Lewis Carroll in Wonderland and at Home Part 4

"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.

It is doubtful if any little girl in Lewis Carroll's time ever learned "Laughing and Grief" unless she was _very_ ambitious, but many a quick, active young mind absorbed the simple problems which he was constantly turning into games for them.

So the years pa.s.sed over the head of this young Student of Christ Church.

They were pleasantly broken by long vacations at Croft Rectory, by trips through the beautiful English country, by one special journey to the English lakes, where Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge lived and wrote their poems. These trips were often afoot, and Charles Dodgson was very proud of the long distances he could tramp, no matter what the wind or the weather. There was nothing he liked better unless it was the occasional visits he made to the Princess's Theatre in London.

On June 16, 1856, he records seeing "A Winter's Tale," where he was specially pleased with little Ellen Terry, a beautiful tiny creature, who played the child's part of _Mamillius_ in the most charming way. This was the first of many meetings with the famous actress, who became one of his child-friends in later years. But that was when he was Lewis Carroll. As yet he was only Charles Dodgson, a struggling young Student, anxious for independence, interested in his work, simple, sincere, devout, a dreamer of dreams which had not yet taken shape, and above all, a true lover of little girls, no matter how plain, or fretful, or rumpled, or even dirty.

His kindly eyes could see beneath the creases on the top, his gentle fingers clasped the shrinking, trembling little hands; his low voice charmed them all unconsciously, and no doubt the children he loved did for him as much as he did for them. If he felt the strain of overwork nothing soothed him like a romp with his favorites, and young as he was, when dreaming of the future and the magic circle in which he would write his name, it was not of the great world he was thinking, but of bright young faces, with dancing eyes and sunny curls, and eager voices continually demanding--"One more story."

CHAPTER V.

A MANY-SIDED GENIUS.

We have traveled over the years with some speed, from the time that little Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was christened by his proud papa to the moment when the same proud father heard that his eldest son was made a student of Christ College--a good large slice out of a birthday-cake--twenty candles--if one counts birthdays by candles. It's a charming old German fas.h.i.+on, for the older one grows the brighter the lights become, and if you chance to get _real_ old--a fine "threescore and ten"--why, if there's a candle for each year, there you are--in a perfect blaze of glory!

We have just pa.s.sed over the very oldest part of our Boy's life; from the time he became Lewis Carroll, Charles Dodgson began to go backward; he did a lot of things backward, as we shall see later. He wrote letters backward, he told stories backward, he spelled and counted backward--in fact, he was so fond of doing things backward we do not wonder that he stepped out from the circle of the years, and turned backward to find the boyhood he had somehow missed before. This is when Lewis Carroll was born; but that is a story in itself.

Outwardly the life of the young Student seemed unchanged, but that is all we mortals know about it; the fairies were already at work. In moments of leisure little poems went forth to the world--a world which at first consisted of Croft Rectory--for there was another and last family magazine, of which he was sole editor and composer. He named it _Misch-Masch_, a curious old German word, which in our English means Hodge-Podge, and everybody, young and old, knows what a jumble Hodge-Podge is--something like New England succotash.

_Misch-Masch_ was started by this enterprising young editor during the year after his graduation. He had become a person of vast experience between _Misch-Masch_ and the days of _The Rectory Umbrella_, having been editor of _College Rhymes_, his college paper. He also wrote stories for the _Oxonian Advertiser_ and the _Whitby Gazette_, and this printed matter, together with many new and original ideas and drawings, found a place in his new home venture.

His mathematical genius blossomed forth in a wonderful labyrinth or maze, a geometrical design within a given square form, of a tangle of intersecting lines and angles containing a hidden pathway to the center.

These designs, that seem so remarkable to outsiders, were very simple to the editor of _Misch-Masch_, who was always inventing puzzles of some sort.

He also wrote a series of "Studies from the English Poets," which he ill.u.s.trated himself. One specially good drawing was of the following line from one of Keats's poems. "She did so--but 'tis doubtful how or whence."

The picture represents a very fat old lady, with a capitally drawn placid face, perched on a post marked "_Dangerous_," seemingly in midwater. In her chubby hand is a basket with the long neck of a goose hanging out.

Mr. Stuart Collingwood, Lewis Carroll's nephew, gives a most interesting account of these early editorial efforts, in an article written for the _Strand_, an English magazine. Speaking of the above ill.u.s.tration he says:

"Keats is the author whom our artist has honored, and surely the shade of that much neglected songster owes something to a picture which must popularize one pa.s.sage at least in his works.

"The only way I can account for the lady's hazardous position is by supposing her to have attempted to cross a frozen lake after a thaw has set in. The goose, whose long neck projects from her basket, proves that she has just returned from market; probably the route across the lake was her shortest way home. We are to suppose that for some time she proceeded without any knowledge of the risk she was running, when suddenly she felt the ice giving way under her. By frantic exertions she succeeded in reaching the notice-board, to which she clung for days and nights together, till the ice was all melted and a deluge of rain caused the water to rise so many feet that at last she was compelled for dear life to climb to the top of the post." We can now understand how well the ill.u.s.tration fits in with the line:

"She did so, but 'tis doubtful how or whence."

Mr. Collingwood continues:

"Whether she sustained life by eating raw goose is uncertain. At least she did not follow Father William's example by devouring the beak. The question naturally suggests itself: Why was she not rescued? My answer is that either such a dense fog enveloped the whole neighborhood that even her bulky form was invisible, or that she was so unpopular a character that each man feared the hatred of the rest if he should go to her succor."

Mr. Collingwood concludes his article with the following riddle which the renowned editor of _Misch-Masch_ presented to his readers; there must be an answer, and it is therefore worth while guessing, for Lewis Carroll would never have written a riddle without one:

A monument, men all agree-- Am I in all sincerity; Half-cat, half-hindrance made If head and tail removed shall be Then, most of all you strengthen me.

Replace my head--the stand you see On which my tail is laid.

_Misch-Masch_ had a short but brilliant career, for magazines with a wider circulation than Croft Rectory began to claim his attention. _The Comic Times_ was a small periodical very much on the order of _Punch_. Edmund Yates was the editor, and among the writers and artists were some of the best known in England. Charles Dodgson's poetry and sketches were too clever to hide themselves from public view, and he became a regular contributor. Later, _The Comic Times_ changed hands, and the old staff started a new magazine called _The Train_, in 1856, and the quiet Oxford "don" found his poetry in such demand that after talking it over with the editor, he decided to adopt a suitable pen name. He first suggested "Dares" in compliment to his birthplace, Daresbury, but the editor preferred a _real_ name. Then he took his first two names, Charles Lutwidge, and transposing them he got two names, Edgar Cuthwellis or Edgar U. C. Westhill, neither of which sounded in the least interesting. Finally he decided to take the two names and look at them backward--this very queer young fellow always preferred to look at things backward--Lutwidge Charles. That was certainly not promising. Then he took one name at a time and a.n.a.lyzed it in his own quaint way. Lutwidge was surely derived from the Latin word Ludovicus--which in good sound English meant Lewis--ah, that was not bad! Now for Charles. Its Latin equivalent was Carolus--which could be easily changed in Carroll. The whole thing worked out like one of his own word puzzles, and Lewis Carroll he was, henceforth, whenever he made his appearance in print.

There was not much ceremony at _this_ christening. Just two clever men put their heads together and the result was--Lewis Carroll! Charles Lutwidge Dodgson retired to his rooms at Christ Church College, where he prepared his lectures on mathematics and wrote the most learned text-books for the University; but Lewis Carroll peeped out into the world, which he found full of light and laughter and happy childhood, and as Lewis Carroll he was known to that world henceforth.

The first poem to appear with his new name was called "The Path of Roses,"

a very solemn, serious poem about half a yard long and not specially interesting, save as a contribution to a most interesting little paper.

_The Train_ was really very ambitious, full, indeed, of the best talent of the day. There were short stories and serials, poems, timely articles, jokes, puns, anecdates--in short, all the attractions that help toward the making of an attractive magazine, and though the ill.u.s.trations were nothing but old-fas.h.i.+oned woodcuts, the reading was quite as good, and in many cases better than what we find in the average magazine of to-day.

Many of the little poems Lewis Carroll wrote at this time he tucked away in some cubby-hole and made use of later in one or the other of his books.

One of his very earliest printed bits is called:

MY FANCY.

I painted her a gus.h.i.+ng 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, Tho' my heart its pa.s.sion hides-- "She is all my fancy painted her,"

But, oh--_how much besides_!

The quoted line--"She is all my fancy painted her"--is the line upon which he built the poem; he was very fond of doing this, and though no special mention is made of the fact, it is highly probable that these three telling verses found their way into _Misch-Masch_, among the "Studies from the Poets." It is unfortunate, too, that we have not some funny drawing of this wonderful "gus.h.i.+ng thing" of the giraffe neck, "the bear's ethereal grace," and the "footstep of the elephant," for Lewis Carroll's drawings generally followed his thoughts; a pencil and bit of paper were always ready in some inner pocket, for ill.u.s.trating purposes, and it is doubtful if any celebrated artist could produce more sketches on such a variety of subjects. His power to make his pencil "talk" impressed his sisters and brothers greatly; they caught every sc.r.a.p of paper that fluttered from his hands, treasured it, and if the drawing was distinct enough, they colored it with crayons or touched it up in black and white, for the use of _The Rectory Umbrella_ and the later publication of _Misch-Masch_. In his secret soul he longed to be an artist; he certainly possessed genius of a queer sort. A few strokes would tell the story, usually a funny one or a quaint one, but all his art failed to make his people look quite real or natural--just dolls stuffed with sawdust. But they were fine caricatures, and the young artist had to content himself with this smaller talent.

_The Train_ published many of his poems during 1856-57. "Solitude,"

"Novelty and Romancement," "The Three Voices," followed one another in quick succession, but the best of all was decidedly "Hiawatha's Photographing," and this for more reasons than one. In the first place, from the time he went into residence at Christ Church photography was his great delight; he "took" people whenever he could--canons, deacons, deans, students, undergraduates and children. The "grown-ups" submitted with a gentle sort of patience, but he made his camera such a point of attraction for the youngsters that he could "take" them as often as he liked, and he has left behind him a wonderful array of photographs, many of well-known, even celebrated people, among whom we may find Tennyson, the Rossetti family, Ellen and Kate Terry, John Ruskin, George Macdonald, Charlotte M.

Yonge, Sir John Millais, and many others known to fame; and considering that photography had not reached its present perfection, Lewis Carroll's photographs show remarkable skill. He would not have been Lewis Carroll if he had not gone into this fascinating pastime with his whole soul.

Whenever he met a new face which interested him, we may be sure it was not long before the busy camera was at work. There is no doubt that his admiring family suffered agonies in posing, to say nothing of his friends who were not always beautiful enough to produce "pretty pictures"; their criticisms were often based entirely on their disappointment: hence the poem,

HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING.

[_With no apology to Mr. Longfellow._]

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.

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.

All of which during the course of the poem succeeded in driving poor Hiawatha to the verge of madness, until--

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."

All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus.