The Story of Lewis Carroll Part 6

A quarter of an hour they spent In wandering to and fro: And everywhere that Maggie went, That Cat was sure to go-- Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

'Miaow! Miaow!

Come, make your bow!

Take off your hats, Ye p.u.s.s.y Cats!

And purr, and purr, To welcome _her_-- For Maggie may be Bootles' Baby!'

So back to Christ Church--not too late For them to go and see A Christ Church Undergraduate, Who gave them cakes and tea.

Next day she entered, with her guide, The Garden called 'Botanic': And there a fierce Wild-Boar she spied, Enough to cause a panic!

But Maggie didn't mind, not she!

She would have faced _alone_, That fierce Wild-Boar, because, you see, The thing was made of stone!

On Magdalen walls they saw a face That filled her with delight, A giant-face, that made grimace And grinned with all its might!

A little friend, industrious, Pulled upwards, all the while, The corner of its mouth, and thus He helped that face to smile!

'How nice,' thought Maggie, 'it would be If _I_ could have a friend To do that very thing for _me_, And make my mouth turn up with glee, By pulling at one end!'

In Magdalen Park the deer are wild With joy that Maggie brings Some bread a friend had given the child, To feed the pretty things.

They flock round Maggie without fear: They breakfast and they lunch, They dine, they sup, those happy deer-- Still, as they munch and munch, Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

'Yes, Deer are we, And dear is she!

We love this child So sweet and mild: We all rejoice At Maggie's voice: We all are fed With Maggie's bread-- For Maggie may be Bootles' Baby!'

To Pembroke College next they go, Where little Maggie meets The Master's wife and daughter: so Once more into the streets.

They met a Bishop on their way-- A Bishop large as life-- With loving smile that seemed to say 'Will Maggie be my wife?'

Maggie thought _not_, because, you see, She was so _very_ young, And he was old as old could be-- So Maggie held her tongue.

'My Lord, she's _Bootles' Baby_: we Are going up and down,'

Her friend explained, 'that she may see The sights of Oxford-town.'

'Now say what kind of place it is!'

The Bishop gaily cried.

'The best place in the Provinces!'

That little maid replied.

Next to New College, where they saw Two players hurl about A hoop, but by what rule or law They could not quite make out.

'Ringo' the Game is called, although 'Les Graces' was once its name, When _it_ was--as its name will show-- A much more _graceful_ Game.

The Misses Symonds next they sought, Who begged the child to take A book they long ago had bought-- A gift for friends.h.i.+p's sake!

Away, next morning, Maggie went From Oxford-town: but yet The happy hours she there had spent She could not soon forget.

The train is gone: it rumbles on: The engine-whistle screams: But Maggie's deep in rosy sleep-- And softly, in her dreams, Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom!

'Oxford, good-bye!'

She seems to sigh, 'You dear old City, With Gardens pretty, And lawns, and flowers, And College-towers, And Tom's great Bell-- Farewell, farewell!

For Maggie may be Booties' Baby!'

--LEWIS CARROLL."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "A TURK"]

The tale has been often told of how "Alice in Wonderland" came to be written, but it is a tale so well worth the telling again, that, very shortly, I will give it to you here.

Years ago in the great quadrangle of Christ Church, opposite to Mr.

Dodgson, lived the little daughters of Dean Liddell, the great Greek scholar and Dean of Christ Church. The little girls were great friends of Mr. Dodgson's, and they used often to come to him and to plead with him for a fairy tale. There was never such a teller of tales, they thought!

One can imagine the whole delightful scene with little trouble. That big cool room on some summer's afternoon, when the air was heavy with flower scents, and the sounds that came floating in through the open window were all mellowed by the distance. One can see him, that good and kindly gentleman, his mobile face all aglow with interest and love, telling the immortal story.

Round him on his knee sat the little sisters, their eyes wide open and their lips parted in breathless antic.i.p.ation. When Alice (how the little Alice Liddell who was listening must have loved the tale!) rubbed the mushroom and became so big that she quite filled the little fairy house, one can almost hear the rapturous exclamations of the little ones as they heard of it.

The story, often continued on many summer afternoons, sometimes in the cool Christ Church rooms, sometimes in a slow gliding boat in a still river between banks of rushes and strange bronze and yellow waterflowers, or sometimes in a great hay-field, with the insects whispering in the gra.s.s all round, grew in its conception and idea.

Other folk, older folk, came to hear of it from the little ones, and Mr.

Dodgson was begged to write it down. Accordingly the first MS. was prepared with great care and ill.u.s.trated by the author. Then, in 1865, memorable year for English children, "Alice" appeared in its present form, with Sir John Tenniel's drawings.

In 1872 "Alice Through the Looking-Gla.s.s," appeared, and was received as warmly as its predecessor. That fact, I think, proves most conclusively that Lewis Carroll's success was a success of absolute merit, and due to no mere mood or fas.h.i.+on of the public taste. I can conceive nothing more difficult for a man who has had a great success with one book than to write a sequel which should worthily succeed it. In the present case that is exactly what Lewis Carroll did. "Through the Looking-Gla.s.s" is every whit as popular and charming as the older book. Indeed one depends very much upon the other, and in every child's book-shelves one sees the two masterpieces side by side.

[Ill.u.s.trations: Facsimile:

B.H.

from C. L. D.

A CHARADE.

[NB FIVE POUNDS will be given to any one who succeeds in writing an original poetical Charade, introducing the line "My First is followed by a bird," but making no use of the answer to this Charade.

Ap 8 1878

(signed)

Lewis Carroll]

My First is a singular at best More plural is my Second.

My Third is far the pluralest-- So plural-plural, I protest, It scarcely can be reckoned!

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!