Complete Works

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (Lewis Carroll):

A Brief Biography Antecedents and Early Life "Lewis Carroll," as he was to become known, was born on January 27 1832. His family was predominantly northern English, with Irish connections, Conservative, Anglican, High Church, upper middle class, and inclining towards the two good old upper middle class professions of the army and the Church. His great-grandfather, also Charles Dodgson, had risen through the ranks of the church to become a bishop; his grandfather, another Charles, had been an army captain, killed most romantically in action in 1803 while his two sons were hardly more than babies. The elder of these -- yet another Charles - reverted to the other family business and took holy orders. He went to Westminster School, and thence to Oxford. He was mathematically brilliant and won an astonishing double first which could have been, but turned out not to be, the prelude to a brilliant career. Instead he married his cousin in 1827 and retired into obscurity as a country parson.

Young Charles was born in the little parsonage of Daresbury in Cheshire, the oldest boy but already the third child of the four-anda-half year marriage. Eight more were to follow and, incredibly for the time, all of them --- seven girls and four boys -- survived into adulthood. When Charles was 11 his father was given the living of Croft-on-Tees in north Yorkshire, and the whole family moved to the spacious Rectory. This remained their home for the next 25 years. Dodgson senior made some progress through the ranks of the church: he published some sermons, translated Tertullian, became an Archdeacon of Ripon cathedral, and involved himself, sometimes influentially, in the intense religious disputes that were dividing the Anglican church. He was High Church, inclining to Anglo-Catholicism, an admirer of Newman and the Tractarian movement, and he did his best to instil such views in his children. Young Charles grew out of infancy into a bright, articulate boy. In the early years he was educated at home. His "reading lists" preserved in the family testify to a precocious intellect: at the age of seven the child was reading The Pilgrim's Progress. It is often said that he was naturally left-handed and suffered severe psychological trauma by being forced to counteract this tendency, but there is no documentary evidence to support this. At twelve he was sent away to a small private school at nearby Richmond, where he appears to have been happy and settled. But in 1845, young Dodgson moved on to Rugby School, where he was evidently less happy, for as he wrote some years after leaving the place. I cannot say ... that any earthly considerations would induce me to go through my three years again ... I can honestly say that if I could have been ... secure from annoyance at night, the hardships of the daily life would have been comparative trifles to bear. The nature of this nocturnal 'annoyance' will probably never now be fully understood, but it may be that he is delicately referring to

some form of sexual abuse. Scholastically, though, he excelled with apparent ease. "I have not had a more promising boy his age since I came to Rugby" observed R.B. Mayor, the Maths master.

Oxford

He left Rugby at the end of 1849 and, after an interval which remains unexplained, went on in January 1851 to Oxford: to his father's old college, Christ Church. Oxford and beyond He had only been at Oxford two days when he received a summons home. His mother had died of "Inflammation of the Brain" -- perhaps meningitis or a stroke -- at the age of forty-seven. Whatever Dodgson's feelings may have been about this death, he did not allow them to distract him too much from his purpose at Oxford. He may not always have worked hard, but he was exceptionally gifted and achievement came easily to him. The following year he achieved a first in Honour Moderations, and shortly after he was nominated to a Studentship (the Christ Church equivalent of a fellowship), by his father's old friend Canon Edward Pusey. His early academic career veered between high octane promise, and irresistible distraction. Through his own laziness, he failed an important scholarship, but still his clear brilliance as a mathematician won him the Christ Church Mathematical Lectureship, which he continued to hold for the next 26 years. The income was good, but the work bored him. Many of his pupils were stupid, older than him, richer than him, and almost all of them were uninterested. They didn't want to be taught, he didn't want to teach them. Mutual apathy ruled In 1856 he took up the new art form of photography. He excelled at it and it became an expression of his very personal inner philosophy; a belief in the divinity of what he called "beauty" by which he seemed to mean a state of moral or aesthetic or physical perfection. He found this divine beauty not simply in the magic of

theatre, but in the poetry of words, in a mathematical formula; and perhaps supremely, in the human form; in the body-images that moved him. When he took up photography he sought with his own representations, to combine the ideals of freedom and beauty into the innocence of Eden, where the human body and human contact could be enjoyed without shame. In his middle age, he was to reform this philosophy into the pursuit of beauty as a state of Grace, a means of retrieving lost innocence. This, along with his lifelong passion for the theatre was to bring him into confrontation with the Moral Majority of his day and his own family's High Church beliefs. The young adult Charles Dodgson was about six foot tall, slender and handsome in a soft-focused dreamy sort of way, with curling brown hair and blue eyes. At the unusually late age of seventeen he suffered a severe attack of whooping cough which left him with poor hearing in his right ear and was probably responsible for his chronically weak chest in later life, but the only overt defect he carried into adulthood was what he referred to as his "hesitation" -a stammer he had acquired in early childhood and which was to plague him throughout his entire life. The stammer has always been a potent part of the myth. It is part of the mythology that Carroll only stammered in adult company, and was free and fluent with children, but there is nothing to support this idea. Many children of his acquaintance remembered the stammer; many adults failed to notice it. It came and went for its own reasons, but not as a clichá manifestation of fear of the adult world. Dodgson himself was far more acutely aware of it than most people he met. Although his stammer troubled him -- even obsessed him sometimes -- it was never bad enough to stop him using his other qualities to do well in society. He was naturally gregarious, egoistic enough to relish attention and admiration. At a time when people devised their own amusements, when singing and recitation were required social skills, this youth was well-equipped as an engaging entertainer. He could sing

tolerably well and was not afraid to do so in front of an audience. He was adept at mimicry and story-telling. He was something of a star at charades. He could be charming, pushy, manipulative, with the kind of ready sensitivity vulnerable women are apt to find irresistible. There are brief hints at a soaring sense of the spiritual and the divine; small moments that reveal a rich and intenselylived inner life. 'That is a wild and beautiful bit of poetry, the song of "call the cattle home",' he suddenly observed, in the midst of an analysis of Kingsley's novel Alton Locke: 'I remember hearing it sung at Albrighton: I wonder if any one there could have entered into the spirit of Alton Locke. I think not. I think the character of most that I meet is merely refined animal... How few seem to care for the only subjects of real interest in life'. He was also quite nakedly socially ambitious, anxious to make his mark on the world in some way, as a writer, as an artist. His scholastic career was only a stop-gap to other more exciting attainments that he wanted hungrily. He was writing -- poetry, short stories, sending them to various magazines, and already enjoying moderate success. Between '54 and '56, his work appeared in the national publications, The Comic Times and The Train, as well as smaller magazines like the Whitby Gazette and the Oxford Critic. Most of his output was funny, sometimes satirical. But his standards and his ambitions were exacting. "I do not think I have yet written anything worthy of real publication (in which I do not include the Whitby Gazette or the Oxonian Advertiser), but I dro not despair of doing so some day," he wrote in July 1855. Years before Alice, he was thinking up ideas for children's books that would make money: 'Christmas book [that would] sell well...Practical hints for constructing Marionettes and a theatre' His ideas got better as he got older, but the canny mind, with an eye to income, was always there.

In 1856 he published his first piece of work under the name that would make him famous. A very predictable little romantic poem called "Solitude" appeared in the Train under the authorship of 'Lewis Carroll'. In the same year, a new Dean arrived at Christ Church, Henry Liddell, bringing with him a young wife and children, all of whom would figure largely in Dodgson's life over the following years. He became close friends with the mother and the children, particularly the three sisters -- Ina, Alice and Edith. It seems there became something of a tradition of his taking the girls out on the river for picnics at Godstow or Nuneham. It was on one such expedition, in 1862, that Dodgson invented the outline of the story that eventually became his first and largest commercial success -- the first Alice book. Having told the story and been begged by Alice Liddell to write it down, Dodgson was evidently struck by its potential to sell well. He took the MS to Macmillan the publisher who liked it immediately. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland was published in 1865, under the pen-name Dodgson had first used some nine years earlier -- Lewis Carroll. With the launch and immediately phenomenal success of Alice, the story of the author's life becomes effectively divided in two: the continuing story of Dodgson's real life and the evolving myth surrounding "Lewis Carroll." Carroll quickly became a rich and detailed alter ego. A persona as famous and deeply embedded in the popular psyche as the story he told. To him belongs a large part of the image of 'little girls' and strange otherworldliness. that we know as the author of Alice. Dodgson's reality remained and remains largely obscure. It has been ignored, even by the most recent and reputed of modern biographers, in all, but its briefest outline. It is undisputed that throughout his growing wealth and fame, he continued to teach at Christ Church until 1881, and that he remained in residence there until his death. He published Through the Looking-Glass and what Alice found there in 1872, his great Joycean mock-epic The Hunting of the Snark, in

1876, and his last novel the two volume Sylvie and Bruno in 1889 and 1893 respectively. He also published many mathematical papers under his own name, courted scandal through his associations with the opposite sex, toured Russia and Europe on an extended visit (in 1867) and bought a house in Guildford, where he died, suddenly of violent pneumonia, in January 14 1898, leaving mystery and enigma behind him.

Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland by

Lewis Carroll Illustrated by

John Tenniel

ALL in the golden afternoon Full leisurely we glide; For both our oars, with little skill, By little arms are plied, While little hands make vain pretence Our wanderings to guide. Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour, Beneath such dreamy weather, To beg a tale of breath too weak To stir the tiniest feather! Yet what can one poor voice avail Against three tongues together? Imperious Prima flashes forth Her edict 'to begin it' In gentler tone Secunda hopes 'There will be nonsense in it!' While Tertia interrupts the tale Not more than once a minute. Anon, to sudden silence won, In fancy they pursue The dream-child moving through a land Of wonders wild and new,

In friendly chat with bird or beast And half believe it true. And ever, as the story drained The wells of fancy dry, And faintly strove that weary one To put the subject by, "The rest next time -" "It is next time!" The happy voices cry. Thus grew the tale of Wonderland: Thus slowly, one by one, Its quaint events were hammered out And now the tale is done, And home we steer, a merry crew, Beneath the setting sun. Alice! a childish story take, And with gentle hand Lay it were Childhood's dreams are twined In Memory's mystic band, Like pilgrim's wither'd wreath of flowers Pluck'd in a far-off land.

An Easter Greeting to every child who loves Alice DEAR CHILD Please to fancy, if you can, that you are reading a real letter, from a real friend whom you have seen, and whose voice you can seem to yourself to hear wishing you, as I do now with all my heart, a happy Easter. Do you know that delicious dreamy feeling when one first wakes on a summer morning, with the twitter of birds in the air, and the fresh breeze coming in at the open window when, lying lazily with eyes half-shut, one sees as in a dream green boughs waving, or water rippling in a golden light? It is a pleasure very near to sadness, bringing tears to one's eyes like a beautiful picture or poem. And is not that a Mother's gentle hand that undraws your curtains, and a Mother's sweet voice that summons you to rise? To rise and forget, in the bright sunlight, the ugly dreams that frightened you so when all was dark - to rise and enjoy another happy day, first kneeling to thank that unseen Friend, who sends you the beautiful sun? Are these strange words from a writer of

such tales as 'Alice'? And is this a strange letter to find in a book of nonsense? It may be so. Some perhaps may blame me for thus mixing together things grave and gay; others may smile and think it odd that any one should speak of solemn things at all, except in church and on Sunday: but I think - nay, I am sure - that some children will read this gently and lovingly, and in the spirit of which I have written it. For I do not believe God means us thus to divide life into two halves - to wear a grave face on Sunday, and to think it out-of-place to even so much as mention Him on a week-day. Do you think He cares to see only kneeling figures, and to hear only tones of prayer - and that He does not also love to see the lambs leaping in the sunlight, and to hear the merry voices of the children, as they roll among the hay? Surely their innocent laughter is as sweet in His ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from the 'dim religious light' of some solemn cathedral? And if I have written anything to add to those stories of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the children I love so well, it is surely something I may hope to look back upon without shame and sorrow (as how much of life must then be recalled!) when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows.

This Easter sun will rise on you, dear child, feeling your 'life in every limb', and eager to rush out into the fresh morning air - and many an Easter-day will come and go, before it finds you feeble and gray-headed, creeping wearily out to bask once more in the sunlight - but it is good, even now, to think sometimes of that great morning when the 'Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings'. Surely your gladness need not be less for the thought that you will one day see a brighter dawn than this - when lovelier sights will meet your eyes than any waving trees or rippling waters - when angel-hands shall undraw your curtains, and sweeter tones than ever loving Mother breathed shall wake you to a new and glorious day - and when all the sadness, and the sin, that darkened life on this little earth, shall be forgotten like the dreams of a night that is past! Your affectionate friend, LEWIS CARROLL Easter, 1876

Christmas Greetings From a Fairy to a Child LADY dear, if Fairies may For a moment lay aside Cunning tricks and elfish play, 'Tis at happy Christmas-tide. We have heared the children say Gentle children, whom we love Long ago, on Christmas Day, Came a message from above. Still, as Christmas-tide comes round, They remember it again Echo still the joyful sound, 'Peace on earth, good-will to men.' Yet the hearts must child-like be Where such heavenly guests abide. Unto children, in their glee, All the year is Christmas-tide. Thus, forgetting tricks and play For a moment, Lady dear, We would wish you, if we may, Merry Christmas, glad New Year.

Christmas, 1887.

CHAPTER I Down the Rabbit-Hole

A

LICE WAS beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, “and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice “without pictures or conversation?” So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!” (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its

This edition is based on the public domain text and drawings available from the Gutenburg project. Typeset by Andrew D. Birrell, 1994. Set in 11 point Nofret, using Adobe Illustrator.

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waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled “ORANGE MARMALADE”, but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. “Well!” thought Alice to herself, “after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they’ll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn’t say

anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!” (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! “I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?” she said aloud. “I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think—” (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) “—yes, that’s about the right distance—but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I’ve got to?” (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. “I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it’ll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think—” (she was rather glad there was no one listening, this time, as it didn’t sound at all the right word) “—but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma’am, is this New Zealand or Australia?” (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke—fancy curtseying as you’re falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) “And what an ignorant little girl she’ll think me for asking! No, it’ll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.” Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. “Dinah’ll miss me very much to-night, I should think!” (Dinah was the cat.) “I 2

get out again. Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice’s first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted! Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head though the doorway; “and even if my head would go through,” thought poor Alice, “it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only know how to begin.” For, you see, so

hope they’ll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I’m afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that’s very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?” And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, “Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?” and sometimes, “Do bats eat cats?” for, you see, as she couldn’t answer either question, it didn’t much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, “Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?” when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over. Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, “Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting!” She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to 3

or later. However, this bottle was not marked “poison,” so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off.

many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it, (“which certainly was not here before,” said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words “DRINK ME” beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say “Drink me,” but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. “No, I’ll look first,” she said, “and see whether it’s marked ‘poison’ or not”; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked “poison,” it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner

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“What a curious feeling!” said Alice; “I must be shutting up like a telescope.” And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; “for it might end, you know,” said Alice to herself, “in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?” And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the 4

table, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. “Come, there’s no use in crying like that!” said Alice to herself, rather sharply; “I advise you to leave off this minute!” She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. “But it’s no use now,” thought poor Alice, “to pretend to be two people! Why, there’s hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!” Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words “EAT ME” were beautifully marked in currants. “Well, I’ll eat it,” said Alice, “and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I’ll get into the garden, and I don’t care which happens!” She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, “Which way? Which way?”, holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in

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in fact she was now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door. Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Alice, “a great girl like you,” (she might well say this), “to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!” But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall. After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, “Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won’t she be savage if I’ve kept her waiting!” Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, “If you please, sir—” The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go. Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: “Dear, dear! How queer everything is today! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think:

CHAPTER II The Pool of Tears

“C

URIOUSER and curiouser!” cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English); “now I’m opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Good-bye, feet!” (for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off). “Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I’m sure I shan’t be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you: you must manage the best way you can; —but I must be kind to them,” thought Alice, “or perhaps they won’t walk the way I want to go! Let me see: I’ll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas.” And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. “They must go by the carrier,” she thought; “and how funny it’ll seem, sending presents to one’s own feet! And how odd the directions will look! Alice’s Right Foot, Esq. Hearthrug, Near The Fender, (With Alice’s Love). Oh dear, what nonsense I’m talking!” Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: 6

things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, she’s she, and I’m I, and—oh dear, how puzzling it all is! I’ll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is—oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate! However, the Multiplication Table doesn’t signify: let’s try Geography. London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and Rome—no, that’s all wrong, I’m certain! I must have been changed for Mabel! I’ll try and say ‘How doth the little—’” and she crossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do:— “How doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale! “How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spread his claws, And welcome little fishes in With gently smiling jaws!”

was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle!” And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. “I’m sure I’m not Ada,” she said, “for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn’t go in ringlets at all; and I’m sure I can’t be Mabel, for I know all sorts of

“I’m sure those are not the right words,” said poor Alice, and her eyes filled with tears again as she went on, “I must be Mabel after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I’ve made up my mind about it; if I’m Mabel, I’ll stay 7

into the sea, “and in that case I can go back by railway,” she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in her life, and had come to the general conclusion, that wherever you go to on the English coast you find a number of bathing machines in the sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row of lodging houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she soon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high.

down here! It’ll be no use their putting their heads down and saying ‘Come up again, dear!’ I shall only look up and say ‘Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I’ll come up: if not, I’ll stay down here till I’m somebody else’—but, oh dear!” cried Alice, with a sudden burst of tears, “I do wish they would put their heads down! I am so very tired of being all alone here!” As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see that she had put on one of the Rabbit’s little white kid gloves while she was talking. “How can I have done that?” she thought. “I must be growing small again.” She got up and went to the table to measure herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly: she soon found out that the cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped it hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether. “That was a narrow escape!” said Alice, a good deal frightened at the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; “and now for the garden!” and she ran with all speed back to the little door: but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as before, “and things are worse than ever,” thought the poor child, “for I never was so small as this before, never! And I declare it’s too bad, that it is!” As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that she had somehow fallen

“I wish I hadn’t cried so much!” said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. “I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That will be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day.” 8

and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing. “Perhaps it doesn’t understand English,” thought Alice; “I daresay it’s a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror.” (For, with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) So she began again: “Ou est ma chatte?” which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. “Oh, I beg your pardon!” cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal’s feelings. “I quite forgot you didn’t like cats.” “Not like cats!” cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. “Would you like cats if you were me?” “Well, perhaps not,” said Alice in a soothing tone: “don’t be angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you’d take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear quiet thing,” Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the pool, “and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face—and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse—and she’s such a capital one for catching mice—oh, I beg your pardon!” cried Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended. “We won’t talk about her any more if you’d rather not.” “We indeed!” cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his tail. “As if I would talk on such a subject! Our family always hated cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don’t let me hear the name again!” “I won’t indeed!” said Alice, in a great hurry to change

Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was: at first she thought it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had slipped in like herself.

“Would it be of any use, now,” thought Alice, “to speak to this mouse? Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very likely it can talk: at any rate, there’s no harm in trying.” So she began: “O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired of swimming about here, O Mouse!” (Alice thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen in her brother’s Latin Grammar, “A mouse—of a mouse—to a mouse—a mouse— O mouse!”) The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, 9

the subject of conversation. “Are you—are you fond—of—of dogs?” The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: “There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it’ll fetch things when you throw them, and it’ll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things—I can’t remember half of them—and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it’s so useful, it’s worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and—oh dear!” cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, “I’m afraid I’ve offended it again!” For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, “Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won’t talk about cats or dogs either, if you don’t like them!” When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, “Let us get to the shore, and then I’ll tell you my history, and you’ll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs.” It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore.

CHAPTER III A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale

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HEY WERE indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank—the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, “I am older than you, and must know better”; and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, “Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I’ll soon make you dry enough!” They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. “Ahem!” said the Mouse with an important air, “are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! ‘William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of 10

The question is, what did the archbishop find?” The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, “‘—found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William’s conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans—’ How are you getting on now, my dear?” it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. “As wet as ever,” said Alice in a melancholy tone: “it doesn’t seem to dry me at all.” “In that case,” said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, “I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies—” “Speak English!” said the Eaglet. “I don’t know the meaning of half those long words, and, what’s more, I don’t believe you do either!” And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. “What I was going to say,” said the Dodo in an offended tone, “was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.” “What is a Caucus-race?” said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that somebody ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. “Why,” said the Dodo, “the best way to explain it is to do it.” (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (“the exact shape doesn’t matter,” it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there.

late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria—’” “Ugh!” said the Lory, with a shiver. “I beg your pardon!” said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: “Did you speak?” “Not I!” said the Lory hastily. “I thought you did,” said the Mouse. “—I proceed. ‘Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable—’” “Found what?” said the Duck. “Found it,” the Mouse replied rather crossly: “of course you know what ‘it’ means.” “I know what ‘it’ means well enough, when I find a thing,” said the Duck: “it’s generally a frog or a worm.

11

Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying “We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble”; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. “You promised to tell me your history, you know,” said Alice, “and why it is you hate—C and D,” she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. “Mine is a long and a sad tale!” said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.

There was no “One, two, three, and away,” but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out “The race is over!” and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, “But who has won?” This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, “Everybody has won, and all must have prizes.” “But who is to give the prizes?” quite a chorus of voices asked. “Why, she, of course,” said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, “Prizes! Prizes!” Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece all round. “But she must have a prize herself, you know,” said the Mouse. “Of course,” the Dodo replied very gravely. “What else have you got in your pocket?” he went on, turning to Alice. “Only a thimble,” said Alice sadly. “Hand it over here,” said the Dodo. 12

“It is a long tail, certainly,” said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse’s tail; “but why do you call it sad?” And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:— “Fury said to a

“You are not attending!” said the Mouse to Alice severely. “What are you thinking of?” “I beg your pardon,” said Alice very humbly: “you had got to the fifth bend, I think?” “I had not!” cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. “A knot!” said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. “Oh, do let me help to undo it!” “I shall do nothing of the sort,” said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. “You insult me by talking such nonsense!” “I didn’t mean it!” pleaded poor Alice. “But you’re so easily offended, you know!” The Mouse only growled in reply. “Please come back and finish your story!” Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, “Yes, please do!” but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. “What a pity it wouldn’t stay!” sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter “Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose your temper!” “Hold your tongue, Ma!” said the young Crab, a little snappishly. “You’re enough to try the patience of an oyster!” “I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!” said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. “She’d soon fetch it back!” “And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?” said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to

mouse, That he met in the house, ‘Let us both go to law: I will prosecute you.—Come, I’ll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really thismorning I’ve nothing to do.’ Said the mouse to the cur, ‘Such a trial, dear Sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.’ ‘I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury,’ Said cunning old Fury: ‘I’ll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.’”

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talk about her pet: “Dinah’s our cat. And she’s such a capital one for catching mice you can’t think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she’ll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!” This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, “I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn’t suit my throat!” and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, “Come away, my dears! It’s high time you were all in bed!” On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned Dinah!” she said to herself in a melancholy tone. “Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I’m sure she’s the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!” And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story.

CHAPTER IV The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill

I

T WAS THE White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself “The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She’ll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets! Where can I have dropped them, I wonder?” Alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were nowhere to be seen—everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, “Why, Mary Ann, what are you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!” And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made. “He took me for his housemaid,” she said to herself as she ran. “How surprised he’ll be when he finds out who I am! But I’d better take him his fan and gloves—that is, if I can find them.” As she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass plate with the name “W. RABBIT” engraved upon 14

enough—I hope I shan’t grow any more—As it is, I can’t get out at the door—I do wish I hadn’t drunk quite so much!” Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself “Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What will become of me?” Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no

it. She went in without knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves. “How queer it seems,” Alice said to herself, “to be going messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah’ll be sending me on messages next!” And she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: “‘Miss Alice! Come here directly, and get ready for your walk!’ ‘Coming in a minute, nurse! But I’ve got to see that the mouse doesn’t get out.’ Only I don’t think,” Alice went on, “that they’d let Dinah stop in the house if it began ordering people about like that!” By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves, and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label this time with the words “DRINK ME,” but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips. “I know something interesting is sure to happen,” she said to herself, “whenever I eat or drink anything; so I’ll just see what this bottle does. I do hope it’ll make me grow large again, for really I’m quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!” It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself “That’s quite 15

Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice’s elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself “Then I’ll go round and get in at the window.” “That you won’t” thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice—the Rabbit’s—“Pat! Pat! Where are you?” And then a voice she had never heard before, “Sure then I’m here! Digging for apples, yer honour!” “Digging for apples, indeed!” said the Rabbit angrily. “Here! Come and help me out of this!” (Sounds of more broken glass.) “Now tell me, Pat, what’s that in the window?” “Sure, it’s an arm, yer honour!” (He pronounced it “arrum.”) “An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size?

wonder she felt unhappy. “It was much pleasanter at home,” thought poor Alice, “when one wasn’t always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn’t gone down that rabbit-hole—and yet—and yet—it’s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what can have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I’ll write one—but I’m grown up now,” she added in a sorrowful tone; “at least there’s no room to grow up any more here.” “But then,” thought Alice, “shall I never get any older than I am now? That’ll be a comfort, one way—never to be an old woman—but then—always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn’t like that!” “Oh, you foolish Alice!” she answered herself. “How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there’s hardly room for you, and no room at all for any lesson-books!” And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. “Mary Ann! Mary Ann!” said the voice. “Fetch me my gloves this moment!” Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. 16

upon Bill! I wouldn’t be in Bill’s place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I think I can kick a little!” She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn’t guess of what sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself “This is Bill,” she gave one sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next. The first thing she heard was a general chorus of “There goes Bill!” then the Rabbit’s voice along—“Catch him, you by the hedge!” then silence, and then another confusion of voices—“Hold up his head—Brandy now—Don’t choke him—How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell us all about it!” Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (“That’s Bill,” thought Alice,) “Well, I hardly know—No more, thank ye; I’m better now—but I’m a deal too flustered to tell you—all I know is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!” “So you did, old fellow!” said the others. “We must burn the house down!” said the Rabbit’s voice;

Why, it fills the whole window!” “Sure, it does, yer honour: but it’s an arm for all that.” “Well, it’s got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!” There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, “Sure, I don’t like it, yer honour, at all, at all!” “Do as I tell you, you coward!” and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were two little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. “What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!” thought Alice. “I wonder what they’ll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they could! I’m sure I don’t want to stay in here any longer!” She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: “Where’s the other ladder?—Why, I hadn’t to bring but one; Bill’s got the other—Bill! fetch it here, lad!—Here, put ’em up at this corner—No, tie ’em together first—they don’t reach half high enough yet—Oh! they’ll do well enough; don’t be particular—Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope—Will the roof bear?—Mind that loose slate—Oh, it’s coming down! Heads below!” (a loud crash)—“Now, who did that?—It was Bill, I fancy—Who’s to go down the chimney?—Nay, I shan’t! You do it!—That I won’t, then!—Bill’s to go down—Here, Bill! the master says you’re to go down the chimney!” “Oh! So Bill’s got to come down the chimney, has he?” said Alice to herself. “Shy, they seem to put everything 17

right size again; and the second thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be the best plan.” It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea how to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a great hurry. An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her. “Poor little thing!” said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of all her coaxing. Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and held it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick, and made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle, to keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with its tongue hanging out of its

and Alice called out as loud as she could, “If you do. I’ll set Dinah at you!” There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself, “I wonder what they will do next! If they had any sense, they’d take the roof off.” After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and Alice heard the Rabbit say, “A barrowful will do, to begin with.” “A barrowful of what?” thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt, for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the window, and some of them hit her in the face. “I’ll put a stop to this,” she said to herself, and shouted out, “You’d better not do that again!” which produced another dead silence. Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her head. “If I eat one of these cakes,” she thought, “it’s sure to make some change in my size; and as it can’t possibly make me larger, it must make me smaller, I suppose.” So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, Bill, was in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at Alice the moment she appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself safe in a thick wood. “The first thing I’ve got to do,” said Alice to herself, as she wandered about in the wood, “is to grow to my 18

liked teaching it tricks very much, if—if I’d only been the right size to do it! Oh dear! I’d nearly forgotten that I’ve got to grow up again! Let me see—how is it to be managed? I suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great question is, what?” The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that looked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances. There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as herself; and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what was on the top of it. She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large caterpillar, that was sitting on the top with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else.

mouth, and its great eyes half shut. This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and till the puppy’s bark sounded quite faint in the distance. “And yet what a dear little puppy it was!” said Alice, as she leant against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the leaves: “I should have 19

CHAPTER V Advice from a Caterpillar

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HE CATERPILLAR and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. “Who are you?” said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.” “What do you mean by that?” said the Caterpillar sternly. “Explain yourself!” “I can’t explain myself I’m afraid, sir” said Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.” “I don’t see,” said the Caterpillar. “I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,” Alice replied very politely, “for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.” “It isn’t,” said the Caterpillar. “Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,” said Alice; “but when you have to turn into a chrysalis—you will some day, you know—and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?” “Not a bit,” said the Caterpillar. “Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,” said

Alice; “all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.” “You!” said the Caterpillar contemptuously. “Who are you?” Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar’s making such very short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, “I think, you ought to tell me who you are, first.” “Why?” said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice 20

could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a very unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. “Come back!” the Caterpillar called after her. “I’ve something important to say!” This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. “Keep your temper,” said the Caterpillar. “Is that all?” said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. “No,” said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, “So you think you’re changed, do you?” “I’m afraid I am, sir,” said Alice; “I can’t remember things as I used—and I don’t keep the same size for ten minutes together!” “Can’t remember what things?” said the Caterpillar. “Well, I’ve tried to say ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ but it all came different!” Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. “Repeat, ‘You are old, Father William,’” said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:—

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said, “And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head— Do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son, “I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.”

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“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door— Pray, what is the reason of that?”

“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak— Pray how did you manage to do it?”

“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, “I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box— Allow me to sell you a couple?”

“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.”

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“That is not said right,” said the Caterpillar. “Not quite right, I’m afraid,” said Alice, timidly; “some of the words have got altered.” “It is wrong from beginning to end,” said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. “What size do you want to be?” it asked. “Oh, I’m not particular as to size,” Alice hastily replied; “only one doesn’t like changing so often, you know.” “I don’t know,” said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. “Are you content now?” said the Caterpillar. “Well, I should like to be a little larger, sir, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Alice: “three inches is such a wretched height to be.” “It is a very good height indeed!” said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). “But I’m not used to it!” pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, “I wish the creatures wouldn’t be so easily offended!” “You’ll get used to it in time,” said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went,

“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— What made you so awfully clever?”

“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,” Said his father; “don’t give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!”

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when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. “What can all that green stuff be?” said Alice. “And where have my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can’t see you?” She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. “Serpent!” screamed the Pigeon. “I’m not a serpent!” said Alice indignantly. “Let me alone!” “Serpent, I say again!” repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, “I’ve tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!” “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about,” said Alice. “I’ve tried the roots of trees, and I’ve tried banks, and I’ve tried hedges,” the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; “but those serpents! There’s no

“One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.” “One side of what? The other side of what?” thought Alice to herself. “Of the mushroom,” said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. “And now which is which?” she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. *

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“Come, my head’s free at last!” said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, 24

“I don’t believe it,” said the Pigeon; “but if they do, why then they’re a kind of serpent, that’s all I can say.” This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, “You’re looking for eggs, I know that well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you’re a little girl or a serpent?” “It matters a good deal to me,” said Alice hastily; “but I’m not looking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn’t want yours: I don’t like them raw.” “Well, be off, then!” said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height. It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes, and began talking to herself, as usual. “Come, there’s half my plan done now! How puzzling all these changes are! I’m never sure what I’m going to be, from one minute to another! However, I’ve got back to my right size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden—how is that to be done, I wonder?” As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open place, with a little house in it about four feet high. “Whoever lives there,” thought Alice, “it’ll never do to come upon

pleasing them!” Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. “As if it wasn’t trouble enough hatching the eggs,” said the Pigeon; “but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven’t had a wink of sleep these three weeks!” “I’m very sorry you’ve been annoyed,” said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. “And just as I’d taken the highest tree in the wood,” continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, “and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!” “But I’m not a serpent, I tell you!” said Alice. “I’m a—I’m a—” “Well! what are you?” said the Pigeon. “I can see you’re trying to invent something!” “I—I’m a little girl,” said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day. “A likely story indeed!” said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt. “I’ve seen a good many little girls in my time, but never one with such a neck as that! No, no! You’re a serpent; and there’s no use denying it. I suppose you’ll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!” “I have tasted eggs, certainly,” said Alice, who was a very truthful child; “but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you know.” 25

them this size: why, I should frighten them out of their wits!” So she began nibbling at the righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she had brought herself down to nine inches high.

CHAPTER VI Pig and Pepper

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OR A MINUTE or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the wood—(she considered him to be a footman because he was in livery: otherwise, judging by his face only, she would have called him a fish)—and rapped loudly at the door with his knuckles. It was opened by another footman in livery, with a round face, and large eyes like a frog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all over their heads. She felt very curious to know what it was all about, and crept a little way out of the wood to listen. The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter, nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other, saying, in a solemn tone, “For the Duchess. An invitation from the Queen to play croquet.” The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone, only 26

At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came skimming out, straight at the Footman’s head: it just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him. “—or next day, maybe,” the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly as if nothing had happened. “How am I to get in?” asked Alice again, in a louder tone. “Are you to get in at all?” said the Footman. “That’s the first question, you know.” It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so. “It’s really dreadful,” she muttered to herself, “the way all the creatures argue. It’s enough to drive one crazy!” The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his remark, with variations. “I shall sit here,” he said, “on and off, for days and days.” “But what am I to do?” said Alice. “Anything you like,” said the Footman, and began whistling. “Oh, there’s no use in talking to him,” said Alice desperately: “he’s perfectly idiotic!” And she opened the door and went in. The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup. “There’s certainly too much pepper in that soup!” Alice said to herself, as well as she could for sneezing. There was certainly too much of it in the air. Even the Duchess sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it

changing the order of the words a little, “From the Queen. An invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.” Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together. Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the sky. Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked. “There’s no sort of use in knocking,” said the Footman, “and that for two reasons. First, because I’m on the same side of the door as you are; secondly, because they’re making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you.” And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise going on within—a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces. “Please, then,” said Alice, “how am I to get in?” “There might be some sense in your knocking,” the Footman went on without attending to her, “if we had the door between us. For instance, if you were inside, you might knock, and I could let you out, you know.” He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this Alice thought decidedly uncivil. “But perhaps he can’t help it,” she said to herself; “his eyes are so very nearly at the top of his head. But at any rate he might answer questions.—How am I to get in?” she repeated, aloud. “I shall sit here,” the Footman remarked, “till tomorrow—” 27

fact, I didn’t know that cats could grin.” “They all can,” said the Duchess; “and most of ’em do.” “I don’t know of any that do,” Alice said very politely, feeling quite pleased to have got into a conversation. “You don’t know much,” said the Duchess; “and that’s a fact.” Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby—the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not. “Oh, please mind what you’re doing!” cried Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror. “Oh, there goes his precious nose’; as an unusually large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off. “If everybody minded their own business,” the Duchess said in a hoarse growl, “the world would go round a deal faster than it does.” “Which would not be an advantage,” said Alice, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. “Just think of what work it would make with the day and night! You see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis—” “Talking of axes,” said the Duchess, “chop off her head!”

was sneezing and howling alternately without a moment’s pause. The only things in the kitchen that did not sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat which was sitting on the hearth and grinning from ear to ear. “Please would you tell me,” said Alice, a little timidly, for she was not quite sure whether it was good manners for her to speak first, “why your cat grins like that?” “It’s a Cheshire cat,” said the Duchess, “and that’s why. Pig!” She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby, and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again:— “I didn’t know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in 28

Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again: “Twenty-four hours, I think; or is it twelve? I—” “Oh, don’t bother me,” said the Duchess; “I never could abide figures!” And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line:

“Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!” the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. “I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen,” and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, “just like a star-fish,” thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it. As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. “If I don’t take this child away with me,” thought Alice, “they’re sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn’t it be murder to leave it behind?” She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). “Don’t

“Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes: He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases.” CHORUS. (In which the cook and the baby joined):— “Wow! wow! wow!” While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:— “I speak severely to my boy, I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!” CHORUS. “Wow! wow! wow!” 29

grunt,” said Alice; “that’s not at all a proper way of expressing yourself.” The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a very turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. “But perhaps it was only sobbing,” she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. “If you’re going to turn into a pig, my dear,” said Alice, seriously, “I’ll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!” The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself, “Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?” when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be no mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. “If it had grown up,” she said to herself, “it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.” And she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself, “if one only knew the right way to change them—” when she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards

off. The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had very long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect. “Cheshire Puss,” she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. “Come, it’s pleased so far,” thought Alice, and she went on. “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” “That depends a good deal on where you want to get 30

“Call it what you like,” said the Cat. “Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?” “I should like it very much,” said Alice, “but I haven’t been invited yet.” “You’ll see me there,” said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. “By-the-bye, what became of the baby?” said the Cat. “I’d nearly forgotten to ask.” “It turned into a pig,” Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. “I thought it would,” said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. “I’ve seen hatters before,” she said to herself; “the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won’t be raving mad—at least not so mad as it was in March.” As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. “Did you say pig, or fig?” said the Cat. “I said pig,” replied Alice; “and I wish you wouldn’t keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.” “All right,” said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.

to,” said the Cat. “I don’t much care where—” said Alice. “Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat. “—so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation. “Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.” Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. “What sort of people live about here?” “In that direction,” the Cat said, waving its right paw round, “lives a Hatter: and in that direction,” waving the other paw, “lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they’re both mad.” “But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked. “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.” “How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice. “You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.” Alice didn’t think that proved it at all; however, she went on “And how do you know that you’re mad?” “To begin with,” said the Cat, “a dog’s not mad. You grant that?” “I suppose so,” said Alice. “Well, then,” the Cat went on, “you see, a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.” “I call it purring, not growling,” said Alice. 31

CHAPTER VII A Mad Tea-Party

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HERE WAS A TABLE set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. “Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,” thought Alice; “only, as it’s asleep, I suppose it doesn’t mind.” The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: “No room! No room!” they cried out when they saw Alice coming. “There’s plenty of room!” said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. “Have some wine,” the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. “I don’t see any wine,” she remarked. “There isn’t any,” said the March Hare. “Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it,” said Alice angrily. “It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,” said the March Hare. “I didn’t know it was your table,” said Alice; “it’s laid for a great many more than three.” “Your hair wants cutting,” said the Hatter. He had

“Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,” thought Alice; “but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!” She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself “Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I’d gone to see the Hatter instead!”

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what I say—that’s the same thing, you know.” “Not the same thing a bit!” said the Hatter. “You might just as well say that ‘I see what I eat’ is the same thing as ‘I eat what I see’!” “You might just as well say,” added the March Hare, “that ‘I like what I get’ is the same thing as ‘I get what I like’!” “You might just as well say,” added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, “that ‘I breathe when I sleep’ is the same thing as ‘I sleep when I breathe’!” “It is the same thing with you,” said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn’t much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. “What day of the month is it?” he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said “The fourth.” “Two days wrong!” sighed the Hatter. “I told you butter wouldn’t suit the works!” he added looking angrily at the March Hare. “It was the best butter,” the March Hare meekly replied. “Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,” the Hatter grumbled: “you shouldn’t have put it in with the bread-knife.” The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and

been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. “You should learn not to make personal remarks,” Alice said with some severity; “it’s very rude.” The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said was, “Why is a raven like a writingdesk?” “Come, we shall have some fun now!” thought Alice. “I’m glad they’ve begun asking riddles.—I believe I can guess that,” she added aloud. “Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?” said the March Hare. “Exactly so,” said Alice. “Then you should say what you mean,” the March Hare went on. “I do,” Alice hastily replied; “at least—at least I mean

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“I don’t know what you mean,” said Alice. “Of course you don’t!” the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. “I dare say you never even spoke to Time!” “Perhaps not,” Alice cautiously replied: “but I know I have to beat time when I learn music.” “Ah! that accounts for it,” said the Hatter. “He won’t stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he’d do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o’clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you’d only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!” (“I only wish it was,” the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) “That would be grand, certainly,” said Alice thoughtfully: “but then—I shouldn’t be hungry for it, you know.” “Not at first, perhaps,” said the Hatter: “but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.” “Is that the way you manage?” Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. “Not I!” he replied. “We quarrelled last March—just before he went mad, you know—” (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) “—it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing

looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, “It was the best butter, you know.” Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. “What a funny watch!” she remarked. “It tells the day of the month, and doesn’t tell what o’clock it is!” “Why should it?” muttered the Hatter. “Does your watch tell you what year it is?” “Of course not,” Alice replied very readily: “but that’s because it stays the same year for such a long time together.” “Which is just the case with mine,” said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter’s remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. “I don’t quite understand you,” she said, as politely as she could. “The Dormouse is asleep again,” said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, “Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.” “Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. “No, I give it up,” Alice replied: “what’s the answer?” “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter. “Nor I,” said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. “I think you might do something better with the time,” she said, “than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.” “If you knew Time as well as I do,” said the Hatter, “you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. It’s him.”

‘Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you’re at!’ You know the song, perhaps?” “I’ve heard something like it,” said Alice. 34

A bright idea came into Alice’s head. “Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?” she asked. “Yes, that’s it,” said the Hatter with a sigh: “it’s always tea-time, and we’ve no time to wash the things between whiles.” “Then you keep moving round, I suppose?” said Alice. “Exactly so,” said the Hatter: “as the things get used up.” “But what happens when you come to the beginning again?” Alice ventured to ask. “Suppose we change the subject,” the March Hare interrupted, yawning. “I’m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.” “I’m afraid I don’t know one,” said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. “Then the Dormouse shall!” they both cried. “Wake up, Dormouse!” And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. “I wasn’t asleep,” he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: “I heard every word you fellows were saying.” “Tell us a story!” said the March Hare. “Yes, please do!” pleaded Alice. “And be quick about it,” added the Hatter, “or you’ll be asleep again before it’s done.” “Once upon a time there were three little sisters,” the Dormouse began in a great hurry; “and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well—” “What did they live on?” said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. “They lived on treacle,” said the Dormouse, after

“It goes on, you know,” the Hatter continued, “in this way:— ‘Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle—’”

Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep “Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle—” and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. “Well, I’d hardly finished the first verse,” said the Hatter, “when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, ‘He’s murdering the time! Off with his head!’” “How dreadfully savage!” exclaimed Alice. “And ever since that,” the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, “he won’t do a thing I ask! It’s always six o’clock now.” 35

little sisters—they were learning to draw, you know—” “What did they draw?” said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. “Treacle,” said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. “I want a clean cup,” interrupted the Hatter: “let’s all move one place on.” He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse’s place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: “But I don’t understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?” “You can draw water out of a water-well,” said the Hatter; “so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well—eh, stupid?” “But they were in the well,” Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. “Of course they were”, said the Dormouse; “—well in.” This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. “They were learning to draw,” the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; “and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—” “Why with an M?” said Alice. “Why not?” said the March Hare.

thinking a minute or two. “They couldn’t have done that, you know,” Alice gently remarked; “they’d have been ill.” “So they were,” said the Dormouse; “very ill.” Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: “But why did they live at the bottom of a well?” “Take some more tea,” the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. “I’ve had nothing yet,” Alice replied in an offended tone, “so I can’t take more.” “You mean you can’t take less,” said the Hatter: “it’s very easy to take more than nothing.” “Nobody asked your opinion,” said Alice. “Who’s making personal remarks now?” the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. “Why did they live at the bottom of a well?” The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, “It was a treacle-well.” “There’s no such thing!” Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went “Sh! sh!” and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, “If you can’t be civil, you’d better finish the story for yourself.” “No, please go on!” Alice said very humbly; “I won’t interrupt again. I dare say there may be one.” “One, indeed!” said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. “And so these three 36

“At any rate I’ll never go there again!” said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. “It’s the stupidest tea -party I ever was at in all my life!” Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. “That’s very curious!” she thought. “But everything’s curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.” And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. “Now, I’ll manage better this time,” she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and then—she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains.

Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: “—that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness—you know you say things are ‘much of a muchness’—did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?” “Really, now you ask me,” said Alice, very much confused, “I don’t think—” “Then you shouldn’t talk,” said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot.

37

Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun “Well, of all the unjust things—” when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. “Would you tell me,” said Alice, a little timidly, “why you are painting those roses?” Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, “Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a red rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we’re doing our best, afore she comes, to—” At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out “The Queen! The Queen!” and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King’s crown

CHAPTER VIII The Queen’s Croquet-Ground

A

LARGE ROSE-TREE stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, “Look out now, Five! Don’t go splashing paint over me like that!” “I couldn’t help it,” said Five, in a sulky tone; “Seven jogged my elbow.” On which Seven looked up and said, “That’s right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!” “You’d better not talk!” said Five. “I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!” “What for?” said the one who had spoken first. “That’s none of your business, Two!” said Seven. “Yes, it is his business!” said Five, “and I’ll tell him—it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.” 38

on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came the king and queen of hearts. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; “and besides, what would be the use of a procession,” thought she, “if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn’t see it?” So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely “Who is this?” She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. “Idiot!” said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, “What’s your name, child?” “My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,” said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, “Why, they’re only a pack of cards, after all. I needn’t be afraid of them!” “And who are these?” said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rosetree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. “How should I know?” said Alice, surprised at her own courage. “It’s no business of mine.” The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed “Off with her head! Off—”

“Nonsense!” said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said “Consider, my dear: she is only a child!” The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave “Turn them over!” The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. “Get up!” said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and 39

“Hush! Hush!” said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered “She’s under sentence of execution.” “What for?” said Alice. “Did you say ‘What a pity!’?” the Rabbit asked. “No, I didn’t,” said Alice: “I don’t think it’s at all a pity. I said ‘What for?’” “She boxed the Queen’s ears—” the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little scream of laughter. “Oh, hush!” the Rabbit whispered in a frightened tone. “The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the Queen said—” “Get to your places!” shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches. The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it would twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laugh-

everybody else. “Leave off that!” screamed the Queen. “You make me giddy.” And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, “What have you been doing here?” “May it please your Majesty,” said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, “we were trying—” “I see!” said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. “Off with their heads!” and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. “You shan’t be beheaded!” said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. “Are their heads off?” shouted the Queen. “Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!” the soldiers shouted in reply. “That’s right!” shouted the Queen. “Can you play croquet?” The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. “Yes!” shouted Alice. “Come on, then!” roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next. “It’s—it’s a very fine day!” said a timid voice at her side. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. “Very,” said Alice: “—where’s the Duchess?” 40

wondering whether she could get away without being seen, when she noticed a curious appearance in the air: it puzzled her very much at first, but, after watching it a minute or two, she made it out to be a grin, and she said to herself “It’s the Cheshire Cat: now I shall have somebody to talk to.” “How are you getting on?” said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth enough for it to speak with. Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded. “It’s no use speaking to it,” she thought, “till its ears have come, or at least one of them.” In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad she had someone to listen to her. The Cat seemed to think that there was enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared. “I don’t think they play at all fairly,” Alice began, in rather a complaining tone, “and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can’t hear oneself speak—and they don’t seem to have any rules in particular; at least, if there are, nobody attends to them—and you’ve no idea how confusing it is all the things being alive; for instance, there’s the arch I’ve got to go through next walking about at the other end of the ground—and I should have croqueted the Queen’s hedgehog just now, only it ran away when it saw mine coming!” “How do you like the Queen?” said the Cat in a low voice. “Not at all,” said Alice: “she’s so extremely—” Just then she noticed that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on, “—likely to win, that it’s hardly

ing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed. The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and shouting “Off with his head!” or “Off with her head!” about once in a minute. Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute, “and then,” thought she, “what would become of me? They’re dreadfully fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there’s any one left alive!” She was looking about for some way of escape, and 41

hedgehog, which seemed to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the other: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a helpless sort of way to fly up into a tree. By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: “but it doesn’t matter much,” thought Alice, “as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground.” So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend. When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable. The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said. The executioner’s argument was, that you couldn’t cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn’t going to begin at his time of life. The King’s argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren’t to talk nonsense. The Queen’s argument was, that if something wasn’t

worth while finishing the game.” The Queen smiled and passed on. “Who are you talking to?” said the King, going up to Alice, and looking at the Cat’s head with great curiosity. “It’s a friend of mine—a Cheshire Cat,” said Alice: “allow me to introduce it.” “I don’t like the look of it at all,” said the King: “however, it may kiss my hand if it likes.” “I’d rather not,” the Cat remarked. “Don’t be impertinent,” said the King, “and don’t look at me like that!” He got behind Alice as he spoke. “A cat may look at a king,” said Alice. “I’ve read that in some book, but I don’t remember where.” “Well, it must be removed,” said the King very decidedly, and he called the Queen, who was passing at the moment, “My dear! I wish you would have this cat removed!” The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small. “Off with his head!” she said, without even looking round. “I’ll fetch the executioner myself,” said the King eagerly, and he hurried off. Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going on, as she heard the Queen’s voice in the distance, screaming with passion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew whether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog. The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another 42

Dutchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.

done about it in less than no time she’d have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but “It belongs to the Duchess: you’d better ask her about it.” “She’s in prison,” the Queen said to the executioner: “fetch her here.” And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat’s head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the 43

moral, if only you can find it.” And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice’s side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was very ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice’s shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. “The game’s going on rather better now,” she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. “’Tis so,” said the Duchess: “and the moral of that is—‘Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love, that makes the world go round!’” “Somebody said,” Alice whispered, “that it’s done by everybody minding their own business!” “Ah, well! It means much the same thing,” said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice’s shoulder as she added, “and the moral of that is—‘Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.’” “How fond she is of finding morals in things!” Alice thought to herself. “I dare say you’re wondering why I don’t put my arm

CHAPTER IX The Mock Turtle’s Story

“Y

OU CAN’T THINK how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!” said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice’s, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. “When I’m a Duchess,” she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), “I won’t have any pepper in my kitchen at all. Soup does very well without—Maybe it’s always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,” she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, “and vinegar that makes them sour—and camomile that makes them bitter—and—and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn’t be so stingy about it, you know—” She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. “You’re thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can’t tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.” “Perhaps it hasn’t one,” Alice ventured to remark. “Tut, tut, child!” said the Duchess. “Everything’s got a 44

“Pray don’t trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,” said Alice. “Oh, don’t talk about trouble!” said the Duchess. “I make you a present of everything I’ve said as yet.” “A cheap sort of present!” thought Alice. “I’m glad they don’t give birthday presents like that!” But she did not venture to say it out loud. “Thinking again?” the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. “I’ve a right to think,” said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. “Just about as much right,” said the Duchess, “as pigs have to fly; and the m—” But here, to Alice’s great surprise, the Duchess’s voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word “moral,” and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. “A fine day, your Majesty!” the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. “Now, I give you fair warning,” shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; “either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!” The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. “Let’s go on with the game,” the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen’s

round your waist,” the Duchess said after a pause: “the reason is, that I’m doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?” “He might bite,” Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. “Very true,” said the Duchess: “flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is—‘Birds of a feather flock together.’” “Only mustard isn’t a bird,” Alice remarked. “Right, as usual,” said the Duchess: “what a clear way you have of putting things!” “It’s a mineral, I think,” said Alice. “Of course it is,” said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; “there’s a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is—‘The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.’” “Oh, I know!” exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, “it’s a vegetable. It doesn’t look like one, but it is.” “I quite agree with you,” said the Duchess; “and the moral of that is—‘Be what you would seem to be’—or if you’d like it put more simply—‘Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.’” “I think I should understand that better,” Alice said very politely, “if I had it written down: but I can’t quite follow it as you say it.” “That’s nothing to what I could say if I chose,” the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. 45

absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment’s delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting “Off with his head!” or “Off with her head!” Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, “Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?” “No,” said Alice. “I don’t even know what a Mock Turtle is.” “It’s the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,” said the Queen. “I never saw one, or heard of one,” said Alice. “Come on, then,” said the Queen, “and he shall tell you his history,” As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, “You are all pardoned.” “Come, that’s a good thing!” she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don’t know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) “Up, lazy thing!” said the Queen, “and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some

executions I have ordered”; and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. “What fun!” said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. “What is the fun?” said Alice. “Why, she,” said the Gryphon. “It’s all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!” “Everybody says ‘come on!’ here,” thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: “I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!” They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little 46

Alice asked. “We called him Tortoise because he taught us,” said the Mock Turtle angrily: “really you are very dull!” “You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question,” added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, “Drive on, old fellow! Don’t be all day about it!” and he went on in these words: “Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn’t

ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. “What is his sorrow?” she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, “It’s all his fancy, that: he hasn’t got no sorrow, you know. Come on!” So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. “This here young lady,” said the Gryphon, “she wants for to know your history, she do.” “I’ll tell it her,” said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: “sit down, both of you, and don’t speak a word till I’ve finished.” So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, “I don’t see how he can even finish, if he doesn’t begin.” But she waited patiently. “Once,” said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, “I was a real Turtle.” These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of “Hjckrrh!” from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, “Thank you, sir, for your interesting story,” but she could not help thinking there must be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. “When we were little,” the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, “we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle—we used to call him Tortoise—” “Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn’t one?” 47

“Yes,” said Alice doubtfully: “it means—to—make—anything—prettier.” “Well, then,” the Gryphon went on, “if you don’t know what to uglify is, you are a simpleton.” Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said “What else had you to learn?” “Well, there was Mystery,” the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, “—Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling—the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: he taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.” “What was that like?” said Alice. “Well, I can’t show it you myself,” the Mock Turtle said: “I’m too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.” “Hadn’t time,” said the Gryphon: “I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, he was.” “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. “And how many hours a day did you do lessons?” said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. “Ten hours the first day,” said the Mock Turtle: “nine the next, and so on.” “What a curious plan!” exclaimed Alice. “That’s the reason they’re called lessons,” the Gryphon remarked: “because they lessen from day to day.” This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. “Then

believe it—” “I never said I didn’t!” interrupted Alice. “You did,” said the Mock Turtle. “Hold your tongue!” added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. “We had the best of educations—in fact, we went to school every day—” “I’ve been to a day-school, too,” said Alice; “you needn’t be so proud as all that.” “With extras?” asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. “Yes,” said Alice, “we learned French and music.” “And washing?” said the Mock Turtle. “Certainly not!” said Alice indignantly. “Ah! then yours wasn’t a really good school,” said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. “Now at ours they had at the end of the bill, ‘French, music, and washing—extra.’” “You couldn’t have wanted it much,” said Alice; “living at the bottom of the sea.” “I couldn’t afford to learn it.” said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. “I only took the regular course.” “What was that?” inquired Alice. “Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,” the Mock Turtle replied; “and then the different branches of Arithmetic—Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.” “I never heard of ‘Uglification,’” Alice ventured to say. “What is it?” The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. “What! Never heard of uglifying!” it exclaimed. “You know what to beautify is, I suppose?” 48

the eleventh day must have been a holiday?” “Of course it was,” said the Mock Turtle. “And how did you manage on the twelfth?” Alice went on eagerly. “That’s enough about lessons,” the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: “tell her something about the games now.”

CHAPTER X The Lobster Quadrille

T

HE MOCK TURTLE sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. “Same as if he had a bone in his throat,” said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:— “You may not have lived much under the sea—” (“I haven’t,” said Alice) “—and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster—” (Alice began to say “I once tasted—” but checked herself hastily, and said “No, never”) “—so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!” “No, indeed,” said Alice. “What sort of a dance is it?” “Why,” said the Gryphon, “you first form into a line along the sea-shore—” “Two lines!” cried the Mock Turtle. “Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you’ve cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way—” “That generally takes some time,” interrupted the Gryphon. “—you advance twice—” “Each with a lobster as a partner!” cried the Gryphon. “Of course,” the Mock Turtle said: “advance twice, set to partners—” 49

“—change lobsters, and retire in same order,” continued the Gryphon. “Then, you know,” the Mock Turtle went on, “you throw the—” “The lobsters!” shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. “—as far out to sea as you can—” “Swim after them!” screamed the Gryphon. “Turn a somersault in the sea!” cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. “Change lobster’s again!” yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. “Back to land again, and that’s all the first figure,” said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. “It must be a very pretty dance,” said Alice timidly. “Would you like to see a little of it?” said the Mock Turtle. “Very much indeed,” said Alice. “Come, let’s try the first figure!” said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. “We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?” “Oh, you sing,” said the Gryphon. “I’ve forgotten the words.” So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:—

“‘Will you walk a little faster?’ said a whiting to a snail. ‘There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?

50

“‘You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!’ But the snail replied ‘Too far, too far!’ and gave a look askance— Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

“I believe so,” Alice replied thoughtfully. “They have their tails in their mouths—and they’re all over crumbs.” “You’re wrong about the crumbs,” said the Mock Turtle: “crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they have their tails in their mouths; and the reason is—” here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.—“Tell her about the reason and all that,” he said to the Gryphon. “The reason is,” said the Gryphon, “that they would go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn’t get them out again. That’s all.” “Thank you,” said Alice, “it’s very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before.” “I can tell you more than that, if you like,” said the Gryphon. “Do you know why it’s called a whiting?” “I never thought about it,” said Alice. “Why?” “It does the boots and shoes.” the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. “Does the boots and shoes!” she repeated in a wondering tone. “Why, what are your shoes done with?” said the Gryphon. “I mean, what makes them so shiny?” Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. “They’re done with blacking, I believe.” “Boots and shoes under the sea,” the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, “are done with a whiting. Now you know.” “And what are they made of?” Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity.

“‘What matters it how far we go?’ his scaly friend replied. ‘There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France— Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?’” “Thank you, it’s a very interesting dance to watch,” said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: “and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!” “Oh, as to the whiting,” said the Mock Turtle, “they— you’ve seen them, of course?” “Yes,” said Alice, “I’ve often seen them at dinn—” she checked herself hastily. “I don’t know where Dinn may be,” said the Mock Turtle, “but if you’ve seen them so often, of course you know what they’re like.” 51

to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said “That’s very curious.” “It’s all about as curious as it can be,” said the Gryphon. “It all came different!” the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. “I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin.” He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. “Stand up and repeat ‘’Tis the voice of the sluggard,’” said the Gryphon. “How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!” thought Alice; “I might as well be at school at once.” However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:—

“Soles and eels, of course,” the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: “any shrimp could have told you that.” “If I’d been the whiting,” said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, “I’d have said to the porpoise, ‘Keep back, please: we don’t want you with us!’” “They were obliged to have him with them,” the Mock Turtle said: “no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.” “Wouldn’t it really?” said Alice in a tone of great surprise. “Of course not,” said the Mock Turtle: “why, if a fish came to me, and told me he was going a journey, I should say ‘With what porpoise?’” “Don’t you mean ‘purpose’?” said Alice. “I mean what I say,” the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added “Come, let’s hear some of your adventures.” “I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,” said Alice a little timidly: “but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” “Explain all that,” said the Mock Turtle. “No, no! The adventures first,” said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: “explanations take such a dreadful time.” So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so very wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating “You are old, Father William,”

“’Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, ‘You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.’ As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.” “That’s different from what I used to say when I was a child,” said the Gryphon. 52

“Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,” Alice replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone, “Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her ‘Turtle Soup,’ will you, old fellow?” The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:—

“Well, I never heard it before,” said the Mock Turtle; “but it sounds uncommon nonsense.” Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would ever happen in a natural way again. “I should like to have it explained,” said the Mock Turtle. “She can’t explain it,” said the Gryphon hastily. “Go on with the next verse.” “But about his toes?” the Mock Turtle persisted. “How could he turn them out with his nose, you know?” “It’s the first position in dancing.” Alice said; but was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject. “Go on with the next verse,” the Gryphon repeated impatiently: “it begins ‘I passed by his garden.’” Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:—

“Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup! “Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two p ennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful, beauti—FUL SOUP!”

“I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie—” “What is the use of repeating all that stuff,” the Mock Turtle interrupted, “if you don’t explain it as you go on? It’s by far the most confusing thing I ever heard!” “Yes, I think you’d better leave off,” said the Gryphon: and Alice was only too glad to do so. “Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?” the Gryphon went on. “Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?”

“Chorus again!” cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun to repeat it, when a cry of “The trial’s beginning!” was heard in the distance. “Come on!” cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by 53

the hand, it hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song. “What trial is it?” Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only answered “Come on!” and ran the faster, while more and more faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:—

CHAPTER XI Who Stole the Tarts?

T

HE KING AND QUEEN of Hearts were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them—all sorts of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them—“I wish they’d get the trial done,” she thought, “and hand round the refreshments!” But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time. Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew the name of nearly everything there. “That’s the judge,” she said to herself, “because of his great wig.” The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming. “And that’s the jury-box,” thought Alice, “and those twelve creatures,” (she was obliged to say “creatures,” you see, because some of them were animals, and some

“Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup!”

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for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate. “Herald, read the accusation!” said the King. On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:—

were birds,) “I suppose they are the jurors.” She said this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the meaning of it at all. However, “jury-men” would have done just as well. The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. “What are they doing?” Alice whispered to the Gryphon. “They can’t have anything to put down yet, before the trial’s begun.” “They’re putting down their names,” the Gryphon whispered in reply, “for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial.” “Stupid things!” Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, “Silence in the court!” and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking. Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down “stupid things!” on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them didn’t know how to spell “stupid,” and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. “A nice muddle their slates’ll be in before the trial’s over!” thought Alice. One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger

“The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!” “Consider your verdict,” the King said to the jury. “Not yet, not yet!” the Rabbit hastily interrupted. “There’s a great deal to come before that!” “Call the first witness,” said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, “First witness!” The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. “I beg pardon, your Majesty,” he began, “for bringing these in: but I hadn’t quite finished my tea when I was sent for.” “You ought to have 55

“I wish you wouldn’t squeeze so.” said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. “I can hardly breathe.” “I can’t help it,” said Alice very meekly: “I’m growing.” “You’ve no right to grow here,” said the Dormouse. “Don’t talk nonsense,” said Alice more boldly: “you know you’re growing too.” “Yes, but I grow at a reasonable pace,” said the Dormouse: “not in that ridiculous fashion.” And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court. All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, “Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!” on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off. “Give your evidence,” the King repeated angrily, “or I’ll have you executed, whether you’re nervous or not.” “I’m a poor man, your Majesty,” the Hatter began, in a trembling voice, “—and I hadn’t begun my tea—not above a week or so—and what with the bread-andbutter getting so thin—and the twinkling of the tea—” “The twinkling of the what?” said the King.

finished,” said the King. “When did you begin?” The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. “Fourteenth of March, I think it was,” he said. “Fifteenth,” said the March Hare. “Sixteenth,” added the Dormouse. “Write that down,” the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence. “Take off your hat,” the King said to the Hatter. “It isn’t mine,” said the Hatter. “Stolen!” the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. “I keep them to sell,” the Hatter added as an explanation; “I’ve none of my own. I’m a hatter.” Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted. “Give your evidence,” said the King; “and don’t be nervous, or I’ll have you executed on the spot.” This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-andbutter. Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her. 56

often read in the newspapers, at the end of trials, ‘There was some attempts at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court,’ and I never understood what it meant till now.” “If that’s all you know about it, you may stand down,” continued the King. “I can’t go no lower,” said the Hatter: “I’m on the floor, as it is.” “Then you may sit down,” the King replied. Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed. “Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!” thought Alice. “Now we shall get on better.” “I’d rather finish my tea,” said the Hatter, with an anxious look at the Queen, who was reading the list of singers. “You may go,” said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court, without even waiting to put his shoes on. “—and just take his head off outside,” the Queen added to one of the officers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get to the door. “Call the next witness!” said the King. The next witness was the Duchess’s cook. She carried the pepper-box in her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got

“It began with the tea,” the Hatter replied. “Of course twinkling begins with a T!” said the King sharply. “Do you take me for a dunce? Go on!” “I’m a poor man,” the Hatter went on, “and most things twinkled after that—only the March Hare said—” “I didn’t!” the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry. “You did!” said the Hatter. “I deny it!” said the March Hare. “He denies it,” said the King: “leave out that part.” “Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said—” the Hatter went on, looking anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied nothing, being fast asleep. “After that,” continued the Hatter, “I cut some more bread-and-butter—” “But what did the Dormouse say?” one of the jury asked. “That I can’t remember,” said the Hatter. “You must remember,” remarked the King, “or I’ll have you executed.” The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and breadand-butter, and went down on one knee. “I’m a poor man, your Majesty,” he began. “You’re a very poor speaker,” said the King. Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just explain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guineapig, head first, and then sat upon it.) “I’m glad I’ve seen that done,” thought Alice. “I’ve so 57

into the court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once. “Give your evidence,” said the King. “Shan’t,” said the cook. The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice, “Your Majesty must cross-examine this witness.” “Well, if I must, I must,” the King said, with a melancholy air, and, after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, “What are tarts made of?” “Pepper, mostly,” said the cook. “Treacle,” said a sleepy voice behind her. “Collar that Dormouse,” the Queen shrieked out. “Behead that Dormouse! Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his whiskers!” For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had disappeared. “Never mind!” said the King, with an air of great relief. “Call the next witness.” And he added in an undertone to the Queen, “Really, my dear, you must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!” Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, “—for they haven’t got much evidence yet,” she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name “Alice!”

CHAPTER XII Alice’s Evidence

“H

ERE!” CRIED ALICE, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about,

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“That’s very important,” the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: “Unimportant, your Majesty means, of course,” he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. “Unimportant, of course, I meant,” the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, “important—unimportant—unimportant—important—” as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down “important,” and some “unimportant.” Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; “but it doesn’t matter a bit,” she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out “Silence!” and read out from his book, “Rule Forty-two. All persons more than a mile high to leave the court.” Everybody looked at Alice. “I’m not a mile high,” said Alice. “You are,” said the King. “Nearly two miles high,” added the Queen. “Well, I shan’t go, at any rate,” said Alice: “besides, that’s not a regular rule: you invented it just now.” “It’s the oldest rule in the book,” said the King. “Then it ought to be Number One,” said Alice. The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. “Consider your verdict,” he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice. “There’s more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,” said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great

reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before. “Oh, I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die. “The trial cannot proceed,” said the King in a very grave voice, “until all the jurymen are back in their proper places—all,” he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; “not that it signifies much,” she said to herself; “I should think it would be quite as much use in the trial one way up as the other.” As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. “What do you know about this business?” the King said to Alice. “Nothing,” said Alice. “Nothing whatever?” persisted the King. “Nothing whatever,” said Alice. 59

“Read them,” said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. “Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?” he asked. “Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” These were the verses the White Rabbit read:—

hurry; “this paper has just been picked up.” “What’s in it?” said the Queen. “I haven’t opened it yet,” said the White Rabbit, “but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to—to somebody.” “It must have been that,” said the King, “unless it was written to nobody, which isn’t usual, you know.” “Who is it directed to?” said one of the jurymen. “It isn’t directed at all,” said the White Rabbit; “in fact, there’s nothing written on the outside.” He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added “It isn’t a letter, after all: it’s a set of verses.” “Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?” asked another of they jurymen. “No, they’re not,” said the White Rabbit, “and that’s the queerest thing about it.” (The jury all looked puzzled.) “He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,” said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) “Please your Majesty,” said the Knave, “I didn’t write it, and they can’t prove I did: there’s no name signed at the end.” “If you didn’t sign it,” said the King, “that only makes the matter worse. You must have meant some mischief, or else you’d have signed your name like an honest man.” There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day. “That proves his guilt,” said the Queen. “It proves nothing of the sort!” said Alice. “Why, you don’t even know what they’re about!”

“They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. 60

“But, it goes on ‘they all returned from him to you,’” said Alice. “Why, there they are!” said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. “Nothing can be clearer than that. Then again—‘before she had this fit—’ you never had fits, my dear, I think?” he said to the Queen. “Never!” said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.) “Then the words don’t

Don’t let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me.” “That’s the most important piece of evidence we’ve heard yet,” said the King, rubbing his hands; “so now let the jury—” “If any one of them can explain it,” said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn’t a bit afraid of interrupting him,) “I’ll give him sixpence. I don’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.” The jury all wrote down on their slates, “She doesn’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it,” but none of them attempted to explain the paper. “If there’s no meaning in it,” said the King, “that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn’t try to find any. And yet I don’t know,” he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; “I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. ‘—said I could not swim—’ you can’t swim, can you?” he added, turning to the Knave. The Knave shook his head sadly. “Do I look like it?” he said. (Which he certainly did not, being made entirely of cardboard.) “All right, so far,” said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: “‘We know it to be true—’ that’s the jury, of course— ‘I gave her one, they gave him two—’ why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know—” 61

“Wake up, Alice dear!” said her sister; “Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!” “Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!” said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, “It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.” So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

fit you,” said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence. “It’s a pun!” the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed, “Let the jury consider their verdict,” the King said, for about the twentieth time that day. “No, no!” said the Queen. “Sentence first—verdict afterwards.” “Stuff and nonsense!” said Alice loudly. “The idea of having the sentence first!” “Hold your tongue!” said the Queen, turning purple. “I won’t!” said Alice. “Off with her head!” the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved. “Who cares for you?” said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!” At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face. 62

herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality—the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds—the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy—and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farmyard—while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs. Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:— First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers—she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes—and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream. The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by—the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool—she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution—once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it—once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle. So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed

THE END

63

Phantasmagoria And Other Poems

by Lewis Carroll 1869

Canto I The Trysting One winter night, at half-past nine, Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy, I had come home, too late to dine, And supper, with cigars and wine, Was waiting in the study. There was a strangeness in the room, And Something white and wavy Was standing near me in the gloom-I took it for the carpet-broom Left by that careless slavey. But presently the Thing began To shiver and to sneeze: On which I said “Come, come, my man! That’s a most inconsiderate plan, Less noise there, if you please!” “I’ve caught a cold”, the Thing replies, “Out there upon the landing.” I turned to look in some surprise, And there, before my very eyes, A little Ghost was standing! He trembled when he caught my eye, And got behind a chair. “How came you here,” I said, “and why? I never saw a thing so shy. Come out! Don’t shiver there!”

He said “I’d gladly tell you how, And also tell you why; But” (here he gave a little bow) “You’re in so bad a temper now, You’d think it all a lie. “And as to being in a fright, Allow me to remark That Ghosts have just as good a right, In every way, to fear the light, As Men to fear the dark.” “No plea”, said I, “can well excuse Such cowardice in you: For Ghosts can visit when they choose, Whereas we Humans ca’n’t refuse To grant the interview. " He said “A flutter of alarm Is not unnatural, is it ? I really feared you meant some harm: But, now I see that you are calm, Let me explain my visit. “Houses are classed, I beg to state, According to the number Of Ghosts that they accommodate: (The Tenant merely counts as weight, With Coals and other lumber).

“This is a ‘one-ghost’ house, and you, When you arrived last summer, May have remarked a Spectre who Was doing all that Ghosts can do To welcome the new-comter “In Villas this is always done-However cheaply rented: For, though of course there’s less of fun When there is only room for one, Ghosts have to be contented. “That Spectre left you on the Third-Since then you’ve not been haunted: For, as he never sent us word, ‘Twas quite by accident we heard That any one was wanted. “A Spectre has first choice, by right, In filling up a vacancy; Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite-If all these fail them, they invite The nicest Ghoul that they can see. “The Spectres said the place was low, And that you kept bad wine: So, as a Phantom had to go, And I was first, of course, you know, I couldn’t well decline.”

“No doubt”, said I, “they settled who Was fittest to be sent: Yet still to choose a brat like you, To haunt a man of forty Was no great compliment!” “I’m not so young, Sir,” he replied, “As you might think. The fact is, In caverns by the water-side, And other places that I’ve tried, I’ve had a lot of practice: “But I have never taken yet A strict domestic part, And in my flurry I forget The Five Good Rules of Etiquette We have to know by heart.” My sympathies were warming fast Towards the little fellow: He was so utterly aghast At having found a Man at last, And looked so scared and yellow. “At least”, I said, “I’m glad to find A Ghost is not a dumb thing! But pray sit down: you’ll feel inclined (If, like myself, you have not dined) To take a snack of something: “Though, certainly, you don’t appear A thing to offer food to! And then I shall be glad to hear-If you will say them loud and clear-The Rules that you allude to.”

“Thanks! You shall hear them by and by. This is a piece of luck!” “What may I offer you?” said I “Well, since you are so kind, I’ll try A little bit of duck. “One slice! And may I ask you for Another drop of gravy?” I sat and looked at him in awe, For certainly I never saw A thing so white and wavy. And still he seemed to grow more white, More vapoury, and wavier-Seen in the dim and flickering light, As he proceeded to recite His “Maxims of Behaviour”.

Canto II Hys Fyve Rules ”My First--but don’t suppose”, he said, “I’m setting you a riddle-Is--if your Victim be in bed, Don’t touch the curtains at his head, But take them in the middle, “And wave them slowly in and out, While drawing them asunder; And in a minute’s time, no doubt, He’ll raise his head and look about With eyes of wrath and wonder. “And here you must on no pretence Make the first observation. Wait for the Victim to commence: No Ghost of any common sense Begins a conversation. “If he should say ’How came you here?’ (The way that you began, Sir), In such a case your course is clear-’On the bat’s back, my little dear!’ Is the appropriate answer.

“If after this he says no more, You’d best perhaps curtail your Exertions and shake the door, And then, if he begins to snore, You’ll know the thing’s a failure. “By day, if he should be alone-At home or on a walk-You merely give a hollow groan, To indicate the kind of tone In which you mean to talk. “But if you find him with his friends, The thing is rather harder. In such a case success depends On picking up some candle Or butter, in the larder. “With this you make a kind of slide (It answers best with suet), On which you must contrive to glide. And swing yourself from side to side-One soon learns how to do it. “The Second tells us what is right In ceremonious calls:-’First burn a blue or crimson light’ (A thing I quite forgot to-night), ’Then scratch the door or walls.’”

I said “You’ll visit here no more, If you attempt the Guy. I’ll have no bonfires on my floor-And, as for scratching at the door, I’d like to see you try!” “The Third was written to protect The interests of the Victim, And tells us, as I recollect, To treat him with a grave respect, And not to contradict him.” “That’s plain”, said I, “as Tare and Tret, To any comprehension: I only wish some Ghosts I’ve met Would not so constantly forget The maxim that you mention!” “Perhaps”, he said, “you first transgressed The laws of hospitality: All Ghosts instinctively detest The Man that fails to treat his guest With proper cordiality. “If you address a Ghost as ‘Thing!’ Or strike him with a hatchet, He is permitted by the King To drop all formal parleying-And then you’re sure to catch it!

“The Fourth prohibits trespassing Where other Ghosts are quartered: And those convicted of the thing (Unless when pardoned by the King) Must instantly be slaughtered. “That simply means ‘be cut up small’: Ghosts soon unite anew: The process scarcely hurts at all-Not more than when you’re what you call ‘Cut up’ by a Review. “The Fifth is one you may prefer That I should quote entire:-The King must be addressed as ‘Sir’. This, from a simple courtier, Is all the Laws require: “But, should you wish to do the thing With out-and-out politeness, Accost him as ‘My Goblin King!’ And always use, in answering, The phrase ‘Your Royal Whiteness......!’ “I’m getting rather hoarse, I fear, After so much reciting: So, if you don’t object, my dear, We’ll try a glass of bitter beer-I think it looks inviting.”

Canto III Scarmoges ”And did you really walk”, said I, “On such a wretched night? I always fancied Ghosts could fly-If not exactly in the sky, Yet at a fairish height.” “It’s very well”, said he, “for Kings To soar above the earth: But Phantoms often find that wings-Like many other pleasant things-Cost more than they are worth. “Spectres of course are rich, and so Can buy them from the Elves: But we prefer to keep below-They’re stupid company, you know, For any but themselves: “For, though they claim to be exempt, From pride, they treat a Phantom As something quite beneath contempt-Just as no Turkey ever dreamt Of noticing a Bantam.”

“They seem too proud”, said I, “to go To houses such as mine. Pray, how did they contrive to know So quickly that ‘the place was low’, And that I ‘kept bad wine’? " “Inspector Kobold came to you-The little Ghost began. Here I broke in--Inspector who? Inspecting Ghosts is something new! Explain yourself, my man!” “His name is Kobald,” said my guest: “One of the Spectre order: You’ll very often see him dressed In a yellow gown, a crimson vest, And a night-cap with a border. “He tried the Brocken business first, But caught a sort of chill; So came to England to be nursed, And here it took the form of thirst, Which he complains of still. “Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound, Warms his old bones like nectar: And as the inns, where it is found, Are his especial hunting We call him the Inn-Spectre.” I bore it--bore it like a man-This agonizing witticism! And nothing could be sweeter than My temper, till the Ghost began Some most provoking criticism.

“Cooks need not be indulged in waste; Yet still you’d better teach them Dishes should have some sort of taste. Pray, why are all the cruets placed Where nobody can reach them ? “That man of yours will never earn His living as a waiter! Is that queer thing supposed to burn? (It’s far too dismal a concern To call a Moderator.) “The duck was tender, but the peas Were very much too old: And just remember, if you please, The next time you have toasted cheese, Don’t let them send it cold. “You’ll find the bread improved, I think, By getting better flour: And have you anything to drink That looks a little less like ink, And isn’t quite so sour?” Then, peering round with curious eyes, He muttered “Goodness gracious!” And so went on to criticize-“Your room’s an inconvenient size: It’s neither snug nor spacious.

“That narrow window, I expect, Serves but to let the dusk in----” “But please”, said I, “to recollect ‘Twas fashioned by an architect Who pinned his faith on Ruskin! " “I don’t care who he was, Sir, or On whom he pinned his faith! Constructed by whatever law, So poor a job I never saw, As I’m a living Wraith! “What a re-markable cigar! How much are they a dozen?” I growled “No matter what they are! You’re getting as familiar As if you were my cousin! “Now that’s a thing I will not stand, And so I tell you flat.” “Aha,” said he, “we’re getting grand!” (Taking a bottle in his hand) “I’ll soon arrange for that!” And here he took a careful aim, And gaily cried “Here goes!” I tried to dodge it as it came, But somehow caught it, all the same, Exactly on my nose.

And I remember nothing more That I can clearly fix, Till I was sitting on the floor, Repeating “Two and five are four, But five and two are six. What really passed I never learned, Nor guessed: I only know That, when at last my sense returned, The lamp, neglected, dimly burned-The fire was getting low-Through driving mists I seemed to see A Thing that smirked and smiled: And found that he was giving me A lesson in Biography, As if I were a child.

Canto IV Hys Nouryture ”Oh, when I was a little Ghost, A merry time had we! Each seated on his favourite post, We chumped and chawed the buttered toast They gave us for our tea.” “That story is in print!” I cried “Don’t say it’s not, because It’s known as well as Bradshaw’s Guide!” (The Ghost uneasily replied He hardly thought it was.) “It’s not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet I almost think it is-‘Three little Ghosteses’ were set ‘On posteses’, you know, and ate Their ‘buttered toasteses’. “I have the book; so if you doubt it-I turned to search the shelf. “Don’t stir!” he cried. “We’ll do without it I now remember all about it; I wrote the thing myself.

“It came out in a ‘Monthly’, or At least my agent said it did: Some literary swell, who saw It, thought it seemed adapted for The Magazine he edited. “My father was a Brownie, Sir; My mother was a Fairy. The notion had occurred to her, The children would be happier, If they were taught to vary. “The notion soon became a craze; And, when it once began, she Brought us all out in different ways-One was a Pixy, two were Fays, Another was a Banshee; “The Fetch and Kelpie went to school And gave a lot of trouble; Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul, And then two Trolls (which broke the rule), A Goblin, and a Double-“(If that’s a snuff-box on the shelf,” He added with a yawn, “I’ll take a pinch)--next came an Elf, And then a Phantom (that’s myself), And last, a Leprechaun.

“One day, some Spectres chanced to call, Dressed in the usual white: I stood and watched them in the hall, And couldn’t make them out at all, They seemed so strange a sight. “I wondered what on earth they were, That looked all head and sack; But Mother told me not to stare, And then she twitched me by the hair, And punched me in the back. “Since then I’ve often wished that I Had been a Spectre born. But what’s the use?” (He heaved a sigh.) “They are the ghost-nobility, And look on us with scorn. “My phantom-life was soon begun: When I was barely six, I went out with an older one-And just at first I thought it fun, And learned a lot of tricks. “I’ve haunted dungeons, castles, towers Wherever I was sent: I’ve often sat and howled for hours, Drenched to the skin with driving showers, Upon a battlement.

“It’s quite old-fashioned now to groan When you begin to speak: This is the newest thing in tone----” And here (it chilled me to the bone) He gave an awful squeak. “Perhaps”, he added, “to your ear That sounds an easy thing? Try it yourself, my little dear! It took me something like a year, With constant practicing. “And when you’ve learned to squeak, my man, And caught the double sob, You’re pretty much where you began: Just try and gibber if you can! That’s something like a job! ”I’ve tried it, and can only say I’m sure you couldn’t do it, even if you practiced night and day, Unless you have a turn that way, And natural ingenuity. “Shakespeare I think it is who treats Of Ghosts, in days of old, Who ‘gibbered in the Roman streets’, Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets-They must have found it cold. “I’ve often spent ten pounds on stuff, In dressing as a Double; But, though it answers as a puff, It never has effect enough To make it worth the trouble.

“Long bills soon quenched the little thirst I had for being funny. The setting-up is always worst: Such heaps of things you want at first, One must be made of money! “For instance, take a Haunted Tower, With skull, cross-bones, and sheet; Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour, Condensing lens of extra power, And set of chains complete: “What with the things you have to hire-The fitting on the robe-And testing all the coloured fire-The outfit of itself would tire The patience of a Job! “And then they’re so fastidious, The Haunted-House Committee: I’ve often known them make a fuss Because a Ghost was French, or Russ, Or even from the City! “Some dialects are objected to-For one, the Irish brogue is: And then, for all you have to do, One pound a week they offer you, And find yourself in Bogies!”

Canto V Byckerment ”Don’t they consult the ‘Victims’, though?” I said. “They should, by rights, Give them a chance--because, you know, The tastes of people differ so, Especially in Sprites.” The Phantom shook his head and smiled. “Consult them? Not a bit! ‘Twould be a job to drive one wild, To satisfy one single child-There’d be no end to it!” “Of course you ca’n’t leave children free”, Said I, “to pick and choose: But, in the case of men like me, I think ‘Mine Host’ might fairly be Allowed to state his views.” He said “It really wouldn’t pay-Folk are so full of fancies. We visit for a single day, And whether then we go, or stay, Depends on circumstances.

“And, though we don’t consult ‘Mine Host’ Before the thing’s arranged, Still, if he often quits his post, Or is not a well-mannered Ghost, Then you can have him changed. “But if the host’s a man like you-I mean a man of sense; And if the house is not too new----” “Why, what has that”, said I, “to do With Ghost’s convenience?” “A new house does not suit, you know-It’s such a job to trim it: But, after twenty years or so, The wainscotings begin to go, So twenty is the limit.” “To trim” was not a phrase I could Remember having heard: “Perhaps”, I said, “you’ll be so good As tell me what is understood Exactly by that word?” “It means the loosening all the doors, The Ghost replied, and laughed: “It means the drilling holes by scores In all the skirting-boards and floors, To make a thorough draught. “You’ll sometimes find that one or two Are all you really need To let the wind come whistling through-But here there’ll be a lot to do!” I faintly gasped “Indeed!

“If I’d been rather later, I’ll Be bound,” I added, trying (Most unsuccessfully) to smile, “You’d have been busy all this while, Trimming and beautifying?” “Why, no,” said he; “perhaps I should Have stayed another minute But still no Ghost, that’s any good, Without an introduction would Have ventured to begin it. “The proper thing, as you were late, Was certainly to go: But, with the roads in such a state, I got the Knight-Mayor’s leave to wait For half an hour or so.” “Who’s the Knight-Mayor?” I cried. Instead Of answering my question “Well, if you don’t know that,” he said “Either you never go to bed, Or you’ve a grand digestion! “He goes about and sits on folk That eat too much at night: His duties are to pinch, and poke, And squeeze them till they nearly choke.” (I said “It serves them right!”)

“And folk who sup on things like these-He muttered, “eggs and bacon-Lobster--duck--and toasted cheese-If they don’t get an awful squeeze, I’m very much mistaken! “He is immensely fat, and so Well suits the occupation: In point of fact, if you must know, We used to call him years ago, The Mayor and Corporation! “The day he was elected Mayor I know that every Sprite meant To vote for me, but did not dare-He was so frantic with despair And furious with excitement. “When it was over, for a whim, He ran to tell the King; And being the reverse of slim, A two-mile trot was not for him A very easy thing. “So, to reward him for his run (As it was baking hot, And he was over twenty stone), The King proceeded, half in fun, To knight him on the spot.” “‘Twas a great liberty to take!” (I fired up like a rocket.) “He did it just for punning’s sake: ‘The man’, says Johnson, ‘that would make A pun, would pick a pocket!’ "

“A man”, said he, “is not a King.” I argued for a while, And did my best to prove the thing-The Phantom merely listening With a contemptuous smile. At last, when, breath and patience spent, I had recourse to smoking “Your aim”, he said, “is excellent: But--when you call it argument-Of course you’re only joking?” Stung by his cold and snaky eye, I roused myself at length To say, “At least I do defy The veriest sceptic to deny That union is strength! " “That’s true enough,” said he, “yet stay--” I listened in all meekness-“Union is strength, I’m bound to say; In fact, the thing’s as clear as day; But onions are a weakness.

Canto VI Discomfyture As one who strives a hill to climb, Who never climbed before: Who finds it, in a little time, Grow every moment less sublime, And votes the thing a bore: Yet, having once begun to try, Dares not desert his quest, But, climbing, ever keeps his eye On one small hut against the sky Wherein he hopes to rest: Who climbs till nerve and force are spent, With many a puff and pant: Who still, as rises the ascent In language grows more violent, Although in breath more scant: Who, climbing, gains at length the place That crowns the upward track And, entering with unsteady pace, Receives a buffet in the face That lands him on his back:

And feels himself, like one in sleep, Glide swiftly down again, A helpless weight, from steep to steep, Till, with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain-So I, that had resolved to bring Conviction to a ghost, And found it quite a different thing From any human arguing, Yet dared not quit my post. But, keeping still the end in view To which I hoped to come, I strove to prove the matter true By putting everything I knew Into an axiom: Commencing every single phrase With “therefore” or “because”, I blindly reeled, a hundred ways, About the syllogistic maze, Unconscious where I was. Quoth he “That’s regular clap Don’t bluster any more. Now do be cool and take a nap! Such a ridiculous old chap Was never seen before!

“You’re like a man I used to meet, Who got one day so furious In arguing, the simple heat Scorched both his slippers off his feet! " I said ”That’s very curious!” “Well, it is curious, I agree, And sounds perhaps like fibs: But still it’s true as true can be-As sure as your name’s Tibbs,” said he. I said “My name’s not Tibbs.” ”Not Tibbs!” he cried--his tone became A shade or two less hearty-“Why, no,” said I. “My proper name Is Tibbets--” “Tibbets?” “Aye, the same.” “Why, then you’re not the party! With that he struck the board a blow That shivered half the glasses. “Why couldn’t you have told me so Three quarters of an hour ago, You prince of all the asses? “To walk four miles through mud and rain, To spend the night in smoking, And then to find that it’s in vain-And I’ve to do it all again-It’s really too provoking! “Don’t talk! " he cried, as I began To mutter some excuse. “Who can have patience with a man That’s got no more discretion than An idiotic goose?

“To keep me waiting here, instead Of telling me at once That this was not the house!” he said. “There, that’ll do--be off to bed! Don’t gape like that, you dunce!” “It’s very fine to throw the blame On me in such a fashion! Why didn’t you enquire my name The very minute that you came? " I answered in a passion. “Of course it worries you a bit To come so far on foot But how was I to blame for it?” “Well, well!” said he. “I must admit That isn’t badly put. “And certainly you’ve given me The best of wine and victual Excuse my violence,” said he, “But accidents like this, you see, They put one out a little. “‘Twas my fault after all, I find-Shake hands, old Turnip-top!” The name was hardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop.

“Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! When I am gone, perhaps They’ll send you some inferior Sprite, Who’ll keep you in a constant fright And spoil your soundest naps. “Tell him you’ll stand no sort of trick; Then, if he leers and chuckles, You just be handy with a stick (Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles! “Then carelessly remark ‘Old coon! Perhaps you’re not aware That if you don’t behave, you’ll soon Be chuckling to another tune-And so you’d best take care!’ “That’s the right way to cure a Sprite Of such-like goings-on-But gracious me! It’s getting light! Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!” A nod, and he was gone.

Canto VII Sad Souvenaunce ”What’s this?” I pondered. “Have I slept? Or can I have been drinking?” But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking. “No need for Bones to hurry so! " I sobbed. “In fact, I doubt If it was worth his while to go-And who is Tibbs, I’d like to know, To make such work about ? “If Tibbs is anything like me, It’s possible”, I said, “He won’t be over-pleased to be Dropped in upon at half-past three, After he’s snug in bed. “And if Bones plagues him anyhow-Squeaking and all the rest of it, As he was doing here just now-I prophesy there’ll be a row, And Tibbs will have the best of it! "

Then, as my tears could never bring The friendly Phantom back, It seemed to me the proper thing To mix another glass, and sing The following Coronach. And art thou “one, beloved Ghost; Best of Familiars! Nay, then, farewell, my duckling roast, Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast, My meerschaum and cigars! The hues of life are dull and gray, The sweets of life insipid, When thou, my charmer, art away-Old Brick, or rather, let me say, Old Parallelepiped!” Instead of singing Verse the Third, I ceased-abruptly, rather: But, after such a splendid word I felt that it would be absurd To try it any farther. So with a yawn I went my way To seek the welcome downy, And slept, and dreamed till break of day Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay And Leprechaun and Brownie!

For years I’ve not been visited By any kind of Sprite; Yet still they echo in my head, Those parting words, so kindly said, “Old Turnip-top, good-night!”

ECHOES LADY Clara Vere de Vere Was eight years old, she said: Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread. She took her little porringer: Of me she shall not win renown: For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down. "Sisters and brothers, little Maid? There stands the Inspector at thy door: Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four." "Kind words are more than coronets," She said, and wondering looked at me: "It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea."

A SEA DIRGE THERE are certain things - as, a spider, a ghost, The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most Is a thing they call the Sea. Pour some salt water over the floor Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be: Suppose it extended a mile or more, THAT'S very like the Sea. Beat a dog till it howls outright Cruel, but all very well for a spree: Suppose that he did so day and night, THAT would be like the Sea. I had a vision of nursery-maids; Tens of thousands passed by me All leading children with wooden spades, And this was by the Sea. Who invented those spades of wood? Who was it cut them out of the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float With 'thoughts as boundless, and souls as free': But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat, How do you like the Sea? There is an insect that people avoid (Whence is derived the verb 'to flee'). Where have you been by it most annoyed? In lodgings by the Sea. If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, A decided hint of salt in your tea, And a fishy taste in the very eggs By all means choose the Sea. And if, with these dainties to drink and eat, You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, And a chronic state of wet in your feet, Then - I recommend the Sea. For I have friends who dwell by the coast Pleasant friends they are to me! It is when I am with them I wonder most That anyone likes the Sea. They take me a walk: though tired and stiff, To climb the heights I madly agree; And, after a tumble or so from the cliff, They kindly suggest the Sea. I try the rocks, and I think it cool That they laugh with such an excess of glee, As I heavily slip into every pool That skirts the cold cold Sea.

Ye Carpette Knyghte I have a horse - a ryghte good horse Ne doe Y envye those Who scoure ye playne yn headye course Tyll soddayne on theyre nose They lyghte wyth unexpected force Yt ys - a horse of clothes. I have a saddel - "Say'st thou soe? Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?" I sayde not that - I answere "Noe" Yt lacketh such, I woote: Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe! Parte of ye fleecye brute. I have a bytte - a ryghte good bytte As shall bee seene yn tyme. Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte; Yts use ys more sublyme. Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt? Yt ys - thys bytte of rhyme.

HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING [In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.' Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.] 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. First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And the corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die ill tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it. Next, his better half took courage; SHE would have her picture taken. She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress. Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a bouquet Rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she was sitting, Still the lady chattered, chattered,

Like a monkey in the forest. "Am I sitting still?" she asked him. "Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it came into the picture?" And the picture failed completely. Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curves of beauty, Curves pervading all his figure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centered in the breast-pin, Centered in the golden breast-pin. He had learnt it all from Ruskin (Author of 'The Stones of Venice,' 'Seven Lamps of Architecture,' 'Modern Painters,' and some others); And perhaps he had not fully Understood his author's meaning; But, whatever was the reason, All was fruitless, as the picture Ended in an utter failure. Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little, Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty.' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils.

Hiawatha, when she asked him, Took no notice of the question, Looked as if he hadn't heard it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' Bit his lip and changed the subject. Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely. So in turn the other sisters. Last, the youngest son was taken: Very rough and thick his hair was, Very round and red his face was, Very dusty was his jacket, Very fidgety his manner. And his overbearing sisters Called him names he disapproved of: Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,' Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy.' And, so awful was the picture, In comparison the others Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy, To have partially succeeded. 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. 'Giving one such strange expressions Sullen, stupid, pert expressions. Really any one would take us (Any one that did not know us) For the most unpleasant people!' (Hiawatha seemed to think so, Seemed to think it not unlikely). All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hiawatha's patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party. Neither did he leave them slowly, With the calm deliberation, The intense deliberation Of a photographic artist: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mighty hurry, Stating that he would not stand it, Stating in emphatic language What he'd be before he'd stand it. Hurriedly he packed his boxes: Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes: Hurriedly he took his ticket: Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha.

MELANCHOLETTA WITH saddest music all day long She soothed her secret sorrow: At night she sighed "I fear 'twas wrong Such cheerful words to borrow. Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song I'll sing to thee to-morrow." I thanked her, but I could not say That I was glad to hear it: I left the house at break of day, And did not venture near it Till time, I hoped, had worn away Her grief, for nought could cheer it! My dismal sister! Couldst thou know The wretched home thou keepest! Thy brother, drowned in daily woe, Is thankful when thou sleepest; For if I laugh, however low, When thou'rt awake, thou weepest! I took my sister t'other day (Excuse the slang expression) To Sadler's Wells to see the play In hopes the new impression Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay Effect some slight digression.

I asked three gay young dogs from town To join us in our folly, Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown My sister's melancholy: The lively Jones, the sportive Brown, And Robinson the jolly. The maid announced the meal in tones That I myself had taught her, Meant to allay my sister's moans Like oil on troubled water: I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones, And begged him to escort her. Vainly he strove, with ready wit, To joke about the weather To ventilate the last 'ON DIT' To quote the price of leather She groaned "Here I and Sorrow sit: Let us lament together!" I urged "You're wasting time, you know: Delay will spoil the venison." "My heart is wasted with my woe! There is no rest - in Venice, on The Bridge of Sighs!" she quoted low From Byron and from Tennyson. I need not tell of soup and fish In solemn silence swallowed, The sobs that ushered in each dish, And its departure followed, Nor yet my suicidal wish To BE the cheese I hollowed.

Some desperate attempts were made To start a conversation; "Madam," the sportive Brown essayed, "Which kind of recreation, Hunting or fishing, have you made Your special occupation?" Her lips curved downwards instantly, As if of india-rubber. "Hounds IN FULL CRY I like," said she: (Oh how I longed to snub her!) "Of fish, a whale's the one for me, IT IS SO FULL OF BLUBBER!" The night's performance was "King John." "It's dull," she wept, "and so-so!" Awhile I let her tears flow on, She said they soothed her woe so! At length the curtain rose upon 'Bombastes Furioso.' In vain we roared; in vain we tried To rouse her into laughter: Her pensive glances wandered wide From orchestra to rafter "TIER UPON TIER!" she said, and sighed; And silence followed after.

A VALENTINE [Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.] And cannot pleasures, while they last, Be actual unless, when past, They leave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting? And cannot friends be firm and fast, And yet bear parting? And must I then, at Friendship's call, Calmly resign the little all (Trifling, I grant, it is and small) I have of gladness, And lend my being to the thrall Of gloom and sadness? And think you that I should be dumb, And full DOLORUM OMNIUM, Excepting when YOU choose to come And share my dinner? At other times be sour and glum And daily thinner? Must he then only live to weep, Who'd prove his friendship true and deep

By day a lonely shadow creep, At night-time languish, Oft raising in his broken sleep The moan of anguish? The lover, if for certain days His fair one be denied his gaze, Sinks not in grief and wild amaze, But, wiser wooer, He spends the time in writing lays, And posts them to her. And if the verse flow free and fast, Till even the poet is aghast, A touching Valentine at last The post shall carry, When thirteen days are gone and past Of February. Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet, In desert waste or crowded street, Perhaps before this week shall fleet, Perhaps to-morrow. I trust to find YOUR heart the seat Of wasting sorrow.

THE THREE VOICES The First Voice HE trilled a carol fresh and free, He laughed aloud for very glee: There came a breeze from off the sea: It passed athwart the glooming flat It fanned his forehead as he sat It lightly bore away his hat, All to the feet of one who stood Like maid enchanted in a wood, Frowning as darkly as she could. With huge umbrella, lank and brown, Unerringly she pinned it down, Right through the centre of the crown. Then, with an aspect cold and grim, Regardless of its battered rim, She took it up and gave it him. A while like one in dreams he stood, Then faltered forth his gratitude In words just short of being rude: For it had lost its shape and shine, And it had cost him four-and-nine, And he was going out to dine.

"To dine!" she sneered in acid tone. "To bend thy being to a bone Clothed in a radiance not its own!" The tear-drop trickled to his chin: There was a meaning in her grin That made him feel on fire within. "Term it not 'radiance,'" said he: "'Tis solid nutriment to me. Dinner is Dinner: Tea is Tea." And she "Yea so? Yet wherefore cease? Let thy scant knowledge find increase. Say 'Men are Men, and Geese are Geese.'" He moaned: he knew not what to say. The thought "That I could get away!" Strove with the thought "But I must stay. "To dine!" she shrieked in dragon-wrath. "To swallow wines all foam and froth! To simper at a table-cloth! "Say, can thy noble spirit stoop To join the gormandising troup Who find a solace in the soup? "Canst thou desire or pie or puff? Thy well-bred manners were enough, Without such gross material stuff."

"Yet well-bred men," he faintly said, "Are not willing to be fed: Nor are they well without the bread." Her visage scorched him ere she spoke: "There are," she said, "a kind of folk Who have no horror of a joke. "Such wretches live: they take their share Of common earth and common air: We come across them here and there: "We grant them - there is no escape A sort of semi-human shape Suggestive of the man-like Ape." "In all such theories," said he, "One fixed exception there must be. That is, the Present Company." Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark: He, aiming blindly in the dark, With random shaft had pierced the mark. She felt that her defeat was plain, Yet madly strove with might and main To get the upper hand again. Fixing her eyes upon the beach, As though unconscious of his speech, She said "Each gives to more than each." He could not answer yea or nay: He faltered "Gifts may pass away." Yet knew not what he meant to say.

"If that be so," she straight replied, "Each heart with each doth coincide. What boots it? For the world is wide." "The world is but a Thought," said he: "The vast unfathomable sea Is but a Notion - unto me." And darkly fell her answer dread Upon his unresisting head, Like half a hundredweight of lead. "The Good and Great must ever shun That reckless and abandoned one Who stoops to perpetrate a pun. "The man that smokes - that reads the TIMES That goes to Christmas Pantomimes Is capable of ANY crimes!" He felt it was his turn to speak, And, with a shamed and crimson cheek, Moaned "This is harder than Bezique!" But when she asked him "Wherefore so?" He felt his very whiskers glow, And frankly owned "I do not know." While, like broad waves of golden grain, Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, His colour came and went again.

Pitying his obvious distress, Yet with a tinge of bitterness, She said "The More exceeds the Less." "A truth of such undoubted weight," He urged, "and so extreme in date, It were superfluous to state." Roused into sudden passion, she In tone of cold malignity: "To others, yea: but not to thee." But when she saw him quail and quake, And when he urged "For pity's sake!" Once more in gentle tones she spake. "Thought in the mind doth still abide That is by Intellect supplied, And within that Idea doth hide: "And he, that yearns the truth to know, Still further inwardly may go, And find Idea from Notion flow: "And thus the chain, that sages sought, Is to a glorious circle wrought, For Notion hath its source in Thought." So passed they on with even pace: Yet gradually one might trace A shadow growing on his face.

The Second Voice THEY walked beside the wave-worn beach; Her tongue was very apt to teach, And now and then he did beseech She would abate her dulcet tone, Because the talk was all her own, And he was dull as any drone. She urged "No cheese is made of chalk": And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, Tuned to the footfall of a walk. Her voice was very full and rich, And, when at length she asked him "Which?" It mounted to its highest pitch. He a bewildered answer gave, Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, Lost in the echoes of the cave. He answered her he knew not what: Like shaft from bow at random shot, He spoke, but she regarded not. She waited not for his reply, But with a downward leaden eye Went on as if he were not by Sound argument and grave defence, Strange questions raised on "Why?" and "Whence?" And wildly tangled evidence.

When he, with racked and whirling brain, Feebly implored her to explain, She simply said it all again. Wrenched with an agony intense, He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, And careless of all consequence: "Mind - I believe - is Essence - Ent Abstract - that is - an Accident Which we - that is to say - I meant - " When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, At length his speech was somewhat hushed, She looked at him, and he was crushed. It needed not her calm reply: She fixed him with a stony eye, And he could neither fight nor fly. While she dissected, word by word, His speech, half guessed at and half heard, As might a cat a little bird. Then, having wholly overthrown His views, and stripped them to the bone, Proceeded to unfold her own. "Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss Of other thoughts no thought but this, Harmonious dews of sober bliss? "What boots it? Shall his fevered eye Through towering nothingness descry The grisly phantom hurry by?

"And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air; See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare And redden in the dusky glare? "The meadows breathing amber light, The darkness toppling from the height, The feathery train of granite Night? "Shall he, grown gray among his peers, Through the thick curtain of his tears Catch glimpses of his earlier years, "And hear the sounds he knew of yore, Old shufflings on the sanded floor, Old knuckles tapping at the door? "Yet still before him as he flies One pallid form shall ever rise, And, bodying forth in glassy eyes "The vision of a vanished good, Low peering through the tangled wood, Shall freeze the current of his blood." Still from each fact, with skill uncouth And savage rapture, like a tooth She wrenched some slow reluctant truth. Till, like a silent water-mill, When summer suns have dried the rill, She reached a full stop, and was still.

Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, As when the loaded omnibus Has reached the railway terminus: When, for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine's stifled beat, The velvet tread of porters' feet. With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved her lips without a sound, And every now and then she frowned. He gazed upon the sleeping sea, And joyed in its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she To muse a little space did seem, Then, like the echo of a dream, Harked back upon her threadbare theme. Still an attentive ear he lent But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent. He marked the ripple on the sand: The even swaying of her hand Was all that he could understand. He saw in dreams a drawing-room, Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom, Waiting - he thought he knew for whom: He saw them drooping here and there, Each feebly huddled on a chair, In attitudes of blank despair:

Oysters were not more mute than they, For all their brains were pumped away, And they had nothing more to say Save one, who groaned "Three hours are gone!" Who shrieked "We'll wait no longer, John! Tell them to set the dinner on!" The vision passed: the ghosts were fled: He saw once more that woman dread: He heard once more the words she said. He left her, and he turned aside: He sat and watched the coming tide Across the shores so newly dried. He wondered at the waters clear, The breeze that whispered in his ear, The billows heaving far and near, And why he had so long preferred To hang upon her every word: "In truth," he said, "it was absurd."

The Third Voice NOT long this transport held its place: Within a little moment's space Quick tears were raining down his face His heart stood still, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemed to hear and not to hear. "Tears kindle not the doubtful spark. If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark." "Her speech," he said, "hath caused this pain. Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main, "Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book." Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more than said, Soundless as ghost's intended tread: "If thou art duller than before, Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? Why not endure, expecting more?" "Rather than that," he groaned aghast, "I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast, Some loathly vampire's rich repast."

"'Twere hard," it answered, "themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings THY scant intelligence." "Not so," he urged, "nor once alone: But there was something in her tone That chilled me to the very bone. "Her style was anything but clear, And most unpleasantly severe; Her epithets were very queer. "And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise; I did not dare to criticise; "Nor did I leave her, till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent." A little whisper inly slid, "Yet truth is truth: you know you did." A little wink beneath the lid. And, sickened with excess of dread, Prone to the dust he bent his head, And lay like one three-quarters dead The whisper left him - like a breeze Lost in the depths of leafy trees Left him by no means at his ease. Once more he weltered in despair, With hands, through denser-matted hair, More tightly clenched than then they were.

When, bathed in Dawn of living red, Majestic frowned the mountain head, "Tell me my fault," was all he said. When, at high Noon, the blazing sky Scorched in his head each haggard eye, Then keenest rose his weary cry. And when at Eve the unpitying sun Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, "Alack," he sighed, "what HAVE I done?" But saddest, darkest was the sight, When the cold grasp of leaden Night Dashed him to earth, and held him tight. Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders were silence to his groan, Bagpipes sweet music to its tone: "What? Ever thus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Mystery profound Pursue me like a sleepless hound, "With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I broke of laws?" The whisper to his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadow of forgotten dream,

The whisper trembling in the wind: "Her fate with thine was intertwined," So spake it in his inner mind: "Each orbed on each a baleful star: Each proved the other's blight and bar: Each unto each were best, most far: "Yea, each to each was worse than foe: Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, AND SHE, AN AVALANCHE OF WOE!"

TEMA CON VARIAZIONI

[WHY is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the tooexciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase. For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -

I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH: HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL, BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH? To glad me with his soft black eye MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL; HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL! But, when he came to know me well, HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE: AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE And love me, it was sure to dye A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE: WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE, THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.

A GAME OF FIVES FIVE little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One: Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun. Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six: Sitting down to lessons - no more time for tricks. Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven: Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven! Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen: Each young man that calls, I say "Now tell me which you MEAN!" Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one: But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done? Five showy girls - but Thirty is an age When girls may be ENGAGING, but they somehow don't ENGAGE. Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more: So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before! **** Five PASSE girls - Their age? Well, never mind! We jog along together, like the rest of human kind: But the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!

POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR "How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? You told me once 'the very wish Partook of the sublime.' Then tell me how! Don't put me off With your 'another time'!" The old man smiled to see him, To hear his sudden sally; He liked the lad to speak his mind Enthusiastically; And thought "There's no hum-drum in him, Nor any shilly-shally." "And would you be a poet Before you've been to school? Ah, well! I hardly thought you So absolute a fool. First learn to be spasmodic A very simple rule. "For first you write a sentence, And then you chop it small; Then mix the bits, and sort them out Just as they chance to fall: The order of the phrases makes No difference at all.

'Then, if you'd be impressive, Remember what I say, That abstract qualities begin With capitals alway: The True, the Good, the Beautiful Those are the things that pay! "Next, when you are describing A shape, or sound, or tint; Don't state the matter plainly, But put it in a hint; And learn to look at all things With a sort of mental squint." "For instance, if I wished, Sir, Of mutton-pies to tell, Should I say 'dreams of fleecy flocks Pent in a wheaten cell'?" "Why, yes," the old man said: "that phrase Would answer very well. "Then fourthly, there are epithets That suit with any word As well as Harvey's Reading Sauce With fish, or flesh, or bird Of these, 'wild,' 'lonely,' 'weary,' 'strange,' Are much to be preferred." "And will it do, O will it do To take them in a lump As 'the wild man went his weary way To a strange and lonely pump'?" "Nay, nay! You must not hastily To such conclusions jump.

"Such epithets, like pepper, Give zest to what you write; And, if you strew them sparely, They whet the appetite: But if you lay them on too thick, You spoil the matter quite! "Last, as to the arrangement: Your reader, you should show him, Must take what information he Can get, and look for no immature disclosure of the drift And purpose of your poem. "Therefore, to test his patience How much he can endure Mention no places, names, or dates, And evermore be sure Throughout the poem to be found Consistently obscure. "First fix upon the limit To which it shall extend: Then fill it up with 'Padding' (Beg some of any friend): Your great SENSATION-STANZA You place towards the end." "And what is a Sensation, Grandfather, tell me, pray? I think I never heard the word So used before to-day: Be kind enough to mention one 'EXEMPLI GRATIA.'"

And the old man, looking sadly Across the garden-lawn, Where here and there a dew-drop Yet glittered in the dawn, Said "Go to the Adelphi, And see the 'Colleen Bawn.' 'The word is due to Boucicault The theory is his, Where Life becomes a Spasm, And History a Whiz: If that is not Sensation, I don't know what it is. "Now try your hand, ere Fancy Have lost its present glow - " "And then," his grandson added, "We'll publish it, you know: Green cloth - gold-lettered at the back In duodecimo!" Then proudly smiled that old man To see the eager lad Rush madly for his pen and ink And for his blotting-pad But, when he thought of PUBLISHING, His face grew stern and sad.

SIZE AND TEARS WHEN on the sandy shore I sit, Beside the salt sea-wave, And fall into a weeping fit Because I dare not shave A little whisper at my ear Enquires the reason of my fear. I answer "If that ruffian Jones Should recognise me here, He'd bellow out my name in tones Offensive to the ear: He chaffs me so on being stout (A thing that always puts me out)." Ah me! I see him on the cliff! Farewell, farewell to hope, If he should look this way, and if He's got his telescope! To whatsoever place I flee, My odious rival follows me! For every night, and everywhere, I meet him out at dinner; And when I've found some charming fair, And vowed to die or win her, The wretch (he's thin and I am stout) Is sure to come and cut me out!

The girls (just like them!) all agree To praise J. Jones, Esquire: I ask them what on earth they see About him to admire? They cry "He is so sleek and slim, It's quite a treat to look at him!" They vanish in tobacco smoke, Those visionary maids I feel a sharp and sudden poke Between the shoulder-blades "Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!" (I told you he would find me out!) "My growth is not YOUR business, Sir!" "No more it is, my boy! But if it's YOURS, as I infer, Why, Brown, I give you joy! A man, whose business prospers so, Is just the sort of man to know! "It's hardly safe, though, talking here I'd best get out of reach: For such a weight as yours, I fear, Must shortly sink the beach!" Insult me thus because I'm stout! I vow I'll go and call him out!

ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN AY, 'twas here, on this spot, In that summer of yore, Atalanta did not Vote my presence a bore, Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had heard all that nonsense before." She'd the brooch I had bought And the necklace and sash on, And her heart, as I thought, Was alive to my passion; And she'd done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion. I had been to the play With my pearl of a Peri But, for all I could say, She declared she was weary, That "the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn't abide that Dundreary." Then I thought "Lucky boy! 'Tis for YOU that she whimpers!" And I noted with joy Those sensational simpers: And I said "This is scrumptious!" - a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.

And I vowed "'Twill be said I'm a fortunate fellow, When the breakfast is spread, When the topers are mellow, When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!" O that languishing yawn! O those eloquent eyes! I was drunk with the dawn Of a splendid surmise I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs. Then I whispered "I see The sweet secret thou keepest. And the yearning for ME That thou wistfully weepest! And the question is 'License or Banns?', though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest." "Be my Hero," said I, "And let ME be Leander!" But I lost her reply Something ending with "gander" For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand her.

THE LANG COORTIN' THE ladye she stood at her lattice high, Wi' her doggie at her feet; Thorough the lattice she can spy The passers in the street, "There's one that standeth at the door, And tirleth at the pin: Now speak and say, my popinjay, If I sall let him in." Then up and spake the popinjay That flew abune her head: "Gae let him in that tirls the pin: He cometh thee to wed." O when he cam' the parlour in, A woeful man was he! "And dinna ye ken your lover agen, Sae well that loveth thee?" "And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir, That have been sae lang away? And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir? Ye never telled me sae." Said - "Ladye dear," and the salt, salt tear Cam' rinnin' doon his cheek, "I have sent the tokens of my love This many and many a week.

"O didna ye get the rings, Ladye, The rings o' the gowd sae fine? I wot that I have sent to thee Four score, four score and nine." "They cam' to me," said that fair ladye. "Wow, they were flimsie things!" Said - "that chain o' gowd, my doggie to howd, It is made o' thae self-same rings." "And didna ye get the locks, the locks, The locks o' my ain black hair, Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box, Whilk I sent by the carrier?" "They cam' to me," said that fair ladye; "And I prithee send nae mair!" Said - "that cushion sae red, for my doggie's head, It is stuffed wi' thae locks o' hair." "And didna ye get the letter, Ladye, Tied wi' a silken string, Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie, A message of love to bring?" "It cam' to me frae the far countrie Wi' its silken string and a'; But it wasna prepaid," said that high-born maid, "Sae I gar'd them tak' it awa'." "O ever alack that ye sent it back, It was written sae clerkly and well! Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought, I must even say it mysel'."

Then up and spake the popinjay, Sae wisely counselled he. "Now say it in the proper way: Gae doon upon thy knee!" The lover he turned baith red and pale, Went doon upon his knee: "O Ladye, hear the waesome tale That must be told to thee! "For five lang years, and five lang years, I coorted thee by looks; By nods and winks, by smiles and tears, As I had read in books. "For ten lang years, O weary hours! I coorted thee by signs; By sending game, by sending flowers, By sending Valentines. "For five lang years, and five lang years, I have dwelt in the far countrie, Till that thy mind should be inclined Mair tenderly to me. "Now thirty years are gane and past, I am come frae a foreign land: I am come to tell thee my love at last O Ladye, gie me thy hand!" The ladye she turned not pale nor red, But she smiled a pitiful smile: "Sic' a coortin' as yours, my man," she said "Takes a lang and a weary while!"

And out and laughed the popinjay, A laugh of bitter scorn: "A coortin' done in sic' a way, It ought not to be borne!" Wi' that the doggie barked aloud, And up and doon he ran, And tugged and strained his chain o' gowd, All for to bite the man. "O hush thee, gentle popinjay! O hush thee, doggie dear! There is a word I fain wad say, It needeth he should hear!" Aye louder screamed that ladye fair To drown her doggie's bark: Ever the lover shouted mair To make that ladye hark: Shrill and more shrill the popinjay Upraised his angry squall: I trow the doggie's voice that day Was louder than them all! The serving-men and serving-maids Sat by the kitchen fire: They heard sic' a din the parlour within As made them much admire. Out spake the boy in buttons (I ween he wasna thin), "Now wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay this deadlie din?"

And they have taen a kerchief, Casted their kevils in, For wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay that deadlie din. When on that boy the kevil fell To stay the fearsome noise, "Gae in," they cried, "whate'er betide, Thou prince of button-boys!" Syne, he has taen a supple cane To swinge that dog sae fat: The doggie yowled, the doggie howled The louder aye for that. Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane The doggie ceased his noise, And followed doon the kitchen stair That prince of button-boys! Then sadly spake that ladye fair, Wi' a frown upon her brow: "O dearer to me is my sma' doggie Than a dozen sic' as thou! "Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears: Nae use at all to fret: Sin' ye've bided sae well for thirty years, Ye may bide a wee langer yet!" Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor And tirled at the pin: Sadly went he through the door Where sadly he cam' in.

"O gin I had a popinjay To fly abune my head, To tell me what I ought to say, I had by this been wed. "O gin I find anither ladye," He said wi' sighs and tears, "I wot my coortin' sall not be Anither thirty years "For gin I find a ladye gay, Exactly to my taste, I'll pop the question, aye or nay, In twenty years at maist."

FOUR RIDDLES

[THESE consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades. No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration - and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic A CONNECTED POEM instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopaedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross "lights." No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of "Hamlet." In this case the first stanza describes the two main words. No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert's play of "Pygmalion and Galatea." The three stanzas respectively describe "My First," "My Second," and "My Whole."]

I. THERE was an ancient City, stricken down With a strange frenzy, and for many a day They paced from morn to eve the crowded town, And danced the night away. I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad: They pointed to a building gray and tall, And hoarsely answered "Step inside, my lad, And then you'll see it all." **** Yet what are all such gaieties to me Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds? x*x + 7x + 53 = 11/3 But something whispered "It will soon be done: Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile: Endure with patience the distasteful fun For just a little while!" A change came o'er my Vision - it was night: We clove a pathway through a frantic throng: The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright: The chariots whirled along. Within a marble hall a river ran A living tide, half muslin and half cloth: And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan, Yet swallowed down her wrath;

And here one offered to a thirsty fair (His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful) Some frozen viand (there were many there), A tooth-ache in each spoonful. There comes a happy pause, for human strength Will not endure to dance without cessation; And every one must reach the point at length Of absolute prostration. At such a moment ladies learn to give, To partners who would urge them over-much, A flat and yet decided negative Photographers love such. There comes a welcome summons - hope revives, And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken: Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives Dispense the tongue and chicken. Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again: And all is tangled talk and mazy motion Much like a waving field of golden grain, Or a tempestuous ocean. And thus they give the time, that Nature meant For peaceful sleep and meditative snores, To ceaseless din and mindless merriment And waste of shoes and floors. And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers, That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads, They doom to pass in solitude the hours, Writing acrostic-ballads.

How late it grows! The hour is surely past That should have warned us with its double knock? The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last "Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock?" The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks. It MAY mean much, but how is one to know? He opens his mouth - yet out of it, methinks, No words of wisdom flow.

II. EMPRESS of Art, for thee I twine This wreath with all too slender skill. Forgive my Muse each halting line, And for the deed accept the will! **** O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim, Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love? Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him, By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above? And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame, Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone: And these wild words of fury but proclaim A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone! But all is lost: that mighty mind o'erthrown, Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see! "Doubt that the stars are fire," so runs his moan, "Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!" A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile! And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar? And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile? Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers: In holy silence wait the appointed days, And weep away the leaden-footed hours.

III. THE air is bright with hues of light And rich with laughter and with singing: Young hearts beat high in ecstasy, And banners wave, and bells are ringing: But silence falls with fading day, And there's an end to mirth and play. Ah, well-a-day Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones! The kettle sings, the firelight dances. Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught That fills the soul with golden fancies! For Youth and Pleasance will not stay, And ye are withered, worn, and gray. Ah, well-a-day! O fair cold face! O form of grace, For human passion madly yearning! O weary air of dumb despair, From marble won, to marble turning! "Leave us not thus!" we fondly pray. "We cannot let thee pass away!" Ah, well-a-day!

IV. MY First is 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! My Second men revered as wise: My Third from heights of wisdom flies To depths of frantic folly. My First is ageing day by day: My Second's age is ended: My Third enjoys an age, they say, That never seems to fade away, Through centuries extended. My Whole? I need a poet's pen To paint her myriad phases: The monarch, and the slave, of men A mountain-summit, and a den Of dark and deadly mazes -

A flashing light - a fleeting shade Beginning, end, and middle Of all that human art hath made Or wit devised! Go, seek HER aid, If you would read my riddle!

FAME'S PENNY-TRUMPET [Affectionately dedicated to all "original researchers" who pant for "endowment."]

BLOW, blow your trumpets till they crack, Ye little men of little souls! And bid them huddle at your back Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals! Fill all the air with hungry wails "Reward us, ere we think or write! Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails To sate the swinish appetite!" And, where great Plato paced serene, Or Newton paused with wistful eye, Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean And Babel-clamour of the sty Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise: We will not rob them of their due, Nor vex the ghosts of other days By naming them along with you. They sought and found undying fame: They toiled not for reward nor thanks: Their cheeks are hot with honest shame For you, the modern mountebanks! Who preach of Justice - plead with tears That Love and Mercy should abound -

While marking with complacent ears The moaning of some tortured hound: Who prate of Wisdom - nay, forbear, Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath, Trampling, with heel that will not spare, The vermin that beset her path! Go, throng each other's drawing-rooms, Ye idols of a petty clique: Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes, And make your penny-trumpets squeak. Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds Of learning from a nobler time, And oil each other's little heads With mutual Flattery's golden slime: And when the topmost height ye gain, And stand in Glory's ether clear, And grasp the prize of all your pain So many hundred pounds a year Then let Fame's banner be unfurled! Sing Paeans for a victory won! Ye tapers, that would light the world, And cast a shadow on the Sun Who still shall pour His rays sublime, One crystal flood, from East to West, When YE have burned your little time And feebly flickered into rest!

THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE

by LEWIS CARROLL

CONTENTS Looking-Glass house . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 The Garden of Live Flowers. . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Looking-Glass Insects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Tweedledum and Tweedledee . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Wool and Water . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Humpty Dumpty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 The Lion and the Unicorn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 ‘It’s My Own Invention’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Queen Alice. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 Shaking. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 Waking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 Which Dreamed it? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134

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, 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 the fast: Thou shalt not heed the raving blast. And, though the shadow of a sigh May tremble through the story,

For”happy summer glory– It shall not touch, with breath of bale, The pleasance of our fairy-tale.

RED

x

x

xNx x x x x xkx x x x x xnx x xKx x x x x x x ¹Qx x x Ï xrx WHITE White Pawn (Alice)to play, and win in eleven moves PAGE 1. Alice meets R.Q. 27 2. Alice through Q.’s 3d (by railway) 37 to Q.’s 4th (Tweedledum and Tweedledee) 50 3.Alice meets W.Q. (with shawl) 67 4. Alice to Q.’s 5th (shop, river, shop) 70 5. Alice to Q.’s 6th (Humpty Dumpty) 75 6. Alice to Q.’s 7th (forest) 89 7. W. Kt. takes R. Kt. 104 8. Alice to Q.’s 8th (coronation) 115 9. Alice become Queen 124 10. Alice castles (feast) 126 11 Alice takes R.Q. and wins 132

PAGE 1. R.Q. to K.R. 4th 32 2. W.Q. to Q.B.’s 4th (after shawl) 67 3. W.Q. to Q.B.’s 5th (becomes sheep) 4.W.Q. to K.B.’s 8th (leaves egg on shelf ) 5. W.Q. to Q.B.’s 8th (flying from R. Kt.) 6. R. Kt. to K.’s 2nd (ch.) 7. W. Kt. to K.B.’s 5th 8. R.Q. to K.’s sq (examination) 9. Queen’s castle 10. W.Q. to Q. R. 6th (soup)

70 74 95 104 115 117 124 131

PREFACE As the chess-problem, given on a previous page, has puzzled some of my readers, it may be well to explain that it is correctly worked out, so far as the moves are concerned. The alternation of Red and White is perhaps not so strictly observed as it might be, and the ‘castling’ of the three Queens is merely a way of saying that they entered the palace; but the ‘check’ of the White King at move 6, the capture of the Red Knight at move 7, and the final ‘check-mate’ of the Red King, will be found, by any one who will take the trouble to set the pieces and play the moves as directed, to be strictly in accordance with the laws of the game. The new words, in the poem ‘Jabberwocky’ (see page 19), have given rise to some differences of opinion as to their pronounciation: so it may be well to give instructions on that point also. Pronounce ‘slithy’ as if it were to the words ‘sly, the’: make the ‘g’ hard in ‘gyre’ and ‘gimble’: and pronounce ‘rath’ to rhyme with ‘bath.’ Christmas,1896

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE

CHAPTER 1

Looking-Glass house One thing was certain, that the white kitten had had nothing to do with it:— it was the black kitten’s fault entirely. For the white kitten had been having its face washed by the old cat for the last quarter of an hour (and bearing it pretty well, considering); so you see that it couldn’t have had any hand in the mischief. The way Dinah washed her children’s faces was this: first she held the poor thing down by its ear with one paw, and then with the other paw she rubbed its face all over, the wrong way, beginning at the nose: and just now, as I said, she was hard at work on the white kitten, which was lying quite still and trying to purr— no doubt feeling that it was all meant for its good. But the black kitten had been finished with earlier in the afternoon, and so, while Alice was sitting curled up in a corner of the great arm-chair, half talking to herself and half asleep, the kitten had been having a grand game of romps with the ball of worsted Alice had been trying to wind up, and had been rolling it up and down till it had all come

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undone again; and there it was, spread over the hearth-rug, all knots and tangles, with the kitten running after its own tail in the middle. ‘Oh, you wicked little thing!’ cried Alice, catching up the kitten, and giving it a little kiss to make it understand that it was in disgrace. ‘Really, Dinah ought to have taught you better manners! You ought, Dinah, you know you ought!’ she added, looking reproachfully at the old cat, and speaking in as cross a voice as she could manage— and then she scrambled back into the arm-chair, taking the kitten and the worsted with her, and began winding up the ball again. But she didn’t get on very fast, as she was talking all the time, sometimes to the kitten, and sometimes to herself. Kitty sat very demurely on her knee, pretending to watch the progress of the winding, and now and then putting out one paw and gently touching the ball, as if it would be glad to help, if it might. ‘Do you know what tomorrow is, Kitty?’ Alice began. ‘You’d have guessed if you’d been up in the window with me— only Dinah was making you tidy, so you couldn’t. I was watching the boys getting in stick for the bonfire— and it wants plenty of sticks, Kitty! Only it got so cold, and it snowed so, they had to leave off. Never mind, Kitty, we’ll go and see the bonfire to-morrow.’ Here Alice wound two or three turns of the worsted round the kitten’s neck, just to see how it would look: this led to a scramble, in which the ball rolled down upon the floor, and yards and yards of it got unwound again. ‘Do you know, I was so angry, Kitty,’ Alice went on as soon as they were comfortably settled again, ‘when I saw all the mischief you had been doing, I was very nearly opening the window, and putting you out into the snow! And you’d have deserved it, you little mischievous darling! What have you got to say for yourself? Now don’t interrupt me!’ she went on, holding up one finger. ‘I’m going to tell you all your faults. Number one: you squeaked twice while Dinah

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was washing your face this morning. Now you can’t deny it, Kitty: I heard you! What that you say?’ (pretending that the kitten was speaking.) ‘Her paw went into your eye? Well, that’s your fault, for keeping your eyes open— if you’d shut them tight up, it wouldn’t have happened. Now don’t make any more excuses, but listen! Number two: you pulled Snowdrop away by the tail just as I had put down the saucer of milk before her! What, you were thirsty, were you? How do you know she wasn’t thirsty too? Now for number three: you unwound every bit of the worsted while I wasn’t looking!

‘That’s three faults, Kitty, and you’ve not been punished for any of them yet. You know I’m saving up all your pun-

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ishments for Wednesday week— Suppose they had saved up all my punishments!’ she went on, talking more to herself than the kitten. ‘What would they do at the end of a year? I should be sent to prison, I suppose, when the day came. Or— let me see— suppose each punishment was to be going without a dinner: then, when the miserable day came, I should have to go without fifty dinners at once! Well, I shouldn’t mind that much! I’d far rather go without them than eat them! ‘Do you hear the snow against the window-panes, Kitty? How nice and soft it sounds! Just as if some one was kissing the window all over outside. I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.” And when they wake up in the summer, Kitty, they dress themselves all in green, and dance about— whenever the wind blows— oh, that’s very pretty!’ cried Alice, dropping the ball of worsted to clap her hands. ‘And I do so wish it was true! I’m sure the woods look sleepy in the autumn, when the leaves are getting brown. ‘Kitty, can you play chess? Now, don’t smile, my dear, I’m asking it seriously. Because, when we were playing just now, you watched just as if you understood it: and when I said “Check!” you purred! Well, it was a nice check, Kitty, and really I might have won, if it hadn’t been for that nasty Knight, that came wiggling down among my pieces. Kitty, dear, let’s pretend— ’ And here I wish I could tell you half the things Alice used to say, beginning with her favourite phrase ‘Let’s pretend.’ She had had quite a long argument with her sister only the say before— all because Alice had begun with ‘Let’s pretend we’re kings and queens;’ and her sister, who liked being very exact, had argued that they couldn’t, because there were only two of them, and Alice had been reduced at last to say, ‘Well, you can be one of them then, and I’ll be all the rest.” And once she had really 11

Looking-Glass house

frightened her old nurse by shouting suddenly in her ear, ‘Nurse! Do let’s pretend that I’m a hungry hyaena, and you’re a bone.’ But this is taking us away from Alice’s speech to the kitten. ‘Let’s pretend that you’re the Red Queen, Kitty! Do you know, I think if you sat up and folded your arms, you’d look exactly like her. Now do try, there’s a dear!’ And Alice got the Red Queen off the table, and set it up before the kitten as a model for it to imitate: however, the thing didn’t succeed, principally, Alice said, because the kitten wouldn’t fold its arms properly. So, to punish it, she held it up to the Looking-glass, that it might see how sulky it was— ‘and if you’re not good directly,’ she added, ‘I’ll put you through into Looking-glass House. How would you like that?’ ‘Now, if you’ll only attend, Kitty, and not talk so much, I’ll tell you all my ideas aboutLooking-glass House. First, there’s the room you can see through the glass— that’s just the same as our drawing room, only the things go the other way. I can see all of it when I get upon a chair— all but the bit behind the fireplace. Oh! I do so wish I could see that bit! I want so much to know whether they’ve a fire in the winter: you never can tell, you know, unless our fire smokes, and then smoke comes up in that room too— but that may be only pretence, just to make it look as if they had a fire. Well then, the books are something like our books, only the words go the wrong way; I know that, because I’ve held up one of our books to the glass, and then they ho