My dear Sir,—I have been laid up (or laid down) for the last few days by acute lumbago, or I would have written before. It is rather absurd that I was on the point of propounding to you this identical idea. I realised, and I regret to add revealed to two girls, a fortnight ago, the truth that all existing poems were in fact acrostics; and I offered a small pecuniary reward to whichever would find out Gray’s “Elegy” within half an hour! But it never occurred to me to utilise the discovery, as it did to you. I see that it might be utilised, now you mention it—and I shall instruct these two young women not to publish the notion among their friends.
This is the way Mr. Calverley treated Kirke White’s poem “To an early Primrose.” “The title,” writes C.S.C. “might either be ignored or omitted. Possibly carpers might say that a primrose was not a rose.”
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Wild
Was nursed in whistling storms Rose
And cradled in the winds!
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter’s sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, W a R
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone I ncognit O
Thy tender elegance.
So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head L owlines S
Obscure and unobserved.
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear D isciplin E
Serene the ills of life.
In the course of their correspondence Mr. Calverley wrote a Shakespearian sonnet, the initial letters of which form the name of William Herbert; and a parody entitled “The New Hat.” I reproduce them both.
When o’er the world Night spreads her mantle dun,
In dreams, my love, I see those stars, thine eyes,
Lighting the dark: but when the royal sun
Looks o’er the pines and fires the orient skies,
I bask no longer in thy beauty’s ray,
And lo! my world is bankrupt of delight.
Murk night seemed lately fair-complexioned day;
Hope-bringing day now seems most doleful night.
End, weary day, that art no day to me!
Return, fair night, to me the best of days!
But O my rose, whom in my dreams I see,
Enkindle with like bliss my waking gaze!
Replete with thee, e’en hideous night grows fair:
Then what would sweet morn be, if thou wert there?
THE NEW HAT.
My boots had been wash’d, well wash’d, by a shower;
But little I car’d about that:
What I felt was the havoc a single half-hour
Had made with my beautiful Hat.
For the Boot, tho’ its lustre be dimm’d, shall assume
New comeliness after a while;
But no art may restore its original bloom,
When once it hath fled, to the Tile.
I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay
And a brown) trotted off with a clatter;
The driver look’d round in his humorous way,
And said huskily, “Who is your hatter?”
I was pleased that he’d noticed its shape and its shine;
And, as soon as we reached the “Old Druid,”
I begged him to drink to its welfare and mine
In a glass of my favourite fluid.
A gratified smile sat, I own, on my lips
When the barmaid exclaimed to the master,
(He was standing inside with his hands on his hips),
“Just look at that gentleman’s castor.”
I laughed, when an organman paus’d in mid-air—
(‘Twas an air that I happened to know,
By a great foreign maestro)—expressly to stare At ze gent wiz ze joli chapeau . Yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears! How rife with results is a day! That Hat might, with care, have adorned me for years; But one show’r wash’d its beauty away. How I lov’d thee, my Bright One! I pluck in remorse My hands from my pockets and wring ‘em: Oh, why did not I, dear, as a matter of course, Ere I purchas’d thee purchase a gingham? C.S. CALVERLEY.
Mr. Dodgson spent the last night of the old year (1872) at Hatfield, where he was the guest of Lord Salisbury. There was a large party of children in the house, one of them being Princess Alice, to whom he told as much of the story of “Sylvie and Bruno” as he had then composed. While the tale was in progress Lady Salisbury entered the room, bringing in some new toy or game to amuse her little guests, who, with the usual thoughtlessness of children, all rushed off and left Mr. Dodgson. But the little Princess, suddenly appearing to remember that to do so might perhaps hurt his feelings, sat down again by his side. He read the kind thought which prompted her action, and was much pleased by it.
As Mr. Dodgson knew several members of the Punch staff, he used to send up any little incidents or remarks that particularly amused him to that paper. He even went so far as to suggest subjects for cartoons, though I do not know if his ideas were ever carried out. One of the anecdotes he sent to Punch was that of a little boy, aged four, who after having listened with much attention to the story of Lot’s wife, asked ingenuously, “Where does salt come from that’s not made of ladies?” This appeared on January 3, 1874.
The following is one of several such little anecdotes jotted down by Lewis Carroll for future use: Dr. Paget was conducting a school examination, and in the course of his questions he happened to ask a small child the meaning of “Average.” He was utterly bewildered by the reply, “The thing that hens lay on,” until the child explained that he had read in a book that hens lay on an average so many eggs a year.
JOHN RUSKIN. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll.
Among the notable people whom he photographed was John Ruskin, and, as several friends begged him for copies, he wrote to ask Mr. Ruskin’s leave. The reply was, “Buy Number 5 of Fors Clavigera for 1871, which will give you your answer.” This was not what Mr. Dodgson wanted, so he wrote back, “Can’t afford ten-pence!” Finally Mr. Ruskin gave his consent.
About this time came the anonymous publication of “Notes by an Oxford Chiel,” a collection of papers written on various occasions, and all of them dealing with Oxford controversies. Taking them in order, we