in 1869. [Pg 39] Works by Lewis Carroll. PUBLISHED BY CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 St. MARTIN’S LANE, LONDON, W.C. Price 1s. net, boards; 2s. net, bound in leather. FEEDING THE MIND. A lecture delivered in 1884. With Preface by William H. Draper. ALWAYS IN STOCK AT EMBERLIN & SON, OXFORD. Postage One Penny. ADVICE TO WRITERS. Buy “THE WONDERLAND CASE FOR POSTAGE-STAMPS,” invented by Lewis Carroll, October 29, 1888, size 4 inches by 3, containing 12 separate pockets for stamps of different values, 2 Coloured Pictorial Surprises taken from Alice in Wonderland, and 8 or 9 Wise Words about Letter-Writing. It is published by Messrs. Emberlin & Son, 4 Magdalen Street, Oxford. Price 1s. N.B.—If ordered by Post, an additional payment will be required, to cover cost of postage, as follows:— One, two, three, or four copies, 1d. Five to fourteen do., 3d. Each subsequent fourteen or fraction thereof, 1d. The Wonderland Postage-Stamp Case PUBLISHED BY EMBERLIN AND SON, 4, MAGDALEN STREET, OXFORD. (POST FREE, 13d.) PRICE ONE SHILLING Invented by Lewis Carroll MDCCCLXXXIX End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Eight or Nine Wise Words about Letter-Writing, by Lewis Carroll *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WISE WORDS ABOUT LETTER-WRITING *** ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ===== Poems ===== From Nicole MacArthur's https://nmmacarthur.wordpress.com/tag/lewis-carroll/ Tag Archives: Lewis Carroll Lewis Carroll’s “Lays of Mystery, Imagination, and Humour” Posted on August 15, 2015 under Fairy Tales and Excerpts, Lewis Carroll NUMBER 1: THE PALACE OF HUMBUG I DREAMT I dwelt in marble halls, And each damp thing that creeps and crawls Went wobble-wobble on the walls. Faint odours of departed cheese, Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze, Awoke the never-ending sneeze. Strange pictures decked the arras drear, Strange characters of woe and fear, The humbugs of the social sphere. One showed a vain and noisy prig, That shouted empty words and big At him that nodded in a wig. And one, a dotard grim and gray, Who wasteth childhood’s happy day In work more profitless than play. Whose icy breast no pity warms, Whose little victims sit in swarms, And slowly sob on lower forms. And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank, Where flowers are growing wild and rank, Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank. All birds of evil omen there Flood with rich Notes the tainted air, The witless wanderer to snare. The fatal Notes neglected fall, No creature heeds the treacherous call, For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall. The wandering phantom broke and fled, Straightway I saw within my head A vision of a ghostly bed, Where lay two worn decrepit 2 men, The fictions of a lawyer’s pen, Who never more might breathe again. The serving-man of Richard Roe Wept, inarticulate with woe: She wept, that waited on John Doe. “Oh rouse”, I urged, “the waning sense With tales of tangled evidence, Of suit, demurrer, and defence.” “Vain”, she replied, “such mockeries: For morbid fancies, such as these, No suits can suit, no plea can please.” And bending o’er that man of straw, She cried in grief and sudden awe, Not inappropriately, “Law!” The well-remembered voice he knew, He smiled, he faintly muttered “Sue!” (Her very name was legal too.) The night was fled, the dawn was nigh: A hurricane went raving by, And swept the Vision from mine eye. Vanished that dim and ghostly bed, (The hangings, tape; the tape was red:) ‘Tis o’er, and Doe and Roe are dead! Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls, What time it shudderingly recalls That horrid dream of marble halls! Oxford, 1855. For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Lewis Carroll’s “Photography Extraordinary” Posted on July 22, 2015 under Uncategorized The Milk and Water School 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. The Strong Minded or Matter of Fact School 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. The Spasmodic or German School 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! For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Lewis Carroll’s “She’s All My Fancy Painted Him” Posted on July 1, 2015 under Uncategorized She’s all my fancy painted him (I make no idle boast); If he or you had lost a limb, Which would have suffered most? They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don’t let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me. For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Lewis Carroll’s “Coronach” Posted on June 13, 2015 under Fairy Tales and Excerpts, Lewis Carroll She is gone by the Hilda, She is lost unto Whitby, And her name is Matilda, Which my heart it was smit by; Tho’ I take the Goliah, I learn to my sorrow That ‘it wo’n’t’, said the crier, ‘Be off till tomorrow. “She called me her ‘Neddy’, (Tho’ there mayn’t be much in it,) And I should have been ready, If she’d waited a minute; I was following behind her When, if you recollect, I Merely ran back to find a Gold pin for my neck-tie. “Rich dresser of suet! Prime hand at a sausage! I have lost thee, I rue it, And my fare for the passage! Perhaps she thinks it funny, Aboard of the Hilda, But I’ve lost purse and money, And thee, oh, my ‘Tilda!” His pin of gold the youth undid And in his waistcoat-pocket hid, Then gently folded hand in hand, And dropped asleep upon the sand. For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Lewis Carroll’s “The Lady of the Ladle” Posted on May 21, 2015 under Fairy Tales and Excerpts, Lewis Carroll The Youth at Eve had drunk his fill, Where stands the “Royal” on the Hill, And long his mid-day stroll had made, On the so-called “Marine Parade”– (Meant, I presume, for Seamen brave, Whose “march is on the Mountain wave” ‘Twere just the bathing-place for him Who stays on land till he can swim) And he had strayed into the Town, And paced each alley up and down, Where still, so narrow grew the way, The very houses seemed to say, Nodding to friends across the Street, “One struggle more and we shall meet.” And he had scaled that wondrous stair That soars from earth to upper air, Where rich and poor alike must climb, And walk the treadmill for a time. That morning he had dressed with care, And put Pomatum on his hair; He was, the loungers all agreed, A very heavy swell indeed: Men thought him, as he swaggered by, Some scion of nobility, And never dreamed, so cold his look, That he had loved–and loved a Cook. Upon the beach he stood and sighed Unheedful of the treacherous tide; Thus sang he to the listening main, And soothed his sorrow with the strain! For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Lewis Carroll’s “The Two Brothers” Posted on April 29, 2015 under Fairy Tales and Excerpts, Lewis Carroll THERE were two brothers at Twyford school, And when they had left the place, It was, “Will ye learn Greek and Latin? Or will ye run me a race? Or will ye go up to yonder bridge, And there we will angle for dace?” “I’m too stupid for Greek and for Latin, I’m too lazy by half for a race, So I’ll even go up to yonder bridge, And there we will angle for dace.” He has fitted together two joints of his rod, And to them he has added another, And then a great hook he took from his book, And ran it right into his brother. Oh much is the noise that is made among boys When playfully pelting a pig, But a far greater pother was made by his brother When flung from the top of the brigg. The fish hurried up by the dozens, All ready and eager to bite, For the lad that he flung was so tender and young, It quite gave them an appetite. Said he, “Thus shall he wallop about And the fish take him quite at their ease, For me to annoy it was ever his joy, Now I’ll teach him the meaning of ‘Tees’!” The wind to his ear brought a voice, “My brother, you didn’t had ought ter! And what have I done that you think it such fun To indulge in the pleasure of slaughter? “A good nibble or bite is my chiefest delight, When I’m merely expected to see, But a bite from a fish is not quite what I wish, When I get it performed upon me; And just now here’s a swarm of dace at my arm, And a perch has got hold of my knee. “For water my thirst was not great at the first, And of fish I have quite sufficien-“ “Oh fear not!” he cried, “for whatever betide, We are both in the selfsame condition! “I am sure that our state’s very nearly alike (Not considering the question of slaughter), For I have my perch on the top of the bridge, And you have your perch in the water. “I stick to my perch and your perch sticks to you, We are really extremely alike; I’ve a turn-pike up here, and I very much fear You may soon have a turn with a pike.” “Oh, grant but one wish! If I’m took by a fish (For your bait is your brother, good man!) Pull him up if you like, but I hope you will strike As gently as ever you can.” “If the fish be a trout, I’m afraid there’s no doubt I must strike him like lightning that’s greased; If the fish be a pike, I’ll engage not, to strike, Till I’ve waited ten minutes at least.” “But in those ten minutes to desolate Fate Your brother a victim may fall!” “I’ll reduce it to five, so perhaps you’ll survive, But the chance is exceedingly small.” “Oh hard is your heart for to act such a part; Is it iron, or granite, or steel?” “Why, I really can’t say- it is many a day Since my heart was accustomed to feel. “’Twas my heart-cherished wish for to slay many fish Each day did my malice grow worse, For my heart didn’t soften with doing it so often But rather, I should say, the reverse.” “Oh would I were back at Twyford school, Learning lessons in fear of the birch!” “Nay, brother!” he cried, “for whatever betide, You are better off here with your perch! “I am sure you’ll allow you are happier now, With nothing to do but to play; And this single line here, it is perfectly clear, Is much better than thirty a day! “And as to the rod hanging over your head, And apparently ready to fall, That, you know, was the case, when you lived in that place, So it need not be reckoned at all. “Do you see that old trout with a turn-up-nose snout? (Just to speak on a pleasanter theme), Observe, my dear brother, our love for each other He’s the one I like best in the stream. “To-morrow I mean to invite him to dine (We shall all of us think it a treat); If the day should be fine, I’ll just drop him a line, And we’ll settle what time we’re to meet. “He hasn’t been into society yet, And his manners are not of the best, So I think it quite fair that it should be my care, To see that he’s properly dressed.” Many words brought the wind of “cruel” and “kind”, And that “man suffers more than the brute”: Each several word with patience he heard, And answered with wisdom to boot. “What? prettier swimming in the stream, Than lying all snugly and flat? Do but look at that dish filled with glittering fish, Has Nature a picture like that? “What? a higher delight to be drawn from the sight Of fish full of life and of glee? What a noodle you are! ‘tis delight fuller far To kill them than let them go free! “I know there are people who prate by the hour Of the beauty of earth, sky, and ocean; Of the birds as they fly, of the fish darting by, Rejoicing in Life and in Motion. “As to any delight to be got from the sight, It is all very well for a flat, But I think it all gammon, for hooking a salmon Is better than twenty of that! “They say that a man of a right-thinking mind Will love the dumb creatures he sees What’s the use of his mind, if he’s never inclined To pull a fish out of the Tees? “Take my friends and my home- as an outcast I’ll roam: Take the money I have in the Bank; It is just what I wish, but deprive me of fish, And my life would indeed be a blank!” Forth from the house his sister came, Her brothers for to see, But when she saw that sight of awe, The tear stood in her e’e. “Oh what bait’s that upon your hook, My brother, tell to me?” “It is but the fantailed pigeon, He would not sing for me.” “Whoe’er would expect a pigeon to sing, A simpleton he must be! But a pigeon-cote is a different thing To the coat that there I see!” “Oh what bait’s that upon your hook, Dear brother, tell to me?” “It is my younger brother,” he cried, “Oh woe and dole is me! “I’s mighty wicked, that I is! Or how could such things be? Farewell, farewell, sweet sister, I’m going o’er the sea.” “And when will you come back again, My brother, tell to me?” “When chub is good for human food, And that will never be!” She turned herself right round about, And her heart brake into three, Said, “One of the two will be wet through and through, And t’other’ll be late for his tea!” For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Lewis Carroll’s “Lays of Sorrow No. 1” Posted on March 28, 2015 under Fairy Tales and Excerpts, Lewis Carroll The day was wet, the rain fell souse Like jars of strawberry jam, sound was heard in the old henhouse, A beating of a hammer. Of stalwart form, and visage warm, Two youths were seen within it, Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry At a hundred strokes a minute. The work is done, the hen has taken Possession of her nest and eggs, Without a thought of eggs and bacon, (Or I am very much mistaken) She turns over each shell, To be sure that all’s well, Looks into the straw To see there’s no flaw, Goes once round the house, Half afraid of a mouse, Then sinks calmly to rest On the top of her nest, First doubling up each of her legs. Time rolled away, and so did every shell, “Small by degrees and beautifully less,” As the large mother with a powerful spell Forced each in turn its contents to express, But ah! “imperfect is expression,” Some poet said, I don’t care who, If you want to know you must go elsewhere, One fact I can tell, if you’re willing to hear, He never attended a Parliament Session, For I’m certain that if he had ever been there, Full quickly would he have changed his ideas, With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers. And as to his name it is pretty clear That it wasn’t me and it wasn’t you! And so it fell upon a day, (That is, it never rose again) A chick was found upon the hay, Its little life had ebbed away. No longer frolicsome and gay, No longer could it run or play. “And must we, chicken, must we part?” Its master cried with bursting heart, And voice of agony and pain. So one, whose ticket’s marked “Return”, When to the lonely roadside station He flies in fear and perturbation, Thinks of his home–the hissing urn– Then runs with flying hat and hair, And, entering, finds to his despair He’s missed the very last train. Too long it were to tell of each conjecture Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim, The deadly frown, the stern anddreary lecture, The timid guess, “perhaps some needle pricked him!” The din of voice, the words both loud and many, The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother, Till all agreed “a shilling to a penny It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!” Scarce was the verdict spoken, When that still calm was broken, A childish form hath burst into the throng; With tears and looks of sadness, That bring no news of gladness, But tell too surely something hath gone wrong! “The sight I have come upon The stoutest heart would sicken, That nasty hen has been and gone And killed another chicken!” For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Lewis Carroll’s “Ye Falltale Cheyse” Posted on February 28, 2015 under Fairy Tales and Excerpts, Lewis Carroll Ytte wes a mirke an dreiry cave, Weet scroggis owr ytte creepe. Grugles withyn ye flowan wave Throw channel draid an deep Never withyn that dreir recesse Wes sene ye lyghte of daye, Quhat bode azont yts mirkinesse Nane kend an nane mote saye. Ye monarche rade owr brake an brae An drave ye yellynge packe, Hiz meany au’ richte cadgily Are wendynge yn hiz tracke. Wi’ eager iye, wi’ yalpe an cry Ye hondes yode down ye rocks, Ahead of au’ their companye Renneth ye panky foxe. Ye foxe hes soughte that cave of awe Forewearied wi’ hiz rin. Quha nou ys he sae bauld an braw To dare to enter yn? Wi’ eager bounde hes ilka honde Gane till that caverne dreir, Fou many a yowl ys hearde arounde, Fou many a screech of feir. Like ane wi’ thirstie appetite Quha swalloweth orange pulp, Wes hearde a huggle an a bite, A swallow an a gulp. Ye kynge hes lap frae aff hiz steid, Outbrayde hiz trenchant brande; “Quha on my packe of hondes doth feed, Maun deye benead thilke hande.” Sae sed, sae dune: ye stonderes hearde Fou many a mickle stroke, Sowns lyke ye flappynge of a birde, A struggle an a choke. Owte of ye cave scarce fette they ytte, Wi pow an push an hau’– Whereof Y’ve drawne a littel bytte, Bot durst not draw ytte au. For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Happy Birthday Lewis Carroll! Posted on January 27, 2015 under Classic Literature Facts dl-portrait-npg-lewis-carroll For new fairy tale, Prince of Prophecy, and Writer’s Corner updates every Wednesday and Saturday, follow this blog! Leave a comment Lewis Carroll’s “As It Fell Upon a Day” Posted on January 7, 2015 under Fairy Tales and Excerpts, Lewis Carroll carroll As I was sitting on the hearth (And O, but a hog is fat!) A man came hurrying up the path, (And what care I for that?) When he came the house unto, His breath both quick and short he drew. When he came before the door, His face grew paler than before. When he turned the handle round, The man fell fainting to the ground. When he crossed the lofty hall, Once and again I heard him fall. When he came up to the turret stair, He shrieked and tore his raven hair. When he came my chamber in, (And O, but a hog is fat!) I ran him through with a golden pin, (And what care I for that?) === Works (without Alice and Snark) === FOR0880 MY FAIRY (1845) I HAVE a fairy by myside Whichsays I must notsleep, Whenoncein pain I loudly cried It said ““You must not weep’. If, full of mirth, I smile and grin, It says “You must not laugh”; ‘WhenonceI wished to drink some gin It said ‘“You must not quaff”’. Whenonce a mealI wished to taste It said ‘“You mustnotbite’’: Whento the wars I went in haste It said ‘“You mustnotfight”’. ‘What may I do?” at length I cried, Tired of the painful task. Thefairy quietly replied, Andsaid “You must not ask”’. Moral: “You mustn't.” 7O0 EARLY VERSE 7OI PUNCTUALITY MAN naturally loves delay, Andto procrastinate; Business put off from day to day Is always donetoolate. Let every hourbein its place Firm fixed, norloosely shift, And well enjoy the vacant space, Asthough a birthdaygift. And whenthe hourarrives, be there, Where’er that “there’’ maybe; Uncleanly handsor ruffled hair Let no oneeversee. If dinnerat “‘half-past’”’ be placed, At “‘half-past”’ then be dressed. If at a ““quarter-past’’ make haste To be downwiththerest. Better to be before your time, Thane’er to be behind; To ope the door while strikes the chime, That shows a punctual mind. Moral Let punctuality and care Seize everyflitting hour, So shalt thou cull a floweretfair, E’en from a fading flower. 702 VERSE MELODIES I THERE was anold farmerof Readall, Who madeholesin his face with a needle, Then went far deeperin Than to pierce through the skin, Andyet strange to say he was made beadle. II There was an eccentric old draper, Who wore a hat made of brown paper, It went up to a point, Yet it looked outof joint, The cause of which he said was “‘vapour’’. Ill There was once a young manof Oporta, Whodaily got shorter and shorter, The reason he said Wasthe hod onhis head, Which wasfilled with the heaviest mortar. His sister, named Lucy O’Finner, Grew constantly thinner and thinner; The reason wasplain, She slept out in the rain, Andwasneverallowed any dinner. BROTHER AND SISTER ‘‘SISTER, sister, go to bed! Go and rest your weary head.”’ Thus the prudent brothersaid. EARLY VERSE 703 “Do you want a battered hide, Or scratches to yourface applied?” Thushis sister calm replied. “Sister, do not raise my wrath, I’d make you into mutton broth Aseasily as kill a moth!” Thesister raised her beaming eye And looked on him indignantly Andsternly answered, ‘‘Only try!” Off to the cook he quickly ran. “Dear Cook, please lend a frying-pan To me as quickly as you can.” “And wherefore should I lend it you?” “‘The reason, Cook, is plain to view. I wish to makean Irish stew.”’ ““What meatis in that stew to go?” “Mysister’ll be the contents!” “Oh!” “You'll lend the pan to me, Cook?” ‘ ‘No | a} Moral: Never stew yoursister. FACTS WERE I to take an iron gun, And fire it off towards the sun; I grant ’twould reach its markatlast, But nottill many years had passed. But should that bullet changeits force, Andto the planets take its course, *Twould never reach the nearest star, Becauseit is so very far. 704 VERSE RULES AND REGULATIONS A SHORT direction To avoid dejection, Byvariations In occupations, Andprolongation Of relaxation, And combinations Of recreations, Anddisputation On thestate of the nation In adaptation To yourstation, Byinvitations To friends andrelations, By evitation Of amputation, By permutation In conversation, Anddeepreflection You'll avoid dejection. Learn well your grammar, And never stammer, Write well and neatly, Andsing most sweetly, Be enterprising, Loveearlyrising, Go walkof six miles, Haveready quick smiles, With lightsome laughter, Soft flowingafter. Drink tea, not coffee; Nevereattoffy. Eat bread with butter. Once more, don’t stutter. EARLY VERSE 705 Don’t waste your money, Abstain from honey. Shut doors behind you, (Don’t slam them, mind you.) Drink beer, not porter. Don’t enter the water Till to swim youare able. Sit close to the table. Take care of a candle. Shut a doorby the handle, Don’t push with your shoulder Until you are older. Lose not a button. Refuse cold mutton. Starve your canaries. Believein fairies. If you are able, Don’t have a stable With any mangers. Be rudeto strangers. Moral: Behave. HORRORS (1850) METHOUGHT I walked a dismal place Dim horrors all around; Theair was thick with manya face, And black as night the ground. I saw a monster comewith speed, Its face of grimmliest green, On humanbeingsused to feed, Most dreadful to be seen. 706 VERSE I could not speak, I could notfly, T fell down in that place, I saw the monster’s horrid eye Comeleering in my face! Amidst myscarcely-stifled groans, Amidst my moaningsdeep, T heard a voice, ‘“‘Wake! Mr. Jones, You're screamingin yoursleep!” MISUNDERSTANDINGS IF such a thing had been mythought, I should havetold you so before, But as I didn’t, then you ought To ask for such a thing no more, For to teach one whohas been taught Is always thought an awful bore. Now to commence my argument, I shall premise an observation, On whichthe greatest kings have leant Whenstriving to subdue a nation, And e’en the wretch who paysno rent Byit can solve a hard equation. Its truth is such, the force of reason Can not avail to shake its power, Yet e’en the sun in summerseason Doth not dispel so mild a shower As this, and he whoseesit, sees on Beyondit to a sunny bower— No more, whenignoranceis treason, Let wisdom’s browsbe cold and sour. EARLY VERSE 707 AS IT FELL UPON A DAY As I wassitting on the hearth (And O, but a hog ts fat!) A man came hurrying up the path, (And what care I for that?) Whenhe camethe house unto, His breath both quick andshort he drew. Whenhe camebefore the door, His face grew paler than before. Whenhe turned the handle round, The manfell fainting to the ground. Whenhe crossedthelofty hall, Once and again I heard him fall. Whenhe cameup to theturretstair, He shrieked andtore his raven hair. When he came my chamberin, (And O, but a hog ts fat!) I ran him throughwith a golden pin, (And what care I for that?) YE FATTALE CHEYSE YTTE wes a mirke an dreiry cave, Weetscroggis! owr ytte creepe. Gurgles withyn ye flowan wave Throw channel braid an deep 1 bushes. 708 VERSE Never withynthat dreir recesse Wesseneye lyghte of daye, Quhatbode azont! yts mirkinesse? Nane kend an nane motesaye. Ye monarcherade owr brake an brae An drave ye yellynge packe, Hiz meany?aw’richte cadgily* Are wendynge’ yn hiz tracke. Wi’ eageriye, wi’ yalpe an crye Ye hondes yode® downye rocks, Ahead of au’ their companye Renneth ye panky’ foxe. Ye foxe hes soughte that cave of awe Forewearied® wi’ hiz rin. Quha nouys he sae bauld an braw® To dare to enter yn? Wi’ eager boundehesilka honde Ganetill that cavernedreir, Fou! many a yowl# ys!” hearde arounde, Fou!® manya screechoffeir. Like ane wi’ thirstie appetite Quha swalloweth orange pulp, Weshearde a huggle an a bite, A swallow an a gulp. Ye kyngeheslap frae aff hiz steid, Outbrayde!’ hiz trenchant brande; ‘ beyond. 8 much wearied. * darkness. » brave. ® company. 20 full. * merrily. 1 howl. 5 going journeying. 12 is, 5 went. 13 drawn. 7 cunning. EARLY VERSE 709 “Quha on my packeof hondesdothfeed, Maundeye benead thilke hande.”’ Sae sed, sae dune: ye stonderes! hearde Fou manya mickle? stroke, Sowns? lyke ye flappyngeof a birde, A struggle an a choke. Owte of ye cave scarce fette* they ytte, Wipow’an push an hau’&— Whereof Y’ve drawnea littel bytte, Bot durst not draw ytte au.? LAYS OF SORROW No. 1 THE day was wet, the rain fell souse Like jars of strawberry jam,* a Sound washeardin the old henhouse, A beating of a hammer. Of stalwart form, and visage warm, Two youths were seen withinit, Splitting up an old tree into perchesfor their poultry At a hundredstrokes® a minute. The workis done, the hen has taken Possession of her nest and eggs, Without a thoughtof eggs and bacon,!° (Or Tam very much mistaken:) 1 bystanders. 5 pull. 2 heavy. 8 haul. 3 sounds. 7 all. 4 fetched. 8 I.e. the jam withoutthe jars, Observe the beauty of this rhyme. ® At the rate of a stroke and two-thirds in a second. 4 Unless the hen was a poacher, whichis unlikely. 710 VERSE She turns overeachshell, To be sure thatall’s well, Looksinto the straw To see there’s no flaw, Goes once round the house,! Half afraid of a mouse, Then sinks calmly to rest On the top of her nest, First doubling up each of herlegs. Timerolled away, and so did everyshell, “Small by degrees and beautifully less,”’ As the sage mother with a powerful spell? Forced each in turn its contents to express,? Butah! “‘imperfect is expression,”’ Somepoetsaid, I don’t care who, If you want to know you must go elsewhere, Onefact I cantell, if you’re willing to hear, He never attended a Parliament Session, For I’m certain that if he had ever been there, Full quickly would he have changedhis ideas, With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers. Andas to his nameit is pretty clear That it wasn’t me andit wasn’t you! Andso it fell upon a day, (That is, it never rose again) A chick was found uponthe hay, Its little life had ebbed away. No longerfrolicsome and gay, No longer could it run or play. ‘“‘And mustwe, chicken, must we part?” Its master‘ cried with bursting heart, And voice of agony and pain. 1 The henhouse. ? Beak and claw. 3 Press out. 4 Probably one of the two stalwart youths. EARLY VERSE 7II So one, whose ticket’s marked “‘Return’’,! Whento the lonely roadside station Heflies in fear and perturbation, Thinks of his home—thehissing urn— Then runswith flying hat and hair, And,entering, finds to his despair He’s missed the verylatest train.” Too long it weretotell of each conjecture Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim, The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture, The timid guess, ‘‘perhaps someneedle pricked him!”’ The din of voice, the words both loud and many, The sob,the tear, the sigh that none could smother, Till all agreed ‘‘a shilling to a penny It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!” Scarce was the verdict spoken, Whenthatstill calm was broken, A childish form hath burst into the throng; With tears and looks of sadness, That bring no newsof gladness, Buttell too surely something hath gone wrong! “The sight that I have come upon The stoutest heart? would sicken, That nasty hen has been and gone Andkilled another chicken!” 1 The system of return tickets is an excellent one. People are conveyed, on particular days, there and back again for onefare. 2 An additional vexation would be that his ‘‘Return’’ ticket would be no use the next day. 3 Perhaps even the ‘‘bursting”’ heart of its master. 712 VERSE. LAYS OF SORROW No. 2 FAIR stands the ancient! Rectory, The Rectory of Croft, The sun shines bright uponit, The breezes whispersoft. From all the house and garden, Its inhabitants comeforth, And musterin the road without, And pace in twos and threes about, The children of the North. Someare waiting in the garden, Someare waiting at the door, And someare following behind, And somehave gonebefore. But whereforeall this mustering? Whereforethis vast array? A gallant feat of horsemanship Will be performed to-day. To eastward and to westward, The crowd divides amain, Twoyouthsare leading on thesteed, Both tuggingat the rein; And sorely do they labour, Forthe steed? is very strong, 1 This Rectory has been supposedto have beenbuilt in the time of Edward VI, but recent discoveries clearly assign its origin to a much earlier period. A stone has been found in an island formed by the river Tees on which is inscribed the letter ‘‘A’’, which is justly conjectured to stand for the nameof the great King Alfred, in whosereign this house was probably built. *The poet entreats pardon for having represented a donkey underthis dignified name. EARLY VERSE 713 And backward movesits stubborn feet, And backward everdothretreat, Anddragsits guides along. And nowthe knight hath mounted, Before the admiring band, Hath got thestirrupson hisfeet, Thebridle in his hand. Yet, oh! beware, sir horseman! And temptthy fate no more, For such steed as thou hast got Wasneverrid before! The rabbits bow before thee, And cowerin the straw; The chickens! are submissive, And own thywill for law; Bullfinches and canary Thy bidding do obey; Ande’en the tortoise in its shell Doth never say thee nay. But thy steed will hear no master, Thy steed will bear nostick, And woe to those that beat her, Andwoeto those that kick!2 For though herrider smiteher, As hard as he can hit, Andstrive to turn her from the yard, She standsin silence, pulling hard Against the pulling bit. And nowthe road to Dalton Hath felt their coming tread, 1A full account of the history and misfortunes of these interesting creatures may be foundin thefirst ‘‘Lay of Sorrow”’. 2 It is a singular fact that a donkey makes a point of returning any kicks offered to it. 714 VERSE The crowd are speeding on before, Andall have gone ahead. Yet often look they backward, And cheer him on, and bawl, For slowerstill, and still more slow, That horseman and that chargergo, Andscarce advanceatall. And now tworoadsto choose from. Are in that rider’s sight: In front the road to Dalton, And NewCroft upon theright. “T ca’n’t get by!” he bellows, “T really am not able! Though I pull my shoulderout ofjoint, I cannot get him past this point, Forit leads unto his stable!”’ Then out spake Ulfrid Longbow, A valiant youth washe, “Lo! I will stand on thy right hand Andguardthe pass for thee!”’ Andout spakefair Flureeza,? His sister eke wasshe, “T will abide on thy otherside, Andturn thy steed for thee!”’ And now commenceda struggle Between that steed and rider, Forall the strength that he hath left Doth notsuffice to guide her. Though Ulfrid andhis sister Havekindly stopped the way, And all the crowd havecried aloud, “We can’t wait here all day!”’ 1 This valiant knight, besides having a heart of steel and nerves of iron, has been lately in the habit of carrying a brick in his eye. 2 She wassister to both. EARLY VERSE 715 Roundturned heas not deigning Their words to understand, Butheslipped the stirrups from his feet Thebridle from his hand, And grasped the manefulllightly, And vaulted from his seat, And gained the road in triumph, Andstood uponhis feet. All firmly till that moment Had Ulfrid Longbowstood, And faced the foe right valiantly, As every warrior should. But whensafe on terra firma His brotherhe did spy, “What did you do that for?” he cried, Then unconcerned hestepped aside Andlet it canter by. They gave him breadandbutter,? That was of public right, As muchasfour strong rabbits Could munch from mornto night, Forhe’d donea deed of daring, And faced that savagesteed, Andtherefore cupsof coffee sweet, Andeverything that was treat, Were but his right and meed. Andoften in the evenings, Whenthefire is blazing bright, When booksbestrew the table And mothsobscurethelight, 1 The reader will probably be at a loss to discover the nature of this triumph, as no object was gained, and the donkey was obviously the victor; on this point, however, we are sorry to say we can offer no good explanation. 2 Much more acceptable to a true knight than ‘“‘corn-land”’ which the Roman people wereso foolish as to give to their daring champion, Horatius. 716 VERSE When crying children go to bed, A struggling, kicking load; We'll talk of Ulfrid Longbow’s deed, How,in his brother’s utmost need, Backto his aid he flew with speed, Andhowhefacedthefiery steed, And kept the New Croft Road. THE TWO BROTHERS (1853) THERE were two brothers at Twyford school, And whenthey hadleft the place, It was, ‘‘Will ye learn Greek and Latin? Or will ye run me a race? Or will ye go up to yonderbridge, And there wewill angle for dace?”’ “T’m too stupid for Greekand for Latin, I’m too lazy by half for a race, So I’ll even go up to yonderbridge, And there wewill angle for dace.”’ Hehasfitted together twojoints ofhis rod, And to them hehas added another, And then a great hookhe took from his book, Andranit right into his brother. Oh muchis the noise that is made among boys Whenplayfully peltinga pig, But a far greater pother was madeby his brother Whenflung from the top of the brigg. Thefish hurried up by the dozens, All ready and eagerto bite, For the lad that heflung was so tender and young, It quite gave them an appetite. EARLY VERSE 717 Said he, “‘Thusshall he wallop about Andthefish take him quite at their ease, For me to annoyit was everhis joy, Now I’ll teach him the meaningof ‘Tees’!”’ The windto his ear broughta voice, “My brother, you didn’t had oughtter! And what have I done that you think it such fun To indulgein the pleasureof slaughter? ‘‘A good nibble or bite is my chiefest delight, When I’m merely expected to see, Buta bite from a fish is not quite what I wish, WhenI get it performed upon me; Andjust now here’s a swarm of dace at my arm, And a perch hasgot hold of my knee. — “For water my thirst was not great at thefirst, Andoffish I have quite sufficien ” “Oh fear not!” he cried, “for whateverbetide, Weare bothin the selfsame condition! “T am sure that our state’s very nearly alike (Not considering the question of slaughter), For I have myperch on thetop of the bridge, And you have your perch in the water. “T stick to my perch and yourperchsticks to you, Wearereally extremely alike; I’ve a turn-pike up here, and I very much fear You maysoon have a turn with a pike.” “Oh, grant but one wish! If I’m took by fish (For yourbait is your brother, good man!) Pull him upif youlike, but I hope you will strike As gently as ever you can.”’ 718 VERSE “Tf the fish be a trout, I’m afraid there’s no doubt I muststrike him like lightning that’s greased; If the fish be a pike, I’ll engagenotto strike, Till I’ve waited ten minutesatleast.” “But in those ten minutesto desolate Fate Your brother a victim mayfall!”’ “T’ll reduceit to five, so perhaps you'll survive, But the chanceis exceedingly small.”’ “Oh hard is your heart for to act such a part; Is it iron, or granite, or steel?” “Why,I really can’t say—it is many a day Since my heart was accustomedto feel. “‘’Twas my heart-cherished wish for to slay manyfish Each day did my malice grow worse, For my heart didn’t soften with doingit so often But rather, I should say, the reverse.” “Oh would I were back at Twyford school, Learning lessons in fear of the birch!”’ “Nay, brother!” hecried, ‘‘for whateverbetide, You are better off here with your perch! “Tam sure you'll allow you are happier now, With nothingto do butto play; Andthis single linehere, it is perfectly clear, Is much better than thirty a day! “And as to the rod hanging over your head, And apparently readytofall, That, you know, was the case, when you lived in that place, So it need not be reckonedatall. “Do yousee that old trout with a turn-up-nose snout? (Just to speak on a pleasanter theme), Observe, my dear brother, our love for each other— He’s the one I like best in the stream. EARLY VERSE 719 “To-morrow I meanto invite him to dine (Weshall all of us think it a treat); If the day should be fine, PU just drop him a line, And we’]l settle what time we’re to meet. ““He hasn’t been into society yet, And his mannersare notof the best, So I think it quite fair that it should be my care, To see that he’s properly dressed.” Many words brought the wind of “‘cruel” and “‘kind’”’, Andthat “man suffers more than the brute”’: Each several word with patience he heard, Andanswered with wisdom to boot. “What? prettier swimming in the stream, Than lying all snugly and flat? Do but look at that dish filled with glittering fish, Has Naturea picture like that? “What? a higher delight to be drawn from the sight Of fish full of life and of glee? What a noodle you are! ’tis delightfuller far To kill them than let them gofree! “T know there are people whoprate by the hour Of the beauty of earth, sky, and ocean; Of the birds as theyfly, of the fish darting by, Rejoicing in Life and in Motion. “As to any delight to be got from thesight, It is all very well for flat, But J think it alkgammon,for hooking a salmon Is better than twentyof that! “They say that a man of a right-thinking mind Will Jove the dumb creatures he sees— What’s the use of his mind,if he’s never inclined To pulla fish out of the Tees? 720 VERSE “Take myfriends and my home—asanoutcast I’ll roam: Take the money I have in the Bank; It is just what I wish, but deprive meoffish, And mylife would indeed be a blank!” Forth from the househis sister came, Herbrothersforto see, But when shesawthat sight of awe, Thetear stood in here’e. “Oh what bait’s that upon your hook, Mybrother,tell to me?” “It is but the fantailed pigeon, He would not sing for me.” ““Whoe’er would expect a pigeon to sing, A simpleton he mustbe! But a pigeon-coteis a different thing To the coat that there I see!”’ “Oh what bait’s that upon your hook, Dear brother, tell to me?”’ “It is my youngerbrother,” hecried, “Oh woe and dole is me! “T’s mighty wicked, that I is! Or how could such things be? Farewell, farewell, sweet sister, I’m going o’er the sea.” “And when will you comeback again, My brother,tell to me?”’ “When chubis good for human food, And that will never be!’’ She turnedherself right round about, Andherheart brakeinto three, Said, “Oneof the two will be wet through and through, Andt’other’ll be late for his tea!’’ 2A EARLY VERSE 721 THE LADY OF THE LADLE (1854) THE Youth at Eve had drunkhisfill, Wherestands the “‘Royal”’ on the Hill, Andlong his mid-day stroll had made, Onthe so-called ‘‘Marine Parade””— (Meant, I presume, for Seamen brave, Whose ‘“‘marchis on the Mountain wave’; *Twerejust the bathing-place for him Whostayson landtill he can swim)— Andhe hadstrayed into the Town, Andpaced each alley up and down, Wherestill, so narrow grew the way, The very houses seemedto say, Noddingto friends across the Street, “Onestruggle more and weshall meet.” And he had scaled that wondrousstair That soars from earth to upperair, Whererich and poor alike must climb, And walk the treadmill for a time. That morning he had dressed with care, And put Pomatum onhishair; Hewas,the loungersall agreed, A very heavy swell indeed: Menthought him, as he swaggeredby, Somescion of nobility, Andnever dreamed,so cold his look, That he had loved—andloved a Cook. Upon the beach hestood and sighed Unheedfulof the treacheroustide; Thus sangheto the listening main, Andsoothedhis sorrow with thestrain! 722 VERSE CORONACH “SHE is gone bythe Hilda, She is lost unto Whitby, Andher nameis Matilda, Which myheart it was smit by; Tho’ I take the Goliah, T learn to my sorrow That ‘it wo’n’t’, said the crier, ‘Beoff till to-morrow.’ “She called me her ‘Neddy’, (Tho’ there mayn’t be muchin it,) And I should have been ready, If she’d waited a minute; I was following behind her When, if you recollect, I Merely ran backto finda Gold pin for my neck-tie. “Rich dresserof suet! Prime hand at a sausage! I havelost thee, I rue it, And myfare for the passage! Perhapsshe thinks it funny, Aboardof the Hilda, ButI’ve lost purse and money, Andthee, oh, my ’Tilda!”’ His pin of gold the youth undid Andin his waistcoat-pockethid, Then gently folded hand in hand, Anddropped asleep upon the sand. EARLY VERSE 723 SHE’S ALL MY FANCY PAINTED HIM [This affecting fragment was found in MS. among the papers of the well-known author of “‘Was it You or I?” a tragedy, and the two popularnovels, “Sister and Son’’, and “The Niece’s Legacy, or the Grateful Grandfather’’.] SHE’S all my fancy painted him (I makenoidle boast); If he or you hadlost a limb, Which would havesuffered most? He said that you hadbeento her, Andseen me here before; But, in another character, - She was the sameofyore. There wasnot one that spoketo us, Ofall that throngedthestreet: So he sadly got into a ’bus, And pattered with his feet. They sent him word I had not gone (We know it to be true); If she should push the matter on, What would becomeof you? They gaveher one, they gave me two, They gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involvedin this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. 724 VERSE It seemed to me that you had been (Before she hadthis fit) An obstacle, that came between Him, and ourselves, andit. Don’t let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me. PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY The Milk-and-Water School ALAS! she would not hear myprayer! Yet it were rash to tear myhair; Disfigured, I should beless fair. She was unwise, I may say blind; Onceshe waslovingly inclined; Somecircumstancehas changedher mind. The Strong-Minded or Matter-of-Fact School Well! so my offer was no go! She mightdo worse, I told herso; She wasa fool to answer “‘No’’. However, things are as they stood; Nor would I haveherif I could, For there are plenty more as good. The Spasmodic or German School Firebrands and daggers! hope hathfled! To atoms dash the doubly dead! Mybrain is fire—myheartis lead! EARLY VERSE 725 Hersoulis flint, and what am I? Scorch’d byherfierce, relentless eye, Nothingness is my destiny! LAYS OF MYSTERY, IMAGINATION, AND HUMOUR Number1 THE PALACE OF HUMBUG I DREAMTI dwelt in marble halls, And each dampthingthat creeps and crawls Went wobble-wcbble on the walls. Faint odours of departed cheese, Blown on the dank, unwholesomebreeze, Awokethe never-ending sneeze. Strange pictures decked thearras drear, Strange characters of woe andfear, The humbugsof the social sphere. One showed a vain and noisyprig, That shouted empty words and big At him that noddedin a wig. And one, a dotard grim andgray, Whowasteth childhood’s happy day In work moreprofitless than play. Whoseicy breast no pity warms, Whoselittle victimssit in swarms, Andslowly sob on lower forms. Andone, a green thyme-honoured Bank, Whereflowers are growing wild and rank, Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank. 726 VERSE All birds of evil omen there Flood with rich Notes the tainted air, The witless wandererto snare. The fatal Notes neglectedfall, No creature heeds the treacherouscall, Forall those goodly Strawn Baits Pall. The wandering phantom broke andfled, Straightway I saw within my head A vision of a ghostly bed, Where lay two worn decrepit men, Thefictions of a lawyer’s pen, Whonever more might breatheagain. The serving-man of Richard Roe Wept, inarticulate with woe: She wept, that waited on John Doe. “Oh rouse’, I urged, “‘the waning sense Withtales of tangled evidence, Of suit, demurrer, and defence.” “Vain’’, shereplied, ‘‘such mockeries: For morbid fancies, such asthese, Nosuits can suit, no plea can please.” And bending o’er that man of straw, Shecried in grief and sudden awe, Not inappropriately, ‘““Law!”’ The well-remembered voice he knew, Hesmiled,he faintly muttered “‘Sue!’’ (Her very namewaslegal too.) Thenight wasfled, the dawn wasnigh: A hurricane went raving by, And sweptthe Vision from mine eye. EARLY VERSE 727 Vanished that dim and ghostly bed, (The hangings, tape; the tape wasred:) *Tis o’er, and Doe and Roe aredead! Oh, yet myspirit inly crawls, Whattimeit shudderingly recalls That horrid dream of marble halls! Oxford, 1855. THE MOCK TURTLE’S SONG BENEATH the watersof the sea Are lobsters thick as thick can be— They love to dance with you and me, My own, mygentle Salmon! CHORUS Salmon, come up! Salmon, go down! Salmon, come twist yourtail around! Ofall the fishes of the sea There’s none so good as Salmon! UPON THE LONELY MOOR (1856) {It is always interesting to ascertain the sources from which our great poets obtained their ideas: this motive has dictated the publication of the following: painful as its , appearance must be to the admirers of Wordsworth and his poem of “Resolution and Independence’’.] I MET an aged, aged man Uponthe lonely moor: I knew I was a gentleman, Andhe wasbuta boor. 728 VERSE So I stopped and roughly questioned him, “Come, tell me how youlive!” But his words impressed my ear no more Thanif it were a sieve. Hesaid,“I look for soap-bubbles, That lie among the wheat, Andbake them into mutton-pies, Andsell them in thestreet. I sell them unto men’, he said, “Whosail on stormy seas; Andthat’s the way I get my bread— A trifle, if you please.” But I was thinking of a way To multiply by ten, Andalways, in the answer,get The question back again. I did not hear a wordhesaid, But kicked that old man calm, Andsaid, “‘Come,tell me how youlive!” Andpinched him in the arm. His accents mild took up thetale: Hesaid, ‘I go my ways, And whenI find a mountain-rill, I set it in a blaze. And thence they makea stuff they call Rowland’s MacassarOil; But fourpence-halfpennyisall They give mefor mytoil.” But I was thinking of a plan To paint one’s gaiters green, So muchthecolourof the grass That they could ne’er be seen. EARLY VERSE 729 I gave his ear a sudden box, And questioned him again, And tweaked his grey and reverendlocks, Andput him into pain. Hesaid,“I hunt for haddocks’ eyes Amongthe heatherbright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In thesilent night. Andthese I do notsell for gold, Or coin of silver-mine, But for a copper-halfpenny, Andthat will purchasenine. “IT sometimes dig for butteredrolls, Orset limed twigs forcrabs; I sometimessearch the flowery knolls _ For wheels of hansom cabs. Andthat’s the way”’ (he gave a wink) “T get myliving here, Andvery gladly will I drink Your Honour’s health in beer.” I heard him then,for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menaibridge from rust Byboiling it in wine. I duly thanked him,ere I went, Forall his stories queer, Butchiefly for his kind intent To drink my health in beer. And nowif e’er by chance I put Myfingersinto glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe; 730 VERSE Or if a statement I aver Of which I am notsure, I think of that strange wanderer Uponthe lonely moor. MISS JONES (This frolicsome verse was written for a medley of twentytwo tunes that ranged from ‘The Captain and His Whiskers”’ to ‘Rule Britannia’’.) ‘Tis a melancholy song, andit will not keep youlong, Tho I specs it will work upon yourfeelings very strong, For the agonizing moans of Miss Arabella Jones Were warranted to melt the hearts of any paving stones. Simon Smith wastall and slim, and she doted upon him, But he always called her Miss Jones—henevergotsofar, As to use her Christian name—it was too familiar. Whenshe called him ‘“‘Simon dear” he pretended not to hear, Andshetold hersister Susan he behaved extremely queer, Whosaid, “Very right! very right! Shewshis true affection. If you’d prove your Simon’s love follow my direction. I'd certainly advise you just to write a simpleletter, And to tell him that the cold he kindly asked about is better. And say that by the tanyard you will wait in loving hope, At nine o’clock this eveningif he’s willing to elope Withhis faithful Arabella.” So she wrote it, & signed it, & sealed it, & sent it, & dressed herself out in her holiday things. With bracelets & brooches, & earrings, & necklace, a watch, & an eyeglass, & diamondrings, For man is a creature weak and impressible, thinks such a deal of appearance, my dear. EARLY VERSE 731 So she waited for her Simon beside the tanyard gate, regardless of the pieman, whohintedit was late. Waiting for Simon, she coughedin the chilly night, until the tanner found her, And kindly broughta light old coat to wrap aroundher. Shefelt her cold was getting worse, Yet still she fondly whispered, ‘‘Oh, take your time, my Simon, although I’ve waitedlong. I do not fear my Simondearwill fail to comeatlast, Although I know that long ago the time I namedis past. My Simon! My Simon! Oh, charming man! Oh, charming man! Dear Simon Smith, sweet Simon Smith.” Oh, there goes the church-clock, the town-clock, the station- clock and there go the otherclocks, they are all striking twelve! Oh, Simon,it is getting late, it’s very dull to sit and wait. Andreally I’m in such a state, I hope you'll comeat any rate, quite early in the morning, quite early in the morning. Then with prancing bays & yellow chaise, we'll away to Gretna Green. For when I am with my Simon Smith—oh, that common name! Oh that vulgar name! I shall never rest happytill he’s changed that name, but whenhe has married me, maybe he’ll love meto that degree, that he’ll grant me my prayer Andwill call himself ‘“Clare’’— So she talked all alone, as she sat upon a stone, Still hoping he would comeandfind her, and she started most unkimmon, wheninsteadof darling ‘‘Simmon” *twas a strange manthat stood behindher, Whocivilly observed “Good evening, M’am, I really am surprised to see that you're out here alone, for you must own from thieves you're not secure. A watch, I see. Pray lend it me (I hope the goldis pure). Andall those rings, & other things—Don’t scream, you know,for long ago 732 VERSE The policemanoff from his beat has gone. In the kitchen——-”’ ‘‘Oh, you desperate villain! Oh, you treacherousthief!”’ And these were the wordsof her angerandgrief. “When first to Simon Smith I gave my hand I never could have thought he would haveacted half so mean as this. And where’s the new police? Oh, Simon, Simon! how could you treat your love so ill?”’ They sit & chatter, they chatter with the cook, the guardians, so they’re called, of public peace. Through the tanyard was heard the dismal sound, ‘‘How on earth is it policemen never, never, never, can be found?’’ PUZZLES FROM WONDERLAND I DREAMING of apples on a wall, And dreamingoften, dear, I dreamedthat, if I countedall, —How many would appear? II A stick I found that weighed two pound: I sawedit up one day In pieces eight of equal weight! How muchdid each piece weigh? (Everybody says ‘‘a quarter of a pound”’, whichis wrong.) III John gave his brother James a box: Aboutit there were manylocks. James wokeandsaid it gave him pain; So gave it back to John again. The box wasnotwith lid supplied, Yet caused twolids to open wide: Andall these locks had never a key— What kind of a box, then, could it be? IV Whatis mostlike a bee in May? “Well, let me think: perhaps ”” you say. Bravo! You’re guessing well to-day! 733 734 VERSE V Three sisters at breakfast were feeding the cat, Thefirst gave it sole—Puss wasgrateful for that: The next gave it salmon—which Puss thoughta treat: The third gave it herring—which Puss wouldn’t eat. (Explain the conduct of the cat.) VI Said the Moonto the Sun, “Ts the daylight begun?”’ Said the Sun to the Moon, “Not a minute too soon.” “You’re a Full Moon,”’ said he. She replied with a frown, “Well! I never did see So uncivil a clown!’ (Query. Why was the moon so angry?) Vil WHEN the King found that his money was nearly all gone, and that he really must live more economically, he decided on sending away most of his Wise Men. There were some hundreds of them—very fine old men, and magnificently dressed in green velvet gowns with gold buttons: if they /ad a fault, it was that they always contradicted one another when he asked for their advice— and they certainly ate and drank enormously.So, on the whole, he was rather glad to get rid of them. But there was an old law, which he did not dare to disobey, which said that there must always be “Seven blind of both eyes: Two blind of one eye: Fourthat see with both eyes: Nine that see with one eye.”’ (Query. How manydid he keep?) PUZZLES FROM WONDERLAND 735 SOLUTIONS TO PUZZLES FROM WONDERLAND J Ten. II In Shylock’s bargain for the flesh was found No mention of the blood that flowed around: So when thestick was sawedin eight, The sawdust lost diminished from the weight. Iil As curly-headed Jemmy wassleeping in bed, His brother John gave him a blow on the head; Jamesopenedhis eyelids, and spying his brother, Doubledhis fist, and gave him another. This kind of box thenis not so rare; Thelids are the eyelids, the locks are thehair, And so every schoolboy cantell to his cost, Thekeyto the tangles is constantlylost. IV *Twixt ‘Perhaps’ and “May be”’ Little difference we see: Let the question go round, The answeris found. Vv That salmon and sole Puss should think very grand Is no such remarkable thing. For moreof these dainties Puss took up her stand; -But whenthethird sister stretched out her fair hand Pray whyshould Puss swallow herring? 736 VERSE VI “In these degenerate days’’, we oft hearsaid, “Mannersare lost and chivalry is dead!” No wonder,since in high exalted spheres The same degeneracy, in fact, appears. The Moon, in social matters interfering, Scolded the Sun, when early in appearing; Andthe rude Sun,her gentle sex ignoring,- Called her a fool, thus her pretensionsflooring. vil Five seeing, and seven blind Give us twelve, in all, we find; Butall of these, ’tis veryplain, Comeinto account again. For take notice, it may be true, That those blind of one eye are blind for two; Andconsider contrariwise, That to see with your eye you may have youreyes; So setting one against the other— For a mathematician no great bother— And working the sum, you will understand That sixteen wise menstill trouble the land. PROLOGUES TO PLAYS PROLOGUE TO “LA GUIDA DI BRAGIA” (From an opera written for Carroll’s Marionette Theatre.) SHALL soldiers tread the murderouspathof war, Without a notion what they doit for? Shall pallid mercers drive a roaring trade, Andsell the stuffs their hands have never made? Andshall not we, in this our mimic scene, Be all that better actors e’er have been? Awake again a Kemble’stragic tone, And make a Liston’s humourall our own? Or vie with Mrs. Siddonsin the art To rousethe feelings and to charm the heart? While Shakespeare’s self, with all his ancientfires, Lights up the forms that tremble on our wires? Whyca’n’t we have, in theatresideal, The good, withoutthe evil of the real? Why maynot Marionettes be just as good As larger actors madeofflesh and blood? Presumptuousthought! to you and your applause In humbler confidence we trust our cause. PROLOGUE (Misses Beatrice and Ethel Hatch, daughters of Dr. Edwin Hatch, Vice-principal of St. Mary Hall, were friends of the author. He wrote two plays for performance at their house.) Curtain rises and discovers the Speaker, who comes forward, thinking aloud, “Ladies and Gentlemen” seemsstiff and cold. There’s something personalin ““Young and Old”; I'll try “Dear Friends” (addresses audience) Oh! let me call you so. 737 738 VERSE Dearfriends, look kindly on ourlittle show. Contrast us not with giants in the Art, Norsay ““You should see Sothern in that part”; Noryet, unkindestcutof all, in fact, Condemntheactors, while you praise the Act. Having by coming proved youfind a charm init, Don’t go away, and hint there may be harm init. Miss Crabb. My dear Miss Verjuice, can it really be? You’re just in time, love, for a cup oftea; And so, you wentto see those people play. Miss Verjuice. Well! yes, Miss Crabb, and I may truly say You showed your wisdom when youstayed away. Miss C. Doubtless! Theatricals in our quiet town! I’ve alwayssaid, ‘“The law should put them down,”’ They mean no harm,tho’ I begin to doubt it— But now sit down andtell me all aboutit. Miss V. Well then, Miss Crabb, I won’t deceive you, dear; I heard somethingsI didn’t like to hear: Miss C. But don’t omit them now. Miss V.- Well! No! T'll try To tell you all the painful history. (They whisper alternately behind a smallfan.) Miss V. And then, my dear, Miss Asterisk and he Pretended they werelovers!! Miss C. Gracious me!1 (More whispering behind fan.) Speaker. What! Acting love!! And has that ne’er been seen Save with a row of footlights placed between? My gentle censors, let me roundly ask, Do nonebut actors ever wear a mask? Or have wereachedat last that golden age PROLOGUES TO PLAYS 739 Thatfinds deception only on the Stage? Come, let’s confess all round before we budge, Whenall are guilty, none should play the Judge. We're actors all, a motley company, Someon the Stage, and others—onthe sly— And guiltiest he who paints so well his phiz His brother actors scarce know whatheis. A truce to moralizing; weinvite The goodly company wesee to-night To havethelittle banquet we have got, Well dressed, we hope, and served up hot & hot. “Loan of a Lover’ is the leading dish, Concluding with a dainty course offish; “Whitebait at Greenwich” in the best condition (By Mr. Gladstone’s very kind permission), Before the courses will be handed round An Entrée madeof Children, nicely browned. Bell rings. But hark! The bell to summon me away; They’re anxiousto begin theirlittle Play. One word before I go—We’ll do ourbest, And crave your kind indulgencefor therest; Own that at least we’ve striven to succeed, Andtake the goodintention for the deed. Nov. 1871 PROLOGUE Enter Beatrice, leading Wilfred. She leaves him at centre ( front), and after going round on tip-toe, to make sure they are not overheard, returns and takes his arm. B. ‘“Wiffie! I’m sure that something zs the matter, All day there’s been—oh,such a fuss andclatter! Mamma’s been trying on a funny dress— I never saw the house in such a mess! (puts her arm round his neck) Is there a secret, Wiffie?”’ 740 W. B. W. VERSE (shaking her off) ‘Yes, of course!” “And you won’t tell it? (whimpers) Then you’re very cross! (turns away from him and clasps her hands, looking up ecstatically) I’m sure of this! It’s something guite uncommon!” (stretching up his arms, with a mock-herotc air) “Oh, Curiosity! Thy name is Woman! (puts his arm round her coaxingly) , Well, Birdie, then I'll tell! (mysteriously) What should you say If they were going to act—alittle play?” (jumping and clapping her hands) “V’dsay ‘HOW NICE!” (pointing to audience) “But will it please the rest?” “Oh yes! Because, you know, they’ll do their best! (turns to audience) You'll praise them, won’t you, when you’ve seen the play? Just say ‘HOW NICE!’ before you go away!”’ (They run away hand in hand.) Feb. 14, 1873. PHANTASMAGORIA Canto I The Trystyng ONE winter night, at half-past nine, Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy, I had come home, toolate to dine, And supper,with cigars and wine, Waswaitingin the study. There was a strangeness in the room, And Something white and wavy Wasstanding near mein the gloom— I took it for the carpet-broom Left by that careless slavey. But presently the Thing began To shiver and to sneeze: On which I said ““Come, come, my man! That’s a most inconsiderateplan, Less noise there, if you please!”’ “T’ve caught a cold’’, the Thing replies, “Out there upon the landing.” I turned to look in some surprise, And there, before my very eyes, A little Ghost was standing! He trembled when he caught myeye, Andgotbehinda chair. ““How cameyou here,’’ I said, “and why? I never saw a thing so shy. Comeout! Don’t shiver there!”’ 74t 742 VERSE Hesaid “I'd gladly tell you how, Andalso tell you why; But”’ (here he gave little bow) “You're in so bad a temper now, You'd thinkit alla lie. “And asto being in a fright, Allow me to remark That Ghosts have just as good a right, - In every way,to fear thelight, As Mento fear the dark.”’ “No plea’, said I, “‘can well excuse Such cowardice in you: For Ghosts can visit when they choose, Whereas we Humansca’n’t refuse To grant the interview.”’ Hesaid “‘A flutter of alarm Is not unnatural, is it? I really feared you meant some harm: But, now I see that you are calm, Let me explain myvisit. “‘Housesare classed,I beg to state, According to the number Of Ghosts that they accommodate: (The Tenant merely counts as weight, With Coals and other lumber). “This is a ‘one-ghost’ house, and you, Whenyou arrived last summer, May have remarked a Spectre who Wasdoingall that Ghosts can do To welcome the new-comer. “In Villas this is always done— Howevercheaply rented: PHANTASMAGORIA 743 For, thoughof course there’s less of fun Whenthereis only room for one, Ghosts haveto be contented. “That Spectre left you on the Third— Since then you’ve not been haunted: For, as he never sent us word, ’Twasquite by accident we heard That any one was wanted. “A Spectrehasfirst choice, by right, In filling up a vacancy; Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite— If all these fail them, they invite The nicest Ghoul that they cansee. “The Spectres said the place waslow, And that you kept bad wine: So, asa Phantom hadto go, And I wasfirst, of course, you know, T couldn’t well decline.” “No doubt”, said I, ‘‘they settled who Wasfittest to be sent: Yet still to choose a bratlike you, To haunt a man of forty-two, Wasno great compliment!” “T’m not so young,Sir,’’ he replied, ‘““As you might think. Thefactis, In caverns by the water-side, And otherplaces that I’ve tried, I’ve hada lot of practice: “But I have never taken yet A strict domestic part, And in myflurry I forget The Five Good Rulesof Etiquette We have to know by heart.” 744 VERSE My sympathies were warming fast Towardsthelittle fellow: He wasso utterly aghast At having found a Man atlast, Andlookedso scared andyellow. “At least”’, I said, ‘I’m glad to find A Ghostis not a dumb thing! Butpray sit down: you'll feel inclined (If, like myself, you have not dined) To take a snack of something: “Though, certainly, you don’t appear A thing to offerfood to! And then I shall be glad to hear— If you will say them loud and clear— The Rules that you allude to.” “‘Thanks! You shall hear them by and by. This zs a piece of luck!” “What may I offer you?” saidI. “Well, since you ave so kind, I’ll try A little bit of duck. “One slice! And may I ask you for Anotherdrop of gravy?”’ I sat and looked at him in awe, For certainly I never saw A thing so white and wavy. Andstill he seemed to grow morewhite, More vapoury, and wavier— Seen in the dim andflickeringlight, Ashe proceededto recite His “‘Maxims of Behaviour’’. PHANTASMAGORIA 745 CanTo II Hys Fyve Rules “My First—but don’t suppose’’, he said, “T’m setting you a riddle— Is—if your Victim bein bed, Don’t touch the curtains at his head, But take them in the middle, ‘And wave them slowly in and out, While drawing them asunder; And in a minute’s time, no doubt, He’ll raise his head and look about Witheyes of wrath and wonder: “‘And here you must on no pretence Makethefirst observation. Wait for the Victim to commence: No Ghost of any commonsense Begins a conversation. “Tf he should say ‘How came you here?’ (The way that you began, Sir), In such a case yourcourse is clear— ‘On the bat’s back, my little dear!’ Is the appropriate answer. “If after this he says no more, You'd best perhaps curtail your Exertions—goand shakethe door, And then, if he beginsto snore, You'll know the thing’s failure. “By day,if he should be alone— At homeor on a walk— 746 VERSE You merelygive a hollow groan, To indicate the kind of tone In which you meanto talk. “But if you find him withhis friends, The thingis rather harder. Tn such a case success depends On picking up some candle-ends, Orbutter, in the larder. “With this you make a kind of slide (It answers best with suet), On which you must contriveto glide. And swingyourself from side to side— One soonlearns how to doit. “The Secondtells us whatis right In ceremoniouscalls:— ‘Furst burn a blue or crimson light’ (A thing I quite forgot to-night), ‘Then scratch the door or walls. > > I said ‘““You’ll visit here no more, If you attempt the Guy. I'll have no bonfires on my floor— And,as for scratching at the door, I'd like to see you try!” “The Third was written to protect The interests of the Victim, Andtells us, as I recollect, To treat him with a grave respect, And not to contradict him.” “That’s plain’, said I, ‘‘as Tare and Tret, To any comprehension: I only wish some Ghosts I’ve met Would notso constantly forget The maxim that you mention!” PHANTASMAGORIA 749 “Perhaps’, he said, ‘“you first transgressed The lawsof hospitality: All Ghostsinstinctively detest The Manthatfails to treat his guest With propercordiality. “Tf you address a Ghost as ‘Thing!’ Or strike him with a hatchet, He is permitted by the King To dropallformal parleying— Andthen you're sure to catchit! “The Fourth prohibits trespassing Whereother Ghosts are quartered: And those convicted of the thing (Unless when pardoned by the King) Mustinstantly be slaughtered. “That simply means‘be cut up small’: Ghosts soon unite anew: The process scarcely hurts at all— Not more than when youw’re whatyoucall ‘Cut up’ bya Review. “The Fifth is one you may prefer That I should quote entire:-— The King must be addressed as ‘Sir’. This, from a simple courtier, Is all the Laws require: “But, should you wish to do the thing With out-and-out politeness, Accost him as ‘My Goblin King!’ And always use, in answering, The phrase ‘Your Royal Whiteness ...... L 748 VERSE “T’m getting rather hoarse,I fear, After so muchreciting: So, if you don’t object, my dear, We'll try a glass of bitter beer— I think it looksinviting.” Canto ITI Scarmoges “AND did you really walk’’, said I, “On such a wretched night? I always fancied Ghosts could fly— If not exactly in the sky, Yet at a fairish height.” “It’s very well’, said he, “for Kings To soar abovetheearth: But Phantomsoften find that wings— Like manyother pleasant things— Cost more than they are worth. “Spectres of course are rich, and so Can buy them from the Elves: But we prefer to keep below— They’re stupid company, you know, For any but themselves: “For, though they claim to be exempt From pride, they treat a Phantom As something quite beneath contempt— Just as no Turkey ever dreamt Of noticing a Bantam.” “They seem too proud’, said I, ‘‘to go To housessuch as mine. PHANTASMAGORIA 749 Pray, how did they contrive to know So quickly that ‘the place was low’, And that I ‘kept bad wine’?”’ “Inspector Kobold came to you——”’ Thelittle Ghost began. Here I broke in—‘‘Inspector who? Inspecting Ghosts is something new! Explain yourself, my man!”’ “His name is Kobald,”’ said my guest: “Oneof the Spectre order: You'll very often see him dressed In a yellow gown, a crimsonvest, And a night-cap witha border. “‘He tried the Brocken businessfirst, But caughta sortof chill; So cameto England to be nursed, Andhereit took the form of thirst, Whichhe complainsofstill. “‘Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound, Warmshis old boneslike nectar: Andastheinns, whereit is found, Are his especial hunting-ground, We call him the Jnn-Spectre.”’ I bore it—boreit like a man— This agonizing witticism! And nothing could be sweeter than My temper, till the Ghost began Some most provokingcriticism. “Cooks need not be indulged in waste; Yetstill you’d better teach them Dishes should have somesort oftaste. Pray, whyareall the cruets placed Where nobodycan reach them? 750 VERSE “That man of yours will never earn His living as a waiter! Is that queer thing supposed to burn? (It’s far too dismal a concern To call a Moderator.). “The duck was tender, but the peas Were very muchtoo old: Andjust remember,if you please, The next time you have toasted cheese, Don’t let them sendit cold. “You'll find the bread improved,I think, By getting better flour: And haveyou anything to drink Thatlooks a Jzttle less like ink, Andisn’t quite so sour?”’ Then, peering roundwith curiouseyes, He muttered “Goodness gracious!” Andso wenton to criticize— “Your room’s an inconvenientsize: It’s neither snug nor spacious. “That narrow window,I expect, Serves but to let the dusk in ” “But please’’, said I, “‘to recollect ’Twas fashioned by an architect Whopinnedhis faith on Ruskin!” “T don’t care whohewas,Sir, or On whom he pinnedhisfaith! Constructed by whateverlaw, So poora job I never saw, As I’m living Wraith! “What a re-markable cigar! How muchare they a dozen?” PHANTASMAGORIA 751 Lgrowled “No matter what they are! You're getting as familiar Asif you were my cousin! “Nowthat’s a thing I will not stand, And so tell youflat.” ‘““Aha,” said he, “‘we’re getting grand!”’ (Taking a bottle in his hand) “T’ll soon arrangefor that!” Andhere he took a careful aim, Andgaily cried ‘‘Here goes!” T tried to dodgeit as it came, But somehow caughtit, all the same, Exactly on my nose. And I remembernothing more That I can clearly fix, Till I wassitting on thefloor, Repeating ““Twoandfive are four, Butfive and two are six.” Whatreally passed I never learned, Norguessed:I only know That, when at last my sense returned, The lamp,neglected, dimly burned— Thefire was getting low— Through driving mists I seemed to see A Thing that smirked and smiled: And found that he was giving me A lesson in Biography, Asif I were a child. 752 VERSE Canto IV Hys Nouryture “Ou, when I was little Ghost, A merry time had we! Eachseated on his favourite post, We chumped and chawed the buttered toast They gaveusfor ourtea.”’ “That story is in print!’’ I cried “Don’t say it’s not, because It’s knownaswell as Bradshaw’s Guide!”’ (The Ghost uneasily replied He hardly thoughtit was.) “It’s not in Nursery Rhymes? Andyet T almost think it is— ‘Three little Ghosteses’ were set ‘On posteses’, you know,and ate ‘Their ‘buttered toasteses’. “T have the book;so if you doubtit ” I turned to search theshelf. “Don’t stir!’ he cried. ““We’ll do withoutit I now rememberall aboutit; I wrote the thing myself. “Tt came out in a ‘Monthly’, or At least my agentsaidit did: Someliterary swell, who saw It, thought it seemed adapted for The Magazineheedited. “My father was a Brownie, Sir; Mymother wasa Fairy. 2B PHANTASMAGORIA 753 The notion had occurredto her, The children would be happier, If they were taughtto vary. “‘The notion soon became a craze; And, whenit once began, she Broughtusall out in different ways— One was a Pixy, two were Fays, Another was a Banshee; “The Fetch and Kelpie wentto school Andgavea lot of trouble; Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul, Andthen two Trolls (which broketherule), A Goblin, and a Double— “(If that’s a snuff-box on theshelf,’ He added with a yawn, “T’ll take a pinch)—next came an Elf, And then a Phantom (that’s myself), Andlast, a Leprechaun. “One day, some Spectres chancedtocall, Dressed in the usual white: I stood and watched themin thehall, And couldn’t make them outatall, They seemedso strangea sight. “T wondered whaton earth they were, That lookedall head and sack; But Mother told me notto stare, And then she twitched mebythe hair, And punched mein the back. ‘Since then I’ve often wished that I _ Had been a Spectre born. But what’s the use?”’ (He heaveda sigh.) “They are the ghost-nobility, Andlook on us with scorn. 754 VERSE “My phantom-life was soon begun: WhenI wasbarelysix, I went out with an older one— Andjust at first I thought it fun, Andlearneda lotoftricks. “T’ve haunted dungeons, castles, towers— WhereverI wassent: I’ve often sat and howled for hours, Drenchedto the skin with driving showers, Upona battlement. “It’s quite old-fashioned now to groan Whenyoubegin to speak: This is the newest thing in tone Andhere(it chilled meto the bone) Hegave an awful squeak. a” ‘“‘Perhaps”’, he added,‘‘to your ear That sounds an easy thing? Try it yourself, my little dear! It took me somethinglike a year, With constant practising. ‘“‘And when youve learned to squeak, my man, And caught the double sob, You're pretty much where youbegan: Just try and gibberif you can! That’s something /1ke a job! “T’ve tried it, and can only say I’m sure you couldn’t doit, even if you practised night and day, Unless you have a turn that way, Andnatural ingenuity. ‘“‘Shakespeare I think it is who treats Of Ghosts, in daysof old, PHANTASMAGORIA 755 Who ‘gibbered in the Romanstreets’, Dressed,if you recollect, in sheets— They must have foundit cold. “T’ve often spent ten poundsonstuff, In dressing as a Double; But, though it answers as a puff, It never has effect enough To makeit worth the trouble. “Longbills soon quenchedthelittle thirst I had for being funny. The setting-upis always worst: Such heaps of things you wantatfirst, One must be made of money! “For instance, take a Haunted Tower, With skull, cross-bones, and sheet; Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour, Condensinglens of extra power, Andset of chains complete: “What with the things you have to hire— The fitting on the robe— Andtestingall the coloured fire— The outfit of itself would tire The patience of a Job! ‘“‘And then they’re sofastidious, The Haunted-House Committee: I’ve often known them makea fuss Because a Ghost was French, or Russ, Or even from the City! “Somedialects are objected to— Forone, the Ivish brogueis: And then, for all you have to do, One pound a week theyoffer you, Andfind yourself in Bogies!”’ 756 VERSE CanTo V Byckerment “Don’t they consult the ‘Victims’, though?” I said. ‘“‘They should,by rights, Give them a chance—because, you know, The tastes of peopledifferso, Especially in Sprites.” The Phantom shook his head and smiled. “Consult them? Not a bit! ’Twould be a job to drive one wild, Tosatisfy one single child— There’d be no endto it!’ “Of course you ca’n’t leave children free’’, Said I, “ to pick and choose: But, in the case of men like me, I think ‘Mine Host’ mightfairly be Allowedto state his views.”’ Hesaid “It really wouldn’t pay— Folk areso full of fancies. Wevisit for a single day, And whetherthen wego, or stay, Depends on circumstances. ‘“‘And, though we don’t consult ‘Mine Host’ Before the thing’s arranged, Still, if he often quits his post, Or is not a well-mannered Ghost, Then you can have him changed. “But if the host’s a manlike you— I mean a manofsense; PHANTASMAGORIA 757 Andif the house is not too new. a? “Why, what hasthat’, said I, ‘‘to do With: Ghost’s convenience?”’ “‘A new house does not suit, you know— It’s such a job to trimit: But, after twenty yearsor so, The wainscotings begin to go, So.twentyis the limit.” “To trim” was not a phrase I could Rememberhaving heard: “Perhaps”, I said, “‘you’ll be so good Astell me what is understood Exactly by that word?”’ “It meansthe looseningall the doors,” The Ghostreplied, and laughed: “It meansthe drilling holes by scores In all the skirting-boards andfloors, To make a thorough draught. “You'll sometimesfind that one or two Are all you really need To let the wind come whistling through— But here there’ll be a lot to do!”’ I faintly gasped ‘‘Indeed! “Tf I’d been ratherlater, I’ll Be bound,” I added,trying (Most unsuccessfully) to smile, “You'd have been busyall this while, Trimming and beautifying?” “Why,no,” said he; “perhaps I should Havestayed another minute— Butstill no Ghost, that’s any good, Without an introduction would Have venturedto begin it. 758 VERSE “The proper thing, as you werelate, Wascertainly to go: But, with the roads in such a state, I got the Knight-Mayor’s leave to wait Forhalf an houror so.” ““Who’s the Knight-Mayor?”’ I cried. Instead Of answering my question, “Well, if you don’t know that,” he said, ‘Either you nevergo to bed, . Or you’ve a grand digestion! “He goes aboutandsits on folk That eat too muchat night: His duties are to pinch, and poke, Andsqueeze them till they nearly choke.”’ (I said “It serves them right!’’) “Andfolk who sup on thingslike these—”’ He muttered, “‘eggs and bacon— Lobster—and duck—andtoasted cheese— If they don’t get an awful squeeze, I’m very much mistaken! ‘He is immensely fat, and so Well suits the occupation: In point of fact, if you must know, Weusedto call him years ago, The Mayor and Corporation! “The day he was elected Mayor I know that every Sprite meant To vote for me, but did not dare— He wasso frantic with despair And furious with excitement. “Whenit was over, for a whim, Heranto tell the King; PHANTASMAGORIA 759 Andbeing thereverse of slim, A two-mile trot was not for him A very easy thing. “So, to reward him for his run (As it was bakinghot, Andhe wasover twentystone), The King proceeded, half in fun, To knight him on the spot.” “’Twas a great liberty to take!” (I fired up like a rocket.) “Hedid it just for punning’s sake: ‘The man’, says Johnson, ‘that would make A pun, would pick a pocket!’ ”’ “A man”’, said he, “‘is not a King.” I arguedfor a while, Anddid my best to prove the thing— The Phantom merely listening With a contemptuous smile. At last, when, breath and patience spent, I had recourse to smoking— “Your atm’’, he said, “‘is excellent: But—whenyoucall it argument— Of course you’re only joking?” Stung by his cold and snakyeye, I roused myself at length To say, “‘At least I do defy The veriest sceptic to deny That union is strength!” “That’s true enough,” said he, “yet stay—”’ I listened in all meekness— “Union is strength, I’m boundto say; In fact, the thing’s as clear as day; But onions are a weakness.” 760 VERSE Canto VI Discomfyture AS one whostrives a hill to climb, Whoneverclimbed before: Whofindsit, in a little time, Grow every momentless sublime, Andvotesthe thing a bore: | Yet, having once begunto try, Daresnotdesert his quest, But, climbing, ever keepshis eye On onesmall hut against the sky Wherein he hopesto rest: Whoclimbstill nerve and force are spent, With manya puff and pant: Whostill, as rises the ascent, In language grows moreviolent, Although in breath morescant: Who, climbing,gains at length the place That crowns the upwardtrack: And,entering with unsteady pace, Receives a buffet in the face That lands him onhis back: And feels himself, like one in sleep, Glide swiftly down again, A helpless weight, from steep to steep, Till, with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain— So I, that had resolved to bring Conviction to a ghost, PHANTASMAGORIA 761 Andfoundit quite a different thing From any human arguing, Yet dared not quit mypost. But, keepingstill the end in view To which I hoped to come, I strove to prove the matter true By putting everything I knew Into an axiom: Commencing every single phrase With “‘therefore”’ or ““because”’ I blindly reeled, a hundred ways, Aboutthe syllogistic maze, Unconscious whereI was. Quoth he “‘That’s regular clap-trap: Don’t bluster any more. Now do be cool and take a nap! Such a ridiculous old chap Wasneverseen before! “You're like a man I used to meet, Whogot one day so furious In arguing, the simple heat Scorched bothhis slippersoff his feet!” I said “That's very curious!”’ “Well, it ts curious, I agree, And sounds perhapslike fibs: Butstill it’s true as true can be— Assure as your name’s Tibbs,”’ said he. I said ‘““My name’s not Tibbs.” ‘“Not Tibbs!” he cried—his tone became A shadeor two less hearty— “Why,no,” said I. “‘My proper name Is Tibbets—”’ ““Tibbets?”’ ‘‘Aye, the same.” “Why, then YOU’RE NOT THE PARTY!” 762 VERSE With that he struck the board a blow That shivered half the glasses. “Whycouldn’t you have told me so Three quarters of an hourago, Youprinceof all the asses? “To walk four miles through mud andrain, To spend the night in smoking, Andthen to find thatit’s in vain— AndI’veto doit all again— It’s really too provoking! “Don’t talk!’ he cried, as I began To mutter some excuse. “Who can have patience with a man That’s got no morediscretion than Anidiotic goose? “To keep me waiting here, instead Of telling me at once That this was not the house!”’ he said. ‘There, that’ll do—beoff to bed! Don’t gape like that, you dunce!” “It’s very fine to throw the blame On me in such a fashion! Whydidn’t you enquire my name The very minute that you came?”’ I answeredin a passion. “Of course it worries you a bit To comeso far on foot— But how was J to blameforit?”’ “Well, well!’’ said he. “‘I must admit That isn’t badly put. “And certainly you’ve given me The best of wine and victual— PHANTASMAGORIA 763 Excuse myviolence,”’ said he, “But accidents like this, yousee, They put oneout little. “’Twas my fault afterall, I find— Shake hands, old Turnip-top!”’ The name washardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meantit kind, I let the matter drop. “Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! When I am gone, perhaps They’ll sendyou someinferior Sprite, Who'll keep you in a constantfright And spoil your soundest naps. “Tell him you'll stand nosortoftrick; Then, if he leers and chuckles, You just be handywith a stick (Mind thatit’s pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles! ‘Then carelessly remark “Old coon! Perhaps you're not aware Thatif you don’t behave, you'll soon Be chuckling to another tune— And so you'dbest take care!’ “That’s the right way to cure a Sprite Of such-like goings-on— But gracious me! It’s getting light! ‘Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!”’ A nod, and he was gone. 764 VERSE CANTO VII Sad Souvenaunce “Wuat’s this?” I pondered. ‘HaveI slept? Or can I have been drinking?” But soona gentler feeling crept Upon me,and I sat and wept An hourorso, like winking. “‘No need for Bonesto hurry so!”’ I sobbed. “‘In fact, I doubt If it was worth his while to go— And whois Tibbs,I’d like to know, To makesuch work about? “Tf Tibbs is anything like me, It’s possible’, I said, ““He won’t be over-pleased to be Dropped in uponat half-past three, After he’s snug in bed. “And if Bones plagues him anyhow— Squeaking and all the restofit, As he wasdoing here just now— I prophesy there’ll be a row, AndTibbs will have the best ofit!”’ Then, as my tears could neverbring The friendly Phantom back, It seemed to me the properthing To mix anotherglass, and sing The following Coronach. And art thou gone, beloved Ghost? Best of Familiars! PHANTASMAGORIA 765 Nay, then, farewell, my duckling roast, Farewell, farewell, my tea andtoast, My meerschaum and cigars! The hues of life are dull and gray, The sweets of life insipid, When thou, my charmer, art away— Old Brick, or rather, let me say, Old Parallelepiped!”’ Instead of singing Verse the Third, I ceased—abruptly, rather: But, after such a splendid word I felt that it would be absurd To try it any farther. So with a yawn I went my way To seek the welcome downy, And slept, and dreamedtill break of day Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay And Leprechaun and Brownie! Foryears I’ve not been visited By any kindof Sprite; Yet still they echo in my head, Those parting words, so kindly said, “Old Turnip-top, good-night!”’ ECHOES Lapy Clara Vere de Vere Waseight years old, she said: Everyringlet, lightly shaken, ranitself in golden thread. 766 VERSE She took herlittle porringer: Of meshe shall not win renown: For the basenessof its nature shall have strength to drag her down. “Sisters and brothers, little Maid? There stands the Inspector at thy door: Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.” “Kind hearts are more than coronets,”’ She said, and wondering looked at me: “Tt is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.”’ A SEA DIRGE THERE are certain things—as, a spider, a ghost, The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three— That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most Is a thing they call the Sea. Pour somesalt water over the floor— Ugly I’m sure you'll allow it to be: Suppose it extended a mile or more, That’s very like the Sea. Beata dogtill it howls outright— Cruel, but all very well for a spree: Suppose that he did so day and night, That would be like the Sea. Thad a vision of nursery-maids; Tens of thousands passed by me— All leading children with wooden spades, Andthis wasby the Sea. PHANTASMAGORIA 767 Whoinvented those spades of wood? Whowasit cut them outof the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could— Or onethat loved the Sea. It-is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float With “thoughts as boundless, and souls as free’’: But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat, How doyoulike the Sea? There is an insect that people avoid (Whenceis derived the verb “‘to flee’). Where haveyou been by it most annoyed? In lodgings by the Sea. If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, A decided hintof salt in yourtea, And fishy taste in the very eggs— Byall meanschoose the Sea. Andif, with these dainties to drink and eat, You prefer not a vestige of grassortree, And chronic state of wet in yourfeet, Then—lIrecommendthe Sea. For J have friends who dwell by the coast— Pleasant friends they are to me! It is when I am with them I wonder most That anyonelikes the Sea. They take me a walk: thoughtired andstiff, To climb the heights I madly agree; And, after a tumble or so from thecliff, They kindly suggest the Sea. I try the rocks, andI think it cool That they laugh with such an excessof glee, AsI heavily slip into every pool That skirts the cold cold Sea. 768 VERSE YE CARPETTE KNYGHTE I HAVE horse—a ryghte goode horse— Ne doe I envye those Whoscoureye playne yn headye course Tyll soddayneon theyre nose They lyghte wyth unexpected force Yt ys—a horse of clothes. I have a saddel—“‘Say’st thou soe? Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?”’ I sayde not that—I answere “‘Noe’”’— Yt lacketh such, I woote: Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe! Parte of ye fleecye brute. I have a bytte—a ryghte good bytte— As shall bee seene yn tyme. Ye jaweof horse yt wyll notfytte; Yts use ys more sublyme. Fayre Syr, how deemest thouof yt? Yt ys—thys bytte of rhyme. HIAWATHA’S PHOTOGRAPHING. [In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Anyfairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of ‘‘The Song of Hiawatha’’. Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.] From his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of resewood, Madeofsliding, folding rosewood; PHANTASMAGORIA 769 Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly,. Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the Second Book of Euclid. This he perched upon a tripod— Crouched beneath its dusky cover— Stretched his hand, enforcing silence— Said, ‘‘Be motionless, I beg you!” Mystic, awful was the process. All the family in order Sat before himfor their pictures: Eachin turn as he was taken, ‘Volunteered his own suggestions, His ingenioussuggestions. First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massypillar; Andthe cornerof a table, Of a rosewooddining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Holdit firmlyin his left-hand; He would keephis right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance Witha look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die in tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picturefailed entirely: Failed, because he moveda little, Moved, because he couldn’t help it. Next, his better half took courage; She would haveher picture taken. She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels andin satin 770 VERSE Far too gorgeous for an empress. Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a bouquet Rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she wassitting, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkeyin theforest. ‘“‘Am I sitting still?” she asked him. “Ts myface enoughin profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it comeinto the picture?”’ And the picture failed completely. Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curvesof beauty, Curves pervadingall hisfigure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centred in the breast-pin, Centred in the golden breast-pin. He hadlearntit all from Ruskin (Authorof “‘The Stones of Venice’, “Seven Lamps of Architecture’’, “Modern Painters’, and some others); Andperhapshe had notfully Understood his author’s meaning; But, whatever was the reason, All wasfruitless, as the picture Endedin an utterfailure. Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested verylittle, Only askedif he would take her With herlook of ‘“‘passive beauty”’. Heridea of passive beauty Was a squintingof the left-eye, Was a droopingof the right-eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the cornerof the nostrils. Hiawatha, when she asked him, PHANTASMAGORIA 771 Took nonotice of the question, Lookedas if he hadn’t heardit; But, when pointedly appealedto, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed andsaidit ‘‘didn’t matter’, Bit his lip and changedthe subject. Norin this was he mistaken, Asthe picture failed completely. So in turn the othersisters. Last, the youngest son wastaken: Very rough andthick his hair was, Very round andredhis face was, Very dusty washis jacket, Very fidgety his manner. Andhis overbearingsisters Called him nameshe disapprovedof: Called him Johnny, ““‘Daddy’s Darling’, Called him Jacky,“Scrubby School-boy”’. And, so awful wasthepicture, In comparison the others Seemed, to one’s bewildered fancy, To havepartially succeeded. Finally my Hiawatha Tumbledall the tribe together, (“Grouped”’ is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would haveit Did at last obtain a picture Wherethefacesall succeeded: Each cameout a perfect likeness. Then they joined andall abusedit, Unrestrainedly abusedit, Asthe worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamedof. “Giving one such strange expressions— Sullen, stupid, pert expressions. Really anyone would take us (Anyonethatdid not know us) For the most unpleasant people!’’ 772 VERSE (Hiawatha seemed to thinkso, Seemed to thinkit not unlikely.) All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, Asof dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hiawatha’s patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And heleft that happy party. Neither did he leave them slowly, Withthe calm deliberation, The intense deliberation Of a photographic artist: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mightyhurry, Stating that he would not standit, Stating in emphatic language What he’d be before he’d standit. Hurriedly he packedhis boxes: Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes: Hurriedlyhe tookhis ticket: Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha. MELANCHOLETTA W1TH saddest music all day long She soothed her secret sorrow: At night she sighed “I fear ’twas wrong Such cheerful words to borrow. Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song I’ll sing to thee to-morrow.” PHANTASMAGORIA 773 { thanked her, but I could not say That I was giad to hearit: I left the house at break of day, Anddid not venturenearit Till time, I hoped, had worn away Hergrief, for nought could cheerit! Mydismalsister! Couldst thou know The wretched homethou keepest! Thy brother, drownedin daily woe, Is thankful when thousleepest; Forif I laugh, however low, Whenthou’rt awake, thou weepest! I took mysister t’other day (Excuse the slang expression) To Sadler’s Wells to see the play In hopes the new impression Mightin her thoughts, from graveto gay Effect someslight digression. I asked three gay young dogs from town To join us in ourfolly, Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown Mysister’s melancholy: Thelively Jones, the sportive Brown, And Robinsonthejolly. The maid announcedthe mealin tones That I myself had taughther, Meantto allay mysister’s moans Like oil on troubled water: I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones, And begged him to escort her. Vainly he strove, with ready wit, To joke about the weather— To ventilate the last “‘on dit”— 774 VERSE To quote the price of leather— She groaned “‘Here I and Sorrowsit: Let us lament together!”’ I urged “You're wasting time, you know: Delay will spoil the venison.” “Myheart is wasted with my woe! There is no rest—in Venice, on The Bridge of Sighs!”’ she quoted low . From Byron and from Tennyson. I need nottell of soup andfish In solemnsilence swallowed, The sobs that ushered in each dish, Andits departure followed, Noryet my suicidal wish To be the cheese I hollowed. Somedesperate attempts were made To start a conversation; “Madam,” the sportive Brown essayed, . “Which kind of recreation, Huntingor fishing, have you made Yourspecial occupation?” Herlips curved downwardsinstantly, Asif of india-rubber. “Hounds7”full cry I like,’’ said she: (Oh, how I longed to snub her!) “Of fish, a whale’s the one for me, Its so full of blubber!’’ The night’s performance was ‘‘King John’. “It’s dull’, she wept, ‘‘and so-so!” Awhile I let her tears flow on, She said they soothed her woeso! At length the curtain rose upon ‘“‘Bombastes Furioso’’. PHANTASMAGORIA 775 In vain we roared; in vain wetried To rouse herinto laughter: Herpensive glances wandered wide From orchestra to rafter— “Tier upontrer!”’ she said, and sighed; Andsilence followedafter. A VALENTINE [Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn’t seem to miss him if he stayed away.] AND cannotpleasures, while they last, Be actual unless, when past, Theyleave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting? And cannotfriends be firm andfast, Andyet bearparting? And must I then, at Friendship’s call, Calmlyresign thelittle all (Trifling, I grant, it is and small) I have of gladness, Andlend mybeingto the thrall Of gloom and sadness? Andthinkyou that I should be dumb, Andfull dolorum omnium, Excepting when you choose to come And share my dinner? At other times be squr and glum Anddaily thinner? Musthe then only live to weep, Who'd provehis friendship true and deep, 776 VERSE Bydaya lonely shadow creep, At night-time languish, Oft raising in his broken sleep The moanof anguish? Thelover,if for certain days His fair one be deniedhis gaze, Sinks notin grief and wild amaze, But, wiser wooer, He spendsthe timein writing lays, Andposts them to her. Andif the verse flow free and fast, Till even the poetis aghast, A touching Valentineat last Thepost shall carry, Whenthirteen days are gone and past Of February. Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet, In desert waste or crowdedstreet, Perhapsbefore this week shall fleet, Perhaps to-morrow, I trust to find your heart the seat Of wasting sorrow. THE THREE VOICES The First Voice HE trilled a carol fresh andfree, Helaughed aloudfor veryglee: There came a breeze from off the sea: It passed athwart the glooming flat— It fanned his forehead as he sat— It lightly bore awayhis hat, PHANTASMAGORIA 777 All to the feet of one who stood Like maid enchantedin a wood, Frowning as darkly as she could. With huge umbrella, lank and brown, Unerringly she pinned it down, Right through the centre of the crown. Then, with an aspect cold and grim, Regardless of its battered rim, She took it up and gaveit him. A while like one in dreamshe stood, Then faltered forth his gratitude In wordsjust short of being rude: Forit hadlost its shape andshine, Andit had cost him four-and-nine, Andhe wasgoing outto dine. “To dine!’ she sneered in acid tone “To bend thy being to a bone Clothed in a radiancenot its own!" The tear-droptrickled to his chin: ‘There was a meaningin her grin That madehim feel on fire within. “Term it not ‘radiance’,” said,he: “* *Tis solid nutriment to me. Dinneris Dinner: Tea is Tea.” Andshe, ‘‘Yea so? Yet wherefore cease? Let thy scant knowledgefindincrease. Say ‘Menare Men, and Geese are Geese’.”’ He moaned: he knew not whatto say. The thought“That I could get away!” Strove with the thought“But I must stay”’. 778 VERSE “To dine!”’ she shrieked in dragon-wrath. “To swallow wines all foam and froth! To simperat a table-cloth! “Say, can thy noble spirit stoop To join the gormandizing troop Who find a solace in the soup? “Canst thou desire or pie or puff? Thy well-bred manners were enough, Without such gross materialstuff.” “Yet well-bred men”’, he faintly said, “Are not unwilling to be fed: Norare they well without the bread.” Hervisage scorched him ere she spoke: “‘There are’’, she said, “‘a kind of folk Whohave no horrorof a joke. “Such wretcheslive: they take their share Of commonearth and commenair: We comeacross them here and there: “Wegrant them—thereis no escape— A sort of semi-human shape Suggestive of the man-like Ape.” “In all such theories’’, said he, “One fixed exception there must be. Thatis, the Present Company.” Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark: He,aiming blindly in the dark, With random shaft had pierced the mark. Shefelt that her defeat wasplain, Yet madly strove with might and main To get the upper hand again. PHANTASMAGORIA 779 Fixing her eyes upon the beach, Asthough unconsciousof his speech, She said “‘Each gives to more than each”’. He could not answer yea or nay: Hefaltered “Gifts may pass away”’. Yet knew not what he meantto say. “Tf that beso,” she straight replied, “Each heart with each doth coincide. What boots it? For the world is wide.”’ “The world is but a Thought,”’ said he: “The vast unfathomable sea Is but a Notion—unto me.” Anddarklyfell her answer dread Uponhis unresisting head, Like half a hundredweightof lead. “‘The Good and Great must ever shun That reckless and abandoned one Whostoopsto perpetrate a pun. “The man that smokes—that reads The Times— That goes to Christmas Pantomimes— Is capable of any crimes!” Hefelt it was his turn to speak, And, with a shamed and crimson cheek, Moaned“This is harder than Bezique!”’ But whenshe asked him ‘Wherefore so?”’ Hefelt his very whiskers glow, Andfrankly owned “‘I do not know’. While, like broad wavesof golden grain, Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, His colour came and wentagain. 780 VERSE Pitying his obviousdistress, Yet with a tinge of bitterness, Shesaid ‘‘The More exceedsthe Less”. “A truth of such undoubted weight’, He urged, ‘‘and so extremein date, It were superfluousto state.” Rousedinto suddenpassion, she In tone of cold malignity: “To others, yea: but not to thee.”’ But whenshe saw him quail and quake, And when heurged “‘Forpity’s sake!’’ Once morein gentle tones she spake. “Thought in the mind dothstill abide That is by Intellect supplied, And within that Idea doth hide: “And he, that yearns the truth to know Still further inwardly may go, Andfind Idea from Notion flow: “And thus the chain, that sages sought, Is to a glorious circle wrought, For Notion hath its source in Thought.” So passed they on with even pace: Yet gradually one might trace A shadow growingonhis face. The Second Voice THEY walked beside the wave-worn beach; Her tongue wasvery aptto teach, And now andthen he did beseech PHANTASMAGORIA 781 She would abate her dulcet tone, Becausethe talk was all her own, Andhe was dull as any drone. She urged “‘No cheese is madeof chalk”’: And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, Tunedto the footfall of a walk. Hervoice wasvery full and rich, And, when at length she asked him ‘‘Which?” It mountedto its highest pitch. He a bewildered answergave, Drownedin the sullen moaning wave, Lost in the echoesof the cave. He answered her he knew not what: Like shaft from bow at random shot, He spoke, but she regarded not. She waited notforhis reply, But with a downward leaden eye Wenton as if he were not by— Sound argument andgravedefence, Strange questionsraised on ‘‘Why?’’ and ‘‘Whence?”’ Andwildly tangled evidence. Whenhe, with racked and whirling brain, Feebly implored herto explain, She simplysaid it all again. Wrenched with an agonyintense, He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, Andcareless ofall consequence: “Mind—-I believe—is Essence—Ent— Abstract—that is—an Accident— Which we—-thatis to say—I meant——’ ’ 782 VERSE When, with quick breath and cheeksall flushed, At length his speech was somewhat hushed, She looked at him, and he wascrushed. It needed not her calm reply: She fixed him with a stonyeye, And he could neitherfight norfly. While she dissected, word by word, His speech,half-guessed at and half-heard, As might a cat little bird. Then, having wholly overthrown His views, and stripped them to the bone, Proceeded to unfold her own. “‘Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss Of other thoughts no thought butthis, Harmonious dewsof soberbliss? “Whatboots it? Shall his fevered eye Through towering nothingness descry Thegrisly phantom hurry by? ‘And hear dumbshrieksthat fill the air: See mouths that gape, and eyesthat stare And reddenin the duskyglare? “The meadowsbreathing amberlight, The darkness toppling from the height, The feathery train of granite Night? “Shall he, grown gray amonghis peers, Throughthe thick curtain of his tears Catch glimpsesof his earlier years, ‘Andhear the soundshe knew of yore, Old shufflings on the sandedfloor, Old knuckles tapping at the door? PHANTASMAGORIA 783 “Yet still before him as heflies Onepallid form shall everrise, And, bodyingforth in glassy eyes “The vision of a vanished good, Low peering through the tangled wood, Shall freeze the current of his blood.” Still from each fact, with skill uncouth Andsavage rapture,like a tooth She wrenched someslow reluctant truth. Till, like a silent water-mill, When summersuns havedriedtherill, She reacheda full stop, and wasstill. Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, As when the loaded omnibus Has reached the railway terminus: When,for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine’s stifled beat, Thevelvet tread of porters’ feet. With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved herlips without a sound, Andevery now andthen she frowned. Hegazed uponthesleeping sea, Andjoyedin its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she To musea little space did seem, Then,like the echo of a dream, Harked back upon her threadbare theme. Still an attentive ear he lent But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent. 784 VERSE He markedtheripple on the sand: The even swaying of her hand Wasall that he could understand. He saw in dreamsa drawing-room, Wherethirteen wretchessat in gloom, Waiting—hethought he knew for whom: He saw them drooping here and there, | Fachfeebly huddled on a chair, In attitudes of blank despair: Oysters were not more mutethanthey, Forall their brains were pumped away, Andthey had nothing more to say— Save one, who groaned“Three hoursare gone!”’ Whoshrieked ‘We'll wait no longer, John! Tell them to set the dinner on!” Thevision passed: the ghosts werefled: He saw once more that woman dread: He heard once more the wordsshe said. Heleft her, and he turned aside: He sat and watched the comingtide Across the shores so newly dried. He wonderedat the watersclear, . The breeze that whisperedin his¢ar, Thebillows heaving far and near, And why he had solong preferred To hang upon her every word: “Tn truth’, he said, “it was absurd.” 2C PHANTASMAGORIA 985 The Third Voice Not long this transport heldits place: Within a little moment’s space Quick tears were raining downhisface. His heart stoodstill, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemedto hear and notto hear. “Tears kindle not the doubtful spark. If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark.” “Her speech”’, he said, “hath causedthis pain. Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main, “Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book.” Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more thansaid, Soundless as ghost’s intended tread: “Tf thou art duller than before, Whyquittedst thou the voice of lore? Whynot endure, expecting more?”’ “Rather than that’’, he groaned aghast, “T’d writhe in depthsof cavern vast, Some loathly vampire’s rich repast.”’ ‘““?Twere hard,” it answered, ‘‘themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings ¢hy scantintelligence.” L.c. 786 VERSE “Not so,” he urged, ‘‘nor once alone: But there was somethingin her tone That chilled me to the very bone. “Her style was anything butclear, And most unpleasantly severe; Herepithets were very queer. “Andyet, so grand wereherreplies, I could not choose but deem herwise; I did not daretocriticise; “Nordid I leave her,till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent.” A little whisper inly slid, “Yet truth is truth: you know you did.” A little wink beneath thelid. And, sickened with excess of dread, Prone to the dust he benthis head, Andlaylike one three-quarters dead. The whisper left him—like a breeze Lost in the depthsof leafy trees— Left him by no meansathis ease. Once morehe weltered in despair, With hands, through denser-matted hair, Moretightly clenched than then theywere. When, bathed in Dawnofliving red, Majestic frowned the mountain head, “Tell me myfault,” wasall he said. PHANTASMAGORIA 787 When, at high Noon, the blazing sky Scorchedin his head each haggard eye, Then keenest rose his weary cry. And whenat Eve the unpitying sun Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, ““Alack,’’ he sighed, ‘‘what have I done?”’ But saddest, darkest wasthesight, Whenthecold grasp of leaden Night Dashed him to earth, and held him tight. Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders weresilence to his groan, Bagpipes sweet music to its tone: “What? Everthus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Mystery profound Pursue melike a sleepless hound, ‘With crimson-dashed andeagerjaws, Me, still in ignoranceof the cause, Unknowing what I brokeof laws?”’ The whisperto his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadowof forgotten dream, The whisper trembling in the wind: “Her fate with thine was intertwined,” So spakeit in his inner mind: “Each orbed on each a baleful star: Each proved the other’s blight and bar: Each unto each werebest, most far: 788 VERSE “Yea, each to each was worse than foe: Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, AND SHE, AN AVALANCHEOF WOE!” THEME WITH VARIATIONS [Wy is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognizing the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed “setting’’ by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set downin a heap of mortar, will recognize the truthfulness of this happy phrase. For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison—-whoseevery fibre seems to murmur “‘Excelsior!’’—yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-schoolbeer: so also———] I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle— Nor anything that cost me much: High prices profit those whosell, But why should I be fond of such? To glad me withhis soft black eye My son comestrotting home from school, He’s had a fight but can’t tell why— He always was a little fool! But, when he came to know mewell, He kicked me out, her testy Sire: PHANTASMAGORIA 789 And when I stained my hair, that Belle Might note the change, and thus admire Andlove me, it was sure to dye A muddy green, or staring blue: Whilst one might trace, with half an eye, The still triumphant carrot through. 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 Tento Six: Sitting down to lessons—no moretimefortricks. Five growinggirls, from Fifteen to Eleven: Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enoughfor seven! Five winsomegirls, from Twentyto Sixteen: Each young manthatcalls, I say ‘“‘Now tell me which you mean\”’ Five dashinggirls, the youngest Twenty-one: But, if nobody proposes, whatis there to be done? Five showygirls—butThirtyis 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! * * * * *x * Five passé girls—Their age? Well, never mind! Wejog along together,like the rest of human kind: 790 VERSE But the quondam “‘careless bachelor’ begins to think he knows The answer to that ancient problem ‘‘how the money goes’’! POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR “Howshall I be a poet? Howshall I write in rhyme: You told me once ‘the very wish Partook of the sublime’. Thentell me how! Don’t put meoff With your ‘another time’!’’ The old man smiled to see him, To hearhis suddensally; Heliked the lad to speak his mind Enthusiastically; Andthought ‘‘There’s no hum-drum in him, Nor any shilly-shally.”’ “And would you be a poet Before you've been to school? Ah,well! I hardly thought you So absolutea fool. First learn to be spasmodic— A very simple rule. “Forfirst you write a sentence, Andthen you chopit small; Then mix the bits, and sort them out Just as they chancetofall: Theorderof the phrases makes No differenceatall. PHANTASMAGORIA 791 “Then, if you’d be impressive, RememberwhatI say, That abstract qualities begin With capitals alway: The True, the Good, the Beautiful— Those are the things that pay! “Next, when you are describing A shape, or sound,ortint; Don’t state the matter plainly, But putit in a hint; Andlearn to lookat all things With a sort of mental squint.” “For instance, if I wished,Sir, Of mutton-pies to tell, Should I say ‘dreamsof fleecy flocks Pent in a wheatencell’?”’ “Why,yes,” the old mansaid: “that phrase Would answervery well. “Then fourthly, there are epithets That suit with any word— As well as Harvey’s Reading Sauce Withfish, or flesh, or bird— Of these,‘wild’, ‘lonely’, ‘weary’, ‘strange’, Are muchto be preferred.” “And will it do, O will it do To take them in a lump— As‘the wild man went his weary way To a strange and lonely pump’?” “Nay, nay! You must nothastily To such conclusions jump. 792 VERSE “Suchepithets, like pepper, Give zest to what you write; And, if you strew them sparely, They whet the appetite: Butif you lay them on too thick, Youspoil the matter quite! “Last, as to the arrangement: . Your reader, you should show him, Must take what information he Can get, and look for no immaturedisclosure of the drift And purpose of your poem. “Therefore, to test his patience— How muchhe can endure— Mention noplaces, names, or dates, And evermorebe sure Throughoutthe poem to be found Consistently obscure. “First fix upon the limit To whichit shall extend: Then fill it up with ‘Padding’ (Beg someof any friend): Your great SENSATION-STANZA You place towardsthe end.” ‘And whatis a Sensation, Grandfather,tell me, pray? I think J never heard the word So used before to-day: Be kind enough to mention one ‘Exemplt gratia’.”’ PHANTASMAGORIA 793 Andthe old man, looking sadly Across the garden-lawn, Wherehere and there a dew-drop Yet glittered in the dawn, Said “Go to the Adelphi, Andsee the ‘Colleen Bawn’. “The wordis due to Boucicault— The theoryis his, Wherelife becomes a Spasm, And History a Whiz: If that is not Sensation, I don’t know whatitis. “Nowtry your hand, ere Fancy Havelost its present glow “Andthen’”’, his grandson added, “We'll publish it, you know: Green cloth—gold-lettered at the back— In duodecimo!” >? Then proudly smiled that old man To see the eager lad Rush madlyfor his pen and ink Andfor his blotting-pad— But, when he thoughtof publishing, His face grew stern andsad. SIZE AND TEARS WHEN on the sandyshoreI sit, Beside the salt sea-wave, Andfalling into a weepingfit Because I dare not shave— A little whisper at my ear Enquires the reason of myfear. 794 VERSE I answer“Tf that ruffian Jones Should recognise mehere, He’d bellow out my namein tones Offensive to the ear: He chaffs me so on being stout (A thing that always puts meout).” Ah me! I see him onthecliff! Farewell, farewell to hope, If he should look this way, andif He’s got his telescope! To whatsoeverplaceI flee, Myodiousrival follows me! For every night, and everywhere, T-meet him out at dinner; And when I’ve found some charmingfair, And vowedto die or win her, The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout) Is sure to come and cut me out! Thegirls (just like them!) all agree To praise J. Jones, Esquire: I ask them whaton earth they see About him to admire? Theycry ‘‘Heis so sleek and slim, It’s quite a treat to look at him!”’ Theyvanish in tobacco smoke, Those visionary maids— I feel a sharp and sudden poke Betweenthe shoulder-blades— “Why, Brown, my boy! You’re growing stout!” (I told you he would find meout!) PHANTASMAGORIA 795 “My growthis not your business, Sir!” “No moreit is, my boy! Butif it’s yours, as I infer, Why, Brown,I give youjoy! A man, whose business prospers so, Is just the sort of man to know! “It’s hardly safe, though, talking here— I’d best get out of reach: For such a weight as yours, I fear, Mustshortly sink the beach!’ Insult me thus because I’m stout! I vow I'll go and call him out! ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN Ay, twashere, on this spot, In that summerof yore, Atalanta did not ~ Vote my presence a bore, Nor reply to my tenderest talk ‘‘She had heard all that nonsense before’’. She’d the brooch I had bought Andthe necklace and sash on, Andherheart, as I thought, Wasalive to my passion; And she’d done up herhair in the style that the Empress had broughtinto fashion. I had beento the play With mypearl of a Peri— But, for all I could say, She declared she was weary, That ‘‘the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn’t abide that Dundreary”’ 796 VERSE Then I thought“Lucky boy! ’Tis for you that she whimpers!”’ AndI noted with joy Thosesensational simpers: AndI said ‘This is scrumptious!’’—a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers. AndI vowed“ ’Twill be said I’m fortunate fellow, Whenthe breakfast is spread, Whenthe topers are mellow, When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange blossomsare yellow!” O that languishing yawn! O those eloquenteyes! I was drunk with the dawn Of a splendid surmise— I was stung by a look, I wasslain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs. Then I whispered‘‘I see The sweet secret thou keepest. And the yearning for ME That thou wistfully weepest! And the question is ‘License or Banns?’ though undoubtedly Bannsare the cheapest.” “Be my Hero,” said I, “‘And let me be Leander!’ But 1 lost her reply— Something ending with ‘‘gander’— For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understandher. PHANTASMAGORIA 797 THE LANG COORTIN’ THE ladye she stood at herlattice high, Wi’ her doggie at herfeet; Thorough thelattice she can spy The passersin thestreet, “There’s one that standeth at the door, Andtirleth at the pin: Nowspeak and say, my popinjay, If I salllet him in.” Then up and spakethe popinjay That flew abuneherhead: “Gaelet him in thattirls the pin: He comeththee to wed.” O when he cam’ the parlourin, A woeful man washe! ‘And dinnaye ken yourlover agen, Sae well that loveth thee?” “And how wadI kenye loved me, Sir, That have been sae lang away? And how wadI ken ye loved me, Sir? - Ye nevertelled me sae.” Said—‘‘Ladyedear,” and thesalt, salt tear Cam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek, “‘T have sent the tokens of my love This many and many a week. “O didna ye get the rings, Ladye, The rings o’ the gowdsaefine? I wot that I have sent to thee Four score, four score and nine.”’ 798 VERSE “They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye. “Wow,they wereflimsie things!” Said—“‘that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to howd, It is made o’ thaeself-samerings.”’ “And didnaye get the locks, the locks, _ The locks o’ my ain blackhair, Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box, Whilk I sent by the carrier?”’ “They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye; “AndI prithee send nae mair!”’ Said—“‘that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s head, It is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ hair.” “And didna ye get the letter, Ladye, Tied wi’ a silken string, Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie, A messageof love to bring?”’ “It cam’ to mefrae the far countrie WYits silken string and a’; But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid, ““Sae I gar’d them tak’ it awa’.” “O ever alack that ye sent it back, It was written sae clerkly and well! Now the messageit brought, and the boon that.it sought. I must even say it mysel’.” Then up and spakethe popinjay, Sae wisely counselled he. “Now sayit in the proper way: Gae doon upon thy knee!’’ The lover he turned baith red and pale, Went doon uponhis knee: PHANTASMAGORIA 799 “O Ladye, hear the waesometale That must be told to thee! “Forfive lang years, and five lang years, I coorted thee by looks; By nods and winks, by smiles andtears, As I had read in books. “For ten lang years, O weary hours! I coorted thee by signs; By sending game,by sending flowers, Bysending Valentines. “Forfive lang years, and five lang years, T have dwelt in the far countrie, Till that thy mind should beinclined Mair tenderly to me. ““Now thirty years are gane andpast, Iam comefrae a foreign land: Iam cometo tell thee my loveat last— O Ladye, gie me thy hand!” The ladye she turned not pale norred, Butshe smiled a pitiful smile: “Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” shesaid, “Takes a lang and a weary while!” Andout and laughed the popinjay, A laugh of bitter scorn: ‘“‘A coortin’ donein sic’ a way, It ought not to be borne!”’ Wi’that the doggie barked aloud, And up and doon he ran, Andtugged andstrained his chain 0’ gowd, All for to bite the man. VERSE ““O hush thee, gentle popinjay! O hushthee, doggie dear! There is a word I fain wad say, It needeth he should hear!” Ayelouder screamed that ladyefair To drown her doggie’s bark: Ever the lover shouted mair To make that ladye hark: Shrill and moreshrill the popinjay Upraised his angry squall: I trow the doggie’s voice that day Waslouderthan them all! The serving-men and serving-maids Sat by the kitchen fire: They heardsic’ a din the parlour within As made them much admire. Out spake the boy in buttons (I ween he wasna thin), “Now whawill tae the parlour gae, And stay this deadlie din?” Andtheyhave taen a kerchief, Casted their kevils in, For wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay that deadlie din. Whenonthat boy the kevilfell To stay the fearsome noise, “Gae in,”’ they cried, ‘‘whate’er betide, Thou prince of button-boys!”’ Syne, he has taen a supple cane To swinge that dogsaefat: The doggie yowled, the doggie howled Thelouderayefor that. PHANTASMAGORIA 801 Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane— The doggie ceasedhis noise, Andfollowed doon the kitchenstair That prince of button-boys! Then sadly spake that ladyefair, Wi’ a frown uponher brow: “O dearer to me is my sma’ doggie Than a dozensic’ as thou! “Naeuse, nae usefor sighs andtears: Nae useat all to fret: Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years, Ye maybide a wee langer yet!” Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor Andtirléd at the pin: Sadly went he through the door Where sadly he cam’in. “O gin I had a popinjay To fly abune myhead, To tell me what I oughtto say, I had by this been wed. “O gin I find anither ladye,”’ Hesaid wi’ sighs andtears, “T wot my coortin’ sall not be Anitherthirty years “For gin I find a ladye gay, Exactly to mytaste, I'll pop the question, aye or nay In twenty years at maist.”’ 802 VERSE FOUR RIDDLES [These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades. No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had goneto a ball at an Oxford Commemoration—and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic a connected poem instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza oneof the cross “‘lights’’. No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of ““Hamlet’’. In this case the first stanza describes the two main words. No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert’s play of ‘‘Pygmalion and Galatea’’. The three stanzas respectively describe “My First’, ‘‘My Second”’, and ‘“My Whole’’.] I THERE wasan ancientCity, stricken down Witha strange frenzy, and for many a day They paced from morn to eve the crowded town, And dancedthenight away. I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad: They pointed to a building gray andtall, Andhoarsely answered‘Step inside, mylad, And then you'll see it all.” Yet whatareall such gaieties to me Whosethoughtsare full of indices and surds? M2 49% 453 II PHANTASMAGORIA 803 But something whispered “It will soon be done: Bandscannot alwaysplay,nor ladies smile: Endure with patience the distasteful fun Forjust a little while!” A change came o’er my Vision—it wasnight: We clove a pathwaythrougha frantic throng: Thesteeds, wild-plunging,filled us with affright: Thechariots whirled along. Within a marble hall a river ran— A living tide, half muslin and half cloth: And here one mourned a broken wreath orfan, Yet swallowed down her wrath: Andhere one offered to a thirsty fair (His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful) Somefrozen viand (there were many there), A tooth-ache in each spoonful. There comes a happy pause, for human strength Will not endureto dance without cessation; And every one mustreachthe point at length Of absolute prostration. At such a momentladieslearn to give, To partners who would urge them overmuch, A flat and yet decided negative— Photographers love such. There comes a welcome summons—hoperevives, And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken: Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives Dispense the tongue and chicken. Flushed with newlife, the crowd flows back again: Andallis tangled talk and mazy motion— Muchlike a wavingfield of golden grain, Or a tempestuousocean. 804 VERSE Andthusthey give the time, that Nature meant For peaceful sleep and meditative snores, To ceaseless din and mindless merriment Andwaste of shoes and floors. And One (we namehim not) thatflies the flowers, That dreads the dances, and that shunsthe salads, They doom to passin solitude the hours, Writing acrostic-ballads. Howlate it grows! The houris surely past That should have warned us with its double knock? The twilight wanes, and morning comesat last— “Oh, Uncle, what’s o’clock?”’ The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks. It may mean much, but how is one to know? Heopes his mouth—yetout of it, methinks, No wordsof wisdom flow. Answer: Commemoration, Monstrosities. II EmPRESs ofArt, for thee I twine This wreath withall too slenderskill. Forgive my Muse eachhaltingline, Andfor the deed accept the will! O day of tears! Whence comesthis spectre grim, Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love? Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him, By vows, unwhisperedhere, yet heard above? Andstill it lives, that keen and heavenwardflame, Livesin his eye, and tremblesin his tone: Andthese wild wordsof fury but proclaim A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone! PHANTASMAGORIA 805 Butall is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown, Like sweetbells jangled, piteous sight to see! “Doubtthat the stars are fire,” so runs his moan, “Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!’ A saddervision yet: thine agedsire Shaminghis hoary locks with treacherouswile! Anddost thou now doubtTruthto be a liar? And wilt thoudie, that hast forgot to smile? Nay, get thee hence! Leaveall thy winsome ways Andthe faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers: In holy silence wait the appointed days, And weep away the leaden-footed hours. Answer: Ellen Terry. Ill THE air is bright with huesof light And rich with laughter and with singing: Younghearts beat high in ecstasy, Andbanners wave, andbells are ringing: Butsilencefalls with fading day, And there’s an end to mirth and play. Ah, well-a-day! Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones! The kettle sings, the firelight dances. Deep beit quaffed, the magic draught Thatfills the soul with golden fancies! For Youth and Pleasance will not stay, Andye are withered, worn, and gray. Ah, well-a-day! O fair cold face! O form of grace, For human passion madly yearning! 806 VERSE O wearyair of dumb despair, From marble won, to marble turning! “Leaveus not thus!” we fondly pray. ‘We cannotlet thee pass away!” Ah, well-a-day! Answer: Galatea (Gala-tea). IV My Firstis singular at best: Moreplural is my Second: MyThirdis far the pluralest— So plural-plural, I protest It scarcely can be reckoned! MyFirstis followed by a bird: MySecondby believers In magic art: my simple Third Follows, not often, hopes absurd Andplausible deceivers. MyFirst to get at wisdom tries— A failure melancholy! MySecond menrevered as wise: My Third from heights of wisdom flies To depthsoffrantic folly. MyFirst is ageing day by day: My Second’s age is ended: MyThird enjoys an age, they say, That never seemsto fade away, Through centuries extended. My Whole? I need a poet’s pen To paint her myriad phases: The monarch, andtheslave, of men— A mountain-summit, and a den Of dark and deadly mazes— PHANTASMAGORIA 807 A flashing light—a fleeting shade— Beginning, end, and middle Of all that human art hath made Or wit devised! Go, seek heraid, If you would read myriddle! Answer: Imagination (I-Magi-nation). FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET [Affectionately dedicated to all “‘original researchers” who pant for ‘““endowment’’.] BLow,blow your trumpetstill they crack, Yelittle men of little souls! Andbid them huddle at your back— Gold-suckingleeches, shoals on shoals! Fill all the air with hungry wails— ‘Rewardus,ere we think or write! Without your Gold mere Knowledgefails To sate the swinish appetite!”’ And, where great Plato paced serene, Or Newtonpausedwith wistful eye, Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean And Babel-clamourof thesty. Be yoursthe pay:betheirs the praise: Wewill not rob them oftheir due, Nor vex the ghosts of other days By naming them along with you. They sought and found undying fame: They toiled not for reward nor thanks: Their cheeks are hot with honest shame For you, the modern mountebanks! 808 VERSE Whopreach of Justice—plead withtears That Love and Mercy should abound— While marking with complacent ears The moaning of sometortured hound: Whoprate of Wisdom—nay, forbear, Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath, Trampling, with heel that will not spare, The vermin that beset her path! Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms, Yeidols of a petty clique: Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes And make your penny-trumpets squeak: Deckyour dull talk with pilfered shreds Of learning from a noblertime, Andoil each other’s little heads With mutual Flattery’s golden slime: And whenthe topmost heightye gain, Andstand in Glory’s etherclear, Andgrasptheprize of all your pain— So many hundred pounds a year— Then let Fame’s bannerbe unfurled! Sing Peeansfor a victory won! Ye tapers, that would light the world, Andcast a shadow on the Sun— Whostill shall pour His rays sublime, One crystal flood, from East to West, Whenye have burned yourlittle time Andfeebly flickered intorest! COLLEGE RHYMES AND NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL FROM COLLEGE RHYMES ODE TO DAMON (From Chloé, who Understands His Meaning.) “Ou, do not forget the day when we met At the fruiterer’s shop in thecity: When yousaid I was plain and excessively vain, But I knew that you meant I waspretty. “‘Recollect, too, the hour when I purchasedtheflour (For the dumplings, you know)andthe suet; Whilst the apples I told my dear Damonto hold, (Just to see if you knew how to doit). “Then recall to your mind how youleft me behind, Andwentoff in a ’bus with the pippins; Whenyou said you'dforgot, but I knew you had not; (It was merely to save the odd threepence!). “Don’t forget your delight in the dumplings that night, Though you sazd they were tasteless and doughy: But you winkedas you spoke, and I saw that the joke (If it was one) was meantfor your Chloé! “Then rememberthe day when Joe offered to pay For usall at the Great Exhibition; You proposed a short cut, and we foundthe thing shut, (We were two hourstoo late for admission). : 809 810 VERSE “Your ‘short cut’, dear, we found took us seven miles round (And Joe said exactly what we did): Well, J helped you out then—it was just like you men— Not an atom of sense when it’s needed! “You said “What’s to be done?’ and J thought you in fun, (Never dreaming you were such a ninny). ‘Home directly!’ said I, and you paid forthe fly, (And I think that you gave him a guinea). “Well, that notion, you said, had not entered your head: You proposed ‘The best thing, as we’re come,is (Since it opens again in the morningatten) To wait’—Oh, you prince of all dummies! “And when Joe asked you ‘Why,if a man wereto die, Just as you ran a sword through hismiddle, You'd be hung for the crime?’ and you said ‘Give me time!’ And brought to your Chloé the riddle— “Why, remember, you dunce, how I solved it at once— (The question which Joe had referred to you), Why,I told you the cause, was‘the force of the laws’, And you said ‘It had never occurred to you.’ “This instance will show that yourbrainis too slow, And (though yourexterior is showy), Yet so arrant a goose can be nosort of use To society—cometo your Chloé! “You'll find no one like me, who can manageto see Your meaning, you talk so obscurely: Why,if once I were gone, how would you get on? Come, you know what I mean, Damon, surely.” r86r. COLLEGE RHYMES 811 THOSE HORRID HURDY-GURDIES! T86r. A MONODY, BY A VICTIM ““M y mother bids me bind myhair,” Andnot go aboutsuch a figure; It’s a bother, of course, but what doI care? I shall do as I please when I’m bigger. “My lodgingis on the cold, cold ground,” Asthefirst-floor and attic were taken. I tried the garret but once, and found That my wish for a change was mistaken. ‘Everof thee!” yes, “Everof thee!”’ They chatter more and more, Till I groan aloud,“‘Oh! let me be! T have heardit all before!’’ “‘Please rememberthe organ, sir,” What? hasn’t he left me yet? I promise, good man; for its tedious burr I nevercan forget. MY FANCY I PAINTED her a gushingthing, With years perhapsa score; I little thoughtto find they were At least a dozen more; My fancy gavehereyesofblue, A curly auburn head: I came to find the blue a green, The auburn turnedto red. 812 VERSE She boxed myears this morning, They tingled very much; I own that I could wish her A somewhatlighter touch; Andif you were to ask me how Her charms might be improved, I would not have them addedto, But just a few removed! She has the bear’s ethereal grace, The bland hyena’s laugh, The footstep of the elephant, The neckof thegiraffe; I love herstill, believe me, Though myheartits passion hides; “She’s all my fancy painted her,” But oh! how much besides! Mar. 15, 1862. THE MAJESTY OF JUSTICE AN OXFORD IDYLL THEYpassed beneaththeCollege gate; And downthe High went slowly on; Then spake the Undergraduate To that benign and portly Don: “They say that Justice is a Queen— A Queen of awful Majesty— Yet in the papers I have seen Somethings that puzzle me. “A Court obscure, so rumourstates, Thereis, called ‘Vice-Cancellarii’, Which keeps on Undergraduates, Whodo notpaytheirbills, a wary eye. COLLEGE RHYMES 813 A case I’m told waslately brought Into that tiniest of places, And justice in that case was sought— As in mostothercases. “Well! Justice as I hold, dear friend, Is Justice, neither more thanless: I never dreamedit could depend On ceremonial ordress. I thought that her imperial sway In Oxford surely would appear, Butall the papers.seem to say She’s not majestic here.”’ The portly Don he madereply, With the mostroguish of his glances, “‘Perhapsshe drops her Majesty Under peculiar circumstances.” “But that’s the point!” the young mancried, “The puzzle that I wish to pen you in— Howarethe public to decide Whicharticle is genuine? “Ts’t only when the Courtis large That wefor ‘Majesty’ need hunt? Would whatis Justice in a barge Be something different in a punt? “Nay, nay!” the Don replied, amused, “You're talking nonsense, sir! You knowit! Such arguments were never used By anyfriend of Jowett.”’ “Thenis it in the men who trudge (Beef-eaters I believe they call them) Before each wigged and ermined judge, For fear some mischief should befall them? 814 VERSE If I should recognise in one (Throughall disguise) my own domestic, I fear ’twould shed a gleam of fun Even on the “Majestic’!”’ The portly Don replied, ‘““Ahem! They can’t exactly beits essence: I scarcely think the want of them The ‘Majesty of Justice’ lessens. Besides, they always march awry; Their gorgeous garmentsneverfit: Processions don’t make Majesty— I’m quite convincedofit.” “Thenis it in the wigit lies, Whosecountless rowsof rigid curls Are gazed at with admiring eyes By country lads and servant-girls?”’ Out laughed that bland and courteous Don: “Dearsir, I do not mean to flatter— But surely you have hit upon The essence of the matter. “Theywill not own the Majesty Of Justice, making Monarchs bow, Unless as evidence they see The horsehair wig upon her brow. Yes, yes! That makesthesilliest men Seem wise; the meanest menlookbig: The Majesty of Justice, then, Is seated in the WIG.” March 1863. FROM NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL THE ELECTIONS TO THE HEBDOMADAL COUNCIL [In the year 1866, a Letter with the above title was published in Oxford, addressed by Mr. Goldwin Smith to the Senior Censor of Christ Church, with the two-fold object of revealing to the University a vast political misfortune which it had unwittingly encountered, and of suggesting a remedy which should at once alleviate the bitterness of the calamity and secure the sufferers from its recurrence. The misfortune thus revealed was noless than the fact that, at a recent election of Members to the Hebdomadal Council, two Conservatives had been chosen, thus giving a Conservative majority in the Council; and the remedy suggested wasa sufficiently sweeping one, embracing, asit did, the following details: 1. “The exclusion” (from Congregation) ‘‘of the nonacademical elements which form a main partof the strength of this party domination.” These ‘‘elements”’ are afterwards enumerated as “‘the parish clergy and the professional men of the city, and chaplains who are without any academical occupation’. 2. The abolition of the Hebdomadal Council. 3. The abolition of the legislative functions of Convocation. These are all the main features of this remarkable scheme of Reform, unless it be necessary to add— 4. “To preside over a Congregation with full legislative powers, the Vice-Chancellor ought no doubt to be a man of real capacity.” But it would be invidious to suppose that there was any intention of suggesting this asa novelty. The following rhythmical version of the Letter develops its principles to an extent which possibly the writer had never contemplated.] 815 816 VERSE “Now ts the winter of our discontent.” 1 “HEARD ye the arrow hurtle in the sky? Heardye the dragon-monster’s dreadful cry?”’— Excuse this sudden burst of the Heroic; The present state of things would vex a Stoic! And just as Sairey Gamp, for pains within, Administered a modicum of gin, So does my mind, when vexedandill at ease, Console itself with soothingsimiles, The ‘‘dragon-monster”’ (pestilential schism!) I need not tell you is Conservatism. The “hurtling arrow’”’ (till we find a better) Is represented by the present Letter. "Twas, I remember, but the other day, Dear Senior Censor, that you chanced to say You thought these party-combinations would Be found, “though needful, no unmingled good.” Unmingled good? They are unmingledill! 2 I never took to them, and never will—* What am I saying? Heedit not, myfriend: On the next page I mean to recommend The very dodges that I now condemn In the Conservatives! Don’t hint to them l A wordof this! (In confidence. Ahem!) Need I rehearse the history of Jowett? J I need not, Senior Censor, for you know it.4 That was the Board Hebdomadal, and oh! Whowould befree, themselves must strike the blow! 1 Dr. Wynter, President of St. John’s, one of the recently elected Conservative membersof Council. 2 “In a letter on a point connected with the late elections to the Hebdomadal Council you incidentally remarked to me that our combinations for these elections, ‘though necessary were not an unmixed good’. They are an unmixedevil”. 3 “T never go to a caucus without reluctance: I never write a canvassing letter without a feeling of repugnance to mytask.”’ 4“T need not rehearse the history of the Regius Professor of Greek.” NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL 817 Let each that wears a beard, and each that shaves, Join in the cry ‘We neverwill be slaves!” “But can the University afford To be a slave to any kind of board? A slave?”’ you shudderingask. ‘‘Think you it can, Sir?”’ “Not at the present moment,” is my answer.} I’ve thought the matter o’er and o’er again Andgiven to it all my powersof brain; I’ve thoughtit out, and this is what I makeit, (And I don’t care a Tory how youtakeit:) It may be right to go ahead, I guess: ) It may be right to stop, I do confess; Also, tt may be right to retrogress.? So says the oracle, and, for myself, I Mustsay it beatstofits the one at Delphi! To save beloved Oxford from the yoke, (For thismajority’s beyond a joke), Wemust combine,’ aye! hold a caucus-meeting,4 Unless we want to get anotherbeating. That they should “‘bottle”’ us is nothing new— But shall they bottle us and caucus too? See the‘‘fell unity of purpose’ now With such Obstructives plunge into the row!5 “‘Factious Minorities,’’ we used to sigh— “Factious Majorities”’ is now the cry. ““Votes—ninety-two’’—no combination here: 1“The University cannot afford at the present moment to be delivered over as a slave to any non-academical interest whatever.” 2“Tt may be right to go on, it may beright to standstill, or it maybe right to go back.”’ 3 “To save the University from going completely under the yoke . we shall still be obliged to combine.” “4 “Caucus--holding and wire-pulling would still be almost inevi- ‘tably carried on to some extent.’ 5 “But what are we to do? Here is a great political and theological party ... labouring under perfect discipline and with ‘ell unity of purpose, to hold the University in subjection, and fill her government with its nominees.” 2D L.c. 818 VERSE “Votes—ninety-three’’—conspiracy,’tis clear! ? You urge “ Tis but a unit.” I reply Thatin that unit lurks their “unity”. Our voters often bolt, and often baulkus, But then, they never, never go to caucus! Our voters ca’n’t forget the maxim famous “Semel electum semper eligamus’’: Theynever can be workedinto a ferment Byvisionary promise of preferment, Nor taught, by hints of ‘““Paradise’’? beguiled, To whisper “C for Chairman” like a child! 8 And thus the friends that we have tempted down Oft take the two-o’clock Express for town. This is our danger: this the secret foe That aims at Oxford such a deadly blow. What champion can wefind to save the State, To crush the plot? We darkly whisper ‘““Wait!’’> My schemeis this: removethe votesof all The residents that are not Liberal—* Leave the young Tutors uncontrolled andfree, And Oxford then shall see—whatit shall see. What next? Whythen,I say, let Convocation 1 At a recent election to Council, the Liberals mustered ninetytwo votes and the Conservatives ninety-three;' whereupon the latter were charged with having obtained their victory by a conspiracy. 2? Not to mention that, as we cannot promise Paradise to our supporters, they are very apt to take the train for London just before the election. 8 It is not known to what the word ‘‘Paradise’”’ was intended to allude, and therefore the hint, here thrown out, that the writer meant to recall the case of the late Chairman of Mr. Gladstone’s committee, who had been recently collated to the See of Chester, is wholly wanton and gratuitous. 4A case of this kind had actually occurred on the occasion of the division just alluded to. 5 Mr. Wayte, now President of Trinity, then put forward as the Liberal candidate for election to Council. 6 “You and others suggest, as the only effective remedy, that the Constituency should be reformed, by the exclusion of the nonacademical elements which form a main part of the strength of this party domination.’ NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL 819 Be shornof all her powersof legislation.1 But whystop there? Let us go boldly on-— Sweep everything beginning with a “Con” Into oblivion! Convocation first, Conservatism next, and, last and worst, “Concilium Hebdomadale”’ must, Consumedand conquered, be consigned to dust! ? And here I mustrelate a little fable I heard last Saturday at our high table:— Thecats, it seems, were mastersof the house, Andheld their own against the rat and mouse: Of course the others couldn’t standit long, So held a caucus (not, in their case, wrong); And, when they were assembled to a man, Uprose an aged rat, and thus began:— “Brothers in bondage! Shall we bear to be Foreverleft in a minority? With what ‘fell unity of purpose’ cats Opposethe trusting innocenceof rats! So unsuspicious are weof disguise, Their machinations take us by surprise—* Insulting and tyrannical absurdities! 4 Is it too bad by half—upon my worditis! For, now that these Con , cats, I should say (frizzle ‘em)), Are masters, they exterminatelike Islam!® Howshall we deal with them? I’ll tell you how:— 1“T confess that, having included all the really academical elements in Congregation, I would go boldly on, and put an end to the Legislative functions of Convocation.” 2 “This conviction, that while we have Elections to Council we shall not entirely get rid of party organization andits evils, leads me to venture a step further, and to raise the question whetherit is really necessary that we should have an Elective Council for legislative purposesat all.’”’ 3 “Sometimes, indeed, not being informed that the wires are at work, we are completely taken by surprise.” 4“We are without protection against this most insulting and tyrannical absurdity.” 5 “Tt is as exterminating as Islam.” 820 VERSE Let none but kittens be allowed to miaow! The Liberal kittens seize us but in play, And, while theyfrolic, we can run away; But older cats are not so generous, Their claws are too Conservativefor us! Thenlet them keep the stable and theoats, While kittens, rats, and mice haveall the votes, “Yes; banish cats! The kittens would not use Their powers for blind obstruction,' nor refuse Tolet us sip the cream and gnaw the cheese— Howglorious then would be ourdestinies! 2 Kittens and rats would occupythe throne, And rule the larderfor itself alone!’’ So rhymed my friend, and asked me what I thought ofit. I told him that so much as I had caughtof it Appeared to me(as I need hardly mention) Entirely undeserving of attention. But now,to guide the Congregation, when It numbers nonebutreally ‘‘able’’ men, A “Vice-Cancellarius”’ will be needed Of every kind of human weakness weeded! Is such the president that we have got? He ought no doubtto be; why should he not? 4 I do not hint that Liberals should dare _ To oust the present holder of the chair— But surely he would not object to be 1 “Their powers would scarcely be exercised for the purposes of fanaticism, or in a spirit of blind obstruction.”’ 2“'These narrow local bounds, within which our thoughts and schemes have hitherto been pent, will begin to disappear, and a far wider sphere of action will open on the view.” 3 “Those councils must be freely opened to all who can serve her well and who will serve herfor herself.”’ 4“‘To preside over a Congregation with full legislative powers, the Vice-Chancellor ought no doubt to be a man of real capacity; but why should he not? His mind oughtalso,for this as well as for his other high functions, to be-clear of petty details, and devoted to the great matters of University business; but why should not this condition also be fulfilled?” NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL 821 Gently examined by a Boardof three? Their duty being just to ascertain That he’s ‘‘all there’ (I mean, of course, in brain), Andthat his mind, from “‘petty details”’ clear, Is fitted for the duties of his sphere. All this is merely moonshine, till we get The seal of Parliament uponitset. A word then, Senior Censor, in yourear: The Governmentis in a state of fear— Like some old gentleman, abroadat night, Seized with a suddenshiverofaffright, Whooffers money, on his bended knees, To thefirst skulking vagabond he sees— Nowis the lucky momentfor ourtask; They daren’t refuse us anything we ask! Andthen our Fellowships shall open be To Intellect, no meanerquality! No moral excellence, no socialfitness Shall ever be admissible as witness. ‘“‘Avaunt, dull Virtue!”’ is Oxonia’s cry: “Come to my arms,ingeniousVillainy!”’ ForClassic Fellowships, an honourhigh, SimonidesandCo. will then apply— Our Mathematics will to Oxford bring The ’cutest membersof the betting-ring— Law Fellowshipswill start upon their journeys A myriad of unscrupulous attorneys— While prisoners, doomedtill now to toil unknown, Shall mount the Physical Professor’s throne! And thus would Oxford educate, indeed, Men far beyond a merely local need— 1 “Tf you apply now to Parliament for this or any other University reform, you will find the House of Commonsin a propitious mood, .. . Even the Conservative Government,as it looks for the support of moderate Liberals on the one great subject, is very unwilling to presentitself in such an aspect that these men may not be able decently to give it their support.” 822 VERSE With no career before them,I maysay,! Unless they’re wise enoughto go away, Andseek far West, or in the distant East, Anotherflock of pigeonsto befleeced. I might go on, and trace the destiny Of Oxford in an age which, thoughit be Thus breaking with tradition, owns a new Allegiance to the intellectual few— (I mean, of course, the—pshaw! no matter who!) But, were I to pursue the boundless theme, I fear that I should seem to you to dream.? This to fulfil, or even—humbler far— To shun Conservatism’s noxious star Andall the evils that it brings behind, These pestilential coils must be untwined— The party-coils, that clog the march of Mind— Choked in whose meshes Oxford, slowly wise, Haslain for three disastrous centuries.® Awaywith them! (It is for this I yearn!) Each twist untwist, each Turner overturn! Disfranchise each Conservative, and cancel The votes of Michell, Liddon, Wall, and Mansel! Then, then shall Oxford beherself again, Neglect the heart, and cultivate the brain— Then this shall be the burden of our song, “All change is good—whateveris, is wrong—’’ Then Intellect’s proud flag shall be unfurled, And Brain, and Brain alone,shall rule the world! 1 “With open Fellowships, Oxford will soon produce a supply of men fit for the work of high education far beyond her ownlocal demands, and in fact with no career before them unless a career can be opened elsewhere.” 2 “T should seem to you to dream if I were to say what I think the destiny of the University may be in an age which, thoughitis breaking with tradition, is, from the same causes, owning a new allegiance to intellectual authority.” 3 ‘But to fulfil this, or even a far humbler destiny—to escape the opposite lot—thepestilential coils of party, in which the University has lain for three disastrous centuries choked, must be untwined.”’ NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL 823 THE DESERTED PARKS “Solitudinem faciunt: Parcum appellant.” MusEvuM! loveliest building of the plain Where Cherwell winds towardsthe distant main; Howoften haveI loitered o’er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared the scene! Howoften have I paused on every charm, The rustic couple walking arm in arm— The groupsof trees, with seats beneath the shade Forprattling babes and whisp’ring lovers made— The never-failing brawl, the busy mill Wheretiny urchinsviedin fistic skill— (Twophrases only have that dusky race Caught fromthe learned influenceof the place; Phrasesin their simplicity sublime, “Scramble a copper!” ‘‘Please, Sir, what’s the time?”’) These round thy walks their cheerful influence shed; There were thy charms—butall these charmsarefled. Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s handis seen, Andrudepavilions saddenall thy green; Oneselfish pastime grasps the whole domain, Andhalf a faction swallows upthe plain; Adownthy glades, all sacrificed to cricket, The hollow-sounding bat now guardsthe wicket; Sunk are thy moundsin shapelesslevelall, Lest aught impedethe swiftly rolling ball; Andtrembling, shrinking from the fatal blow, Far, far away thy hapless children go. Ill fares the place, to luxury a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and mindsdecay; Athletic sports may flourish or may fade, Fashion may make them,even as it has made; Butthe broad parks, the city’s joy andpride, Whenonce destroyed can never be supplied! 824 VERSE Yefriends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man’s joys increase, the poor’s decay, "Tis yours to judge, how widethelimits stand Between a splendid and a happyland. Proud swells go by with laugh of hollow joy, And shouting Folly hails them with “Ahoy!” Funds even beyondthe miser’s wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name, That leaves our useful productsstill the same. Notso the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poorsupplied; Space for the game,andall its instruments, Space for pavilions andfor scorers’ tents; The ball, that raps his shins in paddingcased, Has worn the verdureto an arid waste; His Park, where these exclusive sports are seen, Indignant spurnsthe rustic from the green; While through the plain, consignedtosilenceall, In barren splendourflits the russet ‘ball. In peaceful converse with his brother Don, Here oft the calm Professor wandered on; Strange words he used—men drank with wondering ears The languagescalled ‘‘dead’’, the tonguesof other years. (Enough of Heber! Let me once again Attune my verse to Goldsmith’s liquid strain.) A man he was to undergraduates dear, Andpassing rich with forty poundsa year. And so, I ween, he would havebeentill now, Hadnothis friends(’twere long to tell you how) Prevailed on him, Jack-Horner-like, to try Some methodto evaluatehispie, And win from those dark depths, with skilful thumb, Five times a hundredweight of luscious plum— Yet for no thirst of wealth, no loveofpraise, In learned labour he consumedhis days! O Luxury! thou cursed by Heaven’s decree, Howill exchangedare thingslike these for thee! NOTES BY AN OXFORD CHIEL 825 Howdo thy potions, with insidiousjoy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy; Iced cobbler, Badminton, and shandy-gaff, Rouse the loud jest and idiotic laugh; Inspired by them, to tipsy greatness grown, Menboast a florid vigour not their own; At every draught more wild and wild they grow; While pitying friends observe “‘I told you so!”’ Till, summonedto their post, at thefirst ball, A feeble under-hand,their wicketsfall. Even nowthe devastation is begun, Andhalf the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks while pondering herein pity, I see the rural Virtues leave the city. Contented Toil, and calm scholastic Care, Andfrugal Moderation, all are there; Resolute Industry that scorns the lure Of careless mirth—that dwells apart secure— To science gives her days, her midnightoil, Cheered by the sympathyof others’ toil— Courtly Refinement, and that Taste in dress That brooks no meanness, yet avoids excess— All these I see, with slow reluctant pace Desert the long-beloved and honouredplace! While yet ’tis time, Oxonia, rise and fling The spoiler from thee: grant no parleying! Teach him that eloquence, against the wrong, Though very poor, may:still be very strong; That party-interests we must forgo, Whenhostile to “pro bono publico”’; That faction’s empire hastensto its end, Whenonce mankind to commonsense attend; While independent votes may win the day Even against the potentspell of “Play!” May 1867. 826 VERSE EXAMINATION STATUTE [““The Statute proposed to allow candidates for a degree to forsake Classics after Moderations, except so far as was needed for a Fourth Class in the Final School of Litera Humaniores, if they wished to graduate in science. This Dodgson considered degrading both to Classics and to Mathematics.” —Dodgson Handbook.] A list of those who might, could, would, or should have voted thereon in Congregation, February 2, 4681, arranged alphabetically. A is for [Acland], who’d physic the Masses, B is for [Brodie], who swearsby thegases. C is for [Conington], constant to Horace. D is for [Donkin], whointegratesfor us. E is for [Evans], with rifle well steadied. F is for [Freeman], Examiner dreaded! G’s [Goldwin Smith], by the “Saturday” quoted. H is for [Heurtley], to ‘‘Margaret”’ devoted. Iam the Author, a rhymererratic— J is for [Jowett], who lectures in Attic: K is for [Kitchen], than attic much warmer. L is for [Liddell], relentless reformer! M is for [Mansel], our Logic-provider, And [Norris] is N, once a famous rough-rider. [Ogilvie]’s O, Orthodoxy’s Mendoza! And [Parker] is P, the amendment-proposer. Q is the Quad, where the Donsare collecting. R is for [Rolleston], wholives for dissecting: Sis for [Stanley], sworn foe to formality. T’s [Travers Twiss], full of civil legality. U’s University, factiously splitting— V’s the Vice-Chancellor, ceaselessly sitting. W’s [Wall], by Museum madefrantic, X the Xpenditure, grown quite gigantic. Y are the Young men, whom nobody thought about— Z is the Zeal that this victory brought about. ACROSTICS, INSCRIPTIONS, AND OTHER VERSES SR08Se868aedihoes ACROSTIC LITTLE maidens, when youlook On thislittle story-book, Reading with attentive eye Its enticing history, Neverthink that hoursof play Are your only HOLIDAY, Andthat ina HOUSEof joy Lessonsserve but to annoy: Ifin any HOUSEyou find Children of a gentle mind, Fachthe others pleasing ever— Fach the others vexing never— Daily work and pastimedaily In their order taking gaily— Then be very sure that they Have life of HOLIDAY. Christmas 1861. 827 828 VERSE TO THREE PUZZLEDLITTLE GIRLS, FROM THE AUTHOR (To the three Misses Drury.) THREE little maidens wearyoftherail, Three pairs of little ears listening to a tale, Threelittle hands held out in readiness, Forthree little puzzles very hard to guess. Threepairsof little eyes, open wonder-wide, At threelittle scissors lying side by side. Three little mouths that thanked an unknown Friend, For one little book, he undertook to send. Though whether they’ll remember friend, or book, or day— In three little weeks is very hard to say. August 1869. DOUBLE ACROSTIC (To Miss E. M. Argles.) I siNGa place wherein agree All things on land thatfairest be, All that is sweetest of the sea. Nor can I break the silken knot That binds my memoryto the spot Andfriendstoo dearto be forgot. On rocky brow we loved to stand And watch in silence, hand in hand, ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 829 The shadowsveiling sea and land. B luf F Then dropped the breeze; no vessel passed: So silent stood each taper mast, You would have deemed it chained and fast. A necho R Abovethe blue and fleecy sky: Below, the waves that quiveringlie, Like crispéd curls of greenery. B_ roccol I ““A sail!’”’ resounds from everylip. Mizen, no, square-sail—ah, youtrip! Edith, it cannot be ship! B arqu E So homeagain from sea and beach, One namelessfeeling thrilling each. A sense of beauty, passing speech. A ppreciatio N Let lens and tripod be unslung! “Dolly!” ’s the word on every tongue; Dolly must sat, for she is young! Cc hil D Photographyshall changeherface, Distort it with uncouth grimace— Make her. bloodthirsty, fierce,and base. O diou 5S I end my song while scarce begun; For I should want, ere all was done, Four weeksto tell the tale of one: M _iont H And I should need as large a hand, To paint a scene so wild and grand, As he whotraversed Egypt’s land. B elzon I Whatsay you, Edith? Willit suit ye? Rejectit, if it fails in beauty: You know yourliterary duty! E ditorshi P On the rail between Torquay and Guildford, Sep. 28, 1869. 830 VERSE THREE LITTLE MAIDS (Lo the three Misses Drury.) THREE little maids, one winterday, While others wentto feed, Tosing, to laugh, to dance, to play, More wisely went to—Reed. Others, when lesson-time’s begun, Go, half inclined to cry, Some in a walk, some in a run; Butthese went in a—Fly. I give to otherlittle maids A smile, a kiss, a look, Presents whose memory quickly fades; I give to these—a Book. Happy Arcadia mayblind, While all abroad, their eyes; At home,this book(I trust) they’ll find A very catching prize. PUZZLE (To Mary, Ina, and Harriet or “‘Hartie’’ Watson.) WHEN.a.yand!I.atold.a..iethey’dseena Small..ea.u.ewith.i..., dressed in crimson and blue, .a..iecried “’Twasa.ai.y! Why,I.aand.a. y, I should have been happyif I had been you!”’ Said .a.y “You wouldn’t.” Said I. a “You shouldn’t— Since you ca’n’t be us, and we couldn’t be you. You are one, my dear.a..ie, but wearea.a..y, Anda.i...e.i. tells us that one isn’t two.” ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 831 THREE CHILDREN (To Miss Mary Watson.) THREE children (their names wereso fearful You'll excuse me for leaving them out) Sat silent, with faces all tearful— What wasit about? They were sewing, but needles are prickly, Andfingers were cald as could be— So they didn’t get on very quickly, Andthey wept, silly Three! “O Mother!” said they, ““Guildford’s not a Nice place for the winter, that’s flat. If you know any country that’s hotter, Please take us to that!” “Cease crying,” said she, “‘little daughter! And when summercomes back with the flowers, You shall roam by the edgeof the water, In sunshiny hours.” ‘And in summer’”’, said sorrowful Mary, “We shall hearthe shrill scream of the train That will bring that dear writer of fairytales hither again.” (Now the person she meantto allude to Was—well! it is best to forget. It was some one she always was rude to, Wheneverthey met.) “It’s my duty”’, their Mother continued, “To fill with things useful and right Your small minds: if I put nothing in, you’d Be ignorant quite. 832 VERSE “But enoughnowoflessons and thinking: Your mealis quite ready, I see— So attend to your eating and drinking, You thirsty young Three!”’ Apr. 10, 1871. TWO THIEVES (Lo the Misses Drury.) Two thieves went out to steal one day Thinking that no one knew it: Threelittle maids, I grieve to say, Encouraged them to doit. ’Tis said thatlittle children should Encourage menin stealing! Butthese, I’ve always understood, Havegot no properfeeling. An agedfriend, who chancedto pass Exactly at the minute, Said “Children! Take this Looking-glass, And see your badnessin it.” Jan, 11, 1872. TWO ACROSTICS (To Miss Ruth Dymes.) Rowunp the wondrousglobe I wanderwild, Up and down-hill—Age succeeds to youth— Toiling all in vain to find a child Half so loving, half so dear as Ruth. ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 833 (To Miss Margaret Dymes.) MAIDENS, if a maid you meet Alwaysfree from pout andpet, Ready smile and tempersweet, Greet my little Margaret. Andif loved by all she be Rightly, not a pamperedpet, Easily you then may see Tis my little Margaret. DOUBLE ACROSTIC Two little girls near London dwell, More naughty than I liketo tell. I Uponthe lawn the hoopsare seen: The balls are rolling on the green. r ur F The Thamesis running deep andwide: Andboats are rowingonthetide. R ive R 3 In winter-time, all in a row, The happy skaters come andgo. I c E 4 “Papa!” they cry, ‘‘Do let us stay!”’ He does not speak, but says they may. N o D 5 “There is a land,”’ he says, ‘“‘mydear, Whichis too hotto skate, I fear.” A fric A 834 VERSE ACROSTIC “ARE you deaf, Father William!” the young mansaid, “Did you hear what I told you just now? “Excuse me for shouting! Don’t waggle your head “Like a blundering, sleepy old cow! ‘‘A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town, “Is my friend, so I beg to remark: . “Do you think she’d be pleased if a book were sent down “Entitled ‘The Huntof the Snark?’ ”’ “Pack it up in brown paper!”’ the old mancried, “Andsealit with olive-and-dove. “Tt commandyouto do it!’’ he added with pride, “Nor forget, my goodfellow, to send her beside “Easter Greetings, and give her mylove.” 1876, ACROSTIC (To the Misses Drury.) “MAIDENS! if you lovethetale, If you love the Snark, Need I urge you, spreadthesail, Now,while freshly blowsthe gale, In your ocean-barque! “English Maidens love renown, Enterprise, and fuss!”’ Laughingly those Maidens frown; Laughingly, with eyes cast down; Andthey answerthus: ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 835 “English Maidens fear to roam. Much wedread the dark; Muchwe dread whatills might come, If we left our English home, Even for a Snark!” Apr. 6, 1876. ACROSTIC Love-lighted eyes, that will not start At frown of rage or malice! Uplifted brow, undaunted heart Ready to dine on raspberry-tart Along withfairy Alice! In scenes as wonderfulasif She’d flitted in a magic skiff Across the sea to Calais: Be sure this night, in Fancy’s feast, Eventill Morninggilds the east, Laurawill dream of Alice! Perchance,as long years onwardhaste, Laura will weary of the taste Of Life’s embittered chalice: Mayshe,in such a woeful hour, Endued with Memory’s mystic power, Recall the dreamsof Alice! June 17, 1876. 836 VERSE TO M. A. B. (To Miss Marion Terry, ‘Mary Ann Bessie Terry.’’) THE royal MAB, dethroned, discrowned Byfairyrebels wild, Has found a home on English ground, Andlives an English child. I know it, Maiden, when I see A fairy-tale upon your knee— Andnotethe page thatidly lingers Beneaththosestill andlistless fingers— And mark those dreamylooks that stray To somebright vision far away, Still seeking, in the pictured story, The memoryof a vanishedglory. ACROSTIC (To Miss Marion Terry.) -MAIDEN,thoughthy heart may quail Andthy quiveringlip grow pale, Read the Bellman’s tragic tale! Is it life of whichit tells? Of a pulse that sinks and swells Neverlacking chimeof bells? Bells of sorrow, bells of cheer, Easter, Christmas, glad New Year, Still they sound, afar, anear. So mayLife’s sweet bells for thee, In the summersyetto be, Evermore make melody! Aug. 15, 1876. ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 837 MADRIGAL (To Miss May Forshall.) HE shouts amain, he shouts again, (Her brother,fierce, as bluff King Hal), “T tell you flat, I shall do that!” She softly whispers “‘ ‘May’for ‘shall’!” He wistful sighed one eventide (Herfriend, that made this Madrigal), “And shall [kiss you, pretty Miss!” Smiling she answered “‘ ‘May’ for‘shall’ !’’ With eager eyes my readercries, “Your friend must be indeeda val- -uable child, so sweet, so mild! Whatdo you call her?”’ “MayForshall.” Dec, 24, 1877. LOVE AMONG THE ROSES ACROSTIC “SEEK ye Love, ye fairy-sprites? Ask where reddestroses grow. Rosyfancies he invites, Andin roses he delights, Haveye found him?” “No!” “Seek again, and find the boy In Childhood’s heart, so pure andclear.” Nowthefairies leap for joy, Crying, ‘Loveis here!”’ 838 VERSE “Lovehas found his propernest; And weguard him while he dozes In a dream of peace andrest Rosier than roses.”’ Jan. 3, 1878. TWO POEMS TO RACHEL DANIEL I “OH pudgy podgy pup! Whydid they wake you up? Those crude nocturnalyells Are notlike silver bells: Norever would recall Sweet Music’s ‘dying fall’. They rather bring to mind The bitter winter wind Through keyholes shrieking shrilly. When nights are dark andchilly: Orlike somedire duett, Or quarrelsome quarteite, Of cats who chanttheirjoys With execrable noise, And murder Time and Tune To vex the patient Moon!” Nov. 1880. II FOR “THE GARLAND OF RACHEL” (1881) Wuat hand may wreathethy natal crown, O tiny tender Spirit-blossom, That out of Heaven hast fluttered down Into this Earth’s cold bosom? ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 839 And howshall mortal bard aspire— All sin-begrimed and sorrow-laden— To welcome,with the Seraph-choir, A pure andperfect Maiden? Are not God’s minstrels ever near, Flooding with joy the woodland mazes? Which shall we summon, Baby dear, To carol forth thy praises? With sweet sad song the Nightingale Maysoothethe broken hearts that languish Where graves are green—theorphans’ wail, The widow’s lonely anguish: The Turtle-dove with amorous coo Maychide the blushing maidthatlingers To twineher bridal wreath anew With weak and tremblingfingers: But humanloves and human woes Would dim the radiance of thy glory— Only the Lark such music knows Asfits thy stainless story. The world maylisten as it will— She recksnot, to the skies up-springing: Beyond ourkenshesingethstill Forvery joy of singing. THE LYCEUM “Tr is the lawyer’s daughter, Andsheis grown so dear,so dear, She costs me, in one evening, The incomeof a year! 840 1881. VERSE ‘You ca’n’t have children’s love’, she cried, ‘Unless you chooseto fee ’em!’ ‘And what’s yourfee, child?’ I replied. She simply said “We saw ‘The Cup’.” I hoped she’d say, “I’m grateful to you, very.” She murmured,as she turned away, “That lovely [Ellen Terry.] ‘Compared with her, the rest’’, she cried, “Are just like two or three um- “berellas standing side by side! “Oh, gem of ‘‘We saw Two Brothers. I confess To me they seemed one man. “Now whichis which, child? Can you guess?” Shecried, ‘‘A-course I can!”’ Bad punslike this I always dread, And am resolvedto flee ’em. Andso I left her there, and fled; Shelives at ACROSTIC AROUND mylonely hearth to-night, Ghostlike the shadows wander: Nowhere, now there,a childish sprite, Earthborn and yetas angel bright, Seems near meas I ponder. Gaily she shouts: the laughingair "Echoes hernote of gladness— Or bendsherself with earnest care Roundfairy-forfress to prepare Grim battlement or turret-stair— In childhood’s merry madness! ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES Newrapturesstill hath youthinstore. Age maybut fondly cherish Half-faded memories of yore— Up, craven heart! repine no more! Lovestretches handsfrom shoreto shore: Loveis, and shall not perish! DREAMLAND 841 (Verses written to the dream-music written down by C. E. Hutchinson, of Brasenose College.) 1882. WHEN midnight mists are creeping, Andall the landis sleeping, Around metread the mighty dead, Andslowly pass away. Lo, warriors, saints, and sages, From out the vanishedages, With solemn pace and reverend face Appearand pass away. The blaze of noonday splendour, The twilight soft and tender, Maycharm theeye: yet they shall die, Shall die and pass away. Buthere, in Dreamland’s centre, No spoiler’s hand mayenter, Thesevisions fair, this radiancerare, Shall never pass away. . I see the shadowsfalling, The formsofold recalling; Around metread the mightydead, And slowly pass away. 842 VERSE TO MY CHILD-FRIEND DEDICATION TO “‘THE GAME OF LOGIC” I CHARM in vain: for never again, All keenly as my glance I bend, Will Memory, goddess coy, Embodyfor my joy Departed days, nor let me gaze On thee, my Fairy Friend! Yet could thy face, in mystic grace, A momentsmile on me, ’twould send Far-darting rays of light From Heaven athwartthe night, By whichto read in very deed Thy spirit, sweetest Friend! So maythe stream of Life’s long dream Flow gently onwardto its end, With manya floweret gay, A-downits willowy way: Maynosigh vex, no care perplex, Mylovinglittle Friend! 1886. A RIDDLE (Lo Miss Gaynor Simpson.) My first lends his aid when I plungeinto trade: Mysecondin jollifications: My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neatfinish To pictorial representations. Answer: Copal. ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 843 A LIMERICK (To Miss Vera Beringer.) THERE was a youngladyofstation, “T love man” washersole exclamation; But when mencried, “‘Youflatter,” She replied, ‘Oh! no matter, Isle of Manis the true explanation.” RHYME? AND REASON? (To Miss Emmie Drury.) “‘l’m EMInent in RHYME!” shesaid. “T make WRY Mouths of RYE-Mealgruel!” The Poet smiled, and shookhis head: “Is REASON, then, the missing jewel?”’ A NURSERY DARLING DEDICATION TO THE NURSERY “ALICE”, 1889 A MoTHER’s breast: Safe refuge from herchildish fears, From childish troubles, childish tears, Mists that enshroud her dawning years! See howin sleep she seemsto sing A voiceless psalm—an offering Raised,to the glory of her King, In Love: for Love is Rest. 844 VERSE A Darling’s kiss: Dearestof all the signs that fleet From lips that lovingly repeat Again, again, their message sweet! Full to the brim withgirlishglee, A child, a very child is she, Whose dream of Heavenisstill to be At Home: for Homeis Bliss. MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD (June 9th to 13th, 1889) (Written for Maggie Bowman.) WHEN Maggieonce to Oxford came, On tour as ‘‘Bootles’ Baby’’, Shesaid, “T’ll see this place of fame, Howeverdull the day be.” So with herfriend shevisited Thesights that it wasrich in: Andfirst of all she popped her head Inside the Christ Church kitchen. The Cooks aroundthatlittle child Stood waiting in a ring: Andevery time that Maggie smiled Those Cooks began to sing— Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom! ‘Roast, boil and bake, For Maggie’s sake: Bringcutletsfine For her to dine, Meringuesso sweet For her-to eat— For Maggie may be Bootles’ Baby!” ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 845 Then handin handin pleasant talk They wandered and admired The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk, Till Maggie’s feet weretired: To Worcester Garden next theystrolled, Admiredits quiet lake: Then to St. John,a college old, Their devious way they take. In idle mood they sauntered round Its lawn so green andflat, And in that garden Maggie found A lovely Pussy-Cat! A quarter of an hour they spent In wandering to andfro: And everywherethat Maggie went, The Cat was sure to go— Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom! “Maiow! Maiow! Come, make your bow, Takeoff yourhats, Ye Pussy-Cats! Andpurrandpurr, To welcomeher, For Maggie may be Bootles’ Baby!” So back to Christ Church, not too late For them to go and see A Christ Church undergraduate, Whogave them cakes andtea. Next dayshe entered with her guide The garden called “Botanic”, And there a fierce Wild Boarshespied, Enoughto cause a panic: 846 VERSE But Maggie didn’t mind, not she, She would havefaced,alone, That fierce wild boar, because, yousee, The thing was madeof stone. On Magdalen walls they saw a face That filled her with delight, A giant face, that made grimace Andgrinnedwith allits might. A little friend, industrious, Pulled upwardsall the while The cornerof its mouth, and thus He helped that face to smile! “How nice’, thought Maggie, “it would be If J could have a friend To do that very thing for me And make my mouth turn up withglee, Bypulling at one end.” In Magdalen Park the deerare wild With joy, that Maggie brings Somebread a friend had given thechild, To feed the pretty things. They flock round Maggie withoutfear: They breakfast and theylunch, They dine, they sup, those happy deer— Still, as they munch and munch, Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom! “Yes, Deer are we, Anddearis she! Welove this child So sweet and mild: ACROSTICS AND OTHER VERSES 847 Weall rejoice At Maggie’s voice: Weall are fed With Maggie’s bread .. . For Maggie may be Bootles’ Baby!” They met a Bishop on their way... A Bishoplargeaslife, With loving smile that seemed to say “Will Maggie be my wife?” Maggie thought not, because, you see, She was so very young, Andhe was old as old could be... So Maggie held hertongue. ““MyLord,she’s Bootles’ Baby, we Are going up and down”’, Herfriend explained, ‘“‘that she may see Thesights of Oxford Town.”’ “Now say what kindof placeitis,”’ The Bishopgaily cried. “The best place in the Provinces!” Thatlittle maid replied. Away, next morning, Maggie went From Oxford town: but yet The happy hours she there had spent She could not soon forget. Thetrain is gone, it rumbles on: The engine-whistle screams; But Maggie deep in rosy sleep... Andsoftly in her dreams, Whispersthe Battle-cry of Freedom. 848 VERSE “Oxford, good-bye!” She seemsto sigh. “You dearold City, With gardenspretty, Andlanes and flowers, Andcollege-towers, And Tom’s great Bell... Farewell—farewell: For Maggie may be Bootles’ Baby!”’ MAGGIE B—— (To Maggie Bowman.) WRITTEN by Maggie B Bought by me: A present to Maggie B Sent by me: But who can Maggie be? Answered by me: “Sheis she.”’ Aug. 13, 1891. 2E THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS THREE SUNSETS HE saw heronce, andintheglance, A moment’s glance of meeting eyes, His heart stood still in sudden trance: He trembled with a sweet surprise— Allin the waninglight she stood, The star of perfect womanhood. That summer-evehis heart waslight: Withlighter step he trod the ground: Andlife wasfairer in his sight, And music wasin every sound: Heblessed the world where there could be So beautiful a thing as she. There once again, as eveningfell And stars were peering overhead, Two lovers met to bid farewell: The western sun gleamed faint andred, Lost in a drift of purple cloud That wrapped him like a funeral-shroud. Long time the memoryof that night— The handthatclasped, the lips that kissed, The form that faded from hissight Slow sinking through the tearful mist— In dreamy music seemedto roll Through the dark chambersof his soul. So after many years he came A wanderer from a distant shore: Thestreet, the house, werestill the same, But those he sought were there no more: 849 L.C. 850 VERSE His burning words, his hopes and fears, Unheededfell on alien ears. Only the children from their play Would pause the mournfultale to hear, Shrinking in half-alarm away, Or, step by step, would venture near To touch with timid curious hands That strange wild man from other lands. Hesat beside the busystreet, There, wherehe last had seen herface; And thronging memories, bitter-sweet, Seemedyet to haunt the ancientplace: Herfootfall ever floated near: Hervoice waseverin his ear. He sometimes, as the daylight waned And evening mists beganto roll, In half-soliloquy complained Of that black shadow onhis soul, And blindly fanned, with cruel care, The ashes of a vain despair. The summerfled: the lonely man Still lingered out the lessening days: Still, as the night drew on, would scan Each passing face with closer gaze— Till, sick at heart, he turned away, Andsighed “‘She will not come to-day.” So by degrees his spirit bent To mockits own despairing cry, In stern self-torture to invent. New luxuries of agony, Andpeople all the vacant space With visions of her perfect face. THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 851 Then for a momentshe wasnigh, Heheard nostep, but she was there; Asif an angel suddenly Were bodied from the viewlessair, Andall herfine ethereal frame Should fade as swiftly as it came. So, half in fancy’s sunnytrance, Andhalf in misery’s aching void, With set and stony countenance His bitter being he enjoyed, Andthrust for ever from his mind The happinesshe could notfind. As whenthewretch, in lonely room, To selfish death is madly hurled, The glamourof that fatal fume Shuts out the wholesomeliving world— So all his manhood’s strength and pride Onesickly dream had sweptaside. Yea, brother, and we passed him there, But yesterday, in merry mood, And marvelled at the lordly air That shamedhis beggar’s attitude, Nor heededthat ourselves might be Wretchesas desperateas he; Wholet the thoughtof bliss denied Makehavocof ourlife and powers, Andpine, in solitary pride, For peace that nevershall be ours, Becausewewill not work and wait In trustful patience for our fate. Andso it chanced once morethat she Cameby the old familiarspot: The face he would havedied to see Bent o’er him, and he knewit not; 852 VERSE Too raptinselfish grief to hear, Even when happiness wasnear. Andpity filled her gentle breast For him that would notstir nor speak, The dying crimsonof the west, That faintly tinged his haggard cheek, Fell on her as she stood, and shed A glory roundthe patient head. Ah, let him wake! The momentsfly: This awful tryst maybethelast. Andsee, the tear, that dimmedhereye, Hadfallen on him ere she passed— She passed: the crimson paled to gray: And hopedeparted with the day. The heavy hoursof night went by, Andsilence quickened into sound, Andlight slid up the eastern sky, Andlife began its daily round— Butlight andlife for him werefled: His name was numbered with the dead. Nov. 1861. THE PATH OF ROSES (Florence Nightingale was at the height of hey fame when this was written, after the Crimean War.) IN the darksilence of an ancient room, Whoseone tall window fronted to the West, Where, through laced tendrils of a hanging vine, The sunset-glow was fading into night, Sat a pale Lady, resting weary hands Upon a great clasped volume, and her face THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 853 Within her hands. Not as in rest she bowed, But large hot tears were coursing down her cheek, Andher low-panted sobs broke awefully Uponthe sleeping echoesof the night. Soon she unclasp’d the volumeonceagain, And read the wordsin tone of agony, Asin self-torture, weeping as she read: “He crownsthe glory of his race: He prayeth but in somefit place To meet his foeman face to face: “And, battling for the True, the Right, From ruddy dawn to purple night, To perish in the midmostfight: “Where hearts arefierce and hands are strong, Where peals the bugle loud andlong, Where blood ts dropping in the throng: “Still, with a dim and glazing eye, To watch the tide of victory, To hear in deaththe battle-cry: “Then, gathered grandly to his grave, To rest among the true and brave, In holy ground, where yew-trees wave: “Where, from church-windowssculpturedfair, Float out upon the evening air The note ofpratse, the voice ofprayer: “Where no vain marble mockery Insults with loud and boastful lie The simple soldier's memory: “Where sometimeslittle children go, And read, in whisper'd accent slow, The name of him whosleeps below.” 854 VERSE Hervoice died out: like one in dreamsshesat. “Alas!” she sighed. “For what can Woman do? Herlife is aimless, and her death unknown: Hemmedin by social formsshe pinesin vain. Manhashis work, but what can Woman do?”’ And answer camethere from the creeping gloom, The creeping gloom thatsettled into night: “Peace! For thy lot is other than a man’s: His is a path of thorns: he beats them down: He faces death: he wrestles with despair. Thineis of roses, to adorn and cheer His lonely life, and hide the thornsin flowers.” She spake again: in bitter tone she spake: “Aye, as a toy, the puppet of an hour, Or a fair posy, newly plucked at morn, Butflung aside and withered ere the night.” And answer camethere from the creeping gloom, The creeping gloom that blackenedintonight: “So shalt thou be the lamptolight his path, Whattime the shadesof sorrow close around.” And, so it seemedto her, an awfullight Pierced slowly through the darkness, orbed, and grew, Until all passed away—theancient room— The sunlight dying throughthetrellised vine— The one tall window—all had passed away, Andshe was standing on the mighty hills. Beneath, around, andfar as eye could see, Squadron on squadron, stretched opposing hosts, Rankedas for battle, mute and motionless. Anon a distant thunder shook the ground, The trampof horses, and a troop shot by— Plungedheadlongin thatliving sea of men— Plungedto their death: back from thatfatal field A scattered handful, fighting hardforlife, Broke throughtheserried lines; but, as she gazed, They shrank and melted, and their forms grew thin— Grew pale as ghosts when thefirst morning ray Dawnsfrom the East—the trumpet’s brazen blare THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 855 Died into silence—andthe vision passed— Passed to a room wheresick and dying lay In long, sad line—there brooded Fear and Pain— Darkness was there, the shade of Azrael’s wing. But there was one thatever, to andfro, Movedwith light footfall: purely calm herface, Andthose deep steadfast eyes that starred the gloom: Still, as she went, she ministered to each Comfort and counsel; cooled the fevered brow With softest touch, and in the listening ear Of the pale sufferer whispered wordsof peace. That dying warrior, gazing as she passed, Clasped his thin hands and blessed her. Bless her too, Thou, whodidst bless the merciful of old! So prayed the Lady, watchingtearfully Her gentle moving onward,till the night Had veiled her wholly, and the vision passed. Then once again the solemn whisper came: “So in the darkest path of man’s despair, Where WarandTerror shake the troubled earth, Lies woman’s mission; with unblenching brow To pass through scenesof horror and affright Where men grow sick and tremble: unto her All things are sanctified, for all are good. Nothing so mean, but shall deserve hercare: Nothing so great, but she may bearherpart. Nolife is vain: each hath his place assigned: Do thou thy task, and leave the rest to God.” _And there wassilence, but the Lady made No answer,save one deeply-breathed ““Amen”’, Andshearose, and in that darkening room Stoodlonely as a spirit of the night— Stood calm andfearless in the gathered night— And raised her eyes to heaven. There were tears Uponherface, but in her heart was peace, Peace that the world nor gives nor takes away! April to, 1856. 856 VERSE THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH HARK, said the dying man, and sighed, To that complaining tone— Like sprite condernned, each eventide, To walk the world alone. At sunset, when the airis still, I hear it creep from yonderhill: It breathes upon me, dead and chill, A moment, and is gone. Myson, it minds meof a day Left half a life behind, That I have prayed to put away For ever from my mind. But bitter memory will notdie: It haunts my soul when none is nigh: I hear its whisperin the sigh Of that complaining wind. And now in death mysoulis fain Totell the tale of fear That hidden in my breast hath lain Through manya weary year: Yet time wouldfail to utter all— The evil spells that held methrall, And thrust mylife from fall to fall, Thou needest not to hear. Thespells that bound me with a chain, Sin’s stern behests to do, Till Pleasure’s self, invoked in vain, A heavy burden grew— Till from my spirit’s fevered eye, A hunted thing, I seemedtofly Through the dark woodsthat underlie Yon mountain-range of blue. THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 857 Deepin those woodsI found a vale No sunlight visiteth, Norstar, nor wandering moonbeampale; Where never comesthe breath Of summer-breeze—there in mine ear, EvenasI lingeredhalfin fear, I heard a whisper, cold and clear, “Thatis the gate of Death. “O bitteris it to abide In weariness alway: At dawn to sigh for eventide, At eventidefor day. Thy noon hathfled: thy sun hath shone: The brightness of thy day is gone: What needto lag andlinger on Till life be cold and gray? “O well,” it said, ‘‘beneath yon pool, In somestill cavern deep, The fevered brain might slumbercool, The eyes forget to weep: Within that goblet’s mystic rim Are draughtsof healing, stored for him Whose heartis sick, whosesightis dim, Who prayethbutto sleep!” The evening-breeze went moaningby, Like mournerfor the dead, Andstirred, withshrill complainingsigh, The tree-tops overhead: My guardian-angel seemed to stand And mutely wave a warning hand— With suddenterrorall unmanned, I turned myself andfled! A cottage-gate stood open wide: Soft fell the dying ray 858 VERSE On twofair children, side by side, That rested from their play— Together bent the earnest head, As ever and anonthey read From one dear Book: the words they said Come back to meto-day. Like twin cascades on mountain-stair Together wandered down Theripples of the golden hair, Theripples of the brown: While, through the tangled silken haze, Blue eyes looked forth in eager gaze, Morestarlike than the gemsthat blaze About a monarch’s crown. Myson, there comesto each an hour Whensinksthe spirit’s pride— When weary handsforget their power The strokes of death to guide: ° In such a moment, warriors say, A wordthe panic-rout maystay, A sudden charge redeem the day And turn thelivingtide. I could notsee, for blindingtears, Theglories of the west: A heavenly music filled mineears, A heavenly peace my breast. “‘Come unto Me, come unto Me— All ye that labour, unto Me— Ye heavy-laden, come to Me— And I will give yourest.” The night drew onwards: thin and blue The evening mists arise To bathe the thirsty land in dew, | Aserst in Paradise— THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 859 While, oversilent field and town, The deep blue vault of heaven looked down; Not, as of old, in angry frown, But bright with angels’ eyes. Blest day! Then first I heard the voice That since hath oft beguiled These eyes from tears, and bid rejoice This heart with anguish wild— Thy mother, boy, thou hast not known; So soon sheleft me here to moan— Left me to weep and watch, alone, Our onebeloved child. Though, parted from my achingsight, Like homeward-speeding dove, She passedinto the perfect light That floods the world above; Yet our twin spirits, well I know— Thoughone abide in pain below— Love, as in summerslong ago, And evermoreshall love. So with a glad and patient heart I move toward mineend: The streams, that flow awhile apart, Shall both in ocean blend. I dare not weep: I can butbless The Lovethat pitied mydistress, Andlent me, in Life’s wilderness, So sweet and true a friend. Butif there be—O if there be A truth in what they say, That angel-forms we cannot see Go with us on our way; 860 VERSE Then surely she is with mehere, I dimly feel her spirit near— The morning-mists grow thin andclear, And Deathbringsin the Day. April 1868. SOLITUDE I LovE thestillness of the wood: I love the music oftherill: T love to couch in pensive mood Upon somesilenthill. Scarce heard, beneath yon archingtrees, Thesilver-crested ripples pass; And, like a mimic brook, the breeze Whispers amongthegrass. Here from the world I win release, Norscorn of men, nor footstep rude, Break in to marthe holy peace Of this great solitude. Here maythesilent tears I weep Lull the vexedspirit into rest, As infants sob themselvesto sleep Upon a mother’s breast. But when thebitter houris gone, Andthe keen throbbing pangsarestill, Oh, sweetest then to couch alone Upon somesilent hill! To live in joys that once have been, To put the cold world outofsight, Anddecklife’s drear and barren scene With hues of rainbow-light. THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 861 For what to man thegift of breath, If sorrow be his lot below; If all the day that ends in death Be dark with clouds of woe? Shall the poor transport of an hour Repaylong years of sore distress— The fragranceof a lonely flower Makeglad the wilderness? Ye golden hours of Life’s youngspring, Of innocence, of love and truth! Bright, beyondall imagining, Thou fairy-dream of youth! I'd give all wealth that years havepiled, The slow result of Life’s decay, To be once morea little child For one bright summer-day. March 16, 1853. BEATRICE In her eyesis the living light Of a wandererto earth From farcelestial height: Summersfive are all the span— Summersfive since Time began Toveil in mists of human night A shining angel-birth. Does an angel look from her eyes? Will she suddenlyspring away, Andsoar to her homein the skies? Beatrice! Blessing and blessed to be! Beatrice! Still, as I gaze on thee, Visions of two sweet maidsarise, Whoselife was of yesterday: 862 VERSE Of a Beatrice pale and stern, With the lips of a dumb despair, With the innocent eyes that yearn— Yearn for the young sweet hoursoflife, Far from sorrow andfar from strife, For the happy summers, that never return, Whenthe world seemed good andfair: Of a Beatrice glorious, bright— Of a sainted, ethereal maid, Whose blue eyes are deep fountainsof light, Cheering the poet that broodeth apart, Filling with gladnesshis desolate heart, Like the moon when she shines thro’ a cloudless night On a worldof silence and shade. Andthe visions waverandfaint, Andthe visions vanish away That my fancy delighted to paint— She is here at myside,a living child, With the glowing cheek andthetresses wild, Nor death-pale martyr, nor radiant saint, Yet stainless and bright as they. For I think, if a grim wild beast Were to comefrom his charnel-cave, From his jungle-homein the East-— Stealthily creeping with bated breath, Stealthily creeping with eyes of death— He would all forget his dream of the feast, And crouchat herfeet a slave. She would twine her hand in his mane: She would prattle in silvery tone, Like the tinkle of summer-rain— Questioning him with her laughing eyes, Questioning him with a glad surprise. THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 863 Till she caught from those fierce eyes again The love that lit her own. Andbesure, if a savage heart, In a mask of humanguise, Were to come on her here apart— Bound fora dark and a deadly deed, Hurrying past with pitiless speed— He would suddenly falter and guiltily start At the glanceof her pure blue eyes. Nay,be sure,if an angelfair, A bright seraph undefiled, Wereto stoop from thetracklessair, Fain would shelinger in glad amaze— Lovingly linger to ponderandgaze, Witha sister’s love and a sister’s care, On the happy,innocent child. Dec. 4, 1862. STOLEN WATERS THE light was faint, and soft the air That breathed around theplace; Andshe waslithe, and tall, and fair, And with a wayward grace Her queenly headshebare. With glowing cheek, with gleamingeye, She met me on the way: Myspirit owned the witchery Within her smile thatlay: I followed her, I know not why. The trees were thick with manya fruit, The grass with many a flower: My soul was dead, my tongue was mute, In that accurséd hour. 864 VERSE And, in my dream, with silvery voice, She said, or seemedto say, “Youthis the season to rejoice’— I could not choose butstay: T could not say her nay. She plucked a branch aboveher head, Withrarest fruitage laden: “Drink of the juice, Sir Knight,’’ she said: “Tis good for knight and maiden.” Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace— Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed— The mockingsmile upon herface, The mocking voice of greed! I drank the juice; and straightwayfelt A fire within mybrain: My soul within me seemed to melt In sweet delirious pain. “Sweetis the stolen draught,” she said: “Hath sweetness stint or measure? Pleasant the secret hoard of bread: What bars us from ourpleasure?” “Yea, take we pleasure while we may,” I heard myself replying. In the red sunset, far away, Myhappierlife was dying: My heart was sad, my voice was gay. And unawares, I knew not how, I kissed her dainty finger-tips, I kissed her on thelily brow, I kissed her on the false, false lips— That burningkiss, I feel it now! THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 865 ‘True love gives true love of the best: Then take”’, I cried, ‘‘my heart to thee!” The very heart from out mybreast I plucked, I gaveit willingly: Her very heart she gave to me— Then died the glory from the west. In the gray light I saw herface, And it was withered, old, and gray; The flowers were fadingin their place, Werefading with the fading day. Forth from her, like a hunted deer, Throughall that ghastly nightI fled, Andstill behind me seemed to hear Herfierce unflagging tread; Andscarce drew breath for fear. Yet markedI well how strangely seemed The heart within my breastto sleep: Silent it lay, or so I dreamed, With nevera throb orleap. For hers was now my heart, she said, The heart that once had been mine own: And in my breastI bore instead A cold, cold heart of stone. So grew the morning overhead. The sun shot downward through thetrees His old familiar flame: All ancient sounds upon the breeze From copse and meadow came— But I was not the same. They call me mad: I smile, I weep, Uncaring how orwhy: 866 VERSE Yea, when one’s heartis laid asleep, Whatbetter than to die? So that the grave be dark and deep. To die! To die? And yet, methinks, I drink oflife, to-day, Deepas thethirsty traveler drinks Of fountain by the way: Myvoiceis sad, my heartis gay. Whenyestereve was on the wane, I heard a clear voice singing So sweetly that, like summer-rain, Myhappytears camespringing: My human heartreturned again. “A rosy child, Sitting and singing, in a gardenfair, The joy of hearing, seeing, | The simple joy of being— Or twining rosebuds in the golden hatr That ripples free and wild. “A sweet pale child— Weartly looking to the purple West— Waiting the great For-ever That suddenly shall sever The cruel chains that hold her from her rest— By earth-joys unbeguiled. “An angel-child— Gazing with living eyes on a deadface: The mortalform forsaken, That none may now awaken, That lieth painless, moveless tn her place, As though in death she smiled! THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 867 “Be as a child— So shalt thou singfor very joy of breath— So shalt thou wait thy dying, In holy transport lying— So pass rejoicing throughthe gate of death, In garment undefiled.” Then call me what they will, I know That now mysoulis glad: If this be madness, betterso, Far better to be mad, Weepingor smiling as I go. Forif I weep,it is that now I see how deep loss is mine, Andfeel how brightly round my brow The coronal mightshine, Had I but kept mine early vow: Andif I smile, it is that now I see the promise of the years— The garland waiting for my brow, That must be won withtears, With pain—with death—I care not how. May g, 1862. THE WILLOW-TREE THE mornwasbright, the steeds werelight, The wedding guests were gay: Young Ellen stood within the wood And watched them pass away. She scarcely saw the gallant train: The tear-drop dimmedhere’e: Unheard the maiden did complain Beneath the Willow-Tree. 868 VERSE “Oh, Robin, thoudidst love me well, Till, on a bitter day, She came, the Lady Isabel, Andstole thy heart away. Mytearsare vain: I live again In days that used to be, WhenI could meet thy welcomefeet Beneath the Willow-Tree. “Oh, Willow gray, I may not stay Till Spring renew thyleaf; ButI will hide myself away, And nurse a lonely grief. It shall not dim Life’s joy for him: Mytears he shall notsee: While heis by, I’ll come not nigh My weeping Willow-Tree. “But whenI die, oh, let melie Beneath thy loving shade, That he mayloiter careless by, Where I am lowlylaid. Andlet the white white marbletell, If he should stoopto see, ‘Here lies a maid that loved thee well, Beneath the Willow-Tree.’ ”’ 1859. ONLY A WOMAN’S HAIR [After the death of Dean Swift, there was found among his papers a small packet containing a single lock of hair and inscribed with the above words.’’] “ONLY a woman’s hair!” Fling it aside! A bubble on Life’s mighty stream: Heed it not, man, but watch the broadeningtide Bright with the western beam. THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 869 Nay! In those wordsthere rings from other years The echo of a long low cry, Wherea proudspirit wrestles with its tears In loneliest agony. And, as I touch that lock, strange visions throng Upon mysoul with dreamy grace— Of woman’s hair, the themeof poet’s song In every time andplace. A child’s bright tresses, by the breezes kissed To sweet disorderassheflies, Veiling, beneath a cloud of golden mist, Flushed cheek and laughing eyes— Orfringing, like a shadow, raven-black, The glory of a queen-like face— Or from a gipsy’s sunny brow tossed back In wild and wanton grace— Or crown-like on the hoary head of Age, Whosetale of life is well-nigh told— Or, last, in dreams I make my pilgrimage To Bethanyofold. I see the feast—the purple andthegold; The gathering crowd of Pharisees, Whose scornful eyes are centred to behold Yon woman onher knees. Thestifled sob rings strangely on mineears, Wrung from the depth of sin’s despair: Andstill she bathes the sacred feet with tears, Andwipes them with herhair. Hescornednot then the simple loving deed Of her, the lowest and the last; Then scorn not thou, but use with earnest heed This relic of the past. 870 VERSE The eyes that loved it once no longer wake: So lay it by with reverent care— Touchingit tenderly for sorrow’s sake— It isa woman’s hair. Feb. 17, 1862. THE SAILOR’S WIFE. SEE! There are tears upon her face— Tears newly shed, and scarcely dried: Close, in an agonized embrace, She clasps the infant at herside. Peace dwells in those soft-lidded eyes, Those parted lips that faintly smile— Peace, the foretaste of Paradise, In heart too young for care or guile. No peace that mother’s features wear; But quivering lip, and knotted brow, Andbroken mutterings, all declare The fearful dream that hauntsher now, The storm-wind, rushing throughthesky, Wails from the depths of cloudy space; Shrill, piercing as the seaman’s cry Whendeath and hearefacetoface. Familiar tones are in the gale: They ring uponherstartled ear: And quick and low she pants thetale That tells of agony andfear: “Still that phantom-ship is nigh— With a vexedandlife-like motion, All beneath an angry sky, Rocking on an angry ocean. THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 871 “Round the straining mast and shrouds Throngthespirits of the storm: Darkly seen through driving clouds, Bends each gaunt and ghastly form. “See! The good ship yieldsatlast! Dumbly yields, and fights no more; Driving, in the frantic blast, Headlongon the fatal shore. “Hark! I hear her batteredside, With a low andsullen shock, Dashed, amid the foaming tide, Full upon a sunken rock. “His face shines out against the sky, Like a ghost, so cold and white; Witha dead despairing eye Gazing through the gatherednight. “Is he watching, through the dark, Where a mocking ghostly hand Points a faint and feeble spark Glimmering from the distant land? “‘Sees he, in this hour of dread, Hearth and homeandwife andchild? Loved ones who, in summersfled, Clung to him and wept and smiled? “Reeling sinks the fated bark To her tomb beneath the wave: Mustheperish in the dark— Not a handstretched out to save? “See the spirits, how they crowd! Watchingdeath with eyes that burn! Wavesrushin ”’ she shrieks aloud, Ere her wakingsense return. 872 VERSE The storm is gone: the skies are clear: Hush’d is that bitter cry of pain: The only sound, that meetsherear, The heavingof the sullen main. Though heaviness endurethe night, Yet joy shall come with break of day: She shudders with a strange delight— The fearful dream is pass’d away. She wakes: the gray dawn streaks the dark: With early song the copsesring: Faroff she hears the watch-dog bark — A joyful bark of welcoming! Feb. 23, 1857. AFTER THREE DAYS [‘‘Written after seeing Holman Hunt’s picture, The Finding of Christ in the Temple.’’] I sTOOD within the gate Of a great temple, ’mid the living stream Of worshippers that throngedits regal state Fair-pictured in my dream. Jewels and gold werethere; Andfloors of marble lent a crystal sheen To bodyforth, as in a lowerair, The wonders of the scene. Such wild and lavish grace Had whispersin it of a coming doom; Asrichest flowerslie strown aboutthe face Of her that waits the tomb. THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 873 The wisest of the land Had gathered there, three solemn trysting-days, For high debate: men stood on either hand Tolisten andto gaze. The aged browswerebent, Bent to a frown, half thought, and half annoy, Thatall their stores of subtlest argument Werebaffled by a boy. In each averted face I markedbut scorn andloathing, till mine eyes Fell upon onethat stirred not in his place, Tranced in a dumbsurprise. Surely within his mind Strange thoughts are born, until he doubts the lore Of those old men, blind leaders of the blind, Whose kingdomis no more. Surely he sees afar A day of death the stormyfuture brings; The crimson setting of the herald-star That led the Eastern kings. Thus, as a sunless deep Mirrors the shining heights that crown the bay, So did my soul create anew in sleep The picture seen by day. Gazers came and went— A restless hum of voices marked the spot— In varying shadesofcritic discontent Prating they knew not what. “Whereis the comely limb, The form attuned in every perfect part, The beauty that we should desire in him?” Ah! Fools andslow of heart! 874 VERSE Look into those deepeyes, Deep as the grave, and strong with love divine; Those tender, pure, and fathomless mysteries, That seem to pierce through thine. Look into those deep eyes, Stirred to unrest by breath of comingstrife, Until a longing in thy soul arise That this indeed werelife: That thou couldst find Him there, Bend at His sacred feet thy willing knee, Andfrom thy heart pour out the passionateprayer, “Lord, let me follow Thee!”’ But see the crowd divide: Motherandsire have foundtheir lost one now: The gentle voice, that fain would seem to chide, Whispers,‘Son, why hast thou’’— In tone of sad amaze— “Thus dealt with us, that art our dearest thing? Behold,thy sire and I, three weary days, Have sought thee sorrowing.”’ And I had stayed to hear The loving words, “‘Howis it that ye sought ?””— But that the sudden lark, with matinsclear, Severed the links of thought. Then overall there fell Shadow andsilence; and my dream wasfled, As fade the phantomsof a wizard’s cell Whenthe dark charm issaid. Yet, in the gatheringlight, I lay with half-shut eyes that would not wake, Lovingly clinging to the skirts of night For that sweet vision’s sake. Feb. 16, 1861. ~ THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 875 FACES IN THE FIRE THE night creeps onward, sad andslow: In these red embers’ dying glow The forms of Fancy come and go. An island-farm—broadseas of corn Stirred by the wandering breath of morn— The happy spot where I wasborn. The picture fadethin its place: Amid the glow I seem to trace The shifting semblanceof a face. ’Tis now little childish form— Redlips for kisses pouted warm— Andelf-locks tangled in the storm. ’Tis now a grave andgentle maid, At her own beautyhalf afraid, Shrinking, and willing to be stayed. Oh, Time was young,and Life was warm, Whenfirst I saw that fairy-form, Herdark hair tossing in the storm. Andfast and free these pulses played, Whenlast I met that gentle maid— Whenlast her hand in mine waslaid. Thoselocksof jet are turned to gray, Andsheis strange and far away That might have been mine own to-day— That might have been mine own, my dear, Through many and many a happy year— That might have sat beside mehere. 876 VERSE Ay, changeless through the changingscene, The ghostly whisper rings between, The darkrefrain of ‘‘might have been’. Therace is o’er I might have run: The deeds are past I might have done; And sere the wreath I might have won. Sunkis the last faint flickering blaze: © Thevision of departed days Is vanished even asI gaze. Thepictures, with their ruddylight, Are changed to dust and ashes white, And I am left alone with night. Jan. 1860. A LESSON IN LATIN OvR Latin books,in motley row, Invite us to our task— Gay Horace, stately Cicero: Yet there’s one verb, when once we know, No higherskill we ask: This ranksall other lore above— We’velearned ‘‘ ‘Amare’ means‘to love’!”’ So, hour by hour, from flowerto flower, Wesip the sweetsof Life: Till, all too soon, the cloudsarise, Andflaming cheeks and flashing eyes Proclaim the dawnofstrife: With half a smile and half sigh, “Amare! Bitter One!” we cry. THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS 877 Last night we owned, with looks forlorn, “Too well the scholar knows There is no rose without a thorn’’— But peace is made! Wesing, this morn, “No thorn withouta rose!”’ Our Latin lesson is complete: We've learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet! May 1888. PUCK LOST AND FOUND ACROSTIC (‘Inscribed in two books .. . presented to a little girl and boy, as a sort of memento of a visit paid by them to the author one day, on which occasion he taught them the pastime of folding paper‘pistols’.’’] Puck hasfled the haunts of men: Ridicule has made him wary: In the woods, and downtheglen, No one meets a Fairy! “Cream!”’ the greedy Goblin cries— Empties the deserted dairy— Steals the spoons, andoff heflies. Still we seek our Fairy! Ah! What form is entering? Lovelit eyes and laughterairy! Is not this a better thing, Child, whosevisit thus I sing, Even than a Fairy? Nov. 22, 1891. 878 VERSE Puck has ventured back agen: Ridicule no moreaffrights him: In the very haunts of men Newersportdelights him. Caperinglightly to andfro, Everfrolicking and funning— “Crack!” the mimicpistols go! Hark! The noiseis stunning! All too soon will Childhood gay Realize Life’s sober sadness. Let's be merry while we may, Innocent and happy Fay! Elves were madefor gladness! Nov. 25, 1891. (OneeeseeSeseSatmFaFGSEES.oSPEemnSeaegSOY » ! on A 08te 09S + Rae 6p$8 Re61 assSoenS99-98“anSSeSnfBSSSSRSOY VI Stories Bact6565teaStaFeV8$aa68a9SSBSbaSt 8Tanag tae 88Rita 6Fay Fane 68te SFR9 88A 89Rt 09 $8a 6SEe * . 2F TO MY PUPIL Beloved Pupil! Tamed bythee, Addish-, Subtrac-, Multiplica-tion, Division, Fractions, Rule of Three, Attest thy deft manipulation! Then onward! Let the voice of Fame From Age to Age repeat thy story, Till thou hast won thyself a name Exceeding even Euclid’s glory. 881 PREFACE TuIs Tale originally appeared as a serial in The Monthly Packet beginning in April 1880. The writer’s intention was to embodyin each Knot(like the medicine so dexterously, but ineffectually, concealed in the jam of our early childhood) one or more mathematical questions—in Arithmetic, Algebra, or Geometry, as the case might be— for the amusement, and possible edification, of the fair readers of that magazine. L. C, December 1885. 882 Fae8a66Aita5Ra88aeBFtee8Oleee38OSee8FS8F8 e A TANGLED TALE Knot I Excelsior Goblin, lead them up and down THE ruddy glow of sunset was already fading into the sombre shadowsof night, when twotravelers might have been observed swiftly—at a pace of six miles in the hour ——descending the rugged side of a mountain; the younger bounding from crag to crag with the agility of a fawn, while his companion, whose aged limbs seemedill at ease in the heavy chain armour habitually worn bytourists in that district, toiled on painfully at his side. As is always the case under such circumstances, the younger knight wasthefirst to break the silence. “A goodlypace, I trow!” he exclaimed. “We sped not thus in the ascent!”’ “Goodly, indeed!”’ the other echoed with a groan. ““We clombit but at three miles in the hour.” “And on the dead level our pace is ?” the younger suggested; for he was weak in statistics, and left all such details to his aged companion. “Four miles in the hour,” the other wearily replied. ‘‘Not an ounce more,” he added, with that love of metaphor so commonin old age,“‘and not a farthing less!’’ ‘“’Twas three hours past high noon when weleft our hostelry,”’ the young man said, musingly. ‘““We shall scarce be back by supper-time. Perchance mine hostwill roundly denyusall food!” “He will chide our tardy return,” was the grave reply, “and such a rebukewill be meet.”’ “A brave conceit!”’ cried the other, with a merry laugh. “And should we bid him bring us yet anothercourse, I trow his answerwill be tart!”’ 883 884 STORIES “We shall but get ourdeserts,” sighedthe elder knight, who had neverseen a jokein his life, and was somewhat displeased at his companion’s untimelylevity. “ ’Twill be nine of the clock”’, he added in an undertone, “‘by the time we regain our hostelry. Full many a mile shall we have ploddedthis day!”’ “How many? How many?” cried the eager youth, ever athirst for knowledge. The old man wassilent. “Tell me’, he answered, after a moment’s thought, “what time it was when we stood together on yonder peak. Not exact to the minute!”’ he added hastily, reading a protest in the young man’s face. “‘An thy guess be within one poor half-hour of the mark, ’tis all I ask of thy mother’s son! Then will I tell thee, true to the last inch, how far we shall have trudged betwixt three and nineof the clock.” A groan was the young man’s only reply; while his convulsed features and the deep wrinkles that chased each other across his manly brow, revealed the abyss of arithmetical agony into which one chance question had plunged him. Knot II Eligible Apartments Straight downthe crooked lane, And all round the square. “Let’sask Balbus aboutit,”’ said Hugh. “Allright,” said Lambert. “He can guess it,”’ said Hugh. “Rather,’”’ said Lambert. No more words were needed: the two brothers understood each otherperfectly. Balbus was waiting for them at the hotel: the journey A TANGLED TALE 885 down had tired him, he said: so his two pupils had been the roundof the place, in search of lodgings, without the old tutor who had been their inseparable companion from their childhood. They had named him after the hero of their Latin exercise-book, which overflowed with anecdotes of that versatile genius—anecdotes whose vagueness in detail was more than compensatedby their sensational brilliance. ““Balbus has overcomeall his enemies’ had been marked by their tutor, in the margin of the book, “Successful Bravery.”’ In this way he hadtried to extract a moral from every anecdote about Balbus—sometimes one of warning, as in, “Balbus had borrowed a healthy dragon,” against which he had written, “‘Rashness in Speculation’”’—sometimes of encouragement, as in the words,‘‘Influence of Sympathy in United Action,” which stood opposite to the anecdote, ‘‘Balbus wasassisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon’’—and sometimes it dwindled down to a single word, such as ‘‘Prudence’’, which was all he could extract from the touching record that “Balbus, having scorched thetail of the dragon, went away’’. His pupils liked the short morals best, as it ieft them more room for marginal illustrations, and in this instance they required all the space they could get to exhibit the rapidity of the hero’s departure. Their report of the state of things was discouraging. That most fashionable of watering-places, Little Mendip, was ‘‘chock-full” (as the boys expressed it) from end to end. But in one Square they had seen noless than four cards, in different houses, all announcing in flaming capitals, ‘ELIGIBLE APARTMENTS.” ‘‘So there’s plenty of choice, after all, you see,” said spokesman Hugh in conclusion. “That doesn’t follow from the data,” said Balbus, as he rose from the easy-chair, where he had been dozing over The Little Mendip Gazette. ‘“They maybeall single rooms. However, we mayas well see them.I shall be glad to stretch mylegs bit.” An unprejudiced bystander might have objected that 886 STORIES the operation was needless, and that this long lank creature would have been all the better with even shorter legs: but no such thought occurred to his loving pupils. One on eachside, they did their best to keep up with his gigantic strides, while Hugh repeated the sentence in their father’s letter, just received from abroad, over which he and Lambert had been puzzling. “He says a friend of his, the Governor of—what was that name again, Lambert?” (‘““Kgovjni,”” said Lambert.) “Well, yes. The Governor of—what-you-may-call-it—wants to give a very small dinner-party, and he means to ask his father’s brother-in-law, his brother’s father-in-law, his father-inlaw’s brother, and his brother-in-law’s father: and we’re to guess how manygueststherewill be.”’ There was an anxious pause. “‘How large did he say the pudding was to be?”’ Balbus said at last. “‘Take its cubical contents, divide by the cubical contents of what each man can eat, and the quotient ” “He didn’t say anything about pudding,”’ said Hugh, “and here’s the Square,”’ as they turned a corner and cameinto sightof the “eligible apartments’. “It 7s a Square!’’ was Balbus’s first cry of delight, as he gazed around him. “Beautiful! Beau-ti-ful! Equilateral! And rectangular!”’ The boys looked round with less enthusiasm. ‘‘Number Nineis the first with a card,”’ said prosaic Lambert; but Balbus would not so soon awake from his dream of beauty. “See, boys!’’ he cried. ‘“‘Twenty doors on a side! What symmetry! Each side divided into twenty-one equal parts! It’s delicious!” “Shall I knock, or ring?” said Hugh, looking in some perplexity at a square brass plate which bore the simple inscription, ‘““RING ALSO.,”’ “Both,” said Balbus. ‘“That’s an Ellipsis, my boy. Did you neversee an Ellipsis before?”’ “T couldn’t hardly read it,”’ said Hugh evasively.“It’s no good having an Ellipsis, if they don’t keep it clean.”’ “Whichthereis one room, gentlemen,” said the smiling A TANGLED TALE 887 landlady. ‘‘And a sweet room too! Assnug little backroom: ” “We will see it,” said Balbus gloomily, as they followed her in. “I knew how it would be! One room in each house! No view, I suppose?”’ “Which indeed there 1s, gentlemen!” the landlady indignantly protested, as she drew up the blind, and indicated the back-garden. “Cabbages, I perceive,” said Balbus. “Well, they’re green, at any rate.” “Which the greens at the shops’, their hostess explained, ‘‘are by no means dependable upon. Here you has them on the premises, and of the best.”’ “Does the window open?” was always Balbus’s first question in testing a lodging: and, “Does the chimney smoke?” his second. Satisfied on all points, he secured the refusal of the room, and they moved on to Number Twenty-five. This landlady was grave andstern. “I’ve nobbut one room left,’’ she told them: ‘‘and it gives on the backgyardin.” “But there are cabbages?”’ Balbus suggested. The landladyvisibly relented. ‘‘Thereis, sir,’’ she said: “and good ones, though I say it as shouldn’t. We ca’n't rely on the shopsfor greens. So we grows them ourselves.’ “A singular advantage,” said Balbus; and, after the usual questions, they went on to Fifty-two. “And I’d gladly accommodate youall, if I could,” was the greeting that met them. ‘Weare but mortal”’ (“‘Irrelevant!’? muttered Balbus), ‘‘and I’ve let all my rooms but one.” . “Which one is a back-room,I perceive,’ said Balbus: “and looking out on—on cabbages, I presume?”’ “Yes, indeed, sir!’ said their hostess. ‘“Whatever other folks may do, we grows our own. For the shops ° “An excellent arrangement!’ Balbus interrupted. “Then one can really depend on their being good. Does the window open?”’ 888 STORIES The usual questions were answeredsatisfactorily: but this time Hugh added one of his own invention—‘‘Does the cat scratch?” The landlady looked roundsuspiciously, as if to make sure the cat was not listening. “I will not deceive you, gentlemen,’ shesaid. “It do scratch, but not without you pulls its whiskers! It’ll never do it’’, she repeated slowly, with a visible effort to recall the exact words of some written agreement between herself and thecat,. “without you pulls its whiskers!’’ “Much may be excused in a cat so treated,” said Balbus, as they left the house and crossed to Number Seventythree, leaving the landlady curtseying on the doorstep, and still murmuring to herself her parting words, as if they were a form of blessing, ““—not without you pulls its whiskers!”’ At NumberSeventy-three they found only a small shy girl to show the house, whosaid “‘yes’m”’ in answerto all questions. “The usual room,” said Balbus, as they marched in “the usual back-garden, the usual cabbages. I suppose you can’t get them good at the shops?”’ “Yes’m,”’ said the girl. “Well, you may tell your mistress we will take the room, and that her plan of growing her own cabbagesis simply admirable!” “Yes’m,” said the girl, as she showed them out. “One day-room and three bedrooms,” said Balbus, as they returnedto the hotel. ‘“Wewill take as our day-room the one that gives us the least walking to do to getto it.” “Must we walk from door to door, and count the steps?’’ said Lambert. “No, no! Figure it out, my boys, figure it out!’’ Balbus gayly exclaimed, as he put pens, ink, and paper before his hapless pupils, and left the room. “T say! It’ll be a job!’.said Hugh. “Rather!” said Lambert. , A TANGLED TALE 889 Knot Il Mad Mathesis I waited for the train “WELL, they call me so because I am little mad, I suppose,” she said, good-humouredly, in answerto Clara’s cautiously worded question as to how she came by so strange a nickname. “You see, I never do what sane people are expected to do nowadays. I never wear long trains (talking of trains, that’s the Charing Cross Metropolitan Station—I’ve something to tell you about that), and I never play lawn-tennis. I ca’n’t cook an omelette. I ca’n’t even set a broken limb! There’s an ignoramusfor you!”’ Clara was her niece, and full twenty years her junior; in fact, she wasstill attending a High School—aninstitution of which Mad Mathesis spoke with undisguised aversion. ““Let a woman be meek and lowly!” she would say. “Noneof your High Schools for me!”’ But it was vacationtime just now, and Clara washer guest, and Mad Mathesis was showingherthesights of that Eighth Wonderof the world—London. “The Charing Cross Metropolitan Station!’’ she ‘resumed, waving her hand towardsthe entrance as if she were introducing her niece to a friend. ‘““The Bayswater and Birmingham Extension is just completed, and the trains now run round and round continuously—skirting the border of Wales, just touching at York, and so round by the east coast back to London. The way the trains run is most peculiar. The westerly ones go round in two hours; the easterly ones take three; but they always manage to start two trains from here, opposite ways, punctually every quarter of an hour.” “They part to meet again,” said Clara, her eyes filling with tears at the romantic thought. 890 STORIES “No need to cry aboutit!’ her aunt grimly remarked. “They don’t meet on the sameline of rails, you know. Talking of meeting, an idea strikes me!’ she added, changing the subject with her usual abruptness. “‘Let’s go opposite ways round, and see which can meet most trains. No need for a chaperon—ladies’ saloon, you know. Youshall go whichever way youlike, and we'll have a bet aboutit!”’ “T never make bets,” Clara said very gravely. “Our excellent preceptress has often warned us ° “You’d be none the worst if you did!’’ Mad Mathesis interrupted. “In fact, you'd be the better, I’m certain!” “Neither does our excellent preceptress approve of puns,” said Clara. ““But we'll have a match, if you like. Let me choose mytrain,’ she addedafter a brief mental calculation, “‘and Ill engage to meet exactly half as many again as you do.”’ “Not if you count fair,’’ Mad Mathesis bluntly interrupted. ““Remember, we only count the trains we meet on the way. You mustn’t count the one that starts as you start, nor the one thatarrives as youarrive.” “That will only makethe difference of one train,”’ said Clara, as they turned and entered the station. “But I never travelled alone before. There’ll be no one to help meto alight. However, I don’t mind. Let’s havea match.” A ragged little boy overheard her remark, and came running after her. ‘‘Buy a box of cigar-lights, Miss!’ he pleaded, pulling her shawlto attract her attention. Clara stopped to explain. “I never smokecigars,’’ she said in a meekly apologetic tone. “Our excellent preceptress ’ But Mad Mathesis impatiently hurried her on, and the little boy wasleft gazing after her with round eyes of amazement. The two ladies bought their tickets and moved slowly downthe central platform. Mad Mathesis prattling on as usual—Clara silent, anxiously reconsidering the calculation on which she rested her hopes of winning the match. “Mind where you go, dear!’’ cried her aunt, checking A TANGLED TALE 891 her just in time. ‘““One step more, and you’d have beeniin that pail of cold water!”’ “I know, I know,” Clara said dreamily. ‘‘The pale, the cold, and the moony. ” “Take your places on the spring-boards!”’ shouted a porter. “Whatare they for!” Clara asked in a terrified whisper. “Merely to help us into the trains.’ The elder lady spoke with the nonchalance of one quite used to the process. ‘‘Very few people can get into a carriage without help in less than three seconds, and the trains only stop for one second.’’ At this moment the whistle was heard, and twotrains rushedinto the station. A moment’s pause, and they were gone again; but in that brief interval several hundred passengers had been shot into them, each flying straight to his place with the accuracy of a Minie bullet—while an equal number were showered out upon the side-platforms. Three hours had passed away, and the two friends met again on the Charing Cross platform, and eagerly compared notes. Then Clara turned away with a sigh. To young impulsive hearts, like hers, disappointmentis always a bitter pill. Mad Mathesis followed her, full of kindly sympathy. “Try again, my love!”’ she said cheerily. “Let us vary the experiment. We will start as we did before, but not begin counting till our trains meet. When we see each other, we will say ‘One!’ and so count on till we come here again.” Clara brightened up.“I shall win that’, she exclaimed eagerly, “if I may choose my train!” Anothershriek of engine whistles, another upheaving of spring-boards, another living avalanche plunging into two trains as they flashed by and the travelers wereoff again. Each gazed eagerly from her carriage window, holding up her handkerchief as a signal to her friend. A rush and a roar. Two trains shot past each other in a tunnel, and 892 STORIES two travelers leaned back in their corners with a sigh— or rather with two sighs—ofrelief ““One!’’ Clara murmured to herself. ““Won! It’s a word of good omen. This time, at any rate, the victory will be mine!” But wasit? Knot IV The Dead Reckoning I did dream of money-bags to-night NoOoNnDAY on the open sea within a few degrees of the Equator is apt to be oppressively warm; and our two travelers were nowairily clad in suits of dazzling white linen, having laid aside the chain-armour which they had found not only endurable in the cold mountain air they had lately been breathing, but a necessary precaution against the daggers of the banditti who infested the heights. Their holiday-trip was over, and they were now on their way home, in the monthly packet which plied between the two great ports of the island they had been exploring. Along with their armour, the tourists had laid aside the antiquated speech it had pleased them to affect while in knightly disguise, and had returned to the ordinary style of two country gentlemenof the twentieth century. Stretched on a pile of cushions, under the shade of a huge umbrella, they were lazily watching some native - fishermen, who had come on board at the last landingplace, each carrying over his shoulder a small but heavy sack. A large weighing-machine, that had been used for cargo at the last port, stood on the deck; and roundthis the fishermen had gathered, and, with much unintelligible jabber, seemed to be weighingtheir sacks. ‘More like sparrows ina tree than humantalk, isn’t it?”’ the elder tourist remarked to his son, who smiled A TANGLED TALE 893 feebly, but would not exert himself so far as to speak. The old man tried anotherlistener. “What have they got in those sacks, Captain?” he enquired, as that great being passed them in his neverending parade to and fro on the deck. The Captain paused in his march, and toweredover the travelers—tall, grave, and serenely self-satisfied. “Fishermen’’, he explained, “are often passengers in My ship. These five are from Mhruxi—the place welast touched at—and that’s the way they carry their money. The moneyof this island is heavy, gentlemen, but it costs little, as you may guess. Webuyit from them by weight— about five shillings a pound. I fancy a ten-pound note would buyall those sacks.” Bythis time the old man had closed his eyes—in order, no doubt, to concentrate his thoughts on these interesting facts; but the Captain failed to realize his motive, and with a grunt resumed his monotonous march. Meanwhile the fishermen were getting so noisy over the weighing-machine that one of the sailors took the precaution of carrying off all the weights, leaving them to amuse themselves with such substitutes in the form of winch-handles, belaying-pins, etc., as they could find. This brought their excitement to a speedy end: they carefully hid their sacks in the folds of the jib that lay on the deck nearthe tourists, and strolled away. When next the Captain’s heavy footfall passed, the younger man roused himself to speak. “What did you call the place those fellows came from, Captain?’’ he asked. “Mhruxi, sir.”’ ‘“‘Andthe one we are boundfor?”’ The Captain took a long breath, plunged into the word, and cameoutof it nobly. “Theycall it Kgovjni, sir.”’ “K—I give it up!” the young man faintly said. He stretched out his hand for a glass of iced water which the compassionate steward had brought him a minute ago, and had set down, unluckily, just outside the 894 STORIES shadow of the umbrella. It was scalding hot, and he decided not to drink it. The effort of making this resolution, coming close on the fatiguing conversation he had just gone through, was too muchfor him; he sank back among the cushions insilence. His father courteously tried to make amendsfor his nonchalance. “Whereabout are we now, Captain?”’ said he. “Have you any idea?”’ The Captain cast a pitying look on the ignorant landsman. “I could tell you that, sir,”’ he said, in a toneoflofty condescension, “‘to an inch!”’ “You don’t say so!’’ the old man remarked, in a tone of languid surprise. “And mean to,” persisted the Captain. ‘‘“Why, what do you suppose would become of Myship, if I were to lose My longitude and My latitude? Could you make anything of My Dead Reckoning?” “Nobody could, I’m sure!” the other heartily rejoined. But he had overdoneit. “It’s perfectly intelligible’, the Captain said, in an offended tone, “‘to anyone that understands such things.” With these words he moved away, and began giving orders to the men, who werepreparing to hoist the jib. Our tourists watched the operation with such interest that neither of them remembered the five money-bags, which in another moment, as the windfilled out the jib, were whirled overboardandfell heavily into the sea. But the poorfishermen had notso easily forgotten their property. In a moment they had rushedto the spot, and stood uttering cries of fury, and pointing, now tothesea, and nowto the sailors who had causedthe disaster. The old man explainedit to the Captain. “Let us make it up among us,” he addedin conclusion. “Ten poundswill do it, I think you said?”’ But the Captain put aside the suggestion with a wave of the hand. “No, sir!’ he said, in his grandest manner. ‘You will A TANGLED TALE 895 excuse Me, I am sure; but these are My passengers. The accident has happened on board Myship, and under My orders. It is for Me to make compensation.’ He turned to the angry fishermen. ‘‘Come here, my men!”’ he said, in the Mhruxian dialect. “Tell me the weight of each sack. I saw you weighing them just now.” Then ensued a perfect Babelof noise, as the five natives explained, all screaming together, how the sailors had carried off the weights, and they had done what they could with whatever came handy. Twoiron belaying-pins, three blocks, six holy stones, four winch-handles, and a large hammer, were now carefully weighed, the Captain superintending andnoting the results. But the matter did not seem to besettled, even then: an angry discussion followed, in which thesailors and the five natives all joined: and at last the Captain approached ourtourists with a disconcerted look, which he tried to conceal undera laugh. “It’s an absurddifficulty,” he said. ‘‘Perhaps one of you gentlemen can suggest something. It seems they weighed the sacks two at a time!”’ “Tf they didn’t havefive separate weighings, of course you ca’n’t value them separately,’ the youth hastily decided. “‘Let’s hear all about it,’’ was the old man’s more cautious remark. “They did have five separate weighings,” the Captain said, “‘but—well, it beats me entirely!’ he added, in a sudden burst of candour. “‘Here’s the result: First and second sacks weighed twelve pounds; second and third, thirteen and a half; third and fourth, eleven and a half; fourth and fifth, eight; and then they say they had only the large hammerleft, and it took three sacks to weigh it down—that’s the first, third, and fifth—and they weighed sixteen pounds. There, gentlemen! Did you ever hear anythinglike that?”’ The old man muttered underhis breath, “If only my sister were here!”’ and looked helplessly at his son. His 896 STORIES son looked at the five natives. The five natives looked at the Captain. The Captain looked at nobody:his eyes were cast down, and he seemedto be saying softly to himself, “Contemplate one another, gentlemen, if such be your good pleasure. J contemplate Myself!” Knot V Oughts and Crosses Look here, upon this picture, and on this “AND what made you choosethe first train, Goosey?” said Mad Mathesis, as they got into the cab. “Couldn’t you count better than ¢hat?”’ “T took an extreme case,’ was the tearful reply. “Our excellent preceptress always says, “When in doubt, my dears, take an extreme case.’ And I was in doubt.” “Does it always succeed?” her aunt inquired. Clara sighed. ‘‘Not always,” she reluctantly admitted. “And I ca’n’t make out why. One day she wastelling the little girls—they make such a noise at tea, you know— ‘The more noise you make, the less jam you will have, and vice versa.’ And I thought they wouldn’t know what ‘vice versa’ meant: so I explained it to them.I said, ‘If you makean infinite noise, you'll get no jam: and if you make no noise, you'll get an infinite lot of jam.’ But our excellent preceptress said that wasn’t a good instance. _ Why wasn’t it?” she addedplaintively. Her aunt evaded the question. ‘“‘One sees certain objections to it,” she said. ““But how did you work it with the Metropolitan trains? None of them go infinitely fast, I believe.” “T called them hares and tortoises,’’ Clara said—alittle timidly, for she dreaded being laughedat. ‘“‘And I thought there couldn’t be so manyharesas tortoises on the Line: A TANGLED TALE 897 so I took an extreme case—one hare and an infinite numberof tortoises.” “An extreme case, indeed,” her aunt remarked with admirable gravity: ‘and a most dangerous state of things!” “And I thought, if I went with a tortoise, there would be only one hare to meet: but if I went with the hare— you knowthere were crowds of tortoises!”’ “It wasn’t a bad idea,” said the elder lady,as theyleft the cab, at the entrance of Burlington House. “You shall have another chance to-day. We’ll have a match in marking pictures.”’ Clara brightened up. “I should like to try again, very much,” she said. “I’ll take more care this time. How are weto play?” To this question Mad Mathesis made noreply: she was busy drawing lines down the margins of the catalogue. “‘See,”’ she said after a minute, “I’ve drawn three columns against the namesof the pictures in the long room, and I want you to fill them with oughts and crosses—crosses for good marks and oughts for bad. Thefirst columnis for choice of subject, the second for arrangement, the third for colouring. And these are the conditions of the match: You must give three crosses to two or three pictures. You must give twocrossesto fourorfive ” “Do you mean only two crosses?’’ said Clara. “Or may I count the three-cross pictures among the two-cross pictures?”’ “Of course you may,” said her aunt. ‘‘Anyone that has three eyes, may be said to have two eyes, I suppose?” Clara followed her aunt’s dreamy gaze across the crowded gallery, half-dreading to find that there was a three-eyed person in sight. ‘“‘And you must give onecross to nine or ten.” “And which wins the match?” Clara asked, as she carefully entered these conditions on a blank leaf in her catalogue. “Whichever marks fewest pictures.” 898 STORIES ‘But suppose we marked the same number?”’ “Then whichever uses most marks.” Clara considered.‘‘I don’t think it’s much of a match,” she said. “I shall mark nine pictures, and give three crosses to three of them, two crosses to two more, and one cross eachto all the rest.” “Will you, indeed?” said her aunt. ‘Wait till you’ve heard all the conditions, my impetuous child. You must give three oughts to one or two pictures, two oughts to three or four, and one oughtto eight or nine. I don’t want you to be too hard on the R.A.’s.”’ Clara quite gasped as she wrote downall these fresh conditions. “It’s a great deal worse than Circulating Decimals!’ she said. ‘‘But I’m determined to win, all the same!”’ Her aunt smiled grimly. ‘““‘We can begin here,”’ she said, as they paused before a gigantic picture, which the catalogue informed them wasthe ‘‘Portrait of Lieutenant Brown, mountedon his favourite elephant’’. “He looks awfully conceited!”’ said Clara. ‘I don’t think he was the elephant’s favourite Lieutenant. What a hideous pjcture it is! And it takes up room enoughfor twenty!” “Mind what you say, my dear!”’ her aunt interposed. “Tt’s by an R.A.!”” But Clara was quite reckless. “‘I don’t care who it’s by!” she cried. ‘‘And I shall give it three bad marks!” Aunt and niece soon drifted away from each other in the crowd, and for the next half-hour Clara was hard at work, putting in marks and rubbing them out again, and hunting up and down for a suitable picture. This she found the hardest part of all. “I ca’n’t find the one I want!” she exclaimedat last, almost crying with vexation. ‘Whatis it you want to find, my dear?’’ The voice was strange to Clara, but so sweet and gentle that shefelt attracted to the ownerof it, even before she had seen her; and when she turned, and met the smiling looks of two little old ladies, whose round dimpledfaces, exactly alike, seemed never to have knowna care, it was as muchas she A TANGLED TALE 899 could do—as she confessed to Aunt Mattie afterwards— to keep herself from hugging them both. “I was looking for a picture’, she said, ‘that has a good subject—and that’s well arranged—butbadly coloured.” Thelittle old ladies glanced at each other in some alarm. “Calm yourself, my dear,’ said the one who had spoken first, ‘‘and try to remember which it was. What was the subject?” “Was it an elephant, for instance?” the other sister suggested. They werestill in sight of Lieutenant Brown. “T don’t know, indeed!’”’ Clara impetuously replied. “You know it doesn’t matter a bit what the subject ts, so long as it’s a good one!” Once more the sisters exchanged looks of alarm, and one of them whispered something to the other, of which Clara caught only the one word “mad”. “They mean Aunt Mattie, of course,’’ she said to herself— fancying, in her innocence, that London was like her native town, where everybody knew everybodyelse. “If you mean my aunt,” she added aloud, “‘she’s there— just three pictures beyond Lieutenant Brown.” “Ah, well! Then you’d better go to her, my dear!”’ her new friend said soothingly. ‘‘She?J/ find you the picture you want. Good-bye, dear!”’ ‘Good-bye, dear!’’ echoed the othersister. ‘‘Mind you don’t lose sight of your aunt!’’ And the pair trotted off into another room, leaving Clara rather perplexed at their manner. “They’re real darlings!’’ she soliloquized. ‘‘I wonder why they pity me so!’”’ And she wandered on, murmuring to herself, “It must have two good marks, and ” goo STORIES Knot VI Her Radiancy One precee thing that my havegot, Maskee? that thing my no can do. You talkee you no sabey what? Bamboo. THEY landed, and were at once conductedto the Palace. About half-way they were met by the Governor, who welcomed them in English—agreatrelief to our travelers, whose guide could speak nothing but Kgovjnian. “T don’t half like the way they grin at us as we go by!” the old man whisperedto his son. ‘“And why do they say ‘Bamboo’ so often?”’ “Tt alludes to a local custom,” replied the Governor, who had overheard the question. “‘Such persons as happen in any way to displease Her Radiancy are usually beaten with rods.” The old man shuddered. “A most objectionable local custom!’’ he remarked with strong emphasis. “I wish we had never landed! Did you notice that black fellow, Norman, opening his great mouth at us? I verily believe he would like to eat us!”’ Norman appealed to the Governor, who was walking at his other side. ‘““Do they often eat distinguished strangers here?”’ he said, in as indifferent a tone as he could assume. “Not often—notever!’ was the welcomereply. “They are not goodfor it. Pigs we eat, for they are fat. This old manis thin.” “And thankful to be so!’”’ muttered the elder traveler. “Beaten we shall be without a doubt. It’s a comfort to know it won’t be Beaten without the B! My dear boy, just look at the peacocks!”’ 1 “Maskee’’, in Pigeon-English, means ‘‘Without’’. A TANGLED TALE gor They were now walking between two unbrokenlines of those gorgeous birds, each held in check, by means of a golden collar and chain, by a black slave, who stood well behind, so as not to interrupt the view of the glittering tail, with its network of rustling feathers and its hundred eyes. The Governor smiled proudly. “In your honour,” he said, ““Her Radiancy has ordered up ten thousand additional peacocks. She will, no doubt, decorate you, before you go, with the usual Star and Feathers.” “Tt’ll be Star without the S!’’ faltered one ofhis hearers. “Come, come! Don’t lose heart!’’ said the other. “‘All this is full of charm for me.” “You are young, Norman,” sighed his father; ‘‘young and light-hearted. For me, it is Charm without the C.” “The old one is sad,’’ the Governor remarked with some anxiety. ““He has, without doubt, effected some fearful crime?”’ “But I haven’t!” the poor old gentleman hastily exclaimed. ‘‘Tell him I haven’t, Norman!”’ “He has not, as yet,’’ Norman gently explained. And the Governor repeated, in a satisfied tone, “Not as yet.” “Yours is a wondrous country!” the Governor resumed, after a pause. ‘Now hereis a letter from a friend of mine, a merchant, in London. He and his brother went there a year ago, with a thousand pounds apiece; and on New Year’s Day they had sixty thousand pounds between them!” “How did they do it?’”’ Norman eagerly exclaimed. Even theelder traveler looked excited. The Governor handed him the openletter. ““Anybody can do it, when once they know how,” so ran this oracular document. ‘“‘We borrowed nought: we stole nought. We began the year with only a thousand pounds apiece: and last New Year’s Day we had sixty thousand pounds between us—sixty thousand golden sovereigns!”’ Norman looked grave and thoughtful as he handed go2 STORIES back the letter. His father hazarded one guess. ‘Was it by gambling?” “A Kgovjnian never gambles,’ said the Governor gravely, as he ushered them through the palace gates. They followed him in silence down a long passage, and soon found themselves in a lofty hall, lined entirely with peacocks’ feathers. In the centre was a pile of crimson cushions, which almost concealed the figure of Her Radiancy—a plumplittle damsel, in a robe of green satin dotted with silver stars, whose pale roundfacelit up for a moment with a half-smile as the travelers bowed before her, and then relapsed into the exact expression of a wax doll, while she languidly murmured a word or twoin the Kgovjnian dialect. The Governor interpreted: “Her Radiancy welcomes you. She notes the Impenetrable Placidity of the old one, and the Imperceptible Acuteness of the youth.” Herethelittle potentate clapped her hands,and a troop of slaves instantly appeared, carrying trays of coffee and sweetmeats, which they offered to the guests, who had, at a signal from the Governor, seated themselves on the carpet. “Sugar-plums!’’ muttered the old man. “One might as well be at a confectioner’s! Ask for a penny bun, Norman!” “Not so loud!” his son whispered. “Say something complimentary!’’ For the Governorwasevidently expecting a speech. “We thank Her Exalted Potency,” the old man timidly began. “‘Webaskin thelight of her smile, which ” “The words of old men are weak!” the Governorinterrupted angrily. ‘“Let the youth speak!” “Tell her,” cried Norman, in a wild burst of eloquence, “that, like two grasshoppers in a volcano, we are shrivelled up in the presence of Her Spangled Vehemence!”’ “It is well,” said the Governor, and translated this into Kgovjnian. “I am nowtotell you’’, he proceeded, ‘“‘what Her Radiancy requires of you before you go. The yearly A TANGLED TALE 903 competition for the post of Imperial Scarf-makeris just ended; you are the judges. You will take accountof the rate of work, the lightness of the scarves, and their warmth. Usually the competitors differ in one point only. Thus, last year, Fifi and Gogo made the same numberof scarves in the trial-week, and they were equally light; but Fifi’s were twice as warm as Gogo’s and she was pronouncedtwice as good. But this year, woe is me, who can judge it? Three competitors are here, and they differ in all points! While you settle their claims, you shall be lodged, Her Radiancy bids mesay, free of expense—in the best dungeon, and abundantly fed on the best bread and water.” The old man groaned. ‘‘All is lost!’ he wildly exclaimed. But Norman heeded him not: he had taken out his notebook, and was calmly jotting down the particulars. “Three they be,” the Governorproceeded. “‘Lolo, Mimi, and Zuzu. Lolo makes 5 scarves while Mimi makes2; but Zuzu makes 4 while Lolo makes 3! Again, so fairy-like is Zuzu’s handiwork, 5 of her scarves weigh no more than one of Lolo’s; yet Mimi’s is lighter still—5 of hers will but balance 3 of Zuzu’s! And for warmth one of Mimi’s is equal to 4 of Zuzu’s; yet one of Lolo’s is as warm as 3 of Mimi's!” Herethelittle lady once more clapped her hands. “Tt is our signal of dismissal!’ the Governor hastily said. ““Pay Her Radiancy your farewell compliments— and walk out backwards.” The walking part wasall the elder tourist could manage. Norman simply said, ‘‘Tell Her Radiancy we are transfixed by the spectacle of Her Serene Brilliance, and bid an agonized farewell to her Condensed Milkiness!”’ “Her Radiancy is pleased,” the Governor reported, after duly translating this. ‘She casts on you a glance from Her Imperial Eyes, and is confident that you will catch it!” “That I warrant we shall!” the elder traveler moaned to himself distractedly. go04 STORIES Once more they bowed low, and then followed the Governor down a winding staircase to the Imperial Dungeon, which they found to be lined with coloured marble, lighted from the roof, and splendidly though not luxuriously furnished with a bench of polished malachite. “I trust you will not delay the calculation,” the Governor said, ushering them in with much ceremony. “I have known great inconvenience—great and serious inconvenience— result to those unhappy ones whohavedelayed to execute the commands of Her Radiancy! And on this occasion sheis resolute: she says the thing must and shall be done: and she hasordered up ten thousand additional bamboos!”’ With these wordsheleft them, and they heard him lock and bar the dooron the outside. “T told you how it would end!’’ moaned the elder traveler, wringing his hands, and quite forgetting in his anguish that he had himself proposed the expedition, and had never predicted anything of the sort. “Oh, that we were well out of this miserable business!’ “Courage!’’ cried the younger cheerily. ““Hec olim meminisse juvabit! The endofall this will be glory!” “Glory without the L!”’ wasall the poor old man could say, as he rocked himself to and fro on the malachite bench. “Glory without the L!” Knot VII Petty Cash Base ts the slave that pays “AUNT MATTIE!” “My child?” “Would you mind writing it down at once? I shall be quite certain to forget it if you don’t!” “Mydear, wereally must wait till the cab stops. How A TANGLED TALE 905 can I possibly write anything in the midst of all this jolting?”’ “But really I shall be forgetting it!”’ Clara’s voice took the plaintive tone that her aunt never knew howtoresist, and with a sigh the old lady drew forth her ivory tablets and prepared to record the amount that Clara had just spent at the confectioner’s shop. Her expenditure was always madeoutof her aunt’s purse, but the poor girl knew, by bitter experience, that sooner or later ‘Mad Mathesis’’ would expect an exact account of every penny that had gone, and she waited, with ill-concealed impatience, while the old lady turned the tablets over and over, till she had found the one headed “‘PETTY CASH”’. ““Here’s the place,”’ she said at last, “‘and here we have yesterday’s luncheon duly entered. One glass lemonade (Why ca’n’t you drink water, like me?), three sandwiches (They never put in half mustard enough. I told the young woman so, to her face; and she tossed her head—like -her impudence!), and seven biscuits. Total one-and-twopence. Well, now for to-day’s?”’ “One glass of lemonade ” Clara was beginning to say, when suddenly the cab drew up, and a courteous railway-porter was handing out the bewildered girl before she had had timeto finish her sentence. Her aunt pocketed the tablets instantly. “Business first,’’ she said: “petty cash—whichis a form of pleasure, whatever you may think—afterwards.” And she proceeded to pay the driver, and to give voluminousorders about the luggage, quite deaf to the entreaties of her unhappy niece that she would enter the rest of the luncheon account. “My dear, you really must cultivate a more capacious mind!’ was all the consolation she vouchsafed to the poorgirl. “Are not the tablets of your memory wide enoughto contain the record of onesingle luncheon?” “Not wide enough! Not half wide enough!” was the passionatereply. 906 STORIES The words came in aptly enough, but the voice was not that of Clara, and both ladies turned in somesurprise to see who it*was that had so suddenly struck into their conversation. A fat little old lady was standing at the door of a cab, helping the driver to extricate what seemed an exact duplicate of herself: it would have been no easy task to decide which was the fatter or which looked the more good-humouredof the twosisters. “T tell you the cab-doorisn’t half wide enough!’’ she repeated,ashersister finally emerged, somewhatafter the fashion of a pellet from a pop-gun, and she turned to appeal to Clara. ‘Is it, dear?’’ she said, trying hard to bring a frown into a face that dimpledall over with smiles. “Some folks is too wide for ’em,”’ growled the cabdriver. “Don’t provoke me, man!” cried thelittle old lady, in what she meantfor a tempest of fury. “‘Say another word and I’ll put you into the County Court, and sue you for a Habeas Corpus!” the cabman touched his hat, and marchedoff, grinning. “Nothing like a little Law to cow the ruffians, my dear!” she remarked confidentially to Clara. “You saw how he quailed when I mentioned the Habeas Corpus? Not that I’ve any idea what it means, but it sounds very grand, doesn’t it?” “It’s very provoking,” Clara replied,a little vaguely. “Very!” the little old lady eagerly replied. ““And we’re very much provoked indeed. Aren’t we, sister?” “T never was so provoked in all my life!’’ the fatter sister assented radiantly. By this time Clara had recognized her picture-gallery acquaintances, and, drawing her auntaside, she hastily whispered her reminiscences. “‘I met them first in the Royal Academy—and they were very kind to me—and they were lunching at the next table to us, just now, you know—and they tried to help meto find the picture I wanted—andI’m sure they’re dearold things!”’ “Friendsof yours, are they?’’ said Mad Mathesis.‘‘Well A TANGLED TALE 907 I like their looks. You can becivil to them, while I get the tickets. But do try and arrange your ideas a little more chronologically!”’ Andso it cameto pass that the four ladies found themselves seated side by side on the same bench waiting for the train, and chatting as if they had known one another for years. “Nowthis I call quite a remarkable coincidence!”’ exclaimed the smaller and moretalkative of the twosisters —the one whose legal knowledge had annihilated the cabdriver. ‘‘Not only that we should be waiting for the same train, and at the same station—that would be curious enough—but actually on the same day, and the same hourof the day! That’s whatstrikes meso forcibly!’’ She glanced at the fatter and moresilent sister, whose chief function in life seemed to be to support the family opinion, and who meekly responded: “‘And me too, sister!” “Those are not independent coincidences——’” Mad Mathesis was just beginning, when Clara ventured to interpose. “There’s no jolting here,” she pleaded meekly. “Would you mind writing it down now?” Out came the ivory tablets once more. ‘‘Whatwasit, then?”’ said her aunt. “One glass of lemonade, one sandwich, one biscuit— Oh, dear me!”’ cried poor Clara, the historical tone suddenly changing to a wail of agony. “Toothache?”’ said her aunt calmly, as she wrote down the items. The twosisters instantly opened their reticules and produced two different remedies for neuralgia, each marked “‘unequalled”’. “It isn’t that!” said poor Clara. ‘Thank you very much, It’s only that I ca’n’t remember how muchI paid!” “Well, try and make it out, then,’ said her aunt. “You've got yesterday’s luncheon to help you, you know. And here’s the luncheon we had the day before—thefirst day we went to that shop—ouneglass lemonade, four sand908 STORIES wiches, ten biscuits. Total, one-and-fivepence.’’ She handed the tablets to Clara, who gazed at them with eyes so dim with tears that she did not at first notice that she was holding them upside down. The two sisters had been listening to all this with the deepest interest, and at this juncture the smaller one softly laid her hand on Clara’s arm. “Do you know, my dear,” she said coaxingly, “my sister and I are in the very same predicament! Quite identically the very same predicament! Aren’t we, sister?” “Quite identically and absolutely the very. ”” began the fatter sister, but she was constructing her sentence on too large a scale, and thelittle one would not wait for her to finish it. “Yes, my dear,’’ she resumed;“we were lunching at the very same shop as you were—and wehad twoglasses of lemonade and three sandwiches and five biscuits—and neither of us has the least idea what we paid. Have we, sister?” “Quite identically and absolutely ”* murmured the other, who evidently considered that she was now a whole sentence in arrears, and that she ought to discharge one obligation before contracting any fresh liabilities; but the little lady broke in again, and she retired from the conversation a bankrupt. “Would you makeit out for us, my dear?”’ pleaded the little old lady. “You can do Arithmetic, I trust?’ her aunt said, a 1ittle anxiously, as Clara turned from onetablet to another, vainly trying to collect her thoughts. Her mind was a blank, and all human expression was rapidly fading out of her face. A gloomy silence ensued. A TANGLED TALE 90g Knot VIII De Omnibus Rebus This little pig went to market: This little pig staid at home. “By Her Radiancy’s express command,” said the Governor, as he conducted the travelers, for the last time, from the Imperial presence, ‘I shall now havethe ecstasy of escorting you as far as the outer gate of the Military Quarter, where the agony of parting—if indeed Nature can survive the shock—must be endured! From that gate grurmstipths start every quarter of an hour, both ways ” “Would you mind repeating that word?’’ said Norman. ““Grurm 2” “Grurmstipths,” the Governor repeated. “You call them omnibuses in England. They run both ways, and you can travel by one of them all the way down to the harbour.” The old man breathed a sigh of relief; four hours of courtly ceremony had wearied him, and he had been in constant terror lest something should call into use the ten thousand additional bamboos. In another minute they were crossing a large quadrangle, paved with marble, and tastefully decorated with a pigsty in each corner. Soldiers, carrying pigs, were marching in all directions: and in the middle stood a gigantic officer giving orders in a voice of thunder, which madeitself heard aboveall the uproarof the pigs. “Tt is the Commander-in-Chief!”’ the Governor hurriedly whispered to his companions, whoat once followed his example in prostrating themselves before the great man. The Commander gravely bowed in return. He was covered with gold lace fromhead to foot: his face wore an expression of deep misery: and he had little black gio STORIES pig under each arm. Still the gallant fellow did his best, in the midst of the orders he was every momentissuing to his men, to bid a courteous farewell to the departing guests. “Farewell, O old one!—carry these three to the South corner—and farewell to thee, thou young one—putthis fat one on the top of the others in the Western sty—may your shadows never be less—woe is me, it is wrongly done! Empty outall the sties, and begin again!’’ And the soldier leant upon his sword, and wiped awaya tear. “Heis in distress,’ the Governor explained as theyleft the court. ‘““Her Radiancy has commanded him to place twenty-four pigs in those four sties, so that, as she goes round the court, she may always find the numberin each sty nearer to ten than the.numberin thelast.” “Does she call ten nearer to ten than nine is?” said Norman. “Surely,” said the Governor. “Her Radiancy would admit that ten is nearer to ten than nine is—and also nearer than elevenis.”’ “Then I think it can be done,’’ said Norman. The Governor shook his head. ““The Commander has been transferring them in vain for four months,” hesaid. “What hope remains? And Her Radiancy has ordered up ten thousand additional ” “The pigs don’t seem to enjoy being transferred,” the old man hastily interrupted. He did not like the subject of bamboos. “They are only provisionally transferred, you know,”’ said the Governor. “In most cases they are immediately carried back again: so they need not mindit. Andall is done with the greatest care, under the personal superintendence of the Commander-in-Chief.”’ “Of course she would only go once round?” said Norman. “Alas, no!”’ sighed their conductor. ‘‘Round and round. Round and round. These are Her Radiancy’s own words. But oh, agony! Hereis the outer gate, and we must part!”’ , A TANGLED TALE giz He sobbed as he shook hands with them, and the next moment wasbriskly walking away. “He might have waited to see usoff!’’ said the old man piteously. “And he needn’t have begun whistling the very moment he left us!’’ said the young oneseverely. ““But look sharp—here are two what’s-his-namesin the act ofstarting!” Unluckily, the sea~-bound omnibus was full. ‘‘Never mind!”’ said Norman cheerily. ‘““We’ll walk ontill the next one overtakesus.”’ They trudged on in silence, both thinking over the military problem, till they met an omnibus coming from the sea. The elder traveler took out his watch. ‘Just twelve minutes and a half since we started,” he remarked in an absent manner. Suddenly the vacant face brightened; the old man had an idea. ““My boy!” he shouted, bringing his hand down upon Norman’s shoulderso suddenly as for a momentto transfer his centre of gravity beyond the baseof support. Thus taken off his guard, the young man wildly staggered forwards, and seemed about to plunge into space: but in another moment he hadgracefully recovered himself. “Problem in Precession and Nutation,”’ he remarked —in tones wherefilial respect only just managed to conceal a shade of annoyance. “What is it?” he hastily added, fearing his father might have been takenill. “Will you have some brandy?”’ “When will the next omnibus overtake us? When? When?” the old man cried, growing more excited every moment. Norman looked gloomy. “‘Give me time,” he said. “I must think it over.”” And once morethe travelers passed on in silence—a silence only broken by the distant squeals of the unfortunate little pigs, who werestill being provisionally transferred from sty to sty, under the personal superintendence of the Commander-in-Chief. gi2 STORIES Knot IX A Serpent with Corners Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. “I T’LL just take one more pebble.” “Whatever ave you doing with those buckets?”’ The speakers were Hugh and Lambert. Place, the beach of Little Mendip. Time 1:30 p.m. Hugh was floating a bucket in another a size larger, and trying how many pebbles it would carry without sinking. Lambert was lying on his back, doing nothing. For the next minute or two Hughwassilent, evidently deep in thought. Suddenly hestarted. “I say, look here, Lambert!” he cried. . “Tf it’s alive, and slimy, and with legs, I don’t care to,” said Lambert. “Didn’t Balbus say this morning that, if a body is immersed in liquid it displaces as muchliquid asis equal to its own bulk?”’ said Hugh. “Hesaid things of that sort,’’ Lambert vaguely replied. “Well, just look here a minute. Here’s thelittle bucket almost quite immersed: so the water displaced ought to be just about the same bulk. And now just look at it!”’ He took out the little bucket as he spoke, and handed the big one to Lambert. “‘Why, there’s hardly a teacupful! Do you mean to say that water is the same bulk as the little bucket?” “Course it is,’ said Lambert. “Well, look here again!” cried Hugh, triumphantly, as he poured the water from the big bucket into thelittle one. “Why,it doesn’t half fillit!” _ “That’s its business,’’ said Lambert. “If Balbus says it’s the same bulk, why,it 7s the same bulk, you know.” “Well, I don’t believe it,” said Hugh. A TANGLED TALE QI3 “You needn’t,”’ said Lambert. “Besides, it’s dinnertime. Come along.” They found Balbus waiting dinner for them, and to him Hugh at once propoundedhis difficulty. “Let’s get you helped first,”’ said Balbus, briskly cutting away at the joint. “You know the old proverb, ‘Mutton first, mechanics afterwards’ ?”’ The boys did xo¢ know the proverb, but they accepted it in perfect good faith, as they did every piece of information, howeverstartling, that camefrom so infallible an authority as their tutor. They ate on steadily in silence, and, when dinner was over, Hugh set out the usual array of pens, ink, and paper, while Balbus repeated to them the problem he had preparedfor their afternoon’s task. “A friend of mine has a flower-garden—a very pretty one, though nogreatsize ” “Howbig is it?”’ said Hugh. “That’s what you haveto find out!’’ Balbus gaily replied. “All I tell you is that it is oblong in shape—just half a yard longer than its width—and that a gravelwalk, one yard wide, begins at one corner and runsall roundit.” “Joining into itself?” said Hugh. “Not joining into itself, young man. Just before doing that, it turns a corner, and runs roundthe garden again, alongside of the first portion, and then inside that again, winding in and in, and each lap touching the last one, till it has used up the whole of the area.”’ “Like a serpent with corners?.’ said Lambert. “Exactly so. And if you walk the whole length ofit, to the last inch, keeping in the centre of the path, it’s exactly two miles and half a furlong. Now, while you find out the length and breadth of the garden, I’ll see if I can think out that sea-water puzzle.” “You said it was a flower-garden?”’ Hugh inquired, as Balbus was leaving the room. “T did,” said Balbus. ‘‘Where do the flowers grow?” said Hugh. But Balbus 2G L.c. 914 STORIES thought it best not to hear the question. Heleft the boys to their problem, and, in the silence of his own room, set himself to unravel Hugh’s mechanical paradox. “To fix our thoughts,” he murmured to himself, as, with hands deep-buried in his pockets, he paced up and down the room, “‘wewill take a cylindrical glass jar, with a scale of inches markeduptheside, and fill it with water up to the 10-inch mark: and we will assume that every inch depth of jar contains a pint of water. We will now take a solid cylinder, such that every inch of it is equal in bulk to haif a pint of water, and plunge 4 inchesofit into the water, so that the end of the cylinder comes down to the 6-inch mark. Well, that displaces 2 pints of water. What becomes of them? Why, if there were no more cylinder, they would lie comfortably on the top, and fill the jar up to the 12-inch mark. But unfortunately there is more cylinder, occupying half the space between the 10-inch and the 12-inch marks, so that only one pint of water can be accommodated there. What becomes of the other pint? Why,if there were no morecylinder, it would lie on the top, and fill the jar up to the 13-inch mark. But unfortunately—Shade of Newton!” he exclaimed, in sudden accents of terror. ‘“When does the water stop rising?” A bright idea struck him.“T’ll write a little essay on it,” he said. BALBus’s ESSAY “Whena solid is immersedin a liquid, it is well known that it displaces a portion of the liquid equalto itself in bulk, and that the level of the liquid rises just so much as it would rise if a quantity of liquid had been added to it, equal in bulk to the solid. Lardnersays precisely the same process occurs when a solid is partially immersed: the quantity of liquid displaced, in this case, equalling the portion of the solid which is immersed, and therise of the level being in proportion. A TANGLED TALE QI5 “Supposea solid held abovethe surface of a liquid and partially immersed: a portion of the liquid is displaced, and thelevel of the liquid rises. But, by this rise of level, a little bit more of the solid is of course immersed, and so there is a new displacement of a second portion of the liquid, and a consequentrise of level. Again, this second rise of level causes a yet further immersion, and by consequence another displacement of liquid and anotherrise. It is self-evident that this process must continuetill the entire solid is immersed, and that the liquid will then begin to immerse whateverholds the solid, which, being connected with it, must for the time be considered a part of it. If you hold a stick, six feet long, with its ends in a tumbler of water, and wait long enough, you must eventually be immersed. The question as to the source from which the water is supplied—which belongs to a high branch of mathematics, and is therefore beyond our present scope—does not apply to the sea. Let us therefore take the familiar instance of a man standing at the edge of the sea, at ebb-tide, with a solid in his hand, which he partially immerses: he remains steadfast and unmoved, and we all know that he must be drowned. The multitudes who daily perish in this mannerto attest a philosophical truth, and whose bodies the unreasoning wave casts sullenly upon our thankless shores, have a truer claim to be called the martyrs of science than a Galileo or a Kepler. To use Kossuth’s eloquent phrase, they are the unnamed demigods of the nineteenth century.” 1 “There’s a fallacy somewhere,” he murmured drowsily, as he stretched his long legs upon thesofa. ‘‘I must think it over again.’’ He closed his eyes, in order to concentrate his attention more perfectly, and for the next houror so his slow and regular breathing bore witness to the careful deliberation with which he was investigating this new and perplexing view of the subject. 1 Note by the writey.—For the above essay I am indebted to a dear friend, now deceased. g16 STORIES KnoT X Chelsea Buns Yea, buns, and buns, and buns! Old Song. “How very, very sad!” exclaimed Clara; and the eyes of the gentle girl filled with tears as she spoke. “Sad—but very curious when you cometo look at it arithmetically,”” was her aunt’s less romantic reply. “Some of them have lost an arm in their country’s service, some a leg, some an ear, some an eye ” “And some, perhaps, all!’”” Clara murmured dreamily, as they passed the long rows of weather-beaten heroes basking in the sun. “Did you notice that very old one, with a red face, who was drawing a mapin the dust with his wooden leg, and all the others watching? I think it was a plan of a battle ” “The Battle of Trafalgar, no doubt,” her aunt interrupted briskly. “Hardly that, I think,’ Clara ventured to say. “You see, in that case, he couldn’t well be alive ” “Couldn’t well be alive!” the old lady contemptuously repeated. “‘He’s as lively as you and me put together! Why, if drawing a map in the dust—with one’s wooden leg—doesn’t prove oneto be alive, perhaps you'll kindly mention what does prove it!”’ Clara did not see her way out of it. Logic had never been herforte. “To return to the arithmetic,’’ Mad Mathesis resumed —the eccentric old lady neverlet slip an opportunity of driving her niece into a calculation—‘‘what percentage do you suppose must havelost all four—aleg, an arm, an eye, and an ear?”’ “How can I tell?” gasped theterrified girl. She knew well what was coming. A TANGLED TALE gI7 “You ca’n’t, of course, without data,” her aunt replied: “but I’m just going to give you ” “Give her a Chelsea bun, miss! That’s what most young ladies like best!’’ The voice was rich and musical, and the speaker dexterously whipped back the snowy cloth that covered his basket, and disclosed a tempting array of the familiar square buns, joined together in rows, richly egged and browned, andglistening in the sun. “No, sir! I shall give her nothing so indigestible! Be off!’’ The old lady waved her parasol threateningly: but nothing seemed to disturb the good humourof thejolly old man, who marched on, chanting his melodiousrefrain: oN Chel - sea buns! Chel-sea buns hot! Chel - sea buns! oN Pi- ping hot! Chel-sea buns hot! Chel - sea buns! “Far too indigestible, my love!” said the old lady. ‘Percentages will agree with you ever so muchbetter!” Clara sighed, and there was a hungry look in her eyes as she watched the basket lessening in the distance; but she meekly listened to the relentless old lady, who at once proceeded to countoff the data on herfingers. “Say that 70 per cent have lost an eye—75 per cent an ear—8o per cent an arm—85 percent a leg—that’ll doit beautifully. Now, my dear, what percentage, at least, must havelost all four?” No more conversation occurred—unless a smothered exclamation of, ““Piping hot!’’ which escaped from Clara’s lips as the basket vanished round a corner could be counted as such—until they reached the old Chelsea mansion, where Clara’s father’ was then staying, with his three sons and theirold tutor. Balbus, Lambert, and Hugh had entered the house g18 STORIES only a few minutes before them. They had been out walking, and Hugh had been propoundinga difficulty which had reduced Lambert to the depths of gloom, and had even puzzled Balbus. “It changes from Wednesday to Thursday at midnight, . doesn’t it?’”? Hugh had begun. ““Sometimes,’’ said Balbus cautiously. “Always,” said Lambert decisively. “Sometimes,’’ Balbus gently insisted. ‘Six midnights out of seven, it changes to some other name.” “JT meant, of course,” Hugh corrected, ‘‘when it does change from Wednesday to Thursday, it does it at midnight— andonly at midnight.” “Surely,”’ said Balbus. Lambert wassilent. “Well, now, suppose it’s midnight here in Chelsea. Then it’s Wednesday west of Chelsea (say in Ireland or America), where midnight hasn’t arrived yet: and it’s Thursday east of Chelsea (say in Germany or Russia), where midnight has just passed by?”’ “Surely,” Balbus said again. Even Lambert noddedhis time. “But it isn’t midnight anywhere else; so it ca’n’t be changing from one day to another anywhere else. And yet, if Ireland and America andso on call it Wednesday, and Germany and Russia and so on call it Thursday, there must be some place—not Chelsea—that has different days on the twosides of it. And the worstof it is, the people there get their days in the wrong order: they’ve got Wednesday east of them, and Thursday west—just as if their day had changed from Thursday to Wednesday!” “T’ve heard that puzzle before!’’ cried Lambert. “And I'll tell you the explanation. When a ship goes round the world from east to west, we knowthatit loses a dayin its reckoning: so that when it gets home and calls its day Wednesday,it finds people here calling it Thursday, because we’ve had one more midnight than the ship hashad. And whenyou go the other way round yougain a day.” “T know all that,” said Hugh, in reply to this not very A TANGLED TALE gig lucid explanation: ‘‘but it doesn’t help me, because the ship hasn’t proper days. One way round, you get more than twenty-four hours to the day, and the other way you getless: so of course the namesget wrong: but people that live on in one place always get twenty-four hours to the day.” “IT suppose there zs such a place,’ Balbus said, meditatively, ‘though I never heard of it. And the people must find it queer, as Hugh says, to havethe old day east of them, and the new one west: because, when midnight comes round to them, with the new dayin front of it and the old one behind it, one doesn’t see exactly what happens. I must think it over.” So they had entered the house in the state I have described—-Balbus puzzled, and Lambert buried in gloomy thought. “Yes, m’m, Master zs at home, m’m,” said the stately old butler. (N.B.—It is only a butler of experience who can manage a series of three M’s together, without any interjacent vowels.) ““And the ole party is a-waiting for you in the libery.”’ “T don’t like his calling your father an old party,” Mad Mathesis whispered to her niece, as they crossed the hall. And Clara had only just time to whisper in reply, ““He meant the whole party,’ before they were ushered into the library, and the sight of the five solemn faces there assembled chilled her into silence. Her father sat at the head of the table, and mutely signed to the ladies to take the two vacant chairs, one on each side of him. His three sons and Balbus completed the party. Writing materials had been arranged round the table, after the fashion of a ghostly banquet: the butler had evidently bestowed much thought on the grim device. Sheets of quarto paper, each flanked by a pen on one side and a pencil on the other, represented the plates —penwipers did dutyfor rolls of bread—while ink-bottles stood in the places usually occupied by wine-glasses. The piece de résistance was a large green baize bag, which 920 STORIES gave forth, as the old manrestlessly lifted it from side to side, a charmingjingle, as of innumerable golden guineas. “Sister, daughter, sons-—and Balbus——’ the old man began, so nervously that Balbus put in a gentle ‘‘Hear, hear!’ while Hugh drummedon thetable with his fists. This disconcerted the unpractised orator.‘Sister he began again, then paused a moment, movedthe bag to the other side, and went on with a rush, ‘I mean—this being—acritical occasion—more or less—being the year when one of my sons comes of age-~——’”’ he paused again in some confusion, having evidently got into the middle of his speech sooner than he intended: but it was too late to go back. “Hear, hear!’ cried Balbus. “Quite so,” said the old gentleman, recovering his self-possession a little: “when first I began this annual custom—myfriend Balbus will correct me if I am wrong———” (Hugh whispered, “With a strap!’ but nobody heard him except Lambert, who only frowned and shook his head at him) “‘—this annual custom of giving each of my sons as many guineas as would represent his age—it was a critical time—so Balbus informed me—asthe ages of two of you were together equal to that of the third—so on that occasion I made a speech ” He paused so long that Balbus thought it well to cometo the rescue with the words,“It was a most———”’ but the old man checked him with a warning look: “yes, made a speech,” he repeated. ‘‘A few years after that, Balbus pointed out—I say pointed out——”’ (‘‘Hear, hear!” cried Balbus. ‘‘Quite so,’ said the grateful old man.) “—that it was another critical occasion. The ages of two of you were together double that of the third. So I made another speech—another speech. And now againit’s a critical occasion—so Balbus says—and I am making (here Mad Mathesis pointedly referred to her watch) ‘‘all the haste I can!” the old man cried, with wonderful presence of mind. “Indeed, sister, I’m coming to the point now! The number of years that have passed since that first occasion is just two-thirds of the numbers of guineas I then gave you. A TANGLED TALE g21 Now, my boys, calculate your ages from the data, and you shall have the money!” “But we know our ages!’ cried Hugh. “Silence, sir!’’ thundered the old man, rising to his full height (he was exactly five-foot five) in his indignation. “T say you must use the data only! You mustn’t even assume which it is that comes of age!’’ He clutched the bag as he spoke, and with tottering steps (it was about as much as he could do to carry it) he left the room. “And you shall have a similar cadeaw’’, the old lady whisperedto herniece, ‘“‘when you’ve calculated that percentage!’’ And she followed her brother. Nothing could exceed the solemnity with which the old couple had risen from the table, and yet was it—wasit a grin with which the father turned away from his unhappy sons? Could it be—could it be a wink with which the aunt abandoned her despairing niece? And were those— were those sounds of suppressed chuckling which floated into the room, just before Balbus (who had followed them out) closed the door? Surely not: and yet the butler told the cook—butno, that was merely idle gossip, and I will not repeatit. The shades of evening granted their unuttered petition, and “‘closed not o’er’’ them (for the butler brought in the lamp): the same obliging shadesleft them a “lonely bark’ (the wail of a dog, in the back-yard, baying the moon) for ‘‘a while’: but neither ‘‘morn, alas’’, nor any other epoch, seemedlikely to “restore”? them—to that peace of mind which had once been theirs ere ever these problems had swooped upon them, and crushed them with a load of unfathomable mystery! “It’s hardly fair,’’ muttered Hugh, “‘to give us such a jumbleas this to work out!”’ “Fair?’”’ Clara echoed bitterly. ““Well!’’ And to all my readers I can but repeat the last words of gentle Clara: FARE-WELL! Q22 “STORIES Appendix “A knot,” said Alice. “Oh, do let me help to undo it!” ANSWERS TO KNOT I Problem.—-Two travelers spend from 3 o’clock till 9 in walking along a level road, up a hill, and home again: their pace on the level being 4 miles an hour, up hill 3, and down hill 6. Find the distance walked: also (within half an hour) time of teaching top ofhill. Answer.—24 miles: half-past6. Solution.—A level mile takes } of an hour, up hill 4, down hill 4. Hence to go and return over the same mile, whether on the level or on the hillside, takes 4 an hour. Hence in 6 hours they went 12 miles out and 12 back.If the 12 miles out had been nearly all level, they would have taken a little over 3 hours; if nearly all up hill, a little under 4. Hence 34 hours must be within } an hour of the time taken in reaching the peak; thus, as they started at 3, they got there within 4 an hourof $ past 6.' Twenty-seven answers have come in. Of these, 9 are right, 16 partially right, and 2 wrong. The 16 give the distance correctly, but they have failed to grasp the fact that the top of the hill might have been reached at any moment between 6 o’clock and7. The two wrong answers are from GERTY VERNON and A NiuiList. The former makes the distance ‘‘23 miles’, while her revolutionary companion puts it at 27”. GERTY VERNONsays, “‘they had to go 4 miles along the plain, and got to the foot of the hill at 4 o’clock.”” They might have done so, I grant; but you have no groundfor saying they did so. “It was 74 miles to the top of the hill, and they reached that at } before 7 o’clock.”” Here you go wrong in your arithmetic, and I must, however reluctantly, bid you farewell. 74 miles, at 3 miles an hour, would not require 2? hours. A NIHILIST says, ‘““Let x denote the whole numberof miles; y the numberof hoursto hill-top; A TANGLED TALE 923 .. 3¥ =numberof milesto hill-top, and x ~ 3y =numberof miles on the other side.” You bewilder me. Theotherside of what? “Of the hill,” you say. But then, how did they get home again? However, to accommodate your views we will build a new hostelry at the foot of the hill on the opposite side, and also assume (what I grant you is possible, though it is not necessarily true) that there was no level road at all. Even then you go wrong. Yousay: ny %*—3%Y *\, ‘y=6 6 » . . i); % = 44 I grant you(i), but I deny(ii): it rests on the assumption that to go part of the time at 3 miles an hour, and therest at 6 miles an hour, comesto the sameresult as going the whole time at 44 miles an hour. But this would only be true if the “part’’ were in exact half, z.e. if they went up hill for 3 hours, and down hill for the other 3: which they certainly did not do. The sixteen whoare partiallyright, are AGNES BAILEY, F. K., FIrcE, G. E. B., H. P., Kit, M. E. T.,Mysir, A MOTHER’S SON, NAIRAM, A REDRUTHIAN, A SOCIALIST, SPEAR MAIDEN, T. B.C., Vis INERTIZ, and YAK. Of these, F. K., Fires, T. B. C., and Vis INERTIZ do not attempt the second part at all. F. K. and H. P. give no working. The rest make particular assumptions, such as that there was no level road—that there were 6 miles of level road— and so on,all leading to particular times being fixed for reaching thehill-top. The most curious assumptionis that of AGNEs BaILEy, who says, “Let x=number of hours (ii).”” occupied in ascent; then 3 a hours occupied in descent; and © shours occupied on the level.” I suppose you were thinking of the relative rates, up hill and on the 924 STORIES level; which we might express by saying that, if they went x miles up hill in a certain time, they would go - miles on the level im the same time. You have, in fact, assumed that they took the same time on the level that they took in ascending the hill. FIFEE assumed that, when the aged knight said they had gone ‘‘four miles in the hour”’ on the level, he meant that four miles was the distance gone, not merely the rate. This would have been—if FIFEE will excuse the slang expression—a ‘‘sell’’, ill-suited to the dignity of the hero. And now,‘‘descend, ye classic Nine!’ who havesolved the whole problem, and let me sing your praises. Your names are BLITHE, E. W., L. B., A MARLBOROUGH Boy, O. V. L., PUTNEY WALKER, ROSE, SEA-BREEZE, SIMPLE Susan, and MONEY-SPINNER. (These last two I count as one, as they send a joint answer.) RosE and SIMPLE SUSAN and Co. do not actually state that the hill-top was reached sometime between 6 and 7, but, as they have clearly grasped the fact that a mile, ascended and descended, took the same timeas twolevel miles, I mark them as “right”. A MARLBOROUGH Boy and PUTNEY WALKER deserve honourable mention for their algebraic solutions, being the only two who haveperceived that the question leads to an indeterminate equation. E. W. brings a charge of untruthfulness against the aged knight—a serious charge, for he was the very pink of chivalry! She says, “According to the data given, the time at the summit affords no clue to the total distance. It does not enable us to state precisely to an inch how muchlevel and how muchhill there was on the road.” “‘Fair damsel,” the aged knight replies, ‘“—if, as I surmise, thy initials denote Early Womanhood—bethinkthee that the word ‘enable’ is thine, not mine. I did but ask the timeof reaching the hill-top as my condttion for further parley. If now thou wilt not grant that I am a truth-loving man, then will I affirm that those same initials denote Envenomed Wickedness!”’ A TANGLED TALE 925 CLASS LIST I A MARLBOROUGH Boy. PUTNEY WALKER. Il BLITHE. ROSE. E. W. SEA-BREEZE. L. B. SIMPLE SUSAN. O. V. L. MONEY-SPINNER. BLITHE has madeso ingenious an addition to the problem, and SIMPLE SUSAN and Co. have solved it in such tuneful verse, that I record both their answers in full. I have altered a word or two in BLITHE’s—which I trust she will excuse; it did not seem quite clear asit stood. “Yet say,’’ said the youth, as a gleam of inspiration lighted up the relaxing muscles of his quiescent features. “Stay. Methinks it matters little when we reached that summit, the crown of our toil. For in the space of time wherein we clambered up one mile and bounded down the same on our return, we could have trudged the twain on the level. We have plodded, then, four-and-twenty miles in these six mortal hours; for never a moment did we stop for catching of fleeting breath or for gazing on the scene around!”’ “Very good,” said the old man. “Twelve miles out and twelve miles in. And we reached the top sometime between six and seven of the clock. Now mark me! For every five minutes that had fled since six of the clock when we stood on yonder peak, so many miles had we toiled upwards on the dreary mountain-side!”’ The youth moaned and rushedinto the hostel. BLITHE. The elder and the younger knight Theysallied forth at three; Howfar they went on level ground It matters not to me; 926 STORIES What time they reachedthe foot ofhill, When they began to mount, Are problems which I hold to be Of very small account. The momentthat each wavedhis hat Upon the topmost peak— To trivial query such as this No answerwill I seek. Yet can I tell the distance well They must have travelled o’er: On hill and plain, ’twixt three and nine, The miles were twenty-four. Four miles an hourtheir steady pace Along the level track, Three when they climbed—butsix when they Came swiftly striding back Adownthehill; and little skill It needs, methinks, to show, Up hill and down togethertold, Four miles an hourthey go. For whether long or short the time Uponthe hill they spent, Twothirds were passed in going up, Onethird in the descent. Twothirds at three, one third at six, If rightly reckoned o’er, Will make one whole at four—thetale Is tangled now no more. SIMPLE SUSAN. MONEY-SPINNER. ANSWERS TO KNOT II §1. THE DINNER Party Problem.—The Governor of Kgovjni wants to give a very small dinner party, and invites his father’s brotherin- law, his brother’s father-in-law, his father-in-law’s A TANGLED TALE 927 brother, and his brother-in-law’s father. Find the number of guests. Answer.—One. A=a In this genealogy, males | are denoted by capitals, | | | and females by small let- b=B D=d C=c ters. | | ; The Governor is E and | | | his guest is C. e=E g=G F —=f Ten answers have been received. Of these, one is wrong, GALANTHUS NIVALIS Major, who insists on inviting two guests, one being the Governor’s wife’s brother's father. If she had taken his sister's husband’s father instead, she would have found it possible to reduce the guests to one, Of the nine whosend right answers, SEA~-BREEZEis the very faintest breath that ever bore the name! She simply states that the Governor’s uncle might fulfil all the conditions ‘‘by intermarriages’’! ““Wind of the western sea’, you have had a very narrow escape! Be thankful to appear in the Class List at all! Boc-Oak and BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE use genealogies which require 16 people - instead of 14, by inviting the Governor’s father’s sister’s husband instead of his father’s wife’s brother. | cannot think this so good a solution as one that requires only 14. Calus and VALENTINEdeserve special mention as the only two whohave supplied genealogies. CLASS LIST I BEE. M. M. OLD CAT. CAIUS. MATTHEW MATTICKS. VALENTINE. II Boc-OAk. BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE. 928 STORIES II! SEA-BREEZE. § 2. THE LUDGINGS Problem.—A Square has 20 doors on each side, which contains 21 equal parts. They are numbered all round, beginning at one corner. From whichof the four, Nos. 9, 25, 52, 73, is the sum of the distances, to the other three, least? Answer.—From No. 9. A 9 . 12 5 8 1B Dj. 13 16 Q. 12 C Let A be No. 9, B No. 25, C No. 52, and D No. 73. Then AB =,/(12? + 5?) =,/169 = 13; AC =21; AD =,/(9? + 8?) =,/145 =12 + (N.B. 2.¢., “between 12 and 13”’) BC =,/(16? + 12?) =,/400 =20; BD =,/(3? + 217) =,/450 =21 +; CD =./(9? + 13?) =/250=15 +3 Hence the sum of distances from A is between 46 and 47; from B, between 54 and 55; from C, between 56 and 57; from D, between 48 and 51. (Why not “between 48 and 49”? Make this out for yourselves.) Hence the sum is least for A. Twenth-five solutions have been received. Of these, 15 must be marked “‘zero’’, 5 are partly right, and 5 right. A TANGLED TALE 929 Of the 15, I may dismiss ALPHABETICAL PHANTOM, Boc- Oak, DinAH MITE, FIFEE, GALANTHUS NIVALIS Major(I fear the cold spring has blighted our SNowpDRop), Guy, H.M.S. PINAFORE, JANET, and VALENTINE with the simple remark that they insist on the unfortunate lodgers keeping to the pavement. (I used the words ‘‘crossed to Number Seventy-three”’ for the special purpose of showing that short cuts were possible.) SEA-BREEZE does the same, and addsthat “the result would be the same’”’ even if they crossed the Square, but gives no proof of this. M.M. draws a diagram, and says that No. g is the house, “‘as the diagram shows’’. I cannot see how it does so. OLD Cat assumes that the house must be No. 9 or No. 73. She does-not explain how she estimates the distances. BEE’s arithmetic is faulty: she makes ,/169+ ./442 + ./130 =741. (I suppose you mean ,/742, which would be little nearer the truth. But roots cannot be added in this manner. Do you think ,/9 + ,/16 is 25, or even /25?) But AyR’s state is more perilousstill: she draws illogical conclusions with a frightful calmness. After pointing out (rightly) that AC is less than BD, she says, ‘‘therefore the nearest house to the other three must be A or C.” And again, after pointing out (rightly) that B and D are both within the half-square containing A, she says, “therefore’’ AB+AD mustbe less than BC +CD. (Thereis no logical force in either ‘‘therefore’’. For the first, try Nos. 1, 21, 60, 70: this will make your premiss true, and your conclusion false. Similarly, for the second, try Nos. 1, 30, 51, 71.) Of the five partly-right solutions, RAGS AND TATTERS and Map HATTER (who send one answer between them) make No. 25 6 units from the cornerinstead of 5. CHEAM, E. R. D. L., and Meccy Ports leave openingsat the corners of the Square, which are not in the data: moreover CHEAM gives values for the distances without any hint that they are only approximations. CROPHI AND MopHI make the bold and unfounded assumption that there were really 21 houses on eachside, instead of 20 as stated by 930 STORIES Balbus. ‘“We may assume’’, they add, “‘that the doors of Nos. 21, 42, 63, 84, are invisible from the centre of the Square’! What is there, I wonder, that CROPHI AND Mopui would not assume? Of the five who are wholly right, I think BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE, Calus, CLIFTON C., and MARTREB deserve special praise for their full analytical solutions. MATTHEW MATTICKS picks out No. g, and proves it to be the right house in two ways, very neatly and ingeniously, but why he picks it out does not appear. It is an excellent synthetical proof, but lacks the analysis which the other four supply. CLASS LIST I BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE. CAIUS. CLIFTON C. MARTREB. II MATTHEW MATTICKS. Til CHEAM. MeGey Potts. CROPHI AND MopHi. RAGS AND TATTERS. E. R. D. L. Map HATTER. A remonstrance has reached me from SCRUTATOR on the subject of Knot I, which he declares was “‘no problem at all”. ‘“‘Two questions”, he says, ‘‘are put. To solve one there is no data: the other answersitself.’’ As to thefirst point, SCRUTATOR is mistaken; there ave (not “‘is’”’) data sufficient to answer the question. As to the other, it is interesting to know that the question “answersitself”, and I am sure it does the question great credit: still I fear A TANGLED TALE 931 I cannotenterit on thelist of winners, as this competition is only open to humanbeings. ANSWERS TO KNOTIII Problem.—({1) Two travelers, starting at the sametime, went opposite ways rounda circular railway. Trains start each way every 15 minutes, the easterly ones going round in 3 hours, the westerly in 2. How manytrains did each meet on the way, not counting trains met at the terminus itself? (2) They went round, as before, each traveler counting as “‘one”’ the train containing the othertraveler. How manydid each meet? Answers.—(1) 19. (2) The easterly traveler met 12; the other8. The trains one way took 180 minutes, the other way 120. Let us take the I.c.m., 360, and divide the railway into 360 units. Then oneset of trains wentat the rate of 2 units a minute and at intervals of 30 units; the other at the rate of 3 units a minute and at intervals of 45 units. An easterly train starting has 45 units between it and the first train it will meet: it does 2 of this while the other does 2, and thus meets it at the end of 18 units, and so all the way round. A westerly train starting has 30 units between it and thefirst train it will meet: it does 2 of this while the other does 2, and thus meets it at the end of 18 units, and so all the way round. Henceif the railway be divided, by 19 posts, into 20 parts, each containing 18 units, trains meet at every post, and, in (rz) each traveler passes 19 posts in going round, and so meets 1g trains. But, in (2), the easterly traveler only begins to count after traversing 2 of the journey, #.e. on reaching the 8th post, and so counts 12 posts: similarly, the other counts 8. They meet at the end of 2 of 3 hours,or 2 of 2 hours, 1.e. 72 minutes. Forty-five answers have beenreceived. Of these, 12 are beyond the reach of discussion, as they give no working. 932 STORIES I can but enumerate theirnames, ARDMORE, E.A.,F.A.D., L. D., MatrHEW Martticxs, M. E. T., Poo-Poo, and THE RED QUEENare all wrong. BETA and ROWENAhave got (1) right and (2) wrong. CHEEKY Bos and NaIRAM give the right answers, but it may perhaps make the one less cheeky, and induce the other to take a less inverted view of things, to be informed that, if this had been a competition for a prize, they would have got no marks. (N.B.—I have not ventured to put E. A.’s namein full, as she only gave it provisionally, in case her answer should proveright.) Of the 33 answers for which the workingis given, 10 are wrong; 11 half-wrong and half-right; 3 right, except that they cherish the delusion that it was Clara who traveled in the easterly train—a point which the data do not enable us to settle; and 9 wholly right. The ro wrong answers are from Bo-PEEP, FINANCIER, I. W. T., Kate B., M. A. H., Q. Y. Z., SEA-GULL, THISTLEDOWN, TOM-QUAD, and an unsigned one. Bo-PEEPrightly says that the easterly traveler metall trains which started during the 3 hoursofhertrip, as well as all which started during the previous 2 hours, t.e. all which started at the commencementsof 20 periods of 15 minutes each; and she is right in striking out the one she met at the momentof starting; but wrong in striking out the das¢ train, for she did not meet this at the terminus, but 15 minutes before she got there. She makes the same mistakein (2). FINANCIER thinksthat any train, met for the second time,is not to be counted. I. W. T. finds, by a process which is not stated, that the travelers met at the end of 71 minutes and 264 seconds. Kate B. thinks the trains which are met on starting and on arriving are never to be counted, even when metelsewhere. Q. Y. Z. tries a rather complex algebraic solution, and succeeds in finding the time of meeting correctly: all else is wrong. SEA-GULL seems to think that, in (1), the easterly train stood still for 3 hours; and says that, in (2) the travelers meet at the end of 71 minutes 40 seconds. THISTLEDOWN nobly confesses to A TANGLED TALE 933 having tried no calculation, but merely having drawn a picture of the railway and counted thetrains; in (1) she counts wrong; in (2) she makes them meet in 75 minutes. Tom-QuapD omits (1); in (2) he makes Clara count the train she met on her arrival. The unsigned one is also unintelligible; it states that the travelers go ‘“‘g more than the total distance to be traversed’’! The ‘‘Clara’’ theory, already referred to, is adopted by 5 of these, viz., Bo- PEEP, FINANCIER, KATE B., ToM-Quap, and the nameless writer. The 11 half-right answers are from BoG-OAk, BRIDGET, CASTOR, CHESHIRE CaT, G. E. B., Guy, Mary, M. A. H., Oxtp Marp, R. W., and VENDREDI. All these adopt the “Clara” theory. CASTOR omits (1). VENDREDI gets (I) right, but in (2) makes the same mistake as Bo-PEEpP.I notice in your solution a marvellous proportion-sum: “300 miles : 2 hours :: one mile : 24 seconds.’’ May I venture to advise your acquiring, as soon as possible, an utter disbelief in the possibility of a ratio existing between miles and hours? Do not be disheartened by your two friends’ sarcastic remarks on your “roundabout ways’. Their short method, of adding 12 and 8, has the slight disadvantageof bringing the answerwrong: even a “‘roundabout” method is better than that! M. A. H., in (2), makes the travelers count “one” after they met, not when they met. CHESHIRE CaT and OLD Mainget‘‘20” as answerfor (x), by forgetting to strike out the train met on arrival. The others all get “18”’ in various ways. Boc-Oak, Guy, and R. W. divide the trains which the westerly traveler has to meet into 2 sets, viz., those already on theline, which they (rightly) make “‘r1’’, and those which started during her 2 hours’ journey (exclusive of train met on arrival), which they (wrongly) make “7’’; and they make a similar mistake with the easterly train. BRIDGET(rightly) says that the westerly traveler met a train every 6 minutes for 2 hours, but (wrongly) makes the number “20”; it should be “21”. G. E. B. adopts Bo-PEEP’s method, but (wrongly) strikes out (for the easterly 934 STORIES traveler) the train which started at the commencement of the previous 2 hours. Marythinks a train met onarrival must not be counted, even when met on a previous occasion. The 3 who are wholly right but for the unfortunate “Clara” theory, are F. LEE, G.S.C., and X. A. B. And now “descend, ye classic ten!’’ who have solved the whole problem. Your names are AIX-LES-BAINS, ALGERNON Bray(thanksfor a friendly remark, which comes with a heart-warmth that not even the Atlantic could chill), ARVON, BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE, FIFEE,H.L.R., J. L. O., OMEGA, S. S. G., and WAITING FOR THE TRAIN. Several of these have put Clara, provisionally, into the easterly train: but they seem to have understoodthat the data do not decide that point. CLASS LIST I AIX-LES-BAINS. H.L. R. ALGERNON BRAY. OMEGA. BRADSHAW OF THE FuTuRE. S.S.G. FIFEE. WAITING FOR THE TRAIN. II ARVON. J. L. O. III F. LEE. G.S.C. X. A.B. ANSWERS TO KNOT IV Problem.—Thereare 5 sacks, of which Nos. 1, 2, weigh 12 lbs.; Nos. 2, 3, 134 Ibs.; Nos. 3, 4, 114 Ibs.; Nos. 4,'5, 8 Ibs.; Nos. 1, 3, 5, 16 lbs. Required the weight of each sack. Answer.—53, 64, 7, 44, 34. The sum ofall the weighings, 61 lbs., includes sack No. 3 thrice and each other twice. Deducting twice the sum A TANGLED TALE 935 of the 1st and 4th weighings, we get 21 Ibs. for thrice No. 3, t.€. 7 Ibs. for No. 3. Hence, the 2nd and 3rd weighings give 64 lbs., 44 lbs. for Nos. 2, 4; and hence again, the 1st and 4th weighingsgive 5lbs., 34 lbs., for Nos. 1, 5. Ninety-seven answers have been received. Of these, 15 are beyond the reach of discussion, as they give no working. I can but enumerate their names, and I take this opportunity of saying that this is the last time I shall put on record the names of competitors who give nosort of clue to the process by which their answers were obtained. In guessing a conundrum, or in catching a flea, we do not expect the breathless victor to give us afterwards, in cold blood, a history of the mental or muscularefforts by which he achieved success; but a mathematical calculation is another thing. The namesofthis ‘“‘mute inglorious”’ band are CoMMON SENSE, D. E. R., Douctas, E. L., Eten, I. M. T., J. M. C., Josepu, Knot I, Lucy, MEEK, M. F. C., PYRAMUS, SHAH, VERITAS. Of the eighty-two answers with which the working, or some approachtoit, is supplied, one is wrong: seventeen have given solutions which are (from one cause or another) practically valueless: the remaining sixty-four I shall try to arrange in a Class List, according to the varying degrees of shortness and neatness to which they seem to have attained. The solitary wrong answer is from NELL. To be thus “alone in a crowd”’ is a distinction—a painful one, no doubt, but still a distinction. I am sorry for you, my dear younglady, and I seem to hear yourtearful exclamation, when you read these lines, “Ah! This is the knell of all my hopes!”’ Why, oh why, did you-assume that the 4th and 5th bags weighed 4 lbs. each? And why did you not test your answers? However, please try again: and please don’t change your nom-de-plume: let us have NELL in the First Class next time! The seventeen whosesolutionsare practically valueless are ARDMORE, A READY RECKONER, ARTHUR, BoG-LARK, Boc-Oak, BRIDGET, First ATTEMPT, J. L. C., M. E. T., 936 STORIES RosE, ROWENA, SEA-BREEZE, SYLVIA, THISTLEDOWN, THREE-FIFTHS ASLEEP, VENDREDI, and WINIFRED. Boc- Larktries it by a sort of “‘rule of false’, assuming experimentally that Nos. 1, 2, weigh 6 lbs. each, and having thus produced 173, instead of 16, as the weight of 1, 3, and 5, she removes “‘the superfluous poundand a half’’, but does not explain how she knows from which to take it. THREEFirTus ASLEEPsays that (when in that peculiar state) “‘it seemed perfectly clear” to her that, ‘‘3 out of the 5 sacks being weighed twice over, 2 of 45 =27, must be the total weight of the 5 sacks.”” As to which I can only say, with the Captain, ‘it beats me entirely!” WINIFRED, on the plea that “‘one must have a starting-point’, assumes (what I fear is a mere guess) that No. 1 weighed 54 lbs. Therest all do it, wholly or partly, by guess-work. The problem is of course (as any algebraist sees at once) a case of “simultaneous simple equations’. It is, however, easily soluble by arithmetic only; and, when this is the case, I hold that it is bad workmanship to use the more complex method. I have not, this time, given more credit to arithmetical solutions; but in future problems I shall (other things being equal) give the highest marks to those who use the simplest machinery. I have put into Class I those whose answers seemed specially short and neat, and into Class III those that seemed specially long or clumsy. Of this last set, A. C. M., FURZEBusH, JAMES, PARTRIDGE, R. W., and WAITING FOR THE TRAIN, have sent long wanderingsolutions, the substitutions have no definite method, but seeming to have been made to see what would come of it. CHILPoME and DuBLIN Boy omit some of the working. ARVON MARLBOROUGH Boyonly finds the weight of one sack. CLASS LIST I B. E. D. NUMBERFIVE. C.H. PEDRO. A TANGLED TALE CONSTANCE JOHNSON. GREYSTEAD. Guy. HOopoe. J. FLA. M. A. H. If AMERICAN SUBSCRIBER. AN APPRECIATIVE SCHOOLMA’AM. AYR. BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE. CHEAM. C.M.G. DINAH MITE. DUCKWING. E.C. M. E. N. Lowry. ERA. EUROCLYDON. F. H. W. FIFEE. G.E. B. HARLEQUIN. HAWTHORN. HouGuH GREEN. Jj. A.B. JACK TAR. III A.C.M. ARVON MARLEBOROUGH Boy. CHILPOME. DUBLIN Boy. FURZE-BUSH. 937 R. E. X. SEVEN OLD MEN, Vis INERTIA. WILLYB. YAHOO. J.B. B. KGovJNI. LAND LUBBER. L. D. MAGPIE. MARY. MHRUXI. MINNIE. MoneEY-SPINNER. NAIRAM. OLD CaT. POLICHINELLE. SIMPLE SUSAN. S.S.G. THISBE. VERENA, WAMBA. WOLFE. WYKEHAMICUS. Y.M.A.H. JAMES. PARTRIDGE. R. W. WAITING FOR THE TRAIN. 938 STORIES ANSWERS TO KNOT V Problem.—To markpictures, giving 3 x’s to 2 or 3, 2 to 4 or 5, and r to g or 10; also giving 3 0’s to I or 2, 2 to 3 or 4, and r to 8 or 9; so as to mark the smallest possible numberof pictures, and to give them thelargest possible numberof marks. Answer.—ti0 pictures; 29 marks; arranged thus: x Xx x x Xx x x Xx x oO x x x x x O 0 0 oO x x 0 0 oO Oo Oo 0 O O Solution.—By giving all the x’s possible, putting into brackets the optional ones, we get Io pictures marked thus: xX “KX -® xX KX xX xX xK xX (x) xX -®x xX xXx (x) x x (x) By then assigning o’s in the same way, beginning at the other end, we get 9 pictures marked thus: (0) o. (0) 0 0 oO (01) 0 0 0 0000 0 All we have now to dois to run these two wedges as close together as they will go, so as to get the minimum -number of pictures—erasing optional marks where by so doing we can run them closer, but otherwise letting them stand. There are 10 necessary marks in the 1st row, and in the 3rd; but only 7 in the and. Hence weerase all optional marksin the rst and 3rd rows, but let them stand in the 2nd. Twenty-two answers have been received. Of these, 11 give no working; so, in accordance with what I announced in my last review of answers, I leave them unnamed, merely mentioning that 5 are right and 6 wrong. Of the eleven answers with which some workingis A TANGLED TALE 939 supplied, 3 are wrong. C. H. begins with the rash assertion that under the given conditions ‘‘the sum is impossible. For’, he or she adds (these initialed correspondents are dismally vague beings to deal with: perhaps “‘it” would be a better pronoun), “Io is the least possible number of pictures’ (granted): ‘‘therefore we must either give 2 x’s to 6, or 20’s to 5”’. Why “must,” O alphabetical phantom? It is nowhere ordained that every picture “‘must”’ have 3 marks! FIFEE sends a folio page of solution, which deserved a better fate: she offers three answers, in each of which ro pictures are marked, with 30 marks; in one she gives 2 x’s to 6 pictures; in another to 7; in the third she gives 2 0’s to 5; thus in every case ignoring the conditions. (I pause to remark that the condition “2 x’s to 4 or 5 pictures” can only mean “‘etther to 4 or else to 5”: if, as one competitor holds, it might mean any numbernotless than 4, the words “‘or 5” would be superfluous.) I. E. A. (I am happy to say that none of these bloodless phantoms appear this time in the class-list. Is it IDEA with the ‘“D” left out?) gives 2 x’s to 6 pictures. She then takes me to task for using the word ‘‘ought”’ instead of “nought’’. No doubt, to one who thus rebels against the rules laid down for her guidance, the word must be distasteful. But does not I. E. A. remember the parallel case of “‘adder’’? That creature wasoriginally “‘a nadder’’: then the two words took to bandying the poor “‘n’’ backwards and forwardslike a shuttlecock, the final state of the gamebeing “‘an adder’. May not “‘a nought”’ have similarly become “‘an ought”? Anyhow, ‘‘oughts and crosses” is a very old game. I don’t think I ever heard it called “‘noughts and crosses’. In the following Class List, I hope the solitary occupant of III will sheathe her claws when she hears how narrow an escape she has had of not being named at all. Her account of the process. by which she got the answeris so meagre that, like the nursery tale of ‘‘Jack-a-Minory”’ (I trust J. E. A. will be merciful to the spelling), it is scarcely to be distinguished from “‘zero”’. 940 STORIES CLASS LIST I GUY. OLD Cat. SEA-BREEZE. II AYR. F. LEE. BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE. H. VERNON. TIl CAT. ANSWERS TO KNOT VI Problem 1.—A and B began the year with only £1000 apiece. They borrowed nought; they stole nought. On the next New Year’s Day they had £60,000 between them. How did they do it? Solution.—Theywentthat day to the Bank of England- A stood in front of it, while B went round and stood behindit. Two answers have been received, both worthy of much honour. ADDLEPATE makes them borrow “‘zero”’ and steal “zero’’, and uses both cyphers by putting them at the righthand end of the £1000, thus producing £100,000, which js well over the mark. But (or to express it in Latin) At Spes INFractTahassolved it even more ingeniously: with the first cypher she turns the “1’”’ of the £1000 into a “‘g’”’, and addsthe result to the original sum, thus getting £10,000: andin this, by meansof the other ‘‘zero’’, she turns the “1’’ into a “6” thus hitting the exact £60,000. CLASS LIST I AT SPES INFRACTA. A TANGLED TALE 941 II ADDLEPATE. Problem 2.—L makes 5 scarves, while M makes 2: Z makes 4, while L makes 3. Five scarves of Z’s weigh one of L’s; 5 of M’s weigh 3 of Z’s. One of M’s is as warm as 4 of Z’s and one of L’s as warm as 3 of M’s. Which is best, giving equal weightin the result of rapidity of work, lightness, and warmth? Answer.—The order is M, L, Z. Solution.—Asto rapidity (other things being constant), L’s merit is to M’s in the ratio of 5 to 2: Z’s to L’s in the ratio of 4 to 3. In order to get one set of 3 numbers fulfilling these conditions, it is perhaps simplest to take the one that occurs fwice as unity, and reducethe others to fractions: this gives, for L, M, and Z, the marks1, 2,§. In estimating for lightness, we observe that the greater the weight, the less the merit, so that Z’s merit is to L’s as 5 to x. Thus the marks for lightness are 4, 3, 1. And similarly, the marks for warmth are 3, 1, +. To get the total result, we must multiply L’s 3 marks together, and do the same for M and for Z. The final numbers are rx$x3, ?x$xuz, xxxwe. 3, % } ve. multiplying throughout by 15 (which will not alter the proportion), 9, 10, 5; showing the order of merit to be M,L, Z. Twenty-nine answers havebeen received, of which five are right, and twenty-four wrong. These hapless ones have all (with three exceptions) fallen into the error of adding the proportional numbers together, for each candidate, instead of multiplying. Why thelatter is right, rather than the former,is fully proved in textbooks,so I will not occupy space by stating it here: but it can be #- lustrated very easily by the case of length, breadth, and depth. Suppose A and B arerival diggers of rectangular tanks: the amountof work doneis evidently measured by 942 STORIES the numberof cubical feet dug out. Let A dig a tank ro feet long, 10 wide, 2 deep: let B dig one 6 feet long, 5 wide, 10 deep. The cubical contents are 200, 300; i.e. B is best digger in the ratio of 3 to 2. Now try marking for length, width, and depth, separately; giving a maximum mark of 10 to the best in each contest, and then adding the results! Of the twenty-four malefactors, one gives no working, and so has no real claim to be named; but I break the rule for once, in deference to its success in Problem 1: he, she, or it, is ADDLEPATE. The other twenty-three may be divided into five groups. First and worstare, I take it, those who putthe rightful winner Jast; arranging them as “‘Lolo, Zuzu, Mimi’’. The names of these desperate wrong-doers are AYR, BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE, FURZE-BusH, and PoLLUXx (who send a joint answer), GREYSTEAD, Guy, OLD HEN, and SIMPLE SUSAN. The latter was once best of all; the Old Hen has taken advantageof her simplicity, and beguiled her with the chaff which was the baneof her own chickenhood. Secondly, I point the finger of scorn at those who have put the worst candidate at the top; arranging them as “Zuzu, Mimi, Lolo’. They are Gracia, M. M., OLp Cart, and R. E. X. “ ’Tis Greece, but: ” The third set have avoided both these enormities, and have even succeeded in putting the worst last, their answerbeing ‘‘Lolo, Mimi, Zuzu’’. Their names are AYR (who also appears amongthe‘quite too too’’), CLIFTONC., _F. B., Firee, Gric, JANET, and Mrs. SAIREY GAMpP. F. B. has not fallen into the commonerror; she multiplies together the proportionate numbershegets, but in getting them she goes wrong, by reckoning warmth as a de-merit. Possibly she is ‘Freshly Burnt’’, or comes ‘From Bombay”. JANET and Mrs. Sairey GaAmp havealso avoided this error: the method they have adopted is shrouded in mystery—I scarcely feel competent to criticise it. Mrs. GampPsays, “If Zuzu makes 4 while Lolo makes 3, Zuzu A TANGLED TALE 943 makes 6 while Lolo makes 5 [bad reasoning], while Mimi makes 2.’”’ From this she concludes, ‘‘Therefore Zuzu excels in speed by 1’ (#.e. when compared with Lolo? but what about Mimi?). She then compares the 3 kinds of excellence, measured on this mystic scale. JANET takes the statement that ‘““Lolo makes 5 while Mimi makes 2”, to prove that ‘‘Lolo makes 3 while Mimi makes 1 and Zuzu 4” (worse reasoning than Mrs. Gamp’s), and thence concludes that “‘Zuzu excels in speed by }”! JANET should have been ADELINE, “mystery of mysteries!”’ The fourth set actually put Mimiat the top, arranging them as “Mimi, Zuzu, Lolo’. They are MARQUIS AND Co., MARTREB, 5S. B. B. (first initial scarcely legible: may be meantfor “‘J’’), and STANZA. Thefifth set consists of AN ANCIENT FIsH and CAMEL. Theseill-assorted comrades, by dint of foot and fin, have scrambled into the right answer, but, as their methodis wrong, of course it counts for nothing. Also AN ANCIENT FisH has very ancient and fishlike ideas as to how numbers represent merit: she says, ‘Lolo gains 2} on Mimi.” Two and a half whad? Fish, fish, art thou in thy duty? Of the five winners I put BALBus and THE ELDER TRAVELLERslightly below the other three—Batsus for defective reasoning, the other for scanty working. BALBUS gives two reasonsfor saying that addition of marksis not the right method, and then adds, “It follows that the decision must be made by multiplying the marks together’. This is hardly morelogical than to say,‘This is not Spring: therefore it must be Autumn”’. CLASS LIST I Dinu MITE. E. B.D. L. JORAM. 944 STORIES II BALBUS. THE ELDER TRAVELLER. With regard to Knot V, I beg to express to Vis INERTIE and to anyothers, who, like her, understood the condition to be that every marked picture must have three marks, mysincere regret that the unfortunate phrase ‘“‘fill the columns with oughts and crosses” should have caused them to waste so much time and trouble. I can only repeat that a literal interpretation of “fill” would seem to me to require that every picture in the gallery should be marked. Vis INERTIZ would have been in the First Class if she had sentin the solution she nowoffers. ANSWERS TO KNOT VII Problem.—Given that one glass of lemonade, 3 sandwiches, and 7 biscuits, cost Is. 2d.; and that one glass of lemonade, 4 sandwiches, andro biscuits, cost Is. 5d.: find the cost of (I) a glass of lemonade, a sandwich, and a biscuit; and (2) 2 glasses of lemonade, 3 sandwiches, and 5 biscuits. Answer.—(1) 8d.; (2) 1s. 7d. Solution.—This is best treated algebraically. Let x = the cost (in pence) of a glass of lemonade, y of a sandwich, and z of a biscuit. Then we have *+3y+7z=14, and %+4y+10z=17. And we require the values of x+y +2, and of 2*+3y+5z. Now, from ¢wo equations only, we cannot find, separately, the values of three unknowns: certain combinations of them may, however, be found. Also we know that we can, by the help of the given equations, eliminate 2 of the 3 unknowns from the quantity whose value is required, which will then contain one only. If, then, the required value is ascertainable at all, it can only be by the 3rd unknown vanishingof itself: otherwise the problem is impossible. Let us then eliminate lemonade and sandwiches, and reduce everything to biscuits—astate of things even more A TANGLED TALE 945 depressing than “‘if all the world were apple-pie’’—by subtracting the 1st equation from the 2nd, which eliminates lemonade, and gives y+3z=3, or y=3—32; and then substituting this value of y in the 1st, which gives %-22=5, 1.€. x=5+2z. Now if we substitute these values of x, y, in the quantities whose values are required, the first becomes (5+2z)+(3—32)+2, z.¢c. 8: and the second becomes 2(5+22)+3(3—32)+5%, t.e. 19. Hence the answersare (1) 8d., (2) Is. 7d. The aboveis a untversal method: thatis, it is absolutely certain either to produce the answer, or to prove that no answeris possible. The question may also be solved by combining the quantities whose values are given, so as to form those whose values are required. This is merely a matter of ingenuity and good luck: and as it may fail, even whenthethingis possible, and is of no use in proving it ¢mpossible, I cannot rank this method as equal in value with the other. Even when it succeeds, it may prove a very tedious process. Suppose the 26 competitors who have sent in what I maycall accidental solutions, had had a question to deal with where every numbercontained 8 or 10 digits! I suspect it would have been a caseof “‘silvered is the raven hair’’ (see Patience) before any solution would havebeen hit on by the most ingenious of them. Forty-five answers have come in, of which 44 give, I am happyto say, somesort of working, and therefore deserve to be mentioned by name,andto havetheir virtues, or vices, as the case may be, discussed. Thirteen have made assumptions to which they have no right, and so cannot figure in the Class List, even though, in ro of the 12 cases, the answeris right. Of the remaining 28, no less than 26 have sent in accidental solutions, and therefore fall short of the highest honours. I will now discuss individual cases, taking the worst first, as my customis. Frocey gives no working—at least this is all he gives: after stating the given equations, hesays, ‘Therefore the 2H L.C. 946 STORIES difference, 1 sandwich+3 biscuits, =3d.”: then follow the amounts of the unknown bills, with no further hint as to how he got them. Froccyhashad a very narrow escape of not being namedatall! Of those whoare wrong, Vis INERTI# hassentin a piece of incorrect working. Peruse the horrid details, and shudder! She takes x (call it ‘‘y’’) as the cost of a sandwich, and concludes (rightly enough) that a biscuit will cost 3—. She then subtracts the second equaticn from the first, and deduces 3y+7x “3 4y+I0x= =3. By making two mistakes in this line, she brings out y -2. Try it again, O Vis INERTIa@! Away with INERTIZ: infuse a little more Vis: and you will bring out the correct (though uninteresting) result, o=o! This will show you that it is hopeless to try to coax any one of these 3 unknownsto reveal its separate value. The other competitor who is wrong throughout, is either J. M. C. or T. M. C.: but, whether he be a Juvenile Mis-Calculator or a True Mathematician Confused, he makes the answers 7d. and Is. 5d.-He assumes with Too Much Confidence, that biscuits were $d. each, and that Clara paid for 8, though she only ate 7! Wewill now consider the 13 whose working is wrong, though the answeris right: and, not to measure their demerits too exactly, I will take them in alphabetical order, Anitafinds (rightly) that “‘r sandwich and 3 biscuits cost 3d.” and proceeds, “therefore 1 sandwich =14d., 3 biscuits =14d., 1 lemonade =6d.”’ Dinan MITE begins like Anita: and thence proves (rightly) that a biscuit costs less than 1d.: whence she concludes (wrongly) that it must cost 4d. F. C. W.is so beautifully resigned to the certainty of a verdict of “‘guilty’”’, that I have hardly the heart to utter the word, without adding a “recommended to mercy owing to extenuating circumstances’”’. But really, A TANGLED TALE 947 you know,whereave the extenuating circumstances? She begins by assuming that lemonade is 4d. a glass, and sandwiches 3d. each (making with the 2 given equations, four conditions to be fulfilled by three miserable unknowns!) And, having (naturally) developed tunis into a contradiction, she then tries 5d. and 2d. with a similar result. (N.B.—This process might have been carried on through the whole of the Tertiary Period, without gratifying one single Megatherium.) She then, by a “happy thought’’, tries halfpenny biscuits, and so obtains a consistent result. This may be a good solution, viewing the problem as a conundrum: but it is vot scientific. JANET identifies sandwiches with biscuits! ‘One sandwich +3 biscuits” she makes equal to “4”. Four what? MAYFAIR makes the astounding assertion that the equation, s +30 =3, “is evidently only satisfied by s=3, b=}! Op CaT believes that the assumption that a sandwich costs 14d. is ‘‘the only way to avoid unmanageable fractions’. But why avoid them? Is there not a certain glow oftriumph in taming such a fraction? ‘‘Ladies and gentlemen, the fraction now before you is one that for years defied all efforts of a refining nature: it was, in a word, hopelessly vulgar. Treating it as a circulating decimal (the treadmill of fractions) only made matters worse. Asa last resource, I reduced it to its lowest terms, and extracted its square root!” Joking apart, let me thank OLD Cartfor some very kind words of sympathy, in reference to a correspondent (whose name I am happy to say I have now forgotten) who had found fault with me as a discourteouscritic. O. V. L. is beyond my comprehension. He takes the given equations as (I) and (2): thence, by the process [(2) —(z)], deduces (rightly) equation (3), viz., s+3b=3: and thence again, by the process [ x 3] (a hopeless mystery), deduces 3s +4b=4. I have nothing to say about it: I give it up. SEA~BREEZEsays, ‘‘It is immaterial to the answer” (why?) “in what proportion 3d. is divided between the sandwich and the 3 biscuits’: so she assumes s=1dd., b=4d. STANZA is one of a very irregular metre. 948 STORIES At first she (like JANET) identifies sandwiches with biscuits. She then tries two assumptions (s=1, b=% and s=4, b=%,), and (naturally) ends in contradictions. Then she returns.to the first assumption, and finds the 3 unknownsseparately: quod est absurdum. STILETTO identifies sandwiches and biscuits, as “articles”. Is the word ever used by confectioners? I fancied, ““What is the next article, ma’am?’’ was limited to linendrapers. Two Sis- TERSfirst assume that biscuits are 4 a penny, and then that they are 2 a penny, adding that ‘‘the answerwill of course be the same in both cases’’. It is a dreamy remark, making one feel something like Macbeth grasping at the spectral dagger. ‘‘Is this a statement that I see before me?”’ If you were to say, ‘“We both walked the same waythis morning,” and J were to say, “One of you walked the same way,but the other didn’t,” which of the three would be the most hopelessly confused? TURTLE PYATE (what zs a Turtle Pyate, please?) and OLD Crow, whosenda joint answer, and Y. Y., adopt the same method. Y. Y. gets the equation s+3b=3: and then says, “This sum must be apportioned in one of the three following ways.” It may be, I grant you: but Y. Y. do you say “must’’? I fearit is possible for Y. Y. to be wo Y’s. The other two conspirators are less positive: they say it “‘can”’ be so divided: but they add “either of the three prices being right”! This is bad grammar and bad arithmetic at once, O mysterious birds! Of those who win honours, THE SHETLAND SNARK must have the Third Class all to himself. He has only answered half the question, viz. the amount of Clara’s luncheon: the twolittle old ladies he pitilessly leaves in the midst of their ‘‘difficulty’. I beg to assure him (with thanks for his friendly remarks) that entrance-fees and subscriptions are things unknown in that most economical of clubs, ‘‘The Knot-Untiers.”’ The authorsof the 26 ‘‘accidental” solutions differ only in the numberof steps théy have taken between the data and the answers. In order to do them full justice I have A TANGLED TALE 949 arranged the Second Class in sections, according to the numberof steps. The two Kings are fearfully deliberate! I suppose walking quick, or taking short cuts, is inconsistent with kingly dignity: but really, in reading THESEUS’ solution, one almost fancied he was “marking time’’, and making no advance at all! The other King will, I hope, pardon me for having altered ‘‘Coal’’ into “Cole”. King Coilus, or Coil, seems to have reigned soon after Arthur’s time. Henry of Huntingdon identifies him with the King Coél who first built walls round Colchester, which was named after him. In the Chronicle of Robert of Gloucester weread: Aftur Kyng Aruirag, of wam we habbethy told, Marius ys sone was kyng, quoynte mon & bold, And ys sone was aftur hym, Coil was ys name, Bothe it were quoynte men, & of noble fame. BALBus lays it down as a general principle that ‘in order to ascertain the cost of any one luncheon,it must come to the same amount upon two different assumptions”. (Query. Should not “‘it” be ‘‘we’’? Otherwise the luncheon is represented as wishing to ascertain its own cost!) He then makes two assumptions—one, that sandwiches cost nothing; the other, that biscuits cost nothing (either arrangement woyild lead to the shop being inconveniently crowded!)—and brings out the unknown luncheons as 8d. and rgd. on each assumption. He then concludes that this agreement of results “shows that the answers are correct’. Now I propose to disprove his general law by simply giving one instance ofits failing. One instance is quite enough. In logical language, in order to disprove a “universal affirmative’, it is enough to prove its contradictory, which is a ‘‘particular negative’. (I must pause for a digression on Logic, and especially on Ladies’ Logic. The universal affirmative, “Everybody says he’s a duck,” is crushed instantly by proving the particular negative, ‘Peter says he’s a goose,” which is equivalent to ‘“‘Peter does not say he’s a duck”. 950 STORIES And the universal negative, ““Nobody calls on her,” is well met by the particular affirmative, ‘J called yesterday.”’ In short, either of two contradictories disproves the other: and the moralis that, since a particular proposition is much more easily proved than a universal one, it is the wisest course, in arguing with a lady, to limit one’s own assertions to “particulars’’, and leave her to prove the “universal” contradictory, if she can. You will thus generally secure a logical victory: a practical victory is not to be hoped for, since she.can alwaysfall back upon the crushing remark, “That has nothing to do with it!’”—a move for which Man has not yet discovered any satisfactory answer. Now let us return to Batpus.) Here is my “particular negative”, on which to test his rule: Suppose the two recorded luncheons to have been “‘2 buns, one queen-cake, 2‘sausage-rolls, and a bottle of Zoédone: total, one-and-ninepence”’, and ‘‘one bun, 2 queen-cakes, a sausage-roll, and a bottle of Zoédone: total, one-and-fourpence”’. And suppose Clara’s unknown luncheon to have been ‘3 buns, one queen-cake, one sausage-roll, and 2 bottles of Zoédone’’: while the two little sisters had been indulging in “8 buns, 4 queen-cakes, 2 sausage-rolls, and 6 bottles of Zoédone’’. (Poor souls, how thirsty they must have been!) If BALBus will kindly try this by his principle of ‘‘two assumptions’’, first assuming that a bun is 1d. and a queen-cake 2d., and then that a bun is 3d. and a queen-cake 3d., he will bring out the other two luncheons, on each assumption, as ‘‘oneand- ninepence”’’ and “four-and-tenpence” respectively, which harmony of results, he will say, “shows that the answers are correct.”” And yet, as a matter of fact, the buns were 2d. each, the queen-cakes 3d., the sausage-rolls 6d., and the Zoédone 2d. a bottle: so that Clara’s third luncheon had cost one-and-sevenpence, and her thirsty friends had spent four-and-fourpence! Another remark of BaLsus I will quote and discuss: for I think that it also may yield a moral for some of my readers. Hesays, “‘It is the same thingin substance whethA TANGLED TALE 951 er in solving this problem we use words andcall it arithmetic, or use letters and signs andcall it algebra.”’ Now this does not appear to me a correct description of the two methods: the arithmetical methodis that of “synthesis” only; it goes from one known fact to another, till it reaches its goal: whereas the algebraical methodis that of ‘‘analysis’’; it begins with the goal, symbolically represented, and so goes backwards, draggingits veiled victim withit, till it has reached the full daylight of known facts, in whichit can tear off the veil and say, ““I know you!” Take an illustration: Your house has been broken into and robbed, and you appeal to the policeman who was on duty that night. “Well, mum,I did see a chap getting out over your garden wall: but I was a good bit off, so I didn’t chase him, like. I just cut down the short way to the ‘Chequers’, and who should I meet but Bill Sykes, coming full split round the corner. So I just ups and says, ‘My lad, you’re wanted.’ That’s all I says. And hesays, ‘I’ll go along quiet, Bobby,’ he says, ‘without the darbies,’ he says.” There’s your Avithmetical policeman. Now try the other method: ‘I seed somebody a-running, but he was well gone or ever J got nigh the place. So I just took a look round in the garden. And I noticed the footmarks, where the chap had comeright across your flower-beds. They was good big footmarks sure-ly. And I noticed as the left foot went down at the heel, ever so much deeper than the other. And I says to myself, “The chap’s been a big hulking chap: and he goes lameonhis left foot’. And I rubs my hand on the wall where he got over, and there was soot on it, and no mistake. So I says to myself, ‘Now where can I light on a big man, in the chimbley-sweep line, what’s lame of one foot?’ And I flashes up permiscuous: and I says,‘It’s Bill Sykes!’ says I.’”’ There is your Algebraical policeman—ahigherintellectual type, to my thinking, than theother. LITTLE JACK’s solution calls for a word of praise, as he has written out what really is an algebraical proof iu words, without representing any of his facts as equations. 952 STORIES If it is all his own, he will make a good algebraist in the time to come. I beg to thank SIMPLE SuSANfor some kind words of sympathy, to the sameeffect as those received from OLD Cart. HeEcria and MARTREBare the only two who have used a method certain either to produce the answer, or else to prove it impossible: so they must share between them the highest honours. CLASS LIST I HECLA. MARTREB. II § x (2 steps) § 2 (3 steps)—continued ADELAIDE THE RED QUEEN. CLIFTON C.... WALL-FLOWER. E. K.C, Guy. § 3 (4 steps) L’INCONNU. HAWTHORN. LITTLE JACK. JORAM. Nit DESPERANDUM. S.S.G. SIMPLE SUSAN. YELLOW-HAMMER. § 4 (5 steps) WOOLLYONE. A STEPNEY COACH. § 2 (3 steps) § 5 (6 steps) A. A. Bay LAUREL. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE. AFTERNOON TEA. AN APPRECIATIVE SCHOOL- _—§ 6 (g steps) MA’AM. OLD KING COLE. BABY. BALBUS. § 7(14 steps) Boc-OAK. THESEUS. A TANGLED TALE 953 ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS I HAVE received several letters on the subjects of Knots II and VI, which lead me to think sorne further explanation desirable. In KnotII, I had intended the numberingof the houses to begin at one corner of the Square, and this was assumed by most, if not all, of the competitors. TROJANUS, however, says, “‘Assuming, in default of any information, that the street enters the square in the middle of eachside, it may be supposed that the numbering begins at a street.” But surely the otheris the more natural assumption? In Knot VI, the first Problem was, of course a mere jeu de mots, whose presence I thought excusable in a series of Problems whose aim is to entertain rather than to instruct: but it has not escaped the contemptuouscriticisms of two of my correspondents, who seem to think that Apollo is in duty bound to keep his bow always on the stretch. Neither of them has guessed it: and this is true human nature. Only the other day—the 31st of September, to be quite exact—I met my old friend Brown, and gave him a riddle I had just heard. With one greateffort of his colossal mind, Brown guessedit. ‘‘“Right!’’ said I. “Ah,” said he, ‘‘it’s very neat—very neat. Andit isn’t an answer that would occur to everybody. Very neat indeed.” A few yards farther on, I fell in with Smith, and to him I propounded the same riddle. He frowned over it for a minute, and then gave it up. Meekly I faltered out the answer. ‘‘A poorthing, sir!’’ Smith growled, as he turned away. “A very poor thing! I wonder you care to repeat such rubbish!’ Yet Smith’s mindis,if possible, even more colossal than Brown’s. The second Problem of Knot VI is an example in ordinary Double Rule of Three, whose essential feature is that the result depends on the variation of several elements, whichare so relatedto it that, if all but one be constant, it varies as that one: hence, if none be constant, it varies as their product. Thus, for example, the cubical 954 STORIES contents of a rectangular tank vary as its length, if breadth and depth be constant, and so on; hence, if none be constant, it varies as the product of the length, breadth, and depth. Whentheresult is not thus connected with the varying elements, the problem ceases to be double Rule of Three and often becomesone of great complexity. Toillustrate this, let us take two candidatesfor a prize, A and B, who are to compete in French, German, and Italian: (a) Let it be laid down that the result is to depend on their relative knowledge of each subject, so that, whether their marks, for French, be “‘1, 2” or “‘100, 200’’, the result will be the same: andlet it also be laid downthat, if they get equal marks on 2 papers, the final marks are to have the sameratio as those of the 3rd paper. This is a case of ordinary Double Rule of Three. We multiply A’s 3 marks together, and do the same for B. Note that, if A gets a single ‘‘zero’’, his final markis ‘“‘zero’’, even if he gets full marks for 2 papers while B gets only one mark for each paper. This of course would be very unfair on A, though a correct solution under the given conditions. (b) The result is to depend, as before, on relative knowledge; but Frenchis to have twice as much weight as Germanor Italian. This is an unusual form of question. I should be inclined to say, ‘‘The resulting ratio is to be nearer to the French ratio than if we multiplied asin (a), and so much nearer that it would be necessary to use the other multipliers twice to produce the same result as in (a)”: e.g., if the French ratio were 9/10, and the others 4/9, 1/9, so that the ultimate ratio, by method (a), would be 3/45, I should multiply instead by 2/3, 1/3, giving the result, 1/5, which is nearer to 9/10 than if we had used method(a). (c) The result is to depend on actual amount of knowledge of the 3 subjects collectively. Here we have to ask two questions: (1) What is to be the “unit” (.e. ‘‘standard to measure by’’) in each subject? (2) Are these units A TANGLED TALE 955 to be of equal, or unequal, value? The usual‘‘unit” is the knowledge shown by answering the whole papercorrectly; calling this ‘‘100’’, all lower amounts are represented by numbers between “‘zero’’, and “‘roo’’. Then, if these units are to be of equal value, we simply add A’s 3 marks together, and do the samefor B. (d) The conditions are the same as (c), but French is to have double weight. Here we simply double the French marks, and add as before. (e) French is to have such weight that, if other marks be equal, the ultimate ratio is to be that of the French paper, so that a “zero” in this would swampthe candidate: but the other two subjects are only to affect the result collectively, by the amount of knowledge shown, the two being reckoned of equal value. Here I should add A’s German and Italian marks together, and multiply by his French mark. But I need not go on: the problem may evidently be set with many varying conditions, each requiring its own method of solution. The Problem in Knot VI was meant to belong to variety (a), and to makethis clear, I inserted the following passage: “Usually the competitors differ in one point only. Thus, last year, Fifi and Gogo made the same number of scarvesin the trial week, and they were equally light; but Fifi’s were twice as warm as Gogo’s, and she was pronounced twice as good.” WhatI havesaid will suffice, I hope, as an answer to Basus, who holds that (a) and (c) are the only possible varieties of the problem, and thatto say, ““We cannot use addition, therefore we must be intended to use multiplication,” is ‘‘no moreillogical than, from knowledgethat one was not born in the night, to infer that he was born in the daytime’; and also to FIFEE, whosays, “I think a little more consideration will show you that our‘error of adding the proportional numbers together for each candidate instead of multiplying’is no errorat all.’’ Why, even if addition had been the right methodtouse,not oneof the 956 STORIES writers (I speak from memory) showed any consciousness of the necessity of fixing a “unit” for each subject. ‘‘No errorat all’! They were positively steeped in error! One correspondent (I do not name him, as the communication is not quite friendly in tone) writes thus: “‘T wish to add, very respectfully, that I think it would be in better taste if you were to abstain from the very trenchant expressions which you are accustomedto indulge in when criticising the answer. That such a tone must not be” (“be not’’?) “agreeable to the persons concerned who have made mistakes may possibly have no great weight with you, but I hope you will feel that it would be as well not to employ it, unless you ave quite certain of being correct yourself.”’ The only instances the writer gives of the “trenchant expressions” are “hapless” and “malefactors’. I beg to assure him (and any others who may need the assurance: I trust there are none) that all such words ‘have been used in jest, and with no idea that they could possibly annoy any one, and that I sincerely regret any annoyance I may have thus inadvertently given. May I hope that in future they will recognize the distinction between severe language used in sober earnest, and the “words of unmeant bitterness”, which Coleridge has alluded to in that lovely passage beginning, “‘A little child, a limberelf”’? If the writer will refer to that passage, or to the Preface to Five, Famine, and Slaughter, he will find the distinction, for which I plead, far better drawn out than I could hopeto do in any wordsof mine. _ The writer’s insinuation that I care not how much annoyance I give to my readersI think it best to pass over in silence; but to his concluding remark I must entirely demur. I hold that to use language likely to annoy any of my correspondents would not bein theleast justified by the plea that I was “quite certain of being correct”. I trust that the knot-untiers and I are not on such terms as those! I beg to thank G. B. for the offer of a puzzle—which, however,is too like the old one, ‘Make four 9’s into 100.” A TANGLED TALE 957 ANSWERS TO KNOT VIII § 1. THE Pics Problem.—Place twenty-four pigs in four sties so that, as you go round andround, you may alwaysfind the number in each sty nearer to ten than the numberin thelast. Answer.—Place 8 pigs in thefirst sty, 10 in the second, nothing in the third, and 6 in the fourth: ro is nearer ten than 8; nothing is nearer ten than 10; 6 is nearer ten than nothing; and 8 is nearer ten than 6. This problem is noticed by only two correspondents. BALBUSsays,“It certainly cannot be solved mathematically, nor do I see how to solve it by any verbal quibble.” NOLENS VOLENS makes Her Radiancy change the direction of going round; andeventhenis obliged to add, “‘the pig must becarried in front of her”’! § 2, THE GRURMSTIPTHS Problem.—Omnibusesstart from a certain point, both ways, every 15 minutes. A traveler, starting on foot along with one of them, meets one in 124 minutes: when will he be overtaken by one? Answer.—lIn 6} minutes. Solution.—Let “‘a’’ be the distance an omnibusgoes in I5 minutes, and ‘‘x’’ the distance from the starting-point to where the traveler is overtaken. Since the omnibus met is due at the starting-point in 24 minutes, it goes in that time as far as the traveler walks in 124,7.e., it goes 5 times as fast. Now the overtaking omnibusis ‘‘a’”’ behind the traveler when he starts, and therefore goes “a +x” while he goes ‘“‘x’’. Hence a+ % =5%; 1.e. 44% =a, and x =. This distance would be traversed by an omnibus in 15 minutes, and therefore by the traveler in 5 oe 958 STORIES Hence he is overtaken in 18? minutes after starting, 1.e. in 6} minutes after meeting the omnibus. Four answers have been received, of which two are wrong. DINAH MITE rightly states that the overtaking omnibus reached the point where they met the other omnibus 5 minutes after they left, but wrongly concludes that, going 5 times as fast, it would overtake them in another minute. The travelers are 5 minutes’ walk ahead of the omnibus, and must walk 4 of this distance farther before the omnibus overtakes them, which will be + of the distance traversed by the omnibus in the same time: this will require 1 minutes more. NOLENS VOLENStries it by a processlike “‘Achilles and the Tortoise”. He rightly states that, whenthe overtaking omnibusleavesthe gate, the travelers are } of “‘a’’ ahead, and that it will take the omnibus 3 minutes to traverse this distance, “during which time” the travelers, he tells us, go qs of ‘a’ (this should be #5). The travelers being now ys of “a”“ahead, he concludes that the work remaining to be doneis for the travelers to go ¢g of ‘‘a’’, while the omnibus goes jg. The principle is correct, and might have been appliedearlier. CLASS LIST I BALBUS. DELTA. ANSWERS TO KNOT IX § 1. THE BUCKETS Problem.—Lardnerstates that a solid, immersed in a fluid, displaces an amount equalto itself in bulk. How can this be true of a small bucket floating in a larger one? Solution.—Lardner means, by “‘displaces’’, ““occupies a space which might be filled with water without any change in the surroundings.” If the portion of the floating bucket, which is above the water, could be annihilated, A TANGLED TALE 959 and therest of it transformed into water, the surrounding water would not change its position: which agrees with Lardner’s statement. Five answers have been received, none of which explains the difficulty arising from the well-known fact that a floating body is the same weight as the displaced fluid. HECLAsays that ‘‘Only that portion of the smaller bucket which descends below theoriginal level of the water can be properly said to be immersed, and only an equal bulk of wateris displaced.”’ Hence, according to HECLA, a solid whose weight was equal to that of an equal bulk of water, would notfloat till the whole of it was below “the original level’ of the water: but, as a matter of fact, it would float as soon as it was all under water. MAGPIEsaysthefallacy is ‘‘the assumption that one body can displace another from a place whereit isn’t’’, and that Lardner’s assertion is incorrect, except when the containing vessel “‘was originally full to the brim’’. But the question of floating depends on the present state of things, not on past history. Op KinG CoLe takes the same view as HEcLA. Tym- PANUM and VINDEX assumethat “‘displaced’’ means‘‘raised above its original level’, and merely explain how it comesto pass that the water, so raised,is less in bulk than the immersed portion of bucket, and thus land themselves —or rather set themselves floating—in the same boat as HECLA. I regret that there is no Class List to publish for this Problem. § 2. BALBUS’s Essay Problem.—Balbus states that if a certain solid be immersed in a certain vessel of water, the water will rise througha series of distances, two inches, one inch,half an inch, etc., which series has no end. He concludes that the waterwill rise without limit. Is this true? Solution.—No. This series can never reach 4 inches, since, however many terms we take, we are always g60 STORIES short of 4 inches by an amount equal to the last term taken. Three answers have been received—but only two seem to me worthyof honours. TYMPANUMsaysthat the statement aboutthestick “‘is merely a blind, to which the old answer may well be applied, solvitur ambulando, or rather mergendo’’. I trust TYMPANUMwill not test this in his own person, by taking the place of the man in Balbus’s Essay! He would infallibly be drowned. OLD Kinc COLErightly points out that theseries, 2, I, etc., is a decreasing geometrical progression: while VINDEX rightly identifies the fallacy as that of “Achilles and the Tortoise’. CLASS LIST I OLD KING COLE. VINDEX. § 3. THE GARDEN Problem.—An oblong garden, half a yard longer than wide, consists entirely of a gravel walk,spirally arranged, a yard wide and 3630 yards long. Find the dimensionsof the garden. Answer.—60, 603. Solution.—The numberof yards and fractions of a yard traversed in walking along a straight piece of walk, is evidently the same as the number of square yards and fractions of a square yard containedin that piece of walk: and the distance traversed in passing through a square yard at a corner, is evidently a yard. Hence the area of the garden is 3630 square yards: t.e. if x be the width, x(x% +4) =3630. Solving fhis quadratic, we find x =60. Hence the dimensionsare 60, 603. A TANGLED TALE g6r Twelve answers have been received—seven right and five wrong. . C. G. L., NABoB, OLD Crow, and TyMPANUM assume that the numberof yardsin the length of the path is equal to the number of square yardsin the garden. Thisis true, but should have been proved. But each is guilty of darker deeds. C. G. L.’s “working” consists of dividing 3630 by 60. Whence came this divisor, O Segiel? Divination? Or was it a dream? I fear this solution is worth noting. OLD Crow’s is shorter, and so (if possible) worth ratherless. He says the answer “‘is at once seen to be 60x 603’! NaABop’s calculation is short, but ‘‘as rich as a NABOB”’ in error. He says that the square root of 3630, multiplied by 2, equals the length plus the breadth. That is 60-25 x 2 =120}. His first assertion is only true of a square garden. His second is irrelevant, since 60-25 is not the square root of 3630! Nay, Bob, this will xo¢ do! TyMPANUM says that, by extracting the square root of 3630, we get 60 yards with a remainderof 30/60, or half a yard, which we add so as to makethe oblong 60 x 604. This is very terrible: but worse remains behind. TyMPANUM proceeds thus: ““But why should there be the half-yard at all? Because withoutit there would be no spaceatall for flowers. By meansofit, we find reserved in the very centre a small plot of ground, two yards long by half a yard wide, the only space not occupied by walk.” But Balbus expressly said that the walk ‘‘used up the whole of the area’, O TympANnum! My tympais exhausted: my brain is num! I can say no more. HeEc1ia indulges, again and again, in that most fatal of all habits in computation—the making two mistakes which cancel each other. She takes x as the width of the garden, in yards, and x +4 as its length, and makes her first ‘‘coil” the sum of x-4, x~-4, x-I, *-I, te. 4% —3: but the fourth term should be x —14, so that her first coil is 4 a yard too long. Her second coil is the sum of x —24, x -2}4, x -3, x —3: here the first term should be x —2 and the last x ~34: these two mistakes cancel 962 STORIES and this coil is therefore right. And the same thing is true of every other coil but the last, which needs an extra half-yard to reach the end of the path: and this exactly balances the mistake in the first coil. Thus the sumtotal of the coils comes right though the workingis all wrong. Of the seven who are right, DINAH MITE, JANET, MAGPIE, and TAFFY make the same assumption as C. G. L. and Co. They then solve by a quadratic. MAGPIE also tries it by arithmetical progression, but fails to notice that the first andlast ‘‘coils’’ have special values. ALUMNUS ETONattempts to prove what C. G. L. assumes by a particular instance, taking a garden 6 by 54. He ought to have provedit generally: what is true of one number is not always true of others. OLD KiNG COLE solves it by an arithmetical progression. It is right, but too lengthy to be worth as much as a quadratic. VINDEX proves it very neatly, by pointing out that a yard of walk measured along the middle represents a square yard of garden, ‘‘whether we considerthe straight stretches of walk or the square yards at the angles, in which the middle line goes half a yard in one direction and then turns a right angle and goes half a yard in anotherdirection.” CLASS LIST I VINDEX. II ALUMNUS ETONZ. OLD KiNG COLE. lit DINAH MITE. MAGPIE. JANET. TAFFY. A TANGLED TALE 963 ANSWERS TO KNOT X § 1. THE CHELSEA PENSIONERS Problem.—If 70 per cent havelost an eye, 75 per cent an ear, 80 per cent an arm, 85 per cent a leg: what percentage, at least, must havelost all four? Answer.—Ten. Solution.—({I adopt that of PoLar Star, as being better than my own.) Adding the wounds together, we get 70 +75 +80+4+85=310, among I00 men; which gives 3 to each, and 4 to 10 men. Therefore the least percentage is Io. Nineteen answers have been received. Oneis ‘‘5’’, but, as no workingis given withit, it must, in accordance with the rule, remain ‘‘a deed without a name’. JANET makes it ““35zq . Iam sorry she has misunderstood the question, and has supposed that those who had lost an ear were 75 per cent of those who had lost an eye; and so on, Of course, on this supposition, the percentages must all be multiplied together. This she has donecorrectly, but I can give her no honours, as I do not think the question will fairly bear her interpretation. THREE SCORE AND TEN makesit “19?’’. Her solution has given me—I will not say ‘‘many anxious days andsleepless nights’, for I wish to be strictly truthful, but—sometrouble in making any sense at all of it. She makes the numberof “pensioners wounded once” to be 310 (“per cent,” I suppose!): dividing by 4, she gets 774 as “‘average percentage’: again dividing by 4, she gets 19% as ‘“‘percentage wounded four times’’. Does she suppose wounds of different kinds to “absorb” each other, so to speak? Then, no doubt, the data are equivalent to 77 pensioners with one wound each and a half-pensioner with a half-wound. And does she then suppose these concentrated woundsto be transferable, so that 2 of these unfortunates can obtain perfect 964 STORIES health by handing over their wounds to the remaining }? Granting these suppositions, her answeris right; or rather if the question had been, ‘‘A road is covered with one inch of gravel, along 774 per cent of it. How muchofit could be covered 4 inches deep with the same material?’ her answer would have been right. But alas, that wasn’t the question! DELTA makes some most amazing assumptions: “let every one whohas notlost an eye havelost an ear,” “Jet every one whohas not lost both eyes and ears have lost an arm.” Her ideas of a battlefield are grim indeed. Fancy a warrior who would continuefighting after losing both eyes, both ears, and both arms! This is a case which she (or “‘it’”’?) evidently considers possible. Next come eight writers who have made the unwarrantable assumption that, because 70 per cent have lost an eye, therefore 30 per cent have notlost one, so that they have both eyes. This is illogical. If you give me a bag containing Ioo sovereigns, and if in an hour I come to you (my face not beaming with gratitude nearly so much as when I received the bag) to say, “I am sorryto tell you that 70 of these sovereigns are bad,” do I thereby guarantee the other 30 to be good? Perhaps I have not tested them yet. The sides‘ofthis illogical octagon are as follows, in alphabetical order: ALGERNON Bray, Dinau MITE, G.S.C., JANE E., J. D. W., Macpie (who makesthe delightful remark, ‘“‘Therefore 90 per cent have two of something,’ recalling to one’s memorythat fortunate monarch with whom Xerxes was so much pleased that “‘he gave him ten of everything’’!), S.S.G., and Toxo. BRADSHAW OF THE Future and T. R.do the question in a piecemeal fashion—on the principle that the 70 per cent and the 75 per cent, though commencedat opposite ends of the 100, must overlap by at least 45 per cent; and so on. This is quite correct working, but not, I think, quite the best way of doingit. The other five competitors will, I hope, feel themselves sufficiently glorified by being placed in the first class, without my composing a Triumphal Odefor each! A TANGLED TALE . 965 CLASS LIST T Op Cat. POLAR STAR. OLD HEN. SIMPLE SUSAN. WHITE SUGAR. II BRADSHAW OF THE FUTURE. T.R. III ALGERNON BRAY. J.D. W. DINAH MITE. MAGPIE. G. S.C. S. S. G. JANE E. TOKIO. § 2. CHANGE oF Day I must postpone, szne die, the geographical problem— partly because I have not yet received the statistics I am hoping for, and partly because I am myself so entirely puzzled by it; and when an examineris himself dimly hovering between a secondclass and a third, how is he to decide the position of others? § 3. THE Son’s AGES Problem.—Atfirst, two of the ages are together equal to the third. A few years afterwards, two of them are together double of the third. When the numberof years since thefirst occasion is two-thirds of the sum of the ages on that occasion, one age is 21. What are the other two? Answey.—15 and 18. Solution.—Let the ages at first be x, y, (x+y). Now, if a+b=2c, then (a—n)+(b-—n)=2(c —n), whatever be the value of ». Hence the secondrelationship, if ever true, 966 STORIES was always true. Hence it was true at first. But it cannot be true that x an] y are together double of (x+y). Hence it must be true of (x +-y), together with x or y; and it does not matter which we take. We assume, then, (x+y) +% = 2, 1.€.y=2%x. Hence the three ages were, at first, x, 2%, 3x; and the number of years since that time is two-thirds of 6x, 2.e. is 4x. Hence the present ages are 5x, 6x, 7x. The ages are clearly entegers, since this is only “the year when one of my sons comes of age”. Hence 7x =21, x=3, and the other ages are 15, 38. Eighteen answers have been received. Oneof the writers merely asserts that the first occasion was 12 years ago, that the ages were then q, 6, and 3; and that on the second occasion they were 14, 11, and 8! As a Romanfather, I ought to withhold the nameof the rash writer; but respect for age makes mebreak the rule: it is THREE SCORE AND TEN. JANE E. also asserts that the ages at first were 9, 6, 3: then she calculates the present ages, leaving the second occasion unnoticed. OLD HEN is nearly as bad; she “tried various numberstill I found one thatfitted all the conditions”; but merely scratching up the earth, and pecking about, is noi the way to solve a problem, O venerable bird! And close after OLD HEN prowls, with hungryeyes, OLD CaT, who calmly assumes, to begin with, that the son who comesof ageis the e/dest. Eat your bird, Puss, for you will get nothing from me! There are yet two zeroes to dispose of. MINERVA assumes that, on every occasion, a son comes of age; and that it is only such a son whois “tipped with gold’’. Is it wise thus to interpret, ““Now, my boys, calculate your ages, and you shall have the money’? BRADSHAW OF THE FuTURE says “let” the ages at first be 9, 6, 3, then assumes that the second occasion was 6 years afterwards, and on these baseless assumptions brings out the right answers. Guide future travelers, an thou wilt; thou art no Bradshaw for this Age! Of those who win honours, the merely “honourable” A TANGLED TALE 967 are two. DINAH MITEascertains(rightly) the relationship between the three ages at first, but then assumes one of them to be “‘6’’, thus makingtherest of her solution tentative. M. F. C. does the algebraall right up to the conclusion that the present ages are 5z, 6z, and 72; it then assumes, without giving any reason, that 7z = 21. Of the more honourable, DELTA attempts a novelty— to discover which son comes of age by elimination: it assumes, successively, that it is the middle one, and thatit is the youngest; and in each case it apparently brings out an absurdity. Still, as the proof contains the following bit of algebra: “63 =7%+4y; .°. 21=%+4/7 of y,” I trustit will admit that its proof is not guite conclusive. The rest of its work is good. MAGPIE betrays the deplorable tendency of her tribe—to appropriate any stray conclusion she comesacross, without having any sérict logical right to it. Assuming A, B, C, as the agesat first, and E as the number of the years that have elapsed since then, she finds(rightly) the 3 equations, 2A =B, C=B+4A,D=2B. She then says, ‘Supposing that A =1, then B=2, C =3, and D=4. Therefore for A, B, C, D, four numbers are wanted which shall be to each other as 1:2:3:4.”". It is in the “‘therefore’”’ that I detect the unconscientiousness of this bird. The conclusion 7s true, but this is only because the equations are “homogeneous” (7.e. having one “unknown” in each term), a fact which I strongly suspect had not been grasped—I beg pardon, clawed—by her. Were I to lay this little pitfall: “A +1=B, B+1=C; supposing A =1, then B =2, and C =3. Therefore for A, B, C, three numbers are wanted which shall be to one another as 1:2:3,” would you not flutter down into it, O MaGPie! as amiably as a Dove? SIMPLE SUSANis anything but simple to me. After ascertaining that the 3 ages atfirst are as 3:2:1, she says, ‘‘Then, as two-thirds of their sum, added to one of them, =21, the sum cannot exceed 30, and consequently the highest cannot exceed 15.” I suppose her (mental) argument is somethinglike this: ‘“Two-thirds of sum, +one age, =2I; .*. sum, +3 halves of one age, 968 STORIES = 314. But 3 halves of one age cannot be less than 14 (here I perceive that SIMPLE SUSAN would on no account present a guinea to a newborn baby!]; hence the sum cannot exceed 30.” This is ingenious, but her proof, after that, is (as she candidly admits) ‘‘clumsy and roundabout’’. She finds that there are 5 possible sets of ages, and eliminates four of them. Suppose that, instead of 5, there had been 5 million possible sets! Would SIMPLE Susan have courageously ordered in the necessary gallon of ink and ream of paper? The solution sent in by C. R.is, like that of SIMPLE SUSAN,partly tentative, and so does notrise higher than being Clumsily Right. Among those who have earned the highest honours, ALGERNON Braysolves the problem quite correctly, but adds that there is nothing to exclude the supposition that all the ages were fractional. This would make the number of answersinfinite. Let me meekly protest that I never intended my readers to devote the rest of their lives to writing out answers! E. M. R1x points out that, if fractional ages be admissible, any one of the three sons might be the one “‘come of age’; but she rightly rejects this supposition on the ground that it would make theproblem indeterminate. WHITE SUGAR is the only one who has detected an oversight of mine: I had forgotten the possibility (which of course ought to be allowed for) that the son who came of age that year, need not have done so by that day, so that he might be only 20. This gives a second solution, v2z., 20, 24, 28. Well said, pure Crystal! Verily, thy ‘‘fair discourse hath been as sugar”’! CLASS LIST I ALGERNON Bray. S. S. G. AN OLD FOGEY: TOKIO. E. M. Rix. T. R. G. S.C. WHITE SUGAR. A TANGLED TALE 969 II C. R. MAGPIE, DELTA. SIMPLE SUSAN. Ill D1nAu MITE. M. F. C. I have received more than one remonstrance on my assertion, in the Chelsea Pensioners’ problem, that it was illogical to assume, from the datum, “‘7o per cent have lost an eye,” that 30 per cent have not. ALGERNON BRAY states, as a paralel case, “Suppose Tommy’sfather gives him 4 apples, and he eats one of them, how many has he left?” and says, “I think we are justified in answering, 3.” I think so too. There is no ‘“‘must”’ here, and data are evidently meant to fix the answer exactly: but, if the question were set me, ‘“‘How many must he haveleft?” I should understand the data to be that his father gave him 4 at least, but may have given him more. I take this opportunity of thanking those who have sent, along with their answers to the Tenth Knot, regrets that there are no more Knots to come, or petitions that I should recall my resolution to bring them to an end.I am most grateful for their kind words; but I think it wisest to end what, at best, was but a lame attempt. ““The stretched metre of an antique song”’ is beyond my compass; and my puppets were neither distinctly 7m mylife (like those I now address), nor yet (like Alice and the Mock Turtle) distinctly out of it. Yet let me at least fancy, as I lay downthe pen, that I carry with me into mysilent life, dear reader, a farewell smile from your unseen face, and a kindly farewell pressure from your unfelt hand! Andso, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,that I shall say ‘“‘good night!”’ till it be morrow. NOVELTY AND ROMANCEMENT I HAD grave doubtsatfirst whetherto call this passageof mylife ‘‘A Wail”, or “A Pzan’”’, so much doesit contain that is great and glorious, so much that is sombre and stern. Seeking for something which should bea sort of medium between the two, I decided, at last, on the above heading—wrongly, of course; I am always wrong:butlet mebe calm. It is a characteristic of the true orator never to yield to a burst of passion at the outset; the mildest of commonplaces are all he dare indulge in at first, and thence he mounts gradually;—‘“vires acquirit eundo.” Suffice it, then, to say, in thefirst place, that I am Leopold Edgar Stubbs. I state this fact distinctly in commencing, to prevent all chance of the reader’s confounding me either with the eminent shoemaker of that name, of Pottle-street, Camberwell, or with my less reputable, but more widely known, namesake, Stubbs, the light comedian, of the Provinces; both which connections I repel with horror and disdain: no offence, however, being intended to either of the individuals named—men whom I have never seen, whom I hope I nevershall. So much for commonplaces. Tell me now,oh! man, wise in interpretation of dreams and omens, how it chanced that, on a Friday afternoon, turning suddenly out of Great Wattles-street, I should come into sudden and disagreeable collision with an humble individual of unprepossessing exterior, but with an eye that glowed with all the fire of genius? I had dreamed at night that the great idea of mylife was to be fulfilled. What was the great idea of my life? I will tell you. With shameor sorrow I will tell you. My thirst and passion from boyhood (predominating over the love of taws and running neck and neck with my appetite for toffee) has been for poetry—for poetry in its widest and wildest sense—for poetry untrammeled by the 97° NOVELTY AND ROMANCEMENT 971 laws of sense, rhyme, or rhythm, soaring throughthe universe, and echoing the music of the spheres! From my youth, nay, from my very cradle, I have yearned for poetry, for beauty, for novelty, for romancement. WhenI say ‘‘yearned”’, I employ a word mildly expressive of what may be considered as an outline of my feelings in my calmer moments: it is about as capable of picturing the headlong impetuosity of mylife-long enthusiasm as those unanatomical paintings which adorn the outside of the Adelphi, representing Flexmorein one of the many conceivable attitudes into which the human framehas never yet been reduced,are of conveying to the speculativepitgoer a true idea of the feats performed by that extraordinary compound of humanity and Indian-rubber. I have wandered from the point: that is a peculiarity, if I may be permitted to say so, incidental to life; and, as I remarked on an occasion which time will not suffer me more fully to specify, ““What, after all, zs life?” nor did I find any one of the individuals present (we were a party of nine, including the waiter, and it was while the soup was being removed that the above-recorded observation was made) capable of furnishing me with a rational answerto the question. The verses which I wrote at an early period of life were eminently distinguished by a perfect freedom from conventionalism, and were thus unsuited to the present exactions of literature: in a future age they will be read and admired, ‘‘when Milton,” as my venerable uncle has frequently exclaimed, “when Milton and such like are forgot!’’ Had it not been for this sympathetic relative, I firmly believe that the poetry of my nature would never have come out; I can still recall the feelings which thrilled me when he offered me sixpence for a rhymeto ‘‘despotism’’. I never succeeded,it is true, in finding the rhyme, but it was on the very next Wednesdaythat I penned my well known ‘‘Sonnet on a Dead Kitten’’, and in the course of a fortnight had commencedthreeepics, the titles of which I have unfortunately now forgotten. 972 STORIES Seven volumes of poetry have I given to an ungrateful world during mylife; they have all shared the fate of true genius—obscurity and contempt. Not that any fault could be found with their contents; whatever their deficiencies may have been, no reviewer has yet dared to criticize them. Thisis a great fact. The only composition of mine which has yet made any noise in the world, was a sonnet I addressed to one of the Corporation of Muggleton-cum-Swillside, on the occasion of his being selected Mayor of that town. It was largely circulated through private hands, and muchtalked of at the time; and though the subject of it, with characteristic vulgarity of mind, failed to appreciate the delicate compliments it involved, and indeed spokeof it rather disrespectfully than otherwise, I am inclined to think that it possesses all the elements of greatness. The concluding couplet was added at the suggestion of a friend, who assured me it was necessary to complete the sense, and in this point I deferred to his maturer judgment: “When Desolation snatched her tearful prey From the lorn empire of despairing day; Whenall the light, by gemless fancy thrown, Served but to animate the putrid stone; When monarchs,lessening on the wildered sight, Crumblingly vanishedinto utter night; When murderstalked with thirstier strides abroad, And redly flashed the never-sated sword; In such an hour thy greatness had been seen— Thatis, if such an hour had ever been— In such an hour thy praises shall be sung, If not by mine, by many a worthier tongue; And thou be gazed upon by wondering men, When such an hourarrives, but not till then!”’ Alfred Tennyson is Poet Laureate, and it is not for me to dispute his claim to that eminent position; still I cannot help thinking, that if the Government had only come forward candidly at the time, and thrownthe thing open to general competition, proposing some subject to test NOVELTY AND ROMANCEMENT 973 the powers of the candidate (say “‘Frampton’s Pill of Health, an Acrostic’’), a very different result might have been arrived at. But let us return to our muttons (as our noble allies do most unromantically express themselves), and to the mechanic of Great Wattles-street. He was coming out of a small shop—rudely built it was, dilapidated exceedingly, and in its general appearance seedy—what did I see in all this to inspire a belief that a great epoch in my existence arrived? Reader, I saw the signboard! Yes. Upon that rusty signboard, creaking awkwardly on its one hinge against the mouldering wall, was an inscription which thrilled me from head to foot with unwonted excitement. ‘Simon Lubkin. Dealer in Romancement.’’ Those were the very words. It was Friday, the fourth of June, half-past four p.m. Three times I read that inscription through, and then took out my pocketbook, and copied it on the spot; the mechanic regarding me during the whole proceeding with a stare of serious and (as I thoughtat the time) respectful astonishment. I stopped that mechanic, and entered into conversation with him; years of agony since then have gradually branded that scene upon my writhing heart, and I can repeat all that passed, word for word. Did the mechanic (this was myfirst question) possess a kindred soul, or did he not? Mechanic didn’t know ashedid. Was he aware (this with thrilling emphasis) of the meaning of that glorious inscription upon his signboard? Bless you, mechanic knewall about that’ere. Would mechanic (overlooking the suddenness of the invitation) object to adjourn to the neighbouring publichouse, and there discuss the point moreatleisure? Mechanic would not object to a drain. On the contrary. (Adjournment accordingly: brandy-and-water for two: conversation resumed.) 974 STORIES Did the article sell well, especially with the “mobile vulgus’’? Mechanic cast a look of good-natured pity on the questioner; the article sold well, he said, and the vulgars bought it most. Whynotadd “‘Novelty”’ to the inscription? (This was a critical moment: I trembled as I asked the question.) Not so bad an idea, mechanic thought: time was, it might have answered; but timeflies, you see. Was mechanicalone in his glory, or was there any one else who dealt as largely in the article? Mechanic would poundit, there was none. What was the article employed for? (I brought this question out with a gasp, excitement almost choking my utterance.) It would piece almost anything together, mechanic believed, and makeit solider nor stone. This was a sentencedifficult of interpretation. I thought it over a little, and then said, doubtfully, ‘“‘you mean, I presume, that it serves to connect the broken threadsof human destiny? to invest with a—with a sort of vital reality the chimerical productsof a fertile imagination?”’ Mechanic’s answer was short, and anything but encouraging: ‘“‘“mought be—,I’sno scollard, bless you.” At this point conversation certainly began to flag; I was seriously debating in my own mind whether this could really be the fulfilment of my life-cherished dream; soill did the scene harmonize with my ideas of romance, and so painfully did I feel my companion’s lack of sympathy in the enthusiasm of my nature—an enthusiasm which has found vent, ere now,in actions which the thoughtless crowd have too often attributed to mere eccentricity. I have risen with the lark—“day’s sweet harbinger’’— (once, certainly, if not oftener), with the aid of a patent alarm, and have gone forth at that unseemly hour, much to the astonishment of the housemaid cleaning the door steps, to “brush with hasty steps the dewy lawn’, and have witnessed the golden dawn with eyes yet half-closed NOVELTY AND ROMANCEMENT 975 in sleep. (I have always stated to my friends, in any allusion to the subject, that my raptures at that moment were such that I have never since ventured to expose myself to the influence of excitement so dangerous. In confidence, however, I admit that the reality did not come up to the idea I had formed of it over night, and by no meansrepaid the struggle of getting out of bed so early.) I have wandered in the solemn woods at night, and bent me o’er the moss-grown fountain, to lave in its crystal stream my tangled locks and fevered brow. (What though I was laid up with a severe cold in consequence, and that my hair was out of curl for a week? Do paltry considerations such as these, I ask, affect the poetry of the incident?) I have thrown open my small, but neatly furnished, cottage tenement, in the neighbourhood of St. John’s Wood, and invited an aged beggar in to “‘sit by myfire, and talk the night away’’. (It was immediately after reading Goldsmith’s ‘Deserted Village’. True it is that he told me nothing interesting, and that he took the hallclock with him when he departed in the morning;still my uncle has always said that he wishes he had been there, and that it displayed in me a freshness and greennessof fancy (or “‘disposition’’, I forget which) such as he had never expectedto see.) I feel that it is incumbent on me to enter more fully into this latter topic—the personal history of my uncle: the world will one day learn to revere the talents of that wonderful man, though a want of funds prevents, at present, the publication of the great system of philosophy of which he is the inventor. Meanwhile, out of the mass of priceless manuscripts which he has bequeathed to an ungrateful nation, I will venture to select one striking specimen. And when the day arrives that my poetry is appreciated by the world at large (distant though it now appear!) then, I feel assured, shall his genius also receive its meed of fame! 976 STORIES Among the papers of that respected relative, I find what appears to have been a leaf torn from somephilosophical work of the day: the following passage is scored. “Ts this your rose? It is mine. It is yours. Are these your houses? They are mine. Give to me (of) the bread. She gave him a box on the ear.”’ Against this occurs a marginal note in my uncle’s handwriting: ‘‘some call this unconnected writing: I have my own opinion.”’ This last was a favourite expression of his, veiling a profundity of ethical acumen on which it would be vain to speculate; indeed, so uniformly simple was the languageof this great man, that no one besides myself ever suspected his possessing more than the ordinary share of human intellect. May I, however, venture to express what I believe would have been my uncle’s interpretation of this remarkable passage? It appears that the writer intended to distinguish the provinces of Poetry, Real Property, and Personal Property. The inquirer touchesfirst on flowers, and with what a gush of generous feeling does the answer break upon him! “It is mine. It is yours.” That is the beautiful, the true, the good; these are not hampered by petty consideration of ‘‘meum’’ and ‘‘tuum’’; these are the common property of men. (It was with some such idea as this that I drew up the oncecelebrated bill, entitled “‘An Act for exempting Pheasants from the operation of the Game Laws, on the ground of Beauty’—a bill which would, doubtless, have passed both Housesin triumph, but that the member who had undertaken the care of it was unfortunately incarcerated in a Lunatic Asylum before it had reached the second reading.) Encouraged by the successofhis first question, our inquirer passes on to “houses” (‘‘Real Property’’, you will observe); he is here met by thestern, chilling answer, ‘“They are mine’”’—noneof the liberal sentiment which dictated the former reply, but in its place a dignified assertion of the rights of property. Had this been a genuine Socratic dialogue, and not NOVELTY AND ROMANCEMENT 977 merely a modern imitation, the inquirer would have probably here interrupted with “To meindeed,” or, “‘T, for my part,” or, “But how otherwise?”’ or some other of those singular expressions, with which Plato makes his characters display at once their blind acquiescence in their instructor’s opinions, and their utter inability to express themselves grammatically. But the writer takes anotherline of thought; the bold inquirer, undeterred by the coldness of the last reply, proceeds from questions to demands, “give me(of) the bread’’; and here the conversation abruptly ceases, but the moral of the whole is pointed in the narrative:‘‘she gave him a box on the ear.”’ This is not the philosophy of one individualor nation, the sentimentis, if I may so say, European; and I am borne out in this theory by the fact that the book has evidently been printed in three parallel columns, English, French, and German. Such a man was myuncle; and with such a man did I resolve to confront the suspected mechanic. I appointed the following morning for an interview, when I would personally inspect “‘the article” (I could not bring myself to utter the beloved worditself). I passed a restless and feverish night, crushed by a sense of the approaching crisis. The hour cameat last—the hourof misery and despair; it always does so, it cannot be put off forever; even on a visit to a dentist, as my childhood can attest with bitter experience, we are not forever getting there; the fatal door too surely dawns upon us, and our heart, which for the last half-hour has been gradually sinking lower and lower, until we almost doubt its existence, vanishes suddenly downwards into depths hitherto undreamed of. And so, I repeat it, the hour cameatlast. Standing before that base mechanic’s door, with a throbbing and expectant heart, my eye chanced to fall once more upon that signboard, once more I perused its strange inscription. Oh! fatal change! Oh! horror! What do I see? Have I been deluded by a heated imagination? 21 L.C. 978 STORIES A hideous gap yawns between the N and the C, making it not one word but two! And the dream wasover. At the cornerof the street I turned to take a sad fond look at the spectre of a phantom hope, I once had held so dear. “‘Adieu!” I whispered; this was all the last farewell I took, and I leant upon my walking stick and wiped away a tear. On the following day I entered into commercial relations with the firm of Dumpy and Spagg, wholesale dealers in the wine and spirit department. The signboard yet creaks upon the mouldering wall, but its sound shall make music in these ears nevermore— ah! nevermore. 08S8 A PHOTOGRAPHER’S DAY OUT I am shaken, andsore, andstiff, and bruised. As I have told you manytimesalready, I haven’t the least idea how it happened and thereis no use in plaguing me with any more questions about it. Of course, if you wish it, I can read you an extract from my diary, giving a full account of the events of yesterday, but if you expect to find any clue to the mystery in that, I fear you are doomed to be disappointed. August 23, Tuesday. They say that we Photographers are a blind race at best; that we learn to look at even the prettiest faces as so much light and shade; that we seldom admire, and neverlove. This is a delusion I long to break through—if I could only find a young lady to photograph, realizing my ideal of beauty—above all, if her name should be—(whyis it, I wonder, that I dote on the name Amelia more than any other word in the English language?)— I feel sure that I could shake off this cold, philosophic lethargy. The time has comeat last. Only this evening I fell in with young Harry Glover in the Haymarket—“Tubbs!”’ he shouted, slapping me familiarly on the back, “my Uncle wants you down to-morrow at his Villa, camera andall!’’ “But I don’t know your uncle,” I replied, with my characteristic caution. (N.B. If I have virtue, it is quiet, gentlemanly caution.) “Never mind, old boy, he knowsall about you. You be off by the early train, and take your whole kit of bottles, for you'll find lots of faces to uglify, and ” “Ca’n’t go,” I said rather gruffly, for the extent of the job alarmed me, and I wished to cut him short, having a decided objection to talking slang in the publicstreets. “Well, they’ll be precious cut up aboutit, that’s all,” 979 980 STORIES said Harry, with rather a blank face, ‘“‘and my cousin Amelia——” “Don’t say another word!”’ I cried enthusiastically, “Tl go!’’ And as my omnibus came by at the moment, I jumped in and rattled off before he had recovered his astonishment at my change of manner. Soit is settled, and to-morrow I am to see an Amelia, and—OhDestiny, whathast thou in store for me? August 24, Wednesday. A glorious morning. Packed in a great hurry,luckily breaking only two bottles and three glasses in doing so. Arrived at Rosemary Villa as the party were sitting down to breakfast. Father, mother, two sons from school, a host of children from the nursery and the inevitable BABY. But how shall I describe the daughter? Words are powerless; nothing but a Tablotype could do it. Her nose was in beautiful perspective—her mouth wanting perhaps the least possible foreshortening—but the exquisite half-tints on the cheek would have blinded one to any defects, and as to the high light on her chin, it was (photographically speaking) perfection. Oh! what a picture she would have made if fate had not—but I am anticipating. There was a Captain Flanaghan present I am aware that the preceding paragraphis slightly abrupt, but when I reached that point, I remembered that the idiot actually believed himself engaged to Amelia (my Amelia!). I choked, and could get no further. His figure, I am willing to admit, was good: some might have admired his face; but what is face or figure without brains? My own figure is perhaps a J:#ile inclined to the robust; in stature I am none of your military giraffes—but why should I describe myself? My photograph (done by myself) will be sufficient evidence to the world. The breakfast, no doubt, was good, but I knew not what I ate or drank; I lived for Amelia only, and as I gazed on that peerless brow, those chiseled features, I A PHOTOGRAPHER’S DAY OUT 981 clenched my fist in an involuntary transport (upsetting my coffee-cup in doing so), and mentally exclaimed, ‘I will photograph that woman,or perish in the attempt!” After breakfast the work of the day commenced, which I will here briefly record. PICTURE 1.—Paterfamilias. This I wanted to try again, but they all declared it would do very well, and had “‘just his usual expression’”’; though unless his usual expression wasthat of a man with a bonein his throat, endeavouring to alleviate the agony of choking by watching the end of his nose with both eyes, I must admit that this was too favourable a statementof the case. PIcTURE 2.—Materfamilias. She told us with a simper, as she sat down, that she “‘had been very fond of theatricals in her youth”, and that she ‘‘wished to be taken in a favourite Shakespearean character’. What the character was, after long and anxious thought on the subject, I have given up as a hopeless mystery, not knowing any one of his heroines in whoman attitude of such spasmodic energy could have been combined with a face of such blank indifference, or who could have been thought appropriately costumed in a blue silk gown, with a Highland scarf over one shoulder, a ruffle of Queen Elizabeth’s time roundthe throat, and a hunting-whip. * PICTURE 3.—17th sitting. Placed the babyin profile. After waiting till the usual kicking had subsided, uncovered the lens. The little wretch instantly threw its head back, luckily only an inch, as it was stopped by the nurse’s nose, establishing the infant’s claim to ‘‘first blood” (to use a sporting phrase). This, of course, gave two eyes to the result, something that might be called a nose, and an unnaturally wide mouth. Called it a full-face accordingly and went on to PICTURE 4.—The three youngergirls, as they would have appeared, if by any possibility a black dose could have been administered to each of them at the same 982 STORIES moment, and the three tied together by the hair before the expression produced by the medicine had subsided from any of their faces. Of course, I kept this view of the subject to myself, and merely said that “it reminded me of a picture of the three Graces’’, but the sentence ended in an involuntary groan, which I had the greatest difficulty in converting into a cough. PICTURE 5.—This was to have been the great artistic triumph of the day; a family group, designed by the two parents, and combining the domestic with theallegorical. It was intended to represent the baby being crowned with flowers, by the united efforts of the children, regulated by the advice of the father, under the personal superintendence of the mother; and to combine with this the secondary meaning of ‘Victory transferring her laurel crown to Innocence, with Resolution, Independence, Faith, Hope and Charity, assisting in the graceful task, while Wisdom looks benignly on, and smiles approval!”’ Such, I say, was the intention; the result, to any unprejudiced observer, was capable of but one interpretation— that the baby was in a fit—that the mother (doubtless under some erroneous notionsof the principles of Human Anatomy), was endeavouring to recover it by bringing the crown of its head in contact with its chest—that the two boys, seeing no prospect for the infant but immediate destruction, were tearing out somelocks of its hair as mementosof the fatal event—that two of the girls were waiting for a chance at the baby’s hair, and employing the time in strangling the third—and that the father, in despair at the extraordinary conduct of his family, had stabbed himself, and was feeling for his pencil-case, to make a memorandum of having doneso. All this time I had no opportunity of asking my Amelia for a sitting, but during luncheon I succeeded in finding one, and, after introducing the subject of photographsin general, I turned to her and said, “‘before the day isout, — Miss Amelia, I hope to do myself the honour of coming to you for a negative.” A PHOTOGRAPHER'S .DAY OUT 983 With a sweet smile she replied ‘‘certainly, Mr. Tubbs. There is a cottage near here, that I wish you would try after luncheon, and when you've donethat, I shall be at yourservice.” “Faix! an’ I hope she’ll give you a decoisive one!’’ broke in that awkward Captain Flanaghan, ‘‘wo’n’t you, Mely Darlint?”’ “I trust so, Captain Flanaghan,”’ I interposed with great dignity; but all politeness is wasted on that animal; he broke into a great “haw! haw!’’ and Amelia and I could hardly refrain from laughing at his folly. She, however, with ready tact turnedit off, saying to the bear, “come, come, Captain, we mustn’t be too hard on him!” (Hard on me! on me! bless thee, Amelia!) The sudden happiness of that moment nearly overcame me; tears rose to my eyesas I thought, “the wish of a Life is accomplished! I shall photograph an Amelia!” Indeed, I almost think I should have gone down on my kneesto thank her, had not the table-cloth interfered with my so doing, and had I not known what a difficult position it is to recover from. However, I seized an opportunity toward the close of the meal to give utterance to my overwroughtfeelings: turning toward Amelia, who wassitting next to me, I had just murmured the words, “‘there beats in this bosom a heart,’ when a general silence warned meto leave the sentence unfinished. With the most admirable presence of mind she said, “some tart, did you say, Mr. Tubbs? Captain Flanaghan, may I trouble you to cut Mr. Tubbs someof that tart?” “Tt’s nigh done,’ said the captain, poking his great head almostinto it, “will I send him the dish, Mely?”’ “No, sir!” Linterrupted, with a look that ought to have crushed him, but he only grinned and said, “don’t be modest now, Tubbs, me bhoy,sure there’s plenty more in the larder.”’ Amelia was looking anxiously at me, so I swallowed my rage— and thetart. Luncheon over, after receiving directions by which to 984 STORIES find the cottage, I attached to my camera the hood used for developing pictures in the open air, placed it over my shoulder, and set out for the hill which had been pointed out to me. My Amelia was sitting in the window working, as I passed with the machine; the Irish idiot was with her. In reply to my look of undying affection, she said anxiously, “Y’m sure that’s too heavy for you, Mr. Tubbs. Wo’n’t you have a boy to carry it?” “Ora donkey?” giggled the captain. I pulled up short, and faced round,feeling that now, if ever, the dignity of Man, and the liberty of the subject, must be asserted. To fer I merely said, ‘‘thanks, thanks!” kissing my hand as I spoke; then, fixing my eyes on the idiot at her side, I hissed through my clenchedteeth, “we shall meet again, Captain!” “Sure, I hope so, Tubbs,”’ said the unconscious blockhead, “‘sharp six is the dinner hour, mind!” A cold shiver passed over me; I had made mygreat effort, and had failed; I shouldered my camera again, and strode moodily on. Two steps, and I was myself again; her eyes, I knew, were upon me, and once more I trod the gravel with an elastic tread. What mattered to me, in that moment, the whole tribe of captains? should they disturb my equanimity? The hill was nearly a mile from the house, and I reachedit tired and breathless. Thoughts of Amelia, however, bore me up. I selected the best point of view for the cottage, so as to include a farmerandcowin thepicture, cast one fond look toward the distant villa, and, muttering, ‘‘Amelia, ’tis for thee!’”’ removed thelid of the lens; in I minute and 40 secondsI replaced it: “it is over!’’ I cried in uncontrollable excitement, ‘Amelia, thou art mine!”’ Eagerly, tremblingly, I covered my head with the hood, and commenced the development. Trees rather misty— well! the wind had blown them about a little; that A PHOTOGRAPHER’S DAY OUT 985 wouldn’t show much—the farmer? well, he had walked on a yard or two, and I should besorry to state how many arms and legs he appeared with—never mind! call him a spider, a centipede, anything—the cow? I must, however reluctantly, confess that the cow had three heads, and though such an animal may becurious,it is of picturesque. However, there could be no mistake about the cottage; its chimneyswereall that could be desired, and, “all things considered,” I thought, ‘‘Amelia will——’” At this point my soliloquy was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, more peremptory than suggestive. I withdrew myself from the hood, need I say with what quiet dignity? and turned upon the stranger. He was a thickbuilt man, vulgar in dress, repulsive in expression, and carried a straw in his mouth: his companion outdid him in these peculiarities. ““Young man,”’ began thefirst,‘“‘ye’re trespassing here, and ya mun take yourself off, and no bones aboutit.”’ I need hardly say that I took no notice of this remark, but.took up the bottle of hypo-sulphite of soda, and proceeded to fix thepicture; he tried to stop me; I resisted: the negative fell, and was broken. I remember nothing further, except that I have an indistinct notion that I hit somebody. If you can find anything in what I have just read to you to account for my present condition, you are welcometo do so; but, as I before remarked,all I can tell you is that I am shaken, and sore, andstiff, and bruised, and that how I cameso I haven’t thefaintest idea. Oitaeate65tae5tae08le8ite69taFOiObAeOFtaSPieFhneFeaPieils WILHELM VON SCHMITZ CHAPTER I ‘““* Twas Ever Thus’”’ (Old Play) THE sultry glare of noon was already giving place to the cool of a cloudless evening, and the lulled ocean was washing against the Pier with a low murmur,suggestive to poetical minds of the kindred ideas of motion and lotion, when two travelers might have been seen, by such as chose to look that way, approaching the secluded town of Whitby by one of those headlong paths, dignified by the nameof road, which serve as entrancesinto the place, and which were originally constructed, it is supposed, on the somewhat fantastic model of pipes running into a water-butt. The elder of the two was a sallow and careworn man; his features were adorned with what had been often at a distance mistaken for a moustache, and were shaded by a beaver hat, of doubtful age, and of appearance which, if not respectable, was at least venerable. The younger, in whom the sagacious reader already recognizes the hero of mytale, possessed a form which, once seen, could scarcely be forgotten: a slight tendency to obesity proved but a trifling drawback to the manly grace ofits contour, and thoughthe strict laws of beauty mightperhaps have required a somewhat longer pair of legs to make up the proportion of his figure, and that his eyes should match rather more exactly than they chanced to do, yet to those critics who are untrammeled with any laws of taste, and there are many such, to those who could close their eyes to the faults in his shape, and single out its beauties, though few were ever found capable of the task, to those above all who knew and esteemed his personal character, and believed that the powers of his 986 WILHELM VON SCHMITZ 987 mind transcended those of the age he lived in, though alas! none such has as yet turned up—to those he was a very Apollo. Whatthoughit had not been wholly false to assert that too much grease had been applied to his hair, and too little soap to his hands? that his nose turned too much up, and his shirt collars too much down? that his whiskers had borrowed all the colour from his cheeks, excepting a little that had run down into his waistcoat? Suchtrivial criticisms were unworthythe notice of any wholaid claim to the enviedtitle of the connoisseur. He had been christened William, and his father’s name was Smith, but though he had introduced himself to many of the higher circles in London under the imposing name of “Mr. Smith, of Yorkshire’, he had unfortunately not attracted so large a share of public notice as he was confident he merited: some had asked him how far back he traced his ancestry; others had been mean enough to hint that his position in society was not entirely unique; while the sarcastic enquiries of others touching the dormant peeragein his family, to which, it was suggested, he was aboutto lay claim, had awakenedin the breast of the noble-spirited youth an ardentlonging for that high birth and connection which an adverse Fortune had denied him. Hence he had conceived the notion of that fiction, which perhaps in his case must be considered merely as a poetical licence, whereby he passed himself off upon the world under the sounding appellation which heads this tale. This step had already occasioned a large increase in his popularity, a circumstance whichhis friends spoke of under the unpoetical simile of a bad sovereign freshgilt, but which he himself more pleasantly described as, “ a violet pale, At length discovered in its mossy dale, And borne to sit with kings’: a destiny for which, as it is generally believed, violets are not naturally fitted. The travelers, each buried in his own thoughts, paced in silence down the steep, save when an unusually sharp 988 STORIES stone, or an unexpected dip in the road, produced oneof those involuntary exclamations of pain, which so triumphantly demonstrate the connection between Mind and Matter. At length the young traveler, rousing himself with an effort from his painful reverie, broke upon the meditations of his companion with the unexpected question, ““Think you she will be much altered in feature? I trust me not.” “Think who?”’ testily rejoined the other: then hastily correcting himself, with an exquisite sense of grammar,he substituted the expressive phrase, ‘“‘Who’s the she you’re after?”’ “Forget you then,” asked the young man, who wasso intensely poetical in soul that he never spoke in ordinary prose, ‘forget you the subject we conversed on but now? Trust me, she hath dwelt in my thoughts ever since.” ““But now!”’ his friend repeated, in sarcastic tone, “it is an hour good since you spokelast.” The young man noddedassent; ‘‘An hour? true, true.We were passing Lyth, as I bethink me, and lowly in thine ear was I murmuring that touching sonnet to the sea I writ of late, beginning, ‘Thou roaring, snoring, heaving, grieving main which’ ”’ “‘Forpity’s sake!”’ interrupted the other, and there was real earnestness in that pleading tone, “don’t let us haveit all again! I have heard it with patience oncealready.” “Thou hast, thou hast,” the baffled poet replied: ‘‘well then, she shall again be the topic of my thoughts,”’ and he frowned and bit his lip, muttering to himself such words as cooky, hooky, and crooky, as if he were trying to find a rhyme to something. And now the pair were passing near a bridge, and shops were on their left and - water on their right; and from beneath uprose a confused hubbub of sailors’ voices, and, wafted on the landward breeze, came an aroma, dimly suggestive of salt herring, and all things from the heaving waters in the harbour to the light smoke that floated gracefully above the housetops, suggested nought but poetry to the mind of the gifted youth. WILHELM VON SCHMITZ 989 CHAPTER II “And I, for One” (Old Play) “But about she,’’ resumed the man ofprose,‘‘what’s her name? You never told methat yet.” A faint flush crossed the interesting features of the youth; could it be that her name was unpoetical, and did not consort with his ideas of the harmony of nature? He spokereluctantly andindistinctly; ““Her name”, he faintly gasped,“‘is Sukie.”’ A long, low whistle was the only reply; thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, the elder speaker turned away, while the unhappy youth, whose delicate nerves were cruelly shaken byhis friend’s ridicule, grasped therailing near to him to steadyhis tottering feet. Distant sounds of melody from the cliff at this moment reached their ears, and while his unfeeling comrade wandered in the direction of the music, the distressed poet hastily sought the Bridge, to give his pent-up feelings vent, unnoticed by the passers-by. The Sun was setting as he reached the spot, and thestill surface of the waters below, as he crossed on to the Bridge, calmed his perturbed spirit, and sadly leaning his elbowson the rail, he pondered. What visionsfilled that noble soul, as, with features that would have beamed with intelligence, had they only possessed an expressionatall, and a frown that only needed dignity to be appalling, he fixed upon the sluggish tide those fine though bloodshot eyes? Visions of his early days; scenes from the happy time _ of pinafores, treacle, and innocence; through the long vista of the past camefloating spectres of long-forgotten spelling-books, slates scrawled thick with dreary sums, that seldom cameout at all, and never came outright; tingling and somewhatpainful sensations returnedto his ggo STORIES knuckles and the roots of his hair; he was a boy once more. “Now, young man there!”’ so broke a voice upon the air, ‘‘tak whether o’ the two roads thou likes, but thou ca’n’t stop in’t middle!’’ The wordsfell idly on his ears, or served but to suggest new trains of reverie; “Roads, aye, roads,’’ he whispered low, and then louder, as the glorious idea burst upon him, “Aye, and am I not the Colossus of Rhodes?’’ he raised his manly form erect at the thought, and planted his feet with a firmerstride. ... Wasit but a delusion of his heated brain? or stern reality? slowly, slowly yawned the bridge beneath him, and now his footing is already grown unsteady, and now the dignity of his attitude is gone: he recks not, come what may; is he not a Colossus? ... The stride of a Colossus is possibly equal to any emergency; the elasticity of fustian is limited; it was at this critical juncture that “the force of nature could no further go’’, and therefore deserted him, while the force of gravity began to operatein its stead. In other words, hefell. And the ‘““Hilda”’ went slowly on its way, and knew not that it passed a poet under the Bridge, and guessed not whose were those two feet, that disappeared through the eddying waters, kicking with spasmodic energy; and men pulled into a boat a dripping, panting form, that resembled a drowned rat rather than a Poet; and spoketoit without awe, and even said, “young feller,” and something about “greenhorn’”’, and laughed; what knew they of Poetry? Turn weto other scenes: a long, low room, with highbacked settees, and a sanded floor: a knot of men drinking and gossiping: a general prevalence of tobacco; a powerful conviction that spirits existed somewhere: and she, the fair Sukie herself, gliding airily through the scene, and bearing in those lily hands—what? Some garland doubtless, wreathed of the most fragrant flowers that grow? Some cherished volume, morocco-bound and WILHELM VON SCHMITZ gg golden-clasped, the works immortal of the bard of eld, whereonshe loveth oft to ponder? Possibly, ‘“The Poems of William Smith,” that idol of her affections, in two volumes quarto, published someyears agone, whereof one copy only has as yet been sold, and that he bought himself— to give to Sukie. Which of theseis it that the beauteous maiden carries with such tender care? Alas none: it is but those two “goes of arf-an-arf, warm without”, which have just been ordered by the guests in the taproom. In a small parlour hard by, unknown, untended, though his Sukie was so near, wet, moody, and dishevelled, sat the youth: the fire had been kindled at his desire, and before it he was now drying himself, but as “the cheery blaze, Blithe harbinger of wintry days’’, to use his own powerful description, consisted at present of a feeble, spluttering faggot, whose only effect was to half-choke him with its smoke, he may be pardonedfor notfeeling, more keenly than he does, that “‘. . . fire of Soul, When gazing on the kindling coal, A Britain feels that, spite of fone, He wots his native hearth his own!” we again employhis own thrilling words on the subject. The waiter, unconscious that a Poet sat before him, was talking confidingly; he dwelt on various themes, and still the youth sat heedless, but when at last he spoke of Sukie, those dull eyes flashed with fire, and cast upon the speaker a wild glance of scornful defiance, that was unfortunately wasted, as its object wasstirring thefire at the moment andfailed to notice it. “Say, oh say those words again!” he gasped. “‘I surely heard thee not aright!’ The waiter looked astonished, but obligingly repeated his remark, ‘I were merely a saying, sir, that she’s an uncommonclevergirl, and as how I were “oping some day to hacquire her Hart, if so be that———”’ Hesaid no more, for the Poet with a groan of anguish, had rushed distractedly from the room. © 992 STORIES CHAPTER III “Nay, Tis Too Much!” (Old Play) NIGHT,solemn night. On the present occasion the solemnity of night’s approach was rendered far more striking than it is to dwellers in ordinary towns, by that time-honoured custom observed by the people of Whitby, of leaving their streets wholly unlighted: in thus making a stand against the deplorably swift advance of the tide of progress and civilization, they displayed no small share of moral courage and independent judgment. Wasit for a people of sense to adopt every new-fangled invention of the age, merely because their neighbours did? It might have been urged, in disparagement of their conduct, that they only injured themselves by it, and the remark would have been undeniably true; but it would only have servedto exalt, in the eyes of an admiring nation, their well-earned character of heroic self-denial and uncompromisingfixity of purpose. Headlong and desperate, the lovelorn Poet plunged through the night; now tumbling up against a doorstep, and now half down in a gutter, but ever onward, onward, reckless where he went. In the darkest spot of one of those dark streets (the nearest lighted shop window being aboutfifty yardsoff), chance threw into his way the very man he fled from, the man whom hehated as a successful rival, and who had driven him to this pitch of frenzy. The waiter, not knowing what was the matter, had followed him to see that he came to no harm,and to bring him back, little dreaming of the shock that awaited him. The instant the Poet perceived who it was, all his pent-up fury broke forth: to rush upon him, to grasp him by the throat with both hands, to dash him to the WILHELM VON SCHMITZ 993 ground,andthere to reduce him to the extreme verge of suffocation—all this was the work of a moment. “Traitor! villain! malcontent! regicide!’’ he hissed through his closed teeth, taking any abusive epithet that came into his head, without stopping to considerits suitability. ‘‘Is it thou? Now shalt thou feel my wrath!”’ And doubtless the waiter did experience that singular sensation, whatever it may have been, for he struggled violently with his assailant, and bellowed ‘‘murder”’ the instant he recoveredhis breath. “Say not so,” the Poet sternly answered, as he released him;‘‘it is thou that murderest me.” The waiter gathered himself up, and began in great surprise,‘“Why, Inever——” “°Tis a lie!” the Poet screamed; “‘she loves thee not! Me, me alone.” ‘“Who ever said she did?” the other asked, beginning to perceive how matters stood. ‘Thou! thou saidst it,’’ was the wild reply, ‘‘what, villain? acquire her heart? thou nevershalt.” The waiter calmly explained himself: ‘““My ’ope were, Sir, to hacquire her Hart of waiting at table, which she do perdigious well, sure-ly: seeing that I were thinking of happlying for to be ’eadwaiter at the ’otel.’’ The Poet’s wrath instantly abated, indeed, he looked rather crestfallen than otherwise; ‘“Excuse my violence,” he gently said, “‘andlet us take a friendly glass together.” “I agree,” was the waiter’s generous answer, ‘“‘but manhalive, you’ve ruinated my coat!’’ “Courage,” cried our hero gaily, “‘thou shalt have a new one anon: aye, and of the best cashmere.” ‘‘H’m,”’ said the other, hesitatingly,‘“wouldn’t hany other stuff——’” “I will not buy thee oneof anyotherstuff,’”’ returned the Poet, gently but decidedly, and the waiter gave up the point. Arrived once more at the friendly tavern, the Poet briskly ordered a jorum of Punch, and, on its being furnished, called on his friend for a toast. “I’ll give you,” said the waiter, who was of a sentimental turn, however little he looked like it, ‘“T’ll give you—-Woman! She doubles our sorrows and ’alves our joy.” The Poet drained 904 STORIES his glass, not caring to correct his companion’s mistake, and at intervals during the evening the same inspiring sentiment was repeated. And so the night wore away, and another jorum of Punch wasordered, and another. * * . * * * “And now hallow me,” said the waiter, attempting for about the tenth timeto rise on his feet and makea speech, and failing even more signally than he had yet done, ‘‘to give a toast for this ’appy hoccasion. Woman! she doubles ——” but at this moment, probablyin illustration of his favourite theory, he “doubled’’ himself up, and soeffectually, that he instantly vanished underthe table. Occupying that limited sphere of observation,it is conjectured that he fell to moralizing on humanills in general, and their remedies, for a solemn voice was presently heard to issue from his retreat, proclaiming feelingly though rather indistinctly, that “when the ’art of man is hopressed with care *”’ here came a pause, as if he wished to leave the question open to discussion, but as no one present seemed competent to suggest the proper course to be taken in that melancholy contingency, he attempted to supply the deficiency himself with the remarkable statement ‘‘she’s hall my fancy painted ’er’’. Meanwhile the Poet wassitting, smiling quietly to himself, as he sipped his punch: the only notice he took of his companion’s abrupt disappearance was to help himself to a fresh glass, and say, “‘your health!” in a cordial tone, nodding to where the waiter ought to have been. Hethencried, ‘‘hear, hear!’’ encouragingly, and made an - attempt to thump thetable with his fist, but missed it. He seemed interested in the question regarding the heart oppressed with care, and winked sagaciously with one eye two or three times, as if there were a good deal he could say on that subject, if he chose; but the second quotation roused him to speech, and he at once broke into the waiter’s subterranean soliloquy with an ecstatic fragment from the poem he hadbeen just composing: WILHELM VON SCHMITZ 995 “What though the world be cross and crooky? Of Life’s fair flowers the fairest bouquet I plucked, whenI chose thee, my Sukie! “Say, could’st thou grasp at nothing greater Than to be weddedto a waiter? And did’st thou deem thy Schmitz a traitor? “Nay! the fond waiter wasrejected, And thou, alone, with flower-bedecked head, Sitting, did’st sing of one expected. ‘“‘And while the waiter, crazed andsilly, Dreamedhe had wonthatpreciouslily, At length he came, thy wished-for Willie. ‘“‘And then thy music took a new key, For whether Schmitz be boor or duke, he Is all in all to faithful Sukie!” He paused for a reply, but a heavy snoring from beneath the table was the only onehegot. CHAPTER IV “Ts This the Hend?”’ (“Nicholas Nickleby’’) BATHED in theradiance of the newly-risen Sun,thebillows 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 soleduty 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 996 STORIES end of the gravel walk, where he found a seat commanding a. viewof 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 ofrelief, ‘“‘breath’’: “His barque had perished in the storm, Whirled by its fiery breath On sunkenrocks, 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—nowit’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 euphonioustitle of Muggle, and whom it is almost superfluous to introduce to the reader as the elder traveler of Chapter One)! “‘it’s as muchashis life is worth.” “T 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—whatdo you mean by it?”’ “Mean byit!’’ blustered his quondam friend, “‘whatdo you mean by it, if it comes to that? You’re an assassin, that’s what you are! Where’s the waiter you had with you last night? answer methat!” “The—the waiter?” slowly repeated the Poet, still WILHELM VON SCHMITZ 997 stunned by the suddenness of his capture, ‘why, he’s dr———”’ “T knew it!’”’ cried his friend, who was at him in a moment, and choked up the unfinished wordin his throat, “drowned, Constable! I told you so—and whodid it?” he continued, loosing his grip a moment to obtain an answer. The Poet’s answer, so far as it could be gathered(forit came out in a very fragmentary state, and as it were by crumbs, in intervals of choking), was the following: ‘‘It was my—my—youll 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 hefell in: no doubt. I heard some one hadfallen 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’mmorealive than you, a precioussight!” This speech producedvariouseffects on its hearers: the Constable calmly released his man, the bewildered 998 STORIES 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 weresitting 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 extemporeverse: ‘““My Sukie! He hath bought, yea, Muggle’sself, Convincedat last of deeds unjust and foul, The licence of a vacant public-house. Weare 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. RagaeC8aa6ia88ltBAeaOFObi68SeElOE THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND BEING a true and terrible report touching the roomsof 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 meein 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 awakedall 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 Soundsin This Castell endured by mee, as touching the Vision of Scotland, and 999 ro000 STORIES 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 moreterrible 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 Maydeof 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 flounceditself 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 THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND roor chaunged ytself into divers fashyons whych shall hereafter bee, loopyng ytself uppe yn thys place and yn that, soe gyving toe View ane pettycote of a most fiery hue, even Crimson toe looke upon, at whych dismal and blodethirstie 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 uppewithin. 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 mucheaffrited 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 Loordequestioned 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 weelay all that day yn the Bay of Biscay-O”, whych hee forthwyth hummedaloud, yet out of tune, at whych sommesmyled. 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 of Art), whereon two young ladyes, Nieces of my Loorde, that abode there (lerning, as they deemed, 1002 STORIES 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-waysyf not exactly there, Yet yn yts close proximity. Hee called on mee-—hee stayed to tee— Yet not a word he ut-tered, Untyl I sayd, ‘“‘D’ye lyke your bread Dry?” and hee answered “‘But-tered’’. (Chorus whereynall present joyned with fervour.) Noodle dumb Has a noodle-head, I hate such noodles, J do. Witness continued: “that shee then appeared unto hym habited yn the same loose Wrapper, whereyn heefirst saw her yn hys Dreem, and yn a stayd andpiercing tone gave forth her History as followeth.”’ THE LApDYE’s HISTORY “On a dewie autumnevening, 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 whatscore shee held mee miserable, and shee replied, yt mattered not). “I plumed myself yn those tymes on my exceeding not soe much beauty asloftiness 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 THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND 1003 shee loftily affirmed that money-matters were vulgar and that she knewnot, no, nor cared.) “Now yt chauncedthat 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 wholly 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 beeat fulllength, 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, havingat thefirst been frendly unto hym (though yn sooth hee wasdull), 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 thyseffect: ‘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 downelike a Feather. © “Now yt fell at thys tyme, as I questioned hym on a certyn Day, yf hee woulde nowetake meeat 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 1004 STORIES I remaned awaytyng hym,holding uppe my Torche,until such timeas 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 Wordsof cheer; yet at last all entered, my Loordelast. 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 them- — selves from that Extremity, yet were they scarcely alive for Feer. Then dyd the Ladye 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 nameandface, (Though my name bee never known, Myinitials shall bee shown,) Shall be fotograffed aright— Heddeand Feet bee both yn sight— Then my face shall disappear, Nor agayn affrite you heer.” Then sayd Matthew Dixon untoher, ‘“Wherefore holdest thou uppe that Torche?” to whych shee answered, “Candles Gyve Light”: but none understoodher. After thys a thyn Voyce sayd from overhedde: “Yn the Auckland Castell cellar, Long,long ago, I was shut—a brisk youngfeller— Woe, woe, ah woe! THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND 1005 To take herat full-lengthe I never hadde the strengthe Tempore(and soe 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.” Vil Peeee ey 65-Aty 6H aOO aOt 06h etPY oth THE OFFER OF THE CLARENDON TRUSTEES “Accommodated: That is, when a man is, as they say, accommodated: or when a man 1s—being—whereby —he may be thought to be accommodated; which is an excellent thing.” (Written in 1868 as a letier suggesting, half-humorously, half-seriously, new means for mathematical research.) DEAR SENIOR CENSOR: In a desultory conversation on a point connected with the dinner at our high table, you incidentally remarked to me that lobster-sauce, “though a necessary adjunct to turbot, was not entirely wholesome.”’ It is entirely unwholesome. I never ask for it without reluctance: I never take a second spoonful withouta feeling of apprehension on the subject of possible nightmare. This naturally brings me to the subject of Mathematics, and of the accommodation provided by the University for carrying on the calculations necessary in that important branch of Science. As Members of Convocation are called upon (whether personally, or, as is less exasperating, by letter) to consider the offer of the Clarendon Trustees, as well as every other subject of human, or inhuman,interest, capable of consideration, it has occurred to me to suggest for your consideration how desirable roofed buildingsare 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 openair. 2K, 1009 L.C. IOIoO A MISCELLANY Again, it is often impossible for students to carry on accurate mathematical calculations in close contiguity to one another, owing to their mutual interference, and a tendency to general 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 permitted. , A. A very large room for calculating Greatest Common Measure. To this a small one might be attached 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 damageothers. 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, andfitted 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 leveled, 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 thelife of an individual, is as nothing in the life of the University. As Photography is now very much employed in reTHE NEW METHOD OF EVALUATION IO!rI cording 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 phenomenaof Gravity, Disturbance of Equilibrium, Resolution, etc., which affect the features during severe mathematical operations. MayI trust that you will give your immediate attention to this most important subject? Believe me, Sincerely yours, MATHEMATICUS February 6, 1868. DRTaRgFFaeFhBFSS0S68ee8Sa08TeOSeSa THE NEW METHOD OF EVALUATION AS APPLIED TO I “LITTLE JACK HORNER SAT IN A CORNER EATING HIS CHRISTMAS PIE.’’ THE problem of evaluating 7 which has engaged theattention of mathematicians from the earliest ages, had, down to our own time, been considered as purely arithmetical. It was reserved for this generation to make the discovery that it is in reality a dynamical problem: and the true value of « which appeared an ignis fatuus to our forefathers, has been at last obtained underpressure. The following are the main data of the problem: Let U =the University, G=Greek, and P = Professor. Then GP =Greek Professor; let this be reduced to its lowest terms, and call the result J. Also let W=the work done, T=the Times, =the IOIz A MISCELLANY given payment, 7=the payment according to T, and S =the sum required; so that 7 =S. The problem is, to obtain a value for 7 which shall be commensurable with W. In the early treatises on this subject, the mean value assigned to z will be found to be 40.000000. Later writers suspected that the decimal point had been accidentally shifted, and that the proper value was 400.00000: but, as the details of the process for obtaining it had been lost, no further progress was madein the subjecttill our own time, though several most ingenious methods weretried for solving the problem. Of these methods we proceed to give some brief account. Those chiefly worthy of note appear to be Rationalization, the Method of Indifferences, Penrhyn’s Method, and the Methodof Elimination. Weshall conclude with an account of the great discovery of our own day, the Method of Evaluation under Pressure. I. Rationalization THE peculiarity of this process consists in its affecting all quantities alike with a negativesign. To applyit, let H = High Church, and L = Low Church, then the geometric mean =,/HL: call this “B” (Broad Church). .. HL=B*. Also let x and y represent unknown quantities. The process now requires the breaking up of U intoits partial factions, and the introduction of certain combinations. Of the two principal factions thus formed, that corresponding with P presented no further difficulty, but it appeared hopelessto rationalize the other. A reductio ad absurdum wastherefore attempted, and it was asked “‘why should w not be evaluated?’ The great difficulty now was,to discovery. THE NEW METHOD OF EVALUATION I0TI3 Several ingenious substitutions and transformations were then resorted to, with a view to simplifying the equation, and it was at one time asserted, though never actually proved, that the y’s were all on one side. However, as repeated trials produced the sameirrational result, the process wasfinally abandoned. IT. The Method of Indtfferences THIS was a modification of “the method of finite Differences’, and maybethusbriefly described: Let E=Essays, and R=Reviews: then the locus of (E +R), referred to multilinear codrdinates, will be found to be a superficies (t.¢., a locus possessing length and breadth, but no depth). Let v=novelty, and assume (E +R) as a functionof v. Taking this superficies as the plane of reference, we get— E=R=B .. EB=B?=HL (Bythelastarticle) Multiplying by P, EBP=HPL. It was now necessary to investigate the locus of EBP: this was found to be a species of Catenary, called the Patristic Catenary, which is usually defined as “‘passing through origen, and containing many multiple points’. The locus of HPL will be found almost entirely to coincide with this. Great results were expected from the assumption of (E +R) as a function of v: but the opponents of this theorem having actually succeeded in demonstrating that the v-element did not even enter into the function,it appeared hopeless to obtain any real value of a by this method. III. Penrhyn’s Method THIS was an exhaustive process for extracting the value of 7 in a series of terms, by repeated divisions. Theseries so obtained appeared to be convergent, but the residual Ior4 A MISCELLANY quantity was always negative, which of course made the process of extraction impossible. This theorem wasoriginally derived from a radical series in Arithmetical Progression: let us denote the series itself by A.P., and its sum by (A.P.)S. It was found that the function (A.P.)S. entered into the above process, in various forms. The experiment was therefore tried of transforming (A.P.)S. into a new scale of notation: it had hitherto been, through a long series of terms, entirely in the senary, in which scale it had furnished many beautiful expressions: it was now transferred into the denary. Underthis modification, the process of division wasrepeated, but with the old negative result: the attempt was therefore abandoned, though not without a hope that future mathematicians, by introducing a number of hitherto undetermined constants, raised to the second degree, might succeed in obtaining a positive result. IV. Elimination of J It had long been perceived that the chief obstacle to the evaluation of a was the presence of J, and in an earlier age of mathematics J would probably have been referred to rectangular axes, and divided into two unequal parts— a process of arbitrary elimination which is now considered notstrictly legitimate. It was proposed, therefore, to eliminate J by an appeal to the principle known as “the permanence of equivalent formularies’’: this, however, failed on application, as J became indeterminate. Some advocates of the process would have preferred that J should be eliminated in toto. The classical scholar need hardly be reminded thatfoto is the ablative of tumtum, and that this beautiful and expressive phrase embodied the wish that J should be eliminated by the compulsoryreligious examination. It was next proposedto eliminate J by meansof a canonisant. The chief objection to this process was, that it THE NEW METHOD OF EVALUATION I0It5 would raise J to an inconveniently high power, and would after all only give an irrational valuefor7. Other processes, which we need nothere describe, have been suggested for the evaluation of 7. One was,thatit should be treated as a given quantity: this theory was supported by many eminent men, at Cambridgeandelsewhere; but, on application, J was found to exhibit a negative sign, which of course madethe evaluation impossible. Wenowproceed to describe the modern method, which has been crowned with brilliant and unexpected success, and which may be defined as V. Evaluation Under Pressure MATHEMATICIANS had already investigated the locus of HPL,and had introduced this function into the calculation, but without effecting the desired evaluation, even when HPL was transferred to the opposite side of the equation, with a changeof sign. The process we are about to describe consists chiefly in the substitution of G for P, and the application of pressure. Let the function ¢ (HGL) be developedinto a series, and let the sum of this be assumed as a perfectly rigid body, movingin a fixed line; let “‘w’”’ be the coefficient of moral obligation, and ‘‘e’”’ the expediency.Alsolet ‘‘F’’ be a Force acting equally in all directions, and varying inversely as T: let A = Able, and E = Enlightened. We have now to develop ¢ (HGL) by Maclaurin’s Theorem. The function itself vanishes when the variable vanishes: i.e. ¢ (0) =O g’ (0) =C (a prime constant) p" (0) =2.J. $’* (0) =2.3. 3” (0) p’’’” (0) =2.3.4.5.6.J after which the quantities recur in the sameorder. Iro16 A MISCELLANY The above proof is taken from the learned treatise “Augustt de fallibtlitate historicorum’’, and occupies an entire Chapter: the evaluation ‘of m is given in the next Chapter. The author takes occasion to point out several remarkable properties, possessed by the aboveseries, the existence of which had hardly been suspected before. This series is a function both of pu and of e: but, whenit is considered as a body,it will be found that w=o and that e only remains. Wenow havethe equation ¢ (HGL) =0+C+J+H+S+P+J. The summation of this gave a minimum value for z: this, however, was considered only as a first approximation, and the process was repeated under pressure EAF, which gave to 7 a partial maximum value: by continually increasing EAF, the result was at last obtained. am =S =500.00000. The result differs considerably from the anticipated value, namely 400.00000:still there can be no doubt that the process has been correctly performed, and that the learned world may be congratulated on thefinal settlementof this most difficult problem. oA1s 89aaae68S THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE “’Tis strange the mind, that veryfiery particle, Should let itself be snuff’d out by an article.” (First printed in 1865 as an Oxford pamphlet, this article concerns itself with the then existing political situation.) INTRODUCTION It was a lovely Autumn evening, and thegloriouseffects of chrcmatic aberration were beginning to show themTHE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE I0I7 selves 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 plane superficies. The elder of the two had by long practice acquired the art, so painful to young and impulsiveloci, of lying evenly between his extremepoints; 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 theintervening 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 neverto be forgotten, and, as they journeyed on, a whisperthrilled along the superficies in isochronous waves of sound, “Yes! Weshall at length meet if continually produced!” (Jacobi’s Course of Mathematics, Chap.1.) We have commenced with the above quotation as a striking illustration of the advantage of introducing the humanelement into the hitherto barren region of Mathematics. Who shall say what germs of romance, hitherto unobserved, may not underlie the subject? Whocantell whether the parallelogram, which in our ignorance we have defined and drawn, and the whole of whose properties we profess to know, may notbe all the while panting for exterior angles, sympathetic with the intericr, 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 illused locus was spreading out its asymptotes as a silent rebuke, or winking one focus at him in contemptuous pity? In somesuchspirit as this we have compiled thefollowing pages. Crude and hasty as they are, they yet exhibit some of the phenomenaoflight, or “‘enlightenment’’, ro18 A MISCELLANY considered as a force, more fully than has hitherto been attempted by otherwriters. June, 1865. CHAPTER [ GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS - Definitions I PLAIN SUPERFICIALITYis the character of a speech, in which any twopoints being taken, the speakeris found to lie wholly with regard to those two points. Ir PLAIN ANGERis the inclination of two voters to one another, who meet together, but whose views are not in the samedirection. Til When a Proctor, meeting another Proctor, makes the votes on one side equal to those on the other, the feeling entertained by eachsideis called RIGHT ANGER. IV Whentwoparties, coming together, feel a Right Anger, each is said to be COMPLEMENTARYto the other (though, strictly speaking, this is very seldom thecase). V OBTUSE ANGER is that which is greater than Right Anger. THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE IOIg Postulates I Let it be granted, that a speaker may digress from any one point to any otherpoint. II That a finite argument(i.e. one finished and disposed of), may be produced to any extent in subsequent debates. ITI That a controversy may be raised about any question, and at any distance from that question. Axtoms I Men whogo halves in the same (quart) are (generally) equal to another. It Men who take a double in the same (term) are equal to anything. On Voting The different methods of voting are as follows: I ALTERNANDO, as in the case of Mr. who voted for and against Mr. Gladstone, alternate elections. II INVERTENDO, as was done by Mr. who cameall the way from Edinburgh to vote, handed in a blank votingpaper, and so went homerejoicing. I020 A MISCELLANY III COMPONENDO, as was done by Mr. ——— whose name appeared on both committees at once, whereby he got great praise from all men, by the spaceof one day. IV DIVIDENDO, as in Mr. ’s case, who beingsorely perplexedin his choice of candidates, voted for neither. v CONVERTENDO, as was wonderfully exemplified by Messrs. ——- and ——— whoheld a long andfierce argument on theelection, in which, at the end of two hours, eac:: had vanquished and convertedtheother. vi Ex EQUALI IN PROPORTIONE PERTURBATA SEU INORDINATA, as in the election, when the result was for a long time equalized, and as it were held in the balance, by reason of those who hadfirst voted on the one side seeking to pair off with those who had last arrived on the other side, and those who werelast to vote on the oneside being kept out by those who had first arrived on the otherside, whereby, the entry to the Convocation House being blocked up, men could pass neither in nor out. On Representation Magnitudes are algebraically represented by letters, men by men of letters, and so on. The following are the principal systemsof representation. I. CARTESIAN: i.e. by means of “‘cartes’’. This system represents lines well, sometimes too well; but fails in representing points, particularly good points. 2. PoLar: i.e. by means of the 2 poles, ‘“North and South.” This is a very uncertain system of representation, and one that cannot safely be depended upon. THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE rIo2t 3. TRILINEAR:i.e. by meansof a line which takes3 different courses. Such a line is usually expressed by three letters, as W.E.G. Thatthe principle of Representation was knownto the ancients is abundantly exemplified by Thucydides, who tells us that the favourite cry of encouragement during a trireme race was that touching allusion to Polar Coérdinates which is still heard during the races of our own time, ““p5, p6, cos ¢, they’re gaining!”’ CHAPTER II DYNAMICS OF A PARTICLE Particles are logically divided according to GENIUS and SPEECHES. GENIvsis the higher classification, and this, combined with DIFFERENTIA(i.e. difference of opinion), produces SPEECHES. These again naturally divide themselves into three heads. Particles belonging to the great order of GENIUS are called ‘‘able”’ or “‘enlightened”’. Definitions I A SURD is a radical whose meaning cannot be exactly ascertained. This class comprises a very large numberof particles. II INDEX indicates the degree, or power, to which a particle is raised. It consists of two letters, placed to the right of the symbolrepresenting the particle. Thus, “A.A.” signifies the oth degree; ‘‘B.A.” the 1st degree; and so on, till we reach “M.A.” the 2nd degree (the intermediate letters indicating fractions of a degree); the last two usu1022 A MISCELLANY ally employed being ‘‘R.A.”’ (the reader need hardly be reminded of that beautiful line in The Princess ‘‘Go dress yourself, Dinah, like a gorgeous R.A.”) and “S.A.” This last indicates the 360th degree, and denotes that the particle in question (which is 1/7th part of the function E+R “Essays and Reviews’’,) has effected a complete revolution, and that the result =o. IIt MomENTis the product of the mass into the velocity. To discuss this subject fully, would lead us too far into the subject Vis Viva, and we must content ourselves with mentioning the fact that no moment1s ever really lost, by fully enlightened Particles. It is scarcely necessary to quote the well-known passage: ‘‘Every moment, that can be snatched from academical duties, is devoted to furthering the cause of the popular Chancellor of. the Exchequer.”’—-(Clarendon, History of the Great Rebellion.) Iv A COUPLE consists of a moving particle, raised to the degree M.A., and combined with what is technically called a ‘“‘better half’. The following are the principal characteristics of a Couple: (1) It may be easily transferred from point to point. (2) Whatever force of translation was possessed by the uncombinedparticle (and this is often considerable), is wholly lost when the Couple is formed. (3) The two forces constituting the Couple habitually act in opposite directions. On Differentiation The effect of Differentiation on a Particle is very remarkable, the first Differential being frequently of a greater value thanthe original Particle, and the second of less enlightenment. THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE 1023 For example, let L=“Leader’, S=‘‘Saturday”, and then L.S. =‘‘Leader in the Saturday” (a particle of no assignable value). Differentiating once, we get L.S.D., a function of great value. Similarly it will be found that, by taking a second Differential of an enlightened Particle (i.e. raising it to the Degree D.D.), the enlightenment becomes rapidly less. The effect is much increased by the addition of a C: in this case the enlightenment often vanishes altogether, and the Particle becomes conservative. It should be observed that, whenever the symbol L is used to denote ‘‘Leader’’, it must be affected with the sign +: this serves to indicate that its action is sometimes positive and sometimes negative—someparticles of this class having the property of drawing others after them (as “‘a Leader of an army’’), and othersof repelling them (as ‘‘a leader of the Times’’). Propositions PROP. I. PR. Tofind the value of a given Examiner. Example. A takes in 10 books in the Final Examination, and gets a 3d Class: B takes in the Examiners, and gets a 2nd. Find the value of the Examiners in termsof books. Find also their value in terms in which no Examinationis held. PROP. II. PR. To estimate Profit and Loss. Example. Given a Derby Prophet, whohassent3 different winners to 3 different betting-men, and given that none of the three horses are placed. Find the total Loss incurred by the three men (a) in money, (0) in temper. Findalso the Prophet. Is this latter generally possible? 1024 A MISCELLANY PROP. TIT. PR. To estimate the direction of a line. Example. Prove that the definition of a line, according to Walton, coincides with that of Salmon, only that they begin at opposite ends. If such a line be divided by Frost’s method,find its value accordingto Price. PROP, IV. TH. The end(i.e. “the product of the extremes’’), justifies (i.e. ‘is equal to”—see Latin “‘zequus’’), the means. No example is appendedto this Proposition, for obvious reasons. PROP. V. PR. To continue a givenseries. Example. A and B who are respectively addicted to Fours and Fives, occupy the sameset of rooms, which is always at Sixes and Sevens, Find the probable amountof reading done by A and B while the Eights are on. Weproceed to illustrate this hasty sketch of the Dynamics of a Parti-cle, by demonstrating the great Proposition on which the whole theory of Representation depends, namely: “To remove a given Tangent from a given Circle, and to bring another given Line into contact with it.”’ To work the following problem algebraically, it is best _ to let the circle be represented as referred to its two tangents, i.e. first to WEG, WH, and afterwards to WH, GH. Whenthisis effected, it will be found most convenient to project WEGto infinity. The process is not given here in full, since it requires the introduction of many complicated determinants. PROP. VI. PR. To remove a given Tangent from a given Circle, and to bring another given Line into contact withit. THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE 1025 Let UNIV be a Large Circle, whose centre is O (V being, of course, placed at the top), and let WGH bea triangle, two of whose sides, WEG and WH, are in contact with the circle, while GH (called “the base” by liberal mathematicians), is not in contact with it. (See Fig.r.) It is required to destroy the contact of WEG,and to bring GHinto contact instead. Let I be the point of maximum illumination of the circle, and therefore E the point of maximum enlightenmentof the triangle. (E of course varying perversely as the squareof the distance from O.) Let WH befixed absolutely, and remain always in contact with the circle, and let the direction of OI be also fixed. Now, so long as WEGpreserves a perfectly straight course, GH cannot possibly come into contact with the circle, but if the force of illumination, acting along OI, cause it to bend (as in Fig. 2), a partial revolution on the part of WEG and GHis effected, WEG ceases to touch the circle, and GH is immediately brought into contact with it. Q.E.F. The theory involved in the foregoing Proposition is at present much controverted, and its supporters are called upon to show whatis the fixed poznt, or locus standi, on which they propose to effect the necessary revolution. To make this clear, we must go to the original Greek, and remind our readers that the true point or locus standt, is in this case ’dpédcs (or ‘dpdts according to modern usage), and therefore must not be assigned to WEG.In reply to this it is urged that, in a matter like the present, a single word cannot be considered a satisfactory explanation, such as dpdéws. It should also be observed that the revolution herediscussedis entirely the effect of enlightenment, since particles, when illuminated to such an extent as actually to become ¢eis, are always found to diverge more or less widely from each other; though undoubtedly the radical force of the word is ‘‘union” or “‘friendly feeling”. The 1026 A MISCELLANY readerwill find in “Liddell and Scott” a remarkableillustration of this, from which it appears to be an essential condition that the feeling should be entertained dopddnv and that the particle entertaining it should belong to the genus dxurus and should therefore be, nominally at least, unenlightened. 6ARae968ReetOe89-Tea08aOO THE NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD A MONOGRAPH BY D. C. L. “A thing of beauty ts a joy forever.” I. ON THE ETYMOLOGICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. THE word “Belfry” is derived from the French bel, “beautiful, becoming, meet,’ and from the German /rez, “free, unfettered, secure, safe.’’ Thus the wordis strictly _ equivalent to “‘meatsafe’’, to which the new Belfry bears a resemblance so perfect as almost to amountto coincidence. II. ON THE STYLE OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. THEstyle is that which is usually known as “Early Debased”’: very early, and remarkably debased. III. ON THE ORIGIN OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. OuTSIDERS have enquired, with a persistence verging on personality, and with a recklessness scarcely distinguishable from insanity, to whom weare to attribute thefirst grand conception of the work. Was it the Treasurer, say NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD 1027 they, who thusstrove to force it on an unwilling House? Wasita Professor who designed this box, which, whether with a lid on or not, equally offends the eye? Or wasit a Censor whose weird spells evoked the horrible thing, the bane of this and of succeeding generations? Until some reply is given to these and similar questions, they must and willremain—forever—unanswered! On this point Rumour has been unusually busy. Some say that the Governing Body evolved the idea in solemn conclave—theoriginal motion being to adopt the Tower of St. Mark’s at Venice as a model: and that by a series of amendments it was reduced at last to a simple cube. Others say that the Reader in Chemistry suggested it as a form of crystal. There are others who affirm that the Mathematical Lecturer found it in the Eleventh Book of Euclid. In fact, there is no end to the various mythsafloat on the subject. Most fortunately, we are in possession of the realstory. The true origin of the design is as follows: we haveit on the very best authority. The head of the House, and the architect, feeling a natural wish that their names should be embodied, in some conspicuous way, among the alterations then in progress, conceived the beautiful and unique idea of representing, by meansof a new Belfry, a gigantic copy of a Greek Lexicon.1 But, before the idea had been reduced to a working form, business took them both to London for a few days, and during their absence, somehow (¢hts part of the business has never been satisfactorily explained) the whole thing wasputinto the hands of a wandering architect, who gave the nameof Jeeby. As the poor man is now incarcerated at Hanwell, we will not be too hard upon his memory, but will only say that he professed to haveoriginated the idea in a momentof inspiration, when idly contemplating one of those highly coloured, and mysteri- 1 The editor confesses to a difficulty here. No sufficient reason has been adduced why a modelof a Greek Lexicon should in any way‘‘embody”’ the namesof the aboveillustrious individuals. 1028 A MISCELLANY ously decorated chests which, filled with dried leaves from gooseberry bushes and quickset hedges, profess to supply the market with tea of genuine Chinese growth. Wasthere not something prophetic in the choice? What traveler is there, to whose lips, when first he enters the great educational establishment and gazes on its newest decoration, the words do not rise unbidden—‘‘Thou teachest’’? It is plain then that Scott, the great architect to whom the work of restoration has been entrusted, is not responsible for this. He is sazd to have pronouncedit a casus belli, which (with all deference to the Classical Tutors of the House, whoinsist that he meant merely “‘a case for a bell’) we believe to have been intended as a term of reproach. The followinglines are attributed to Scott: “If thou wouldst view the Belfry aright, Go visit it at the mirk midnight— For the least hint of open day Scares the beholder quite away. Whenwall and windoware blackas pitch, And there’s no deciding which is which; Whenthe dark Hall’s uncertain roof In horror seemsto standaloof; Whencorner andcorner,alternately, Is wrought to an odious symmetry; Whendistant Thamesis heard to sigh And shudderas he hurries by; Thengo,if it be worth the while, Then view the Belfry’s monstrouspile, And, home returning, soothly swear ‘Tis more than Job himself could bear!’ ’’ Iv. ON THE CHIEF ARCHITECTURAL MERIT OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. Its chief merit is its Simplicity—a Simplicity so pure, so profound, in a word, so simple, that no other word will fitly describe it. The meagre outline, and baldness of NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD 1029 detail, of the present Chapter, are adopted in humble imitation of this great feature. V. ON THE OTHER ARCHITECTURAL MERITS OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. THE Belfry has no other architectural merits. VI. ON THE MEANS OF OBTAINING THE BEST VIEWS OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. THEvisitor may place himself, in thefirst instance, at the opposite corner of the Great Quadrangle, and so combine, in. one grand spectacle, the beauties of the North and Westsides of the edifice. He will find that the converging lines forcibly suggest a vanishing point, and if that vanishing point should in its turn suggest the thought, “would that zt were on the point of vanishing!” he may perchance,like the Soldier in the Ballad, ‘lean upon his sword” (if he has one: they are not commonly worn by modern tourists), ““and wipe away a tear.”’ He may then make the circuit of the Quadrangle, drinking in new visions of beauty at every step— ‘“‘Ever charming, ever new, Whenwill the Belfry tire the view?”’ as Dyersings in his well-known poem, “Grongar Hill’’— and, as he walks along from the Deanery towards the Hall staircase, and breathes more and morefreely as the Belfry lessens on the view, the delicious sensation of relief, which he will experience when it has finally disappeared, will amply repay him for all he will have endured. The best view of the Belfry is that selected by our Artist for the admirable frontispiece which he has furnished for thefirst Volumeof the present work.! This view 1 On further consideration, it was deemed inexpedient to extend this work beyond the compassof one Volume. 1030 A MISCELLANY may beseen, in all its beauty, from the far end of Merton Meadow.From that point the imposing position (or, more briefly, the imposition) of the whole structureis thrillingly apparent. There the thoughtful passer-by, with four right angles on one side of him, and four anglers, who have no right to be there, on the other, may ponder on the mutability of human things, or recall the names of Euclid and Isaac Walton, or smoke, or ride a bicycle, or do anything that the local authorities will permit. VII. ON THE IMPETUS GIVEN TO ART IN ENGLAND BY THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. THE idea has spread far and wide, and is rapidly pervading all branches of manufacture. Already an enterprising maker of bonnet-boxesis advertising ‘‘the Belfry pattern’’: two builders of bathing machines at Ramsgate have followed his example: one of the great London houses is supplying “‘bar-soap” cut in the samestriking and symmetrical form: and weare credibly informed that Borwick’s Baking Powder and Thorley’s Food for Cattle are now sold in no other shape. VUI. ON THE FEELINGS WITH WHICH OLD CH. CH. MEN REGARD THE NEWBELFRY. BITTERLY bitterly do all old Ch. Ch. men lamentthis latest lowest development of native taste. ““‘We see the Governing Body,” say they: ‘‘Where is the Governing Mind?” And Echo(exercising a judicious “‘natural selection’’ for which even Darwin would give her credit) answers—‘‘where?”’ At the approaching “Gaudy’’, when a numberof old Ch. Ch. men will be gathered together, it is proposed, at the conclusion of the banquet, to present to each guest a portable model of the new Belfry, tastefully executed in cheese. NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD I031 IX. ON THE FEELINGS WITH WHICH RESIDENT CH. CH. MEN REGARD THE NEW BELFRY. Whothat has seen a Ch. Ch. man conducting his troop of ‘‘lionesses’’ (so called from the savage andpitiless greed with which they devour the various sights of Oxford) through its ancient precincts, that has noticed the convulsive start and ghastly stare that always affect newcomers whenfirst they come into view of the new Belfry, that has heard the eager questions with which theyassail their guide as to the how, the why, the whatfor, and the how long, of this astounding phenomenon, can have failed to mark the manly glow which immediately suffuses the cheek of the hapless cicerone? “Ts it the glow of conscious pride— Of pure ambition gratitied— That seeks to read in other eye Something of its own ecstasy? Or wrath, that worldlings should make fun Of anything ‘the House’ has done? Or puzzlement, that seeks in vain The rigid mystery to explain? Oris it shamethat, knowing not How to defend or cloak the blot— The foulest blot on fairest face That ever marred a noble place— Burns with the pangs it will not own, Pangsfelt by loyal sons alone ?”’ xX. ON THE LOGICAL TREATMENT OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. THE subject has been reduced to three Syllogisms. Thefirst is in ‘‘“Barbara’’. It is attributed to the enemies of the Belfry. Wooden buildings in the midst of stone-work are barbarous; 1032 A MISCELLANY Plain rectangular formsin the midst of arches and decorations are barbarous; Ergo, The whole thingis ridiculous andrevolting. The second is in ‘‘Celarent’”’, and has been most carefully composedbythefriendsof the Belfry. The Governing Body would conceal this appalling structure, if they could; The Governing Body would conceal the feelings of chagrin with which they nowregardit, if they could; Ergo... cee eee ee eee (MS. unfinished.) The third Syllogism is in “‘Festino”’, and is the joint composition of the friends and enemiesof the Belfry. To restore the character of Ch. Ch., a tower must be built; To build a tower, ten thousand pounds mustberaised; Ergo, No time mustbelost. These three syllogisms have been submitted to the criticism of the Professor of Logic, who writes that ‘‘he fancies he can detect someslight want of logical sequence in the Conclusion of the third”. He adds that, according to his experience of life, when people thus commit a fatal blunderin child-like confidence that moneywill be forthcoming to enable them toset it right, in ten cases out of nine the money is mot forthcoming. This is a large percentage. XI. ON THE DRAMATIC TREATMENT OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. CURTAIN rises, discovering the Dean, Canons, and Students, seated round a table, on which the mad Architect, fantastically dressed, and wearing a Fool’s cap andbells, is placing a square block of deal. DEAN (as Hamlet). Methinks I see a Bell-tower! NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD 1033 CANONS (looking wildly in all directions). Where, my good Sir? Dean. In my mind’s eye. (Knocking heard.) Who's there? Foot.A spirit, a spirit; he says his name’s poor Tom. Enter THE GREAT BELL,disguised as a mushroom. GREAT BELL. Whogives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through bricks and through mortar, through rope and windlass, through plank and scaffold; that hath torn down his balustrades, and torn up his terraces; that hath made him go as a commonpedlar, with a wooden box upon his back. Do poor Tom somecharity. Tom’s a-cold. Rafters, and planks, and such smalldeer, Shall be Tom’s food for many a year. Censor.I feared it would cometothis. DEAN (as King Lear). The little dons andall, Tutor, Reader, Lecturer—see, they bark at me! Censor.His wits begin to unsettle. DEAN (as Hamlet). Do you see yonder box, that’s almost in shape of a tea-caddy? Censor.Byits mass,it is like a tea-caddy, indeed. DEAN. Methinksit is like a clothes-horse. CENSOR.It is backedlike a clothes-horse. DEAN. Orlike a tub. Censor.Verylike a tub. DEAN. They fool meto the top of my bent. Enter from opposite sides THE BELFRY as Box, and THE BoDLEy LIBRARIAN as Cox. LIBRARIAN. Who areyou, Sir? BELFRY.If it comes to that, Sir, who are you? They exchange cards. LrBRaRIAN.I should feel obliged to you if you would accommodate me with a more protuberant Bell-tower, Mr. B. The one you have now seems to meto consist of corners only, with nothing whateverin the middle. BELFRY. Anything to accommodate you, Mr. Cox. 1034 A MISCELLANY (Places jaunttly on his head a small model of the skeleton of an umbrella, upside down.) LIBRARIAN. Ah, tell me—in mercy tell me—have you such a thing as a redeeming feature, or the least mark of artistic design, about you? BELFRY. No! LIBRARIAN. Then you are my long-lost door scraper! They rush into each other's arms. Enter TREASURER as ARIEL. Solemn music. SONG AND CHORUS Five fathom square the Belfry frowns; Allits sides of timber made; Paintedallin grays and browns; Nothing of it that will fade. Christ Church may admire the change—- Oxford thinksit sad and strange. Beauty’s dead! Let’s ring her knell. Hark! now I hear them—ding-dong,bell. XIl. ON THE FUTURE OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. Cll. THE Belfry has a great Future before it—atleast, if it has not, it has very little to do with Timeatall, its Past being (fortunately for our ancestors) a nonentity, and its Present a blank. The advantage of having been born in the reign of Queen Anne, and of having died in that or the subsequent reign, has never been so painfully apparent as it is now. Credible witnesses assert that, when the bells are rung, the Belfry must come down. In that case considerable damage (the process technically described as ‘‘pulverisation’) must ensue to the beautiful pillar and roof which adorn the Hall staircase. But the architect is prepared even for this emergency.‘‘On thefirst symptom of deflection” (he writes from Hanwell), “let the pillar be carefully removed and placed, with its superstruent superstructure” (we cannot forbear calling attention to this NEW BELFRY OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD 1035 beautiful phrase), ‘‘in the centre of ‘Mercury’. There it will constitute a novel and most unique feature of the venerable House.”’ “Yea, and the Belfry shall serve to generations yet unborn as an aerial Ticket-office,” so he cries with his eye in a fine frenzy rolling, ‘““where the Oxford and London Balloon shall call ere it launch forth on its celestial voyage— and where expectant passengers shall while away the time with the latest edition of ‘Bell’s Life’!”’ XIII. ON THE MORAL OF THE NEW BELFRY, CH. CH. THE moral position of Christ Church is undoubtedly improved by it. “We have been attacked, and perhaps not without reason, on the Bread-and-Butter question,’’ she remarks to an inattentive World (which heeds her not, but prdtes on of Indirect Claims and of anything but indirect Claimants), ‘‘we have been charged—and, it must be confessed, in a free and manly tone—with shortcomings in the payment of the Greek Professor, but who shall say that weare notall ‘on the square’ xow?”’ This, however, is not the Moral of the matter. Every thing has a moral, if you choose to look for it. In Wordsworth, a good half of every poem is devoted to the Moral: in Byron, a smaller proportion: in Tupper, the whole. Perhaps the most graceful tribute we can pay to the genius of the last-named writer, is to entrust to him, as an old member of Christ Church, the conclusion of this Monograph. “Look on the Quadrangle of Christ Church, squarely, for is it not a Square? And a Square recalleth a Cube; and a Cube recalleth the Belfry; And the Belfry recalleth a Die, shaken by the handof the gambler; Yet, once thrown, it may not be recalled, being, so to speak, irrevocable. There it shall endure for ages, treading hard on the heels of the Sublime— 1036 A MISCELLANY Forit is but a step, saith the wise man, from the Sublime unto the Ridiculous: And the Simple dwelleth midway between, and shareth the qualities of either.” os Sis THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S A THRENODY Contents CHAPTER I A Conference (held on the Twentieth of March, 1873) betwixt an Angler, a Hunter, and a Professor; concerning angling and the beautifying of Thomas his Quadrangle. The Ballad of ‘The Wandering Burgess’. CHAPTER II A Conference, with one distraught: who discourseth strangely of many things. CHAPTER III A Conference of the Hunter with a Tutor, whilom the Angler his eyes be closed in sleep. The Angler awaking rvelateth his Vision. The Hunter chaunteth ‘A Baccanalian Ode.” Ots: CHAPTER I A Conference betwixt an Angler, a Hunter, and a Professor; concerning angling, and the beautifying of Thomas his Quadrangle. The Ballad of “The Wandering Burgess’’. THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S 1037 PISCATOR, VENATOR Piscator. My honest Scholar, we are now arrived at the place whereof I spake, and trust me, weshall have good sport. How say you? Is not this a noble Quadrangle we see around us? And be not these lawns trimly kept, andthis lake marvellousclear? VENATOR.So marvellous clear, good Master, and withal so brief in compass, that methinks, if any fish of a reasonable bigness were therein, we mustperforce espyit. I fear methereis none. Pisc. Theless fish, dear Scholar, the greater the skill in catching of it. Come, let’s sit down, and, while we unpack the fishing-gear, I’ll deliver a few remarks, both as to the fish to be met with hereabouts, and the properest methodoffishing. But you are to notefirst (for, as you are pleased to be my Scholar,it is but fitting you should imitate my habits of close observation) that the margin of this lake is so deftly fashioned that each portion thereof is at one and the same distance from that tumulus which rises in the centre. VEN. O’ my word, ’tis so! You have indeed a quick eye, dear Master, and a wondrousreadinessof observing. Pisc. Both may be yours in time, my Scholar, if with humility and patience you follow me as your model. VEN. I thank you for that hope, great Master! But ere you begin your discourse, let me enquire of you one thing touching this noble Quadrangle.—Isall wesee of a like antiquity? To be brief, think you that those twotall archways, that excavation in the parapet, and that quaint wooden box, belong to the ancient design of the building, or have menof our day thussadly disfigured the place? Pisc. I doubt not they are new, dear Scholar. For indeed I was here but a few years since, and saw naughtof these things. But what book is that I see lying by the water’s edge? VEN. A bookof ancient ballads, and truly I am glad to 1038 A MISCELLANY see it, as we may herewith beguile the tediousness of the day, if our sport be poor, or if we grow aweary. Pisc. This is well thought of. But now to business. And first I’ll tell you somewhatof the fish proper to these waters. The Commonerkinds we maylet pass: for though some of them be easily Plucked forth from the water, yet are they so slow, and withal havesolittle in them, that they are good for nothing, unless they be crammedup to the very eyes with suchstuffing as comesreadiest to hand. Of these the Stickleback, a mighty slow fish, is chiefest, and along with him you may reckon the Fluke, and divers others: all these belong to the “Mullet” genus, and be good to play, though scarcely worth examination. I will now say somewhat of the Nobler kinds, and chiefly of the Gold-fish, which is a species highly thought of, and muchsoughtafter in these parts, not only by men, but by divers birds, as for example the King-fishers: and note that wheresoever youshall see those birds assemble, and but few insects about, there shall you ever find the Gold-fish most lively and richest in flavour: but wheresoever you perceive swarmsof a certain grayfly, called the Dun-fly, there the Gold-fish are ever poorer in quality, and the King-fishers seldom seen. A good Perch may sometimes be found hereabouts: but for a good fat Plaice (which is indeed but a magnified Perch) you may search these waters in vain. They that love such dainties must needs betake them to somedistant Sea. But for the mannerof fishing, I would have you note first that your line be not thicker than an ordinarybellrope: for look you, to flog the water, as though you laid on with a flail, is most preposterous, and will surely scare the fish. And note further, that your rod must by no means exceed ten, or at the most twenty, pounds in weight, for. Ven. Pardon me, myMaster, that I thus break in on so excellent a discourse, but there now approachesusa Collegian, as I guess him to be, from whom we may haply THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S I039 learn the cause of these novelties we see around us. Is not that a bone which, everas he goes, he so cautiously waves before him? Entey PROFESSOR Pisc. By his reverend aspect and white hair, I guess him to be some learned Professor. I give you good day, reverend Sir! If it be not ill manners to ask it, what boneis that you bear about with you? It is, methinks, a humerous whimsyto chuse so strange a companion. ProF. Your observation, Sir, is both anthropolitically and ambidexterously opportune: for this is indeed a Humerus I carry with me. Youare, I doubt not, strangers in these parts, for else you would surely know that a Professor doth ever carry that which most aptly sets forth his Profession. Thus, the Professor of Uniform Rotation carries with him a wheelbarrow—the Professor of Graduated Scansion a ladder—andsooftherest. VEN. It is an inconvenient and, methinks, an illadvised custom. Pror. Trust me, Sir, you are absolutely and amorphologically mistaken: yet time would fail me to show you wherein lies your error, for indeed I must now leave you, being bound for this great performance of music, whichevenat this distance salutes your ears. Pisc. Yet, I pray you, do us one courtesy before you go: and that shall be to resolve a question, whereby myfriend and I are sorely exercised. Pror. Say on, Sir, and I will e’en answer you to the best of my poorability. Pisc. Briefly, then, we would ask the cause for piercing the very heart of this fair building with that uncomely tunnel, which is at once so ill-shaped,so ill-sized, and so ill-lighted. Pror.Sir, do you know Gerinan? Pisc. It is my grief, Sir, that I know no other tongue than mine own. ProF. Then, Sir, my answeris this, Warum nicht? I040 A MISCELLANY Pisc. Alas, Sir, I understand you not. ProF. The more the pity. For nowadays, all that is good comes from the German. Ask our men of science: they will tell you that any German book must needs surpass an English one. Aye, and even an English book, worth naughtin this its native dress, shall become, when rendered into German, a valuable contribution to Science! VEN. Sir, you much amaze me. Pror. Nay, Sir, I'll amaze you yet more. No learned man doth now talk, or even so much as cough, save only in German. The time has been, I doubt not, when an honest English “‘Hem!’’ was held enough, both to clear the voice and rouse the attention of the company, but nowadays no man of Science, that setteth any store by his good name, will cough otherwise than thus, Ach! Euch! Auch! VEN. ’Tis wondrous. But, not to stay you further, wherefore do we see that ghastly gash aboveus, hacked, as though by some wanton school-boy in the parapet adjoining the Hall? Prof.Sir, do you know German? VEN. Believe me, No. Pro. Then, Sir, I need but ask you this, Wie befinden Sie Sich? VEN. I doubtnot, Sir, but you are in the right on’t. Pisc. But, Sir, I will by your favour ask you one other thing, as to that unseemly box that blots the fair heavens above. Wherefore, in this grand old City, and in so conspicuousa place, do menset so hideous a thing? Prof. Be you mad, Sir? Why this is the very climacteric and coronal of all our architectural aspirations! In all Oxford there is naughtlikeit! Pisc. It joys me much to hear you say so. Pror. And,trust me, to an earnest mind, the categorical evolution of‘the Abstract, ideologically considered, must infallibly developitself in the parallelepipedisation of the Concrete! Andso farewell. Exit PROFESSOR THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S I04I Pisc. He is a learned man, and methinks there is much that is soundin his reasoning. VEN. It is all sound, as it seems to me. But how say you? Shall I read you one of these ballads? Here is one called ‘The Wandering Burgess”, which (being forsooth a dumpish ditty) may well suit the ears of us whose eyes are oppressed with so dire a spectacle. Pisc. Read on, good Scholar, and I will bait our hooks the while. VENATORreadeth THE WANDERING BURGESS Our Willie had been sae lang awa’ Frae bonnie Oxford toon, The townsfolk they were greeting a’ As they went up and doon. He hadna been gane a year,a year, A year but barely ten, When word came unto Oxford toon, Our Willie wad come agen. Willie he stude at Thomashis Gate, And made lustie din; And whoso blithe as the gate-porter To rise and let him in? “Now enter Willie, now enter Willie, And look aroundthe place, And see the pain that we have ta’en Thomashis Quad to grace.” Thefirst look that our Willie cast, He leuch loud laughters three, The neist look that our Willie cast Thetearblindit his e’e. Sae square and stark the Tea-chest frowned Athwart the upperair, 2 L LeCe 1042 A MISCELLANY But when the Trench our Willie saw, He thocht the Tea-chestfair. Sae murderous-deep the Trench did gape The parapet aboon, But when the Tunnel Willie saw Heloved the Trencheftsoon. ’Twas mirk beneath the tane archway, ~ *Twas mirk beneath thetither; Ye wadna ken a man therein, Though it were your ain dear brither. He turned him round and round about, And looked upon the Three; And dismal grew his countenance, And drumlie grew his e’e. “What cheer, what cheer, my gallant knight?” The gate-porter ’gan say. ““Saw everye sae fair a sight Asye have seenthis day?”’ “Now haud your tongue of your prating, man: Of your prating now let me be. For, as I’m true knight, a fouler sight I'll neverlive to see. “Before I’d be the ruffian dark Whoplannedthis ghastly show, I’d serve as secretary’s clerk To Ayrtonor to Lowe. “Before I’d own the loathly thing That Christ Church Quadreveals, Id serve as shoeblack’s underling To Odgerand to Beales!”’ THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S 1043 CHAPTER II AConference with one distraught: who discourseth strangely of many things. PISCATOR, VENATOR PIscaTorR. ’Tis a marvellous pleasant ballad. But look you, another Collegian draws near. [ wot not of whatstation he is, for indeed his apparel is new to me. VENATOR.It is compounded, as I take it, of the diverse dresses of a jockey, a judge, and a North American Indian. Enter LUNATIC Pisc. Sir, may I make bold to ask your name? Lun. With all my heart, Sir. It is Jeeby, at yourservice. Pisc. And wherefore (if I may further trouble you, being as you see a stranger) do you wearso gaudy, but withal so ill-assorted, a garb? Lun. Why,Sir, I’ll tell you. Do you read the M.orning Post? Pisc. Alas, Sir, I do not. Lun, ’Tis pity of your life you do not. For, look you, not to read the Post, and not to know the newest and most commended fashions, are but one and the same thing. And yet this raiment, that I wear, is not the newest fashion. No, nor has it ever been, nor will it ever be, the fashion. VEN. I can well believeit. Lun. And therefore ’tis, Sir, that I wearit. ’Tis but a badge of greatness. My deeds you see around you. Si monumentum queris, circumspice! You know Latin? VEN. NotI, Sir! It shames metosayit. Lun. You are then (let me roundly tell you) monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum! VEN. Sir, you maytell it me roundly—or,if youlist, - 1044 A MISCELLANY squarely—or again, triangularly. But if, as you affirm, I see your deeds around me, I would fain know which they be. Lun.Aloft, Sir, stands the first and chiefest! That soaring minaret! That gorgeous cupola! That dreamlike effulgence of VEN. That wooden box? Lun. The same, Sir! ’Tis mine! VEN. (after a pause). Sir, it is worthy of you. Lun. Lower now your eyes by a hairsbreadth, and straight you light upon my second deed. OhSir, whattoil of brain, what cudgelling of forehead, what rending of locks, went to the fashioning ofit! VEN. Mean you that newly-made gap? Lun. I do,Sir. ’Tis mine! VEN. (after along pause). Whatelse, Sir? I would fain know the worst. Lun. (wildly). It comes, it comes! My third great deed! Lend, lend your ears—your nose—any feature you can least conveniently spare! See you those twin doorways? Tall and narrow they loom upon you—severely simple their outline—massive the masonry between—black as midnight the darkness within! Sir, of what do they mind you? VEN. Of vaults, Sir, and of charnel-houses. Lun. This is a goodly fancy, and yet they are not vaults. No, Sir, you see before you a Railway Tunnel! VEN. ’Tis very strange! Lun. Butnoless true than strange. Mark me.’Tislove, ’tis love, that makes the world go round. Society goes round of itself. In circles. Military society in military circles. Circles must needs havecentres. Military circles military centres. VEN. Sir, I fail to see-—— Lun. Lo you, said our Rulers, Oxford shall be a military centre! Then the chiefest of them (glad in countenance, yet stony,I wot, in heart) so ordered it by his underling (I remember menot his name, yet is he one that can THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S 1045 play a card well, and so serveth meetly the behests of that mighty one, who played of late in Ireland a gameofcribbage such as no man, whosaw it, maylightly forget); and then, Sir, this great College, ever loyal and generous, gave this Quadrangle as a Railway Terminus, whereby the Troops might come and go. By that Tunnel, Sir, the line will enter. Pisc. But, Sir, I see norails. Lun. Patience, good Sir! For railing we look to the Public! The College doth but furnishsleepers. Pisc. And the design of that Tunnelis Lun. Is mine, Sir! Oh, the fancy! Oh, the wit! Oh, the rich vein of humour! When came the idea? I’the mirk midnight. Whence came the idea? From a cheese-scoop! How came the idea? In a wild dream. Hearken, and I will tell. Form square, and prepare to receive a canonry! All the evening long I had seen lobsters marching around the table in unbroken order. Something sputtered in the candle—something hopped among the tea-things— something pulsated, with an ineffable yearning, beneath the enraptured hearthrug! My heart told me something was coming—and something came! A voice cried “Cheese-scoop!”” and the Great Thought of my life flashed upon me! Placing an ancient Stilton cheese, to represent this venerable Quadrangle, on the chimneypiece, I retired to the further end of the room, armedonly with a cheese-scoop, and with a dauntless courage awaited the word of command. Charge, Cheesetaster, charge! On, Stilton, on! With a yell and a bound I crossed the room, and plunged my scoop into the very heart of the foe! Once more! Another yell—another bound— another cavity scooped out! The deed was done! VEN. Andyet, Sir, if a cheese-scoop were your guide, these cavities must needsbecircular. Lun. They were so at the first—but, like the fickle Moon, myguardiansatellite, I change as I go on. Oh, the rapture, Sir, of that wild moment! And did IJ reveal the Mighty Secret! Never, never! Day by day, week by week, 1046 A MISCELLANY behind a wooden screen, I wrought out that vision of beauty. The world came and went, and knew notofit. Oh, the ecstasy, when yesterday the Screen was swept away, and the Vision was a Reality! I stood by Tom- Gate, in that triumphal hour, and watchedthe passers-by. They stopped! They stared!! They started!!! A thrill of envy paled their cheeks! Hoarse inarticulate words of delirious rapture rose to their lips! What withheld me— what, I ask you candidly, withheld me from leaping upon them, holding them in a frantic clutch, and yelling in their ears “‘ Tis mine, ’tis mine!” Pisc. Perchance, the thought that Lun. You areright, Sir. The thought that there is a lunatic asylum in the neighbourhood, and that two medical certificates—but I will be calm. The deed is done. Let us change the subject. Even now a great musical performance is going on within. Wilt hear it? The Chapter give it—ha, ha! They giveit! Pisc., Sir, I will very gladly be their guest. Lun. Then, guest, you have not guessed all! You shall be bled, Sir, ere you go! ’Tis love, ’tis love, that makes the hat go round! Stand and deliver! Vivat Regina! No money returned! Pisc. How meanyou,Sir? Lun.I said, Sir, ‘“No money returned!” Pisc. And J said, Sir, “How mean ” Lun. Sir, I am with you. You have heard of Bishops’ Charges? Sir, what are Bishops to Chapters? Oh,it goes to my heart to see these quaint devices! First, sixpence for use of a doorscraper. Then, fivepence for right of choosing by which archway to approach the door. Then, a poor threepence for turning of the handle. Then, a shilling a head for admission, and half-a-crown for every two-headed man. Nowthis, Sir, is manifestly unjust: for you are to note that the double of a shilling Prisc. I do surmise, Sir, that the caseis rare. Lun. Andthen, Sir, five shillings each for care of your umbrella! Hence comesit that each visitor of ready wit THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S I047 hides his umbrella, ere he enter, either by swallowingit (which is perilous to the health of the inner man), or by running it down within his coat, even from the nape of the neck, which indeedis the cause of that which you may have observed in me, namely, a certain stiffness in mine outward demeanour. Farewell, gentlemen, I go to hear the music. Exit LUNATIC CHAPTER III A Conference of the Hunter with a Tutor, whilom the Angler his eyesbe closed in sleep. The Angler awaking velateth his Vision. The Hunter chaunteth “A Bacchanalian Ode’, PISCATOR, VENATOR, TUTOR VENATOR. Hehathleft us, but methinks weare not to lack company,for look you, another is even now at hand, gravely apparelled, and bearing upon his head Hoffmann’s Lexicon in four volumesfolio. PiscaTor. Trust me, this doth symbolize his craft. Good morrow, Sir. If I rightly interpret these that you bear with you, you are a teacher in this learned place? Tutor. I am, Sir, a Tutor, and profess the teaching of divers unknown tongues. Pisc. Sir, we are happy to have your company,and if it trouble you not too much, we would gladly ask (as indeed wedid ask anotherof your learned body, but understood not his reply) the cause of these new things we see around us, which indeed are as strange as they are new, and as unsightly as they are strange. TuTor.Sir, I will tell you with all my heart. You must knowthen (for herein lies the pith of the matter) that the motto of the Governing Bodyis this: 1048 A MISCELLANY “Dirutt, edificat, mutat quadrata rotundis’”’; which I thus briefly expound. Diruit. “It teareth down.” Witness that fair opening which, like a glade in an ancient forest, we have madein the parapet at the sinistral extremity of the Hall. Even as a tree is the more admirable when the hewer’s axe hath all but severed its trunk—or as a row of pearly teeth, enshrined in rubylips, are yet the morelovely for the loss of one—so, believe me, this our fair Quadrangle is but enhanced by that which foolish men in mockerycall ‘‘the Trench’. . fdificat.“Itbuildethup.”’ Witness that beauteous Belfry which, in its ethereal grace, seems ready to soar away even as we gaze upon it! Even as a railway-porter moves with an unwonted majesty when bearing a portmanteau on his head—or as I myself (to speak modestly) gain a new beauty from these massive tomes—or as ocean charms us most when the rectangular bathing-machine breaks the monotony of its curving marge-——so are we blessed by the presence of that which an envious world hath dubbed ‘‘the Tea-chest”’. Mutat quadrata rotundis. “It exchangeth square things for rvound.’”’ Witness that series of square-headed doors and windows, so beautifully broken in upon by that double archway! For indeed, though simple (‘‘simplex munditiis’”’, as the poet saith) it is matchlessin its beauty. Had those twin archways been greater, they would but have matched those at the corners of the Quadrangle— had they been less, they would have copied, with an abject servility, the doorways around them. In such things, it is only a vulgar mind that thinks of a match. The subject is lowe. We seek the Unique, the Eccentric! We glory in this two-fold excavation, which scoffers speak of as ‘‘the Tunnel’. VEN. Come, Sir, let me ask you a pleasant question. Whydoth the Governing Body chuse for motto sotrite a saying? It is, if I remember me aright, an example of a rule in the Latin grammar. THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S 1049 TuTor. Sir, if we are not grammatical, we are nothing! VEN. But for the Belfry, Sir. Sure none can look on it without an inward shudder? Tutor. I will not gainsay it. But you are to notethatit is not permanent. This shall serve its time, and a fairer edifice shall succeedit. VEN. In good sooth I hope it. Yet for the time beingit doth not, in that it is not permanent, theless disgrace the place. Drunkenness, Sir, is not permanent, andyet is held in no good esteem. Tutor. Tis an apt simile. VEN. And for these matchless arches (as you do most truly call them) would it not savour of more wholesome Art, had they matched the doorways, or the gateways? Tutor.Sir, do you study the Mathematics? VEN. I trust, Sir, I can do the Rule of Three as well as another: and for Long Division: Tutor. You must know, then, that there be three Meanstreated of in Mathematics. For thereis the Arithmetic Mean, the Geometric, and the Harmonic. And note further, that a Man is that which falleth between two magnitudes. Thusit is, that the entrance you here behold falleth between the magnitudes of the doorways and the gateways, andis in truth the Non-harmonic Mean, the Mean Absolute. But that the Mean, or Middle, is ever the safer course, we have a notable ensample in Egyptian history, in which land(as travelers tell us) the Ibis standeth ever in the midst of the river Nile, so best to avoid the onslaught of the ravenous alligators, which infest the banksoneither side: from which habit of that wise bird is derived the ancient maxim “In medio tutissimus Ibis’’. VEN. But wherefore be they two? Surely one arch were at once more comely and more convenient? TuTor. Sir, so long as public approval be won, what matter for the arch? But that they are two, take this as sufficient explication—that they are too tall for doorways, too narrow for gateways; too light without, too 1050 A MISCELLANY dark within; too plain to be ornamental, and withal too fantastic to be useful. And if this be not enough, you are to note further that, were it all one arch, it must needs cut short one of those shafts which grace the Quadrangle on all sides—and that were a monstrous and unheard-of thing, in good sooth, look you. VEN. In good sooth, Sir, if I look, I cannot miss seeing that there be three such shafts already cut short by doorways: so that it hath fair ensample to follow. . Tutor. Then will I take other ground, Sir, and affirm (for I trust I have not learned Logic in vain) that to cut short the shaft were a common and vulgar thing to do. But indeed a single arch, where folk might smoothly enter in, were wholly adverse to Nature, who formeth never a mouth without setting a tongue as an obstacle in the midst thereof. VEN. Sir, do you tell me that the block of masonry, between the gateways, was left there of set purpose, to hinder those that would enterin? Tutor. Trust me, it was even so; for firstly, we may thereby moreeasily control the entering crowds (“divide et impera’’ say the Ancients), and secondly, in this matter a wise man will ever follow Nature. Thus, in the centre of a hall-door we usually place an umbrella-stand—in the midst of a wicket-gate, a milestone—what place so suited for a watch-box as the centre of a narrow bridge?—Yea, and in the most crowded thoroughfare, where the living tide flows thickest, there, in the midstofall, the true zdeal architect doth ever plant an obelisk! You may have observedthis? VEN. (much bewildered). 1 may have done so, worthy Sir: and yet, methinks Tutor. I must now bid you farewell; for the music, which I would fain hear, is even now beginning. VEN. Trust me, Sir, your discourse hath interested me hugely. Tutor. Yet it hath, I fear me, somewhat wearied your friend, whois, as I perceive, in a deep slumber. THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S IO51 VEN. I had partly guessed it, by his loud and continuous snoring. Tutor. You had best let him sleep on. Hehath,I take it, a dull fancy, that cannot grasp the Great and the Sublime. Andso farewell: I am bound for the music. Exit TUTOR VEN.I give you good day, good Sir. Awake, my Master! For the day weareth on, and we have catched nofish. Pisc. Think not of fish, dear Scholar, but hearken! Trust me, I have seen such things in my dreams, as words may hardly compass! Come, Sir, sit down, and I’ll unfold to you, in such poor language as may best suit both my capacity and thebriefness of our time, THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S Methought that, in some bygone Age, I stood beside the waters of Mercury, and saw, reflected on tts placid face, the grand old buildings of the Great Quadrangle: near me stood one of portly form and courtly mien, with scarlet gown, and broad-brimmed hat whose strings, wide-fluttering in the breezeless air, at once defied the laws of gravity and marked the reverend Cardinal! ’Twas Wolsey’s self! I would have spoken, but he raised his hand and potnted to the cloudless sky, from whence deep-muttering thunders now began to roll. I listened in wildterror. , Darkness gathered overhead, and through the gloom sobbingly down-floated a gigantic Box! With a fearful crash it settled upon the ancrent College, which groaned beneath tt, while a mocking votce cried “‘Ha! Ha!” I looked for Wolsey: he was gone. Down in those glassy depths lay the stalwart form, with scarlet mantle grandly wrapped around it: the broad-brimmed hat floated, boat-like, on the lake, while the strings with their complex tassels, still defying the laws of gravity, quivered in the air, and seemed to point a hundred fingers at the horrid Belfry! Around, on every side, spirtis howled in the howling blast, blatant, stridulous! A darker vision yet! A black gash appeared in the shud1052 A MISCELLANY dering parapet! Spins flitted hither and thither with averted face, and warningfingers pressed to quivering lips! Then a wild shriek rang through the air, as, with volcanic roar, two murky chasms burst upon the view, and the ancient College reeled giddily around me! Spirits in patent-leather boots stole by on tiptoe, with hushed breath and eyes of ghastly terror! Spirits with cheap umbrellas, and unnecessary goloshes, hovered over me, sublimely pendant! Spirits with carpet-bags, dressed in complete suits of dittos, shed by me, shrieking ‘“‘Away! Away! To the arrowy Rhine! To the rushing Guadalquiver! To Bath! To Jericho! To anywhere!” Stand here with me and gaze. From thts thrice-favoured spot, in one rapturous glance gather in, and brand for ever on the tablets of memory, the Vision of the Three T’s! To your left frowns the abysmal blackness of the tenebrous Tunnel. To your right yawns the terrible Trench. While far above, away from the sordid aims of Earth and the petty criticisms of Art, soars, tetragonal and tremendous, the tintinabulatory Tea-chest! Scholar, the Vision is complete! VEN. I am glad on’t: for in good sooth I am a-hungered. How say you, my Master? Shall we not leave fishing, and fall to eating presently? And look you, here is a song, which I have chanced on in this book of ballads, and which methinks suits well the present time and this most ancient place. Pisc. Nay then, let’s sit down. Weshall, I warrant you, make a good, honest, wholesome, hungry nuncheon with a piece of powdered beef and a radish or two that I have in my fish-bag. And you shall sing us this same song as _ we eat. VEN. Well then, I will sing: and I trust it may content you as well as your excellent discourse hath oft profited me. VENATOR chaunteth THE VISION OF THE THREE T’S 1053 A BACCHANALIAN ODE Here’s to the Freshmanof bashful eighteen! Here’s to the Senior of twenty! Here’s to the youth whose moustache ca’n’t be seen! Andhere’s to the man who hasplenty! Let the men Pass! Outof the mass I'll warrant we’ll find you somefit for a Class! Here’s to the Censors, who symbolize Sense, Just as Mitres incorporate Might,Sir! To the Bursar, who never expandsthe expense! And the Readers, who always doright, Sir! Tutor and Don, Let them jog on! I warrant they'll rival the centuries gone! Here’s to the Chapter, melodious crew! . Whose harmonysurely intends well: For, though it commences with ‘“‘harm”’, it is true, Yet its mottois “‘All’s well that ends well!”’ Tis love, I’ll be bound, That makesit go round! For ‘In for a pennyis in for a pound!”’ Here’s to the Governing Body, whose Art (For they’re Masters of Arts to a man,Sir!) Seeks to beautify Christ Church in every part, Though the method seems hardly to answer! With three T’s it is graced— Whichletters are placed To stand for the names of Tact, Talent, and Taste! Pisc. I thank you, good Scholar, for this piece of merriment, and this Song, which was well humoured by the maker, and well rendered by you. VEN. Oh me! Look you, Master! A fish,a fish! Pisc. Then let us hookit. They hook it. SMaGbeae6 6tae85Rl88a65ie0te88iFbine8STea8le86TaChShte8le5ee6ESOe THE BLANK CHEQUE A FABLE “Vell, perhaps,” said Sam, “you bought houses, vich 1s delicate English for goin’ mad; or took to buildin’, vich ts a medical term for bein’ incurable.” ‘FIVE o'clock tea’ is a phrase that our “rude forefathers’, even of the last generation, would scarcely have understood, so completely is it a thing of to-day: and yet, so rapid is the March of Mind,it has already risen into a national institution, and rivals, in its universal application to all ranks and ages, and as a specific for “‘all the ills that flesh is heir to’’, the glorious Magna Charta. Thus, it came to pass, that, one chilly day in March, which only madethe shelter indoors seem by contrast the moredelicious, I found myself in the cozy little parlour of my old friend, kind hospitable Mrs. Nivers. Her broad good-humouredface wreatheditself into a sunny smile as I entered, and we were soon embarked on that wayward smooth-flowing current of chat about nothingin particular, which is perhaps the most enjoyable of all forms of conversation. John (I beg his pardon, ‘‘Mr. Nivers” I should say: but he wasso constantly talked of, and at, by his better half, as ‘John’, that his friends were aptto forget he had a surnameatall) sat in a distant corner with his feet tucked well under his chair, in an attitude rather too upright for comfort, and rather too suggestive of general collapse for anything like dignity, and sipped his tea in silence. From some distant region came a soundlike the roar of the sea, rising and falling, suggesting the presence of many boys; and indeed I knew that the house was full to overflowing of noisy urchins, overflowing with high spirits and mischief, but on the whole a very creditable set of little folk. 1054 THE BLANK CHEQUE 1055 “And where are you going for your sea-side trip this summer, Mrs. Nivers?”’ My old friend pursed up her lips with a mysterious smile, and nodded. ‘‘Ca’n’t understand you,” I said. “You understand me, Mr. De Ciel, just as well as I understand myself, and that’s not saying much. J don’t know where we're going: John doesn’t know where we’re going—but we’re certainly going somewhere; and we sha’n’t even know the nameof theplace, till we find ourselves there! Now are yousatisfied?” I was more hopelessly bewildered than ever. “‘One of us is dreaming, no doubt,” I faltered; “‘or—or perhaps I’m going mad,or *” The good lady laughed merrily at my discomfiture. . ‘“Well, well! It’s a shame to puzzle you so,” she said. “Tl tell you all about it. You see, last year we couldn’t settle it, do what we would. John said, ‘Herne Bay’; and I said ‘Brighton’; and the boys said ‘somewhere where there’s a circus’; not that we gave much weightto that, you know: well, and Angela (she’s a growing girl, and we've got to find a new schoolfor her, this year), she said ‘Portsmouth, because of the soldiers’; and Susan (she’s my maid, you know), she said ‘Ramsgate’. Well, with all those contrary opinions, somehow it ended in our going nowhere: and John and I put our heads together last week, and wesettled that it should never happen again. And now,how do you think we’ve managedit?” “Quite impossible to guess,” I said dreamily, as I handed back my empty cup. “Tn the first place,’’ said the goodlady,‘‘we need change sadly. Housekeeping worries me moreevery year, particularly with boarders—and John will have a couple of gentleman-boarders always on hand:hesaysit looks respectable, and that they talk so well they make the house quite lively. As if J couldn’t talk enough for him!”’ “It isn’t that!’ muttered John. “It’s ” “They’re well enough sometimes,” the lady went on (she never seemed to hear her husband’s remarks), ‘‘but 1056 A MISCELLANY I’m sure, when Mr. Prior Burgess washere, it was enough to turn one’s hair grey! He was an open-handed gentleman enough—asliberal as could be—butfar too particular about his meals. Why,if you’ll believe me, he wouldn’t sit down to dinner without there were three courses! We couldn’t go on in that style, you know.I hadtotell the next boarder he must be more hardy in his notions, or I could warrant him we shouldn’t suit each other.” “Quite right,’ I said. “Might I trouble you for another half cup?”’ “‘Sea-side air we must have, you see,’”’ Mrs. Nivers went on, mechanically taking up the tea-pot, but too much engrossed in the subject to do more, ‘‘and as we ca’n’t agree where to go, and yet we must go somewhere—did you say half acup?”’ “Thanks,” said I. ““You were going to tell me what it was yousettled.”’ “Wesettled’, said the good lady, pouring out the tea without a moment’s pause in her flow of talk, ‘that the only course was—(cream I think you take, but no sugar? Just so)—was to put the whole matter—but stop, John shall read it all out to you. We’ve drawn up the agreement in writing—quite ship-shape,isn’t it, John? Here’s the document: John shall read it to you—and mind your stops, there’s a dear!”’ John put on his spectacles, and in a tone of gloomy satisfaction (it was evidently his own composition) read the following: “Be tt hereby enacted and decreed, “That Susan be appointed for the business of choosing a watering-place for this season, and finding a New School for Angela. “That Susan be empowered not only to procure plans, but to select a plan, to submit the estimate for the execution of such plan to the Housekeeper; and, if the Housekeeper sanction the proposed expenditure, to proceed with the execution of such plan, and to fill up the Blank Cheque for the whole expense incurred.” THE BLANK CHEQUE 1057 Before I could say another word the door burst open, and a whole armyof boys tumbled into the room, headed by little Harry, the pet of the family, who huggedin his arms the much-enduring parlourcat, which, as he eagerly explained in his broken English, he had been trying to teach to stand on one leg. “Harry-Parry Ridy-Pidy Coachy-Poachy!”’ said the fond mother, as shelifted the little fellow to her knee and treated him to a jog-trot. “Harry’s very fond of Pussy, he is, but he mustn’t tease it, he mustn’t! Now go and play onthestairs, there’s dear children! Mr. De Ciel and I want to have a quiet talk.” And the boys tumbled out of the room again, as eagerly as they had tumbledin, shouting “‘Let’s have a Chase in the Hall!”’ . “A good set of Heads, are they not, Mr. De Ciel?”” my friend continued, with a wave of her fat hand towardsthe retreating army.‘‘Phrenologists admire them much. Look at little Sam, there. He’s one of the latest arrivals, you know, but he grows—mercy on us, how that boy does grow! You’ve no idea what a Weight he is! Then there’s Freddy, that tall boy in the corner: he’s rather too big for the others, that’s a fact—andhe’s somethingof a Bully at times, but the boy has a tender heart, too: give him a bit of poetry, now, and he’s as maudlin as a girl! Then there’s Benjy, again: a nice boy, but I daren’t tell you what he costs us in pocket-money! Oh, the work we had with that boy, till we raised his allowance! Hadn’t we, John?” (John grunted in acquiescence.) “It was Arthur took up’ his cause so much, and worried poor John and me nearly into our graves! Arthur was a very nice boy, Mr. De Ciel, and as great a favourite with the other boys as Harryis now, before he went to Westminster, He used totell them stories, and draw them theprettiest pictures you ever saw! Houses that were all windows and chimneys—what they call ‘High Art’, I believe. We tried a conservatory once on the High-Art principle, and (would you believe it?) the man stuck the roof up on a lot of rods like so many knitting-needles! Of course it soon came down 1058 A MISCELLANY about our ears, and we hadto doit all over again. As I said to John at the time, ‘If this is High Art, give me a little more of the Art next time, and a little less of the High!’ He’s doing very well at Westminster, I hear, but his tutor writes that he’s very asthmatic, poor fellow——’”’ “Aesthetic, my dear, zesthetic!’’ remonstrated John. “Ah, well, my love,’’ said the good lady, ‘‘all those long medical words are one and the same to me. And they come to the same thing in the Christmasbills, too: they both mean ‘Draught as before’! Well, well! They’re a set of dear good boys on the whole: they’ve only one real Vice among them—butI shall tire you, talking about the boys so much. What do you think of that agreement of ours?”’ I had been turning the paper over and over in my hands, quite at a loss to know whatto say to so strange a scheme. “Surely I’ve misunderstood you?”’ I said. ‘You ‘don’t mean to say that you’ve left the whole thing to your maidto settle for you?”’ “But that’s exactly what I do mean, Mr. De Ciel,’’ the lady replied, a little testily. ““She’s a very sensible young person, I can assure you. So now, wherever Susan chooses to take us, there we go!” (‘‘There we go! There wego!”’ echoed her husband in a dismal sort of chant, rocking himself backwards and forwardsin his chair.) ‘““You’ve no idea what a comfortit is to feel that the whole thing’s in Susan’s hands!” “Go where Susan takes thee,’”’ I remarked, with a vague idea that I was quoting an old song. ‘‘Well, no doubt Susan has very correct taste, and all that—butstill, if I might advise, I wouldn’t leave all to her. She may need a ~ little check: ” “That’s the very word, dear Mr. De Ciel!” cried my old friend, clapping her hands. ‘‘And that’s the very thing we’ve done,isn’t it, John?” (“‘The very thing we’ve done,” echoed John.) ‘‘I made him do it only this morning. He has signed her a Blank Cheque, so that she can go to any cost shelikes. It’s such a comfort to get things settled and off one’s hands, you know! John’s been grumbling about THE BLANK CHEQUE 1059 it ever since, but now that I cantell him it’s your advice ” “But, my dear Madam,’’ I faltered, “I don’t mean cheque with a ‘Q’!”’ “your advice,” repeated Mrs. N., not heeding myinterruption, “‘why, of course he’ll see the reasonableness of it, like a sensible creature as he is!’ Here she looked approvingly at her husband,whotried to smile a “‘slow wise smile’, like Tennyson’s “wealthy miller’, but I fear the result was more remarkable for slowness than for wisdom. I saw that it would be waste of words to argue the matter further, so took my leave, and did not see my old friends again before their departure for the sea-side. I quote the following from a letter which I received yesterday from Mrs. Nivers: “MARGATE, April r. “Dear Friend, “You know the old story of the dinner-party, where there was nothing hot but the ices, and nothing cold but the soup? Of this place I may fairly say that theve is nothing high but the prices, the staircases, and the eggs; nothing low but the sea and the company: nothing strong but the butter; and nothing weak but the tea!’’ From the general tenor of her letter I gather that they are not enjoyingit. MoRAL Is it really seriously proposed—in the University of Oxford, and towardsthe close of the Nineteenth Century (never yet reckoned by historians as part of the Dark Ages)—to sign a Blank Cheque for the expenses of building New Schools, before any estimate has been madeof those expenses—before any plan has been laid before the University, from which such an estimate could be made—before any architect has been found to design such a plan—before any Committee has been elected to find such an architect? O6666ReOA6FB6608688SeS 5tad TWELVE MONTHS IN A CURATORSHIP BY ONE WHO HAS TRIED IT (As Curator of the Common Room at Christ Church, Oxford, C. L. Dodgson was obliged to prepare a report. He could not miss the opportunity to give these selections a Carvollean flavour.) PREFACE Tuts bookis not a plagiarism—as its name mightatfirst suggest—of “‘Five Years in Penal Servitude’’. Nor, again, is it meant to traverse precisely the same ground as “Six Months on the Treadmill’. There is a general resemblance, no doubt, to both the above works:still, it may be claimed for the present memoir, that it deals with some phases of humanity not hitherto analyzed,.and narrates some woesthat are peculiarly its own. An apology is needed for its great length: but I have not had time to condenseit into smaller compass. The record, which I here propose to lay before the members of Ch. Ch. Common Room... will be found largely autobiographical (a euphemism for “‘egotistic’’), slightly apologetic, cautiously retrospective, and boldly prophetic: it will be at once financial, carbonaceous, zesthetic; chalybeate, literary, and alcoholic: it will be pervaded with mystery, and spiced with hints of thrilling plots arid deeds of darkness. .. . Would Common Room “‘be surprised to hear’’ that I have been breaking the rules . . . with all the abandon of a bull, when critically inspecting a collection of old Dresden China? I meant, of course, the /ettey of the rules... an instance will be found in the Rules of the Wine Committee, which have fared but badly at my hands: “‘Compound and comminuted fracture”’ is the scientific term, I 1060 TWELVE MONTHS IN A CURATORSHIP 1061 believe, for the process I have put them through: but this matter is too awful to be dealt with here: it must have a section to itself. ... OF WINE Whetherthis subject is gute the noblest to which Time and Thought can be devoted by Manis a question I leave on oneside for the moment . . . one curious phenomenon I wish to call attention to. The consumption of Madeira (B) has been, during the past year, zero. [The total wine consumption was about 3,000 bottles for the previous year.] After careful calculation, I estimate that, if this rate of consumption be steadily maintained, our present stock will last us an infinite number of years. And although there may be something monotonous and dreary in the prospect of such vast cycles spent in drinking second-class Madeira, we may yet cheer ourselves with the thought of how economically it can be done... . OF LIQUEURS ... The asterisks [in the accompanyinglist] indicate the degree of goodness according to the viewsof a certain Member of the Wine-Committee, who, in the noblest spirit of self-sacrifice, came day after day to taste the samples, on which views I (being one whose opinion on such points is worth absolutely nothing) entirely coincide. OF THE WINE COMMITTEE The Wine-Committee was a very simple organism at first—a sort of Amceba,with so brief a code of rules thatit wasall but structureless. But as time went on it developed and its rules grew ever more complex andstringenttill they became, in the humble opinion of the present Curator, rather too tight a fit to be altogether comfortable. . . Perhapsthe most interesting feature in the career of the Committee has been its gentle fading away in dimensions —“‘‘fine by degrees, and beautifully less”’. 1062 A MISCELLANY Tune: “TEN LITTLE NIGGERS”’ “‘Four frantic Members of a chosen Commitee! Oneof them resigned, then there were Three. “Three thoughtful Members: they may pull us through! One was invalided—then there were Two. “Two tranquil Members: much mayyet be done! But they never came together, so I had to work with One.” And I find, by the records of the business transacted during the year, that much of it was done with only this very limited number of Memberspresent besides the Curator. OF CHALYBEATE WATERS It is not the happy lot of every Curatorto becriticized, not only by resident membersof the C.R., but also by distant correspondents. I have received, during this past year, a long series of letters from one writer, of a highly critical—not to say hostile—tendency. These have been fired off at me with a monotonousregularity, havingall the persistency—without the pathos—of minute-guns. ... What most amuses mein this series of projectiles is the novel view it gives me of my position as Curator. I had been weak enough to picture myself to myself as a wellworked andslightly worried individual, trying, to the best of his poor judgment, to do his duty by the friends who had entrusted their Common Room to his care—acknowledging responsibility to those friends as a body, but most certainly of to single members of that body,still less to outside-critics—and behold, I find ]amadarkcon- . spirator, going about in cloak and domino, with daggers and detonators, and withal liable to be put in the dark and lectured by any so1-disant judge that chooses to don the wig and gown! All this is, as Tennyson says ‘‘sweet and strange to me’. TWELVE MONTHS IN A CURATORSHIP 1063 A VISION OF THE FUTURE It was in 1983, and the new Curator was in an awful dilemma.... Only a month ago, passing the Common Room oneafternoon, he had noticed the cellar door open, andstrolling in had found two shabbily-dressed men filling a coal-sack with bottles of old Port. They had declined to explain their motives, and left hastily. But the Curator had been true to his duty. “It is a question of keeping wine’, he said to himself, “‘and can only be decided by a majority of the Wine-Committee at a dulysummoned meeting.” .. . And now,within the last few days, the Common Room, ever anxiousto oblige their Curatorin all things, had devised a new Code of Rules, which fitted him to a T, like a pair of new handcuffs—a Code of Rules which, as they fondly hoped, he would welcome as something really striking and stringent.... [Rule 6] “Nothing shall be done,or left undone, by the Curator without the concurrence of the Wine-Committee. And, if the Curator shall complain of cold, it shall be the duty of the Committee to make things warm for him.’ After this Code had passed into law, the membersof the Common Room went about with elastic steps, and hearts bursting with joy and thankfulness. “The wild beast is caged at last!” they were always saying to each other, shaking hands whenever they met. The Curator appeared to be less entirely at his ease. His walk was suggestive of Tight Boots, his countenance of Toothache, while his general deportment was that of a man whose system has been demoralized by too much Tea. ... All this was very cheerful, but a new difficulty had arisen, and the Curator was distracted. An old member of the Common Room had just come to Oxford, whoalwaystook pale Brandy and Sodaat dinner, and there was nothing but brown in the Cellar. ““What am I to do?” groaned the Curator. “It will take 8 days to get a Committee- meeting to settle from what merchant to get 1064 A MISCELLANY samples—4 days to get the samples—8 days more to get a meeting to select the brandy andfix the price to put on it—and 4 days to get it. That is over 3 weeks, and the poor old man only stays a fortnight!’’ Beads of perspiration trickled down his manly forehead. After some hours of anxious thought, he nerved himself for a truly desperate step: he ordered a bottle ofpale brandy on hts own responsibility! And forthwith camea letter from Tunbridge Wells. “What! you’re at it again, are you? ... What’s the use of my anathematizing you twice a week by post, and doing my best to make yourlife a burden?” ... I don’t quite know what becameof that guilty Curator. I believe he fled to other climes; and they elected a new one: and Common Room was once more supposed to be governed on constitutional principles: and no hitch occurred— till the next time. SR68OA68Ra68aSEE6STBlFhlaBSleESBS8888SlOS68C8 THREE YEARS IN A CURATORSHIP BY ONE WHOMIT HAS TRIED (Four paragraphs of a report submitied by the author when he was Curator of the Common Room at Oxford.) PREFACE LonG and painful experience has taught me one great principle in managing business for other people, vzz., if you want to inspire confidence, give plenty of statistics. It does not matter that they should be accurate, or even intelligible, so long as there is enough of them. A curator who contents himself with simply doing the businessof a Common Room, and who puts out nostatistics, is sure to be distrusted. ‘“He keeps us in the dark!’”’ men will say. “He publishes no figures. What does it mean? Is heasTHREE YEARS IN A CURATORSHIP 1065 sisting himself?” But, only circulate some abstruse tables of figures, particularly if printed in lines and columns, so that ordinary readers can makenothing of them, and all is changed at once. ‘‘Oh, go on, go on!”’ they cry, satiated with facts. “Manage things as you like! We trust you entirely!” Hence this pamphlet. I OF AIRS, GLARES, AND CHAIRS The Committee ... appointed a year ago “‘to consider the whole question of lighting and ventilating’, have grappled with, and (it is hoped) pretty nearly solved, the two problems proposed to them—though but scantily supported by the sympathies of Common Room, who, though ready enough to ventilate our proposals as to “light” have altogether madelight of our “‘ventilation’’. The latter subject was discussed . . . and the plan adopted, of an oblique opening . . . pierced through the E. wall of the Common Room, with a valve inside, which might be opened or shut at will... . The valve has not only served the purpose for which it was designed—it has also furnished some most interesting illustrations of the tricks the human imagination can play, and the influence it has over physical sensations. The members of the C.R., whosit on the E. side of the room wereat first terrified at the prospect of so muchcold air beating down ontheir unsheltered heads. “It is hairy we need—notair!’ Thus they moaned in their anguish. But the strangest part of it was that it was usually when the valve was shut that they felt most keenly “‘the pelting of this pitiless storm”’: when it was open, they made no complaint. The conclusion seems to be, that the additional ventilation has not really produced any inconvenience, while it has conferred an undoubted benefit, by increasing the longevity of membersof the C.R.—asis plain from the simple con1066 A MISCELLANY sideration that they are, all of them, six months older than they were when the change was made. The question of “light” has been very fully andfiercely debated by the Committee, and the suggestions were so many, and so contradictory, that the great mind of the Curator nearly gave way ... for the table, it was agreed to request Mr. Thompson to select one of Hinck’s ‘‘Duplex” lamps—it being understood that that kind combined high art and high illumination. Mr. Thompson kindly did so, and the result has been “‘a thing of beauty’, which is also (probably) ‘‘a joy forever’, but it has not yet been tested quite long-enough to provethis. ... 2 DE RE NUMMARIA On this topic Iam nothing if not tabular. ... No financial statement can possibly be complete without a word or two about wine. For surely any Curator, worthy of the name, would be found, if tested by one Lee’s Reader, to possess a density varying directly, and a gravity varying inversely, as the potency of the Port— if tested anatomically by a second, to have the word “WINE” neatly emblazonedon his heart—and,if finally submitted to quantitative analysis by a third, to consist principally of C,H,O.. There is not, however, anything specially thrilling to say about this deeply-interesting subject. Water-drinkers will be pleased to hear that we have spent during the past year, with all the recklessness of several Grand Old Men, no less than £768 18s. gd. on wine, and that the result of this skilful financial operation has been a deficit on the year’s account, of £44 19s. 9¢.—while the wine-drinkers will be equally delighted to learn that the stock of pints of Y’quem hasthis year reached the proud position occupied, two years ago, by Madeira (B), and that we have enough in handtolast, at the present rate of consumption, for an infinite numberof years. ... THREE YEARS IN A CURATORSHIP 1067 3 DE MERI MERITIS ...I have yet a word to say regarding one of our choicest wines, the “Mouton” Claret. On this subject we, the Wine Committee, have displayed a nervous trepidation, not to say a hysterical hyperesthesta—absolutely morbid. About a year ago a panic seized us. One or two bottles had turned out bad (“corked”’ or whatever it might have been): and suddenly the cry went up ‘‘All is lost!’’: wild words, such as “It is past its prime!” “‘It is worth only three shillings a bottle!” hurled in theair: the very constitution of the Cellar was affected for a time: symptoms of diminished circulation and of slight consumption showed themselves. The Curator trembled, but would not quit the gory field in such frantic haste, or give the order... to empty the remaining bottles into Mercury— thereby certainly demoralizing, and probably destroying, its scaly inmates.... The devouring anxiety (membersof the C.R. may havenoticedits crushing effect on me, producing a lambent—not to say sheepish—style of conversation?) on the subject of “Mouton” is now wholly and at once removed. Those, who havenotfelt the anxiety, cannot fully realize the relief. The wretch, who groans with a badtooth, is grateful to the dentist who extracts it for him: but were the same dentist to rush, pincers in hand,into the street, stop the first passer-by, and wrench from his jaw some perfectly sound tooth, similar expressions of gratitude could not reasonably be lookedfor. 4 DE LICLE STATISTICE . .. Enough, enough! I have said mysay, gentle reader! Turn the page, and revel, to your heart’s content, in [A Table of the Present Stock of Wine.] Rae86iBF69$8a RESIDENT WOMEN-STUDENTS In the bewildering multiplicity of petty side-issues, with which the question, of granting University Degrees to Women, has been overlaid, there is some danger that Members of Congregation may lose sight of the really important issues involved. The following four propositions should, I think, be kept steadily in view by all who wish to form an independent opinion as to the matterin dispute. (1) Oneof the chief functions, if not the chief function, of our University, is to prepare young Men—partly by teaching, partly by discipline, partly by the personal influence of those who have charge of them, and partly by the influence they exercise on one another—for the businessof Life. (This needs to be specially borne in mind in connection with the assumption, so constantly made in this controversy, that the sole meaning of the B.A. Degree is that it guarantees the possession of a large amount of knowledge.) Consequently, (2) Thefirst question to be asked, as to any Schemeproposed to our University, is, ““How will it affect those for whose well-being we are responsible?’? When we have assured ourselves that it will not exercise any harmfulinfluence on our own Students, then, and nottill then, may we fairly proceed to consider how it will affect those for whose well-being we are ”oresponsible. 1068 RESIDENT WOMEN-STUDENTS 1069 (3) Any Scheme for the recognition of Women-Students— whetherby series of Certificates or a single Diploma— whereby those who haveresided here will have an advantage, in the keen competition for educational posts, over those who have not, will most certainly end in making residence compulsory on all. Whether they wish it or not, whether they can afford it or not, Women-Students will find that they must reside, unless they are content to be hopelessly distanced in the race whose prize is “daily bread”’. Consequently, (4) Any such Schemeis certain to produce an enormousinflux of resident Women-Students. Considering that we have over 3000 young Men-Students, and that the number of young Women, who are devoting themselves to study, is increasing “‘by leaps and bounds’, it may be confidently predicted that any such Schemewill bring to Oxford at least 3000 more young Women-Students. Such an immigration will of course produce a rapid increase in the size of Oxford, and will necessitate a large increase in our teaching-staff and in the numberof ourlecture-rooms. The main question before us is, ‘““Will the mutual influence, of two such sets of Students, residing in such close proximity, be for good or for evil?” Some Membersof the Congregation will reply, “For good,” some, “Forevil.’’ By all means let each form his own independent judgment, and give effect to it by his vote: but let him doit deliberately, and in the full light of acts. i The late Dr. Liddon was strongly of opinion that such an influence would be for evil, at any rate for the young Women. I have myself heard him—no doubt many others 1070 A MISCELLANY have done the same—express, most warmly and earnestly, his fears as to the effect the new movement, for flooding Oxford with young Women-Students, would have on the young Women themselves. And I have no doubt that, were he yet amongus,his silvery tones would have been heard in Congregation last Tuesday, deprecating the introduction, into our ancient University, of that social monster, the ‘“He-Woman”’. Surely the real “‘way-out’’, from our present perplexity, is to be found in some such course as that advocated by Mr. Strachan-Davidson, that Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin, should join in a petition to the Crown to grant a charter for a Women’s University. Such a University would very soon attract to itself the greater portion of young Women-Students. It takes no great time to build Colleges; and we might confidently expect to see ‘“New Oxford’’, in the course of 20 or even of ro years, rivaling Oxford, not only in numbers, but in attainments. At first, perhaps, they might need to borrow some teachers from the older Universities; but they would soon be able to supply all, that would be needed, from among themselves; and Women-Lecturers and Women-Professors would arise, fully as good as any that the older Universities have ever produced. This proposal has been met by the plea that it is not what the Women themselves ‘‘desire’’. Surely no weaker plea was ever urged in any controversy. Even men very often fail to ‘‘desire’’ whatis, after all, the best thing for them to have. And those ancients, on whom the onerous task was laid, of weighing and, if reasonably possible, satisfying the claims of the horse-leech and her two daughters, had other things to consider than the mere shrillness of their outcries. CHARLES L. DopGson CH.CH. Mar. 7th, 1896 OR6 5AeFS