“The reason is,” said the Gryphon, “that they would go with the lobsters to the dance. So they were 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.”
This is not the natural position of the whiting, as we all know, but the device of the fishmonger to make his windows attractive, and Alice herself came perilously near saying that she had eaten them for dinner cooked in that fashion and sprinkled over with bread crumbs. It was just Lewis Carroll’s funny way of viewing things, in much the same fashion that one of his child-friends would look at them. His was a real child’s mind, full of wonder depths where all sorts of impossible things existed, two-sided triangles, parallel lines that met in a point, whitings who had their tails in their mouths, and many other delightful contradictions, some of which he gave to the world. Others he stored away for the benefit of the numberless little girls who had permission to rummage in the store-house.
“Alice through the Looking-Glass” made its bow with a flourish of trumpets. All the “Nonsense” world was waiting for it, and for once expectation was not disappointed and the author found himself almost hidden beneath his mantle of glory. People praised him so much that it is quite a wonder his head was not completely turned. Henry Kingsley, the novelist, thought it “perfectly splendid,” and indeed many others fully agreed with him.
As for the children—and after all they were his real critics—the little girl who thought “Through the Looking-Glass” “stupider” than Wonderland, voiced the popular sentiment. Those who were old enough to read the book themselves soon knew by heart all the fascinating poetry, and if the story had no other merit, “The Jabberwocky” alone would have been enough to recommend it. Of all the queer fancies of a queer mind, this poem was the most remarkable, and even to-day, with all our clever verse-makers and nonsense-rhymers, no one has succeeded in getting out of apparently meaningless words so much real meaning and genuine fun as are to be found in this one little classic.
Many people have tried in vain to trace its origin; one enterprising lady insisted on calling it a translation from the German. Someone else decided there was a Scandinavian flavor about it, so he called it a “Saga.” Mr. A. A. Vansittart, of Trinity College, Cambridge, made an excellent Latin translation of it, and hundreds of others have puzzled over the many “wrapped up” meanings in the strange words.
We shall meet the poem later on and discuss its many wonders. At present we must follow Charles Dodgson back into his sanctum where he was eagerly pursuing a new course—the study of anatomy and physiology. He was presented with a skeleton, and laying in the proper supply of books, he set to work in earnest. He bought a little book called “What to do in Emergencies” and perfected himself in what we know to-day as “First Aid to the Injured.” He accumulated in this way some very fine medical and surgical books, and had more than one occasion to use his newly acquired knowledge.
Most men labor all their lives to gain fame. Lewis Carroll was a hard worker, but fame came to him without an effort. Along his line of work he took his “vorpal” sword in hand and severed all the knots and twists of the mathematical Jabberwocky. It was when he played that he reached the heights; when he touched the realm of childhood he was all conquering, for he was in truth a child among them, and every child felt the youthfulness in his glance, in the wave of his hand, in the fitting of his mood to theirs, and his entire sympathy in all their small joys sorrows—such great important things in their child-world. He often declared that children were three fourths of his life, and it seems indeed a pity that none of his own could join the band of his ardent admirers.
Here he was, a young man still in spite of his forty years, holding as his highest delight the power he possessed of giving happiness to other people’s children. Yet had anyone ventured to voice this regret, he would have replied like many another in his position:
“Children—bless them! Of course I love them. I prefer other people’s children. All delight and no bother. One runs a fearful risk with one’s own.” And he might have added with his whimsical smile, “And supposing they might have been boys!”