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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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 Particle,” 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.