Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (220 page)

For all the strength that he hath left

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

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.

They gave him bread and butter,
[016]

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,

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,

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."

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....

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.

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."