Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

by Lewis Carroll

  ’Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea

  Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”

  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!

  The real sentiment always cropped out in his verses to little girls; from youth to age he was their “good knight and true” and all his fairest thoughts were kept for them. Many a grown woman has carefully hoarded among her treasures some bit of verse from Lewis Carroll, which her happy childhood inspired him to write; but the dedication of “Alice through the Looking-Glass” was to the unknown child, whom his book went forth to please:

  Child of the pure, unclouded brow

  And dreaming eyes of wonder!

  Though time be fleet, and I and thou

  Are half a life asunder,

  Thy loving smile will surely hail

  The love-gift of a fairy tale.

  I have not seen thy sunny face,

  Nor heard thy silver laughter:

  No thought of me shall find a place

  In thy young life’s hereafter,

  Enough that now thou wilt not fail

  To listen to my fairy tale.

  A tale begun in other days,

  When summer suns were glowing,

  A simple chime, that served to time

  The rhythm of our rowing,

  Whose echoes live in memory yet,

  Though envious years would say “forget.”

  Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,

  With bitter tidings laden,

  Shall summon to unwelcome bed

  A melancholy maiden!

  We are but older children, dear,

  Who fret to find our bedtime near.

  Without, the frost, the blinding snow,

  The storm-wind’s moody madness;

  Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,

  And childhood’s nest of gladness.

  The magic words shall hold thee fast;

  Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

  And though the shadow of a sigh

  May tremble through the story,

  For “happy summer days” gone by

  And vanished summer glory,

  It shall not touch, with breath of bale,

  The pleasance of our fairy tale.

  These are only a meager handful of his many poems. Through his life this gift stayed with him, with all its early spirit and freshness; the added years but added grace and lightness to his touch, for in the “Story of Sylvie and Bruno” there are some gems: but that is another chapter and we shall hear them later.

  And so the years passed, and the writer of the “Alices” and the “Jabberwocky” and “The Hunting of the Snark” and other poems fastened himself slowly but surely into the loyal hearts of his many readers, and the grave mathematical lecturer of Christ Church seemed just a trifle older and graver than of yore. He was very reserved, very shy, and kept somewhat aloof from his fellow “dons”; but let a little girl tap ever so faintly at his study door, the knock was heard, the door flung wide, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson vanished into some inner sanctum, and Lewis Carroll stood smiling on the threshold to welcome her with open arms.

  CHAPTER XI.

  GAMES, RIDDLES, AND PROBLEMS.

  Lewis Carroll had a mind which never rested in waking hours, and as is the case with all such active thinkers, his hours of sleeping were often broken by long stretches of wakefulness, during which time the thinking machinery set itself in motion and spun out problems and riddles and odd games and puzzles.

  “Puzzles and problems of all sorts were a delight to Mr. Dodgson,” writes Miss Beatrice Hatch in the Strand Magazine. “Many a sleepless night was occupied by what he called a ‘pillow problem’; in fact his mathematical mind seemed always at work on something of the kind, and he loved to discuss and argue a point connected with his logic, if he could but find a willing listener. Sometimes, while paying an afternoon call, he would borrow scraps of paper and leave neat little diagrams or word puzzles to be worked out by his friends.”

  Logic was a study of which he was very fond. After he gave up in 1881 the lectureship of mathematics which he had held for twenty-five years he determined to make literature a profession; to devote part of his time to more serious study, and a fair portion to the equally fascinating work for children.

  “In his estimation,” says Miss Hatch, “logic was a most important study for every one; no pains were spared to make it clear and interesting to those who would consent to learn of him, either in a class that he begged to be allowed to hold in a school or college, or to a single individual girl who showed the smallest inclination to profit by his instructions.”

  He took the greatest delight in his subject and wisely argued that all girls should learn, not only to reason, but to reason properly—that is, logically. With this end in view he wrote for their use a little book which he called “The Game of Logic,” and the girls, whose footsteps he had guided in childish days through realms of nonsense, were willing in many instances to journey with him into the byways of learning, feeling sure he would not lead them into depths where they could not follow. The little volume contains four chapters, and the whimsical headings show us at once that Lewis Carroll was the author, and not Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.

  Chapter I.........New Lamps for Old.

  Chapter II.......Cross Questions.

  Chapter III......Crooked Answers.

  Chapter IV......Hit or Miss.

  To be sure this is not a “play” book, and even as a “game” it is one which requires a great deal of systematic thinking and reasoning. The girl who has reached thinking and reasoning years and does not care to do either, had better not even peep into the book; but if she is built on sturdier lines and wishes to peep, she must do more—she must read it step by step and study the carefully drawn diagrams, if she would follow intelligently the clear, precise arguments. The book is dedicated—

  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 billowy way:

  May no sigh vex nor care perplex

  My loving little Friend!

  His preface is most enticing. He says: “This Game requires nine Counters—four of one colour and five of another; say four red and five gray. 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?”

  To explain the book thoroughly would take the wit and clever handling of Lewis Carroll himself, but to the beginner of Logic a few of these unfinished syllogisms may prove interesting: a syllogism in logical language consists of what is known as two Prem
isses and one Conclusion, and is a very simple form of argument when you get used to it.

  For instance, supposing someone says: “All my friends have colds”; someone else may add: “No one can sing who has a cold”; then the third person draws the conclusion, which is: “None of my friends can sing,” and the perfect logical argument would read as follows:

  1. Premise—“All my friends have colds.”

  2. Premise—“No one can sing who has a cold.”

  3. Conclusion—“None of my friends can sing.”

  That is what is called a perfect syllogism, and in Chapter IV, which he calls Hit or Miss, Lewis Carroll has collected a hundred examples containing the two Premisses which need the Conclusion. Here are some of them. Anyone can draw her own conclusions:

  Pain is wearisome;

  No pain is eagerly wished for.

  In each case the student is required to fill up the third space.

  No bald person needs a hairbrush;

  No lizards have hair.

  No unhappy people chuckle;

  No happy people groan.

  All ducks waddle;

  Nothing that waddles is graceful.

  Some oysters are silent;

  No silent creatures are amusing.

  Umbrellas are useful on a journey;

  What is useless on a journey should be left behind.

  No quadrupeds can whistle;

  Some cats are quadrupeds.

  Some bald people wear wigs;

  All your children have hair.

  The whole book is brimful of humor and simple everyday reasoning that the smallest child could understand.

  Another “puzzle” book of even an earlier date is “A Tangled Tale”; this is dedicated—

  TO MY PUPIL.

  Belovéd pupil! Tamed by thee,

  Addish, Subtrac-, Multiplica-tion,

  Division, Fractions, Rule of Three,

  Attest the deft manipulation!

  Then onward! Let the voice of Fame,

  From Age to Age repeat the story,

  Till thou hast won thyself a name,

  Exceeding even Euclid’s glory!

  In the preface he says: “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 deftly but ineffectually concealed in the jam of our 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.

  “October, 1885. L. C.”

  These are regular mathematical problems and “posers,” most of them, and it seems that the readers, being more or less ambitious, set to work in right good earnest to answer them, and sent in the solutions to the author under assumed names, and then he produced the real problem, the real answer, and all the best answers of the contestants. These problems were all called Knots and were told in the form of stories.

  Knot I was called Excelsior. It was written as a tale of adventure, and ran as follows:

  “The ruddy glow of sunset was already fading into the somber shadows of night, when two travelers 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 armor habitually worn by tourists in that district, toiled on painfully at his side.”

  Lewis Carroll is evidently imitating the style of some celebrated writer—Henry James, most likely, who is rather fond of opening his story with “two travelers,” or perhaps Sir Walter Scott. He goes on:

  “As is always the case under such circumstances, the younger knight was the first to break the silence.

  “‘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 older 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 added in an undertone, ‘by the time we regain our hostelry. Full many a mile have we 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.”

  The problem in plain English is this: “Two travelers spend from three o’clock till nine in walking along a level road, up a hill, and home again, their pace on the level being four miles an hour, up hill three, and down hill six. Find distance walked: also (within half an hour) the time of reaching top of hill.”

  Answer. “Twenty-four miles: half-past six.”

  The explanation is very clear and very simple, but we will not give it here. This first knot of “A Tangled Tale” offers attractions of its own, for like the dream Alice someone may exclaim, “A Knot! Oh, do let me help to undo it!”

  The second problem or “Tale” is called Eligible Apartments, and deals with the adventures of one Balbus and his pupils, and contains two “Knots.” One is: “The Governor of —— 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, and his brother-in-law’s father, and we’re to guess how many guests there will be.” The answer is one. Perhaps some ambitious person will go over the ground and prove it. The second knot deals with the Eligible Apartments which Balbus and his pupils were hunting. At the end of their walk they found themselves in a square.

  “‘It is a Square!’ was Balbus’s first cry of delight as he gazed around him. ‘Beautiful! Beau-ti-ful! And rectangular!’ and as he plunged into Geometry he also plunged into funny conversations with the average English landlady, which we can better follow:

  “‘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’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 moved on to the next house where they repeated the same performance, adding as an afterthought: ‘Does the cat scratch?’

  “The landlady looked around 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 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, ... 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!’”

  He has given us a real Dickens atmosphere in the dialogue, but the medicinal problem tucked into it all is too much like hard work.

  There were ten of these “Knots,” each one harder than its predecessor, and Lewis Carroll found much interest in receiving and criticising the answers, all sent under fictitious names.

  This clever mathematician delighted in “puzzlers,” and sometimes he found a kindred soul among the guessers, which always pleased him.

  One of his favorite problems was one that as early as the days of the Rectory Umbrella he brought before his limited public. He called it Difficulty No. 1.

  “Where in its passage round the earth does the day change its name?”

  This question pursued him all through his mathematical career, and the difficulty of answering it has never lessened. Even in “A Tangled Tale” neither Balbus nor his ambitious young pupils could do much with the problem.

  Difficulty No. 2 is very humorous, and somewhat of a “catch” question.

  “Which is the best—a clock that is right only once a year, or a clock that is right twice every day?”

  In March, 1897, Vanity Fair, a current English magazine, had the following article entitled: