Is all our life, then, but a dream,
Seen faintly in the golden gleam
Athwart Time’s dark resistless stream?
Bowed to the earth with bitter woe,
Or laughing at some raree-show,
We flitter idly to and fro.
Man’s little day in haste we spend,
And from its merry noontide send
No glance to meet the silent end.

his beautiful dedication to little Isa Bowman, on the front page of “Sylvie and Bruno,” was much prized by her on account of the double acrostic cleverly woven in the lines. The first letter of each line read downward was one way she could see her name, and the first three letters in the first line of each verse was another, but naturally the light-hearted child missed the note of deep sadness underlying the tuneful words. Lewis Carroll had reached that milestone in a man’s life, not when he pauses to look backward, but when his one desire is to press forward to the heights—to the goal. His thoughts were not so much colored by memories of earlier years as by anticipation, even dreams of what the future might hold. Therefore, in our trip with Sylvie and Bruno into the realms of dreamland, we must bear in mind in reading the story that the man is the dreamer, and not the children, nor does he see quite through their eyes in his views of men and things. Children, as a rule, live in the present; neither the past nor the future perplexes them, and “Mister Sir,” as little Bruno called their friend, the Dreamer, looked on these fairy children, dainty Sylvie and graceful Bruno, as gleams of light in his shadowy way, little passing gleams, as elusive as they were brilliant.

The day of the irresponsible, bubbling nonsense is over; we catch flashes of it now and then, but the fun is forced, and however much of a dear Sylvie may be, and however much of a darling Bruno may be, they are not quite natural.

In a very long and very serious preface, wholly unlike his usual style, the author tells us something of the history of the book. As early as 1867 the idea of “Sylvie and Bruno” first came to him in the shape of a little fairy tale which he wrote for Aunt Judy’s Magazine, but it was not until long after the publication of “Alice Through the Looking-Glass” that he determined to turn the adventures of these fairy children into something more than stray stories. The public, at least, the insatiable children, wanted something more from him, and as the second “Alice” had been so satisfactory, he decided to venture again into the dream-world; he would not hurry about it; he would take his time; he would pluck a flower here and there as the years passed, and press it for safe-keeping; he would create something poetic and beautiful in the way of children, culled from the best of all the children he ever knew. This work should be a gem, cut and polished until its luster eclipsed all other work of his.

And so from 1874 to 1889, a period of fifteen years, he jotted down quaint fancies and bits of dialogue which he thought would work well into the story. During this interval he passed from the prime of life into serious middle age, though there was so little change in his outward living and in his general appearance (he was always very boyish-looking) that even he himself failed to recognize the gulf of time between forty-two and fifty-seven.

In this interval he had become deeply interested in the study of logic and when he began to gather together the mass of material he had collected for his book, he found so much matter which stepped outside of childish realms that he decided to please both the “grown-ups” and the youngsters by weaving it all into a story, which he accordingly did, with the result that he pleased no one. The children would not take the trouble to wade through the interwoven love story, while their elders, who from experience had expected something fresh and breezy from the pen of Lewis Carroll, who longed to get away from the world of facts and logic and deep discussions which buzzed about them, were even more sorely disappointed.

All flights of genius are short and quick. Had our author sat down when the idea of a long story first came to him, and written it off in his natural style, “Sylvie and Bruno” might have been another of the world’s classics; but he put too much thought upon it, and the chapters show most plainly where the pen was laid down and where taken up again.

But for all that the book sold well, chiefly, indeed, because it was Lewis Carroll who wrote it; though its popularity died down in a short time. About six years ago, however (1904), the enterprising publishers brought forth a new edition of the book, leaving out all the grown-up part, and bringing the fairy children right before us in all their simple loveliness. The experiment, so far as the story went, was most successful, and to those who have not a previous acquaintance with “Sylvie and Bruno” this little volume would give much more pleasure than the big two-volume original.

One of Lewis Carroll’s special objects in writing this story was a sort of tardy appreciation of the much-despised boy. In the character of Bruno he has given us a sweet little fellow, but we cannot get over the feeling that he is a girl in boy’s clothes, his bits of mischief are all so dainty and alluring; but we would like to beat him with, say, a spray of goldenrod for such a fairy child, every time he says politely and priggishly “Mister Sir” to his invisible companion. What boy was ever guilty of using such a term! The street urchin would naturally say “Mister,” but the well-bred home boy would say “Sir,” so the combination sounds absurd.