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.

This 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 antic.i.p.ation, 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 pa.s.sing 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-Gla.s.s" 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 pa.s.sed, 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 l.u.s.ter 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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.s.s 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 cla.s.sics; 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.

_Sylvie_ and _Bruno_ were supposed to be the fairies that teach children to be good, and to do this they wandered pretty well over the earth in their fairy way. Somehow we miss the real children through all their dainty play and laughter, but the pictures of the two children, by Harry Furniss, are beautiful enough to make us really believe in fairies. There is a question Lewis Carroll asks quite gravely in his book--"What is the best time for seeing Fairies?" And he answers it in truly Lewis Carroll style:

"The first rule is, that it must be a _very_ hot day--that we may consider as settled: and you must be a _little_ sleepy--but not too sleepy to keep your eyes open, mind. Well, and you ought to feel a little what one may call 'fairyish' the Scotch call it 'eerie,' and perhaps that's a prettier word; if you don't know what it means, I'm afraid I can hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a Fairy and then you'll know.

"And the last rule is, that the crickets should not be chirping. I can't stop to explain that; you must take it on trust for the present.

"So, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance of seeing a Fairy, or at least a much better chance than if they didn't."

Later on he tells us the rule about the crickets. "They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by, ... so whenever you're walking out and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping you may be sure that they see a Fairy."

Another dainty description is _Bruno's_ singing to the accompaniment of tuneful harebells, and the song was a regular serenade:

Rise, oh, rise! The daylight dies, The owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting!

Wake, oh, wake! Beside the lake The elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting!

Welcoming our Fairy King, We sing, sing, sing.

Hear, oh, hear! From far and near The music stealing, ting, ting, ting!

Fairy bells adorn the dells Are merrily pealing, ting, ting, ting!

Welcoming our Fairy King, We ring, ring, ring.

See, oh, see! On every tree What lamps are shining, ting, ting, ting!

They are eyes of fiery flies To light our dining, ting, ting, ting!

Welcoming our Fairy King, They swing, swing, swing.

Haste, oh, haste, to take and taste The dainties waiting, ting, ting, ting!

Honey-dew is stored----

But here _Bruno's_ song came to a sudden end and was never finished.

Fairies have the oddest ways of doing things, but then _Sylvie_ was coming through the long gra.s.s, that charming woodland child that little _Bruno_ loved and teased.

The artist put all his skill into the drawing of this tiny maiden, skill a.s.sisted by Lewis Carroll's own ideas of what a fairy-girl should look like, and the fact that Mr. Furniss took _seven years_ to ill.u.s.trate this book to the author's satisfaction and his own, shows how very particular both were to get at the spirit of the story.

Indeed, the great trouble with the story is that it is all spirit; there is no _real_ story to it, and this the keen scent of everyday children soon discovered.

But in one thing it excels: the verses are every bit as charming as either the Wonderland or Looking-Gla.s.s verses, with all the old-time delicious nonsense. Take, for instance--

THE GARDENER'S SONG.

He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp; He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage-Stamp.

"You'd best be getting home," he said: "The nights are very damp!"

He thought he saw an Argument That proved he was the Pope; He looked again, and found it was A Bar-of-Mottled-Soap.

"A fact so dread," he faintly said, "Extinguishes all hope!"

He thought he saw a Banker's-Clerk Descending from the Bus; He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus.

"If this should stay to dine," he said, "There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece; He looked again, and found it was His Sister's-Husband's-Niece.

"Unless you leave this house," he said, "I'll send for the police!"

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed; He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a head.

"Poor thing!" he said, "poor, silly thing!

It's waiting to be fed!"

He thought he saw a Garden-Door That opened with a key; He looked again, and found it was A Double-Rule-of-Three.

"And all its mystery," he said, "Is clear as day to me!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill; He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill.

"Were I to swallow this," he said, "I should be very ill!"

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek; He looked again, and found it was The Middle-of-Next-Week.

"The one thing I regret," he said, "Is that it cannot speak!"

The gardener was a very remarkable person, whose time was spent raking the beds and making up extra verses to this beautiful poem; the last one ran:

He thought he saw an Elephant That practiced on a fife; He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife.

"At length I realize," he said, "The bitterness of Life!"

"What a wild being it was who sung these wild words! A gardener he seemed to be, yet surely a mad one by the way he brandished his rake, madder by the way he broke ever and anon into a frantic jig, maddest of all by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza.

"It was so far a description of himself that he had the _feet_ of an elephant, but the rest of him was skin and bone; and the wisps of loose straw that bristled all about him suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out."

In "Sylvie and Bruno," probably to a greater extent than in all his other books, are some clever caricatures of well-known people. The two professors are certainly taken from life, probably from Oxford. One is called "The Professor" and one "The Other Professor." The _Baron_, the _Vice-Warden_ and _my Lady_ were all too real, and as for the fat _Prince Uggug_, well, any kind feeling Lewis Carroll may have had toward boys when he fashioned _Bruno_ had entirely vanished when _Prince Uggug_ came upon the scene. All the ugly, rough, ill-mannered, bad boys Lewis Carroll had ever heard of were rolled into this wretched, fat, pig of a prince; but the story of this prince proved fascinating to the _real_ little royalties to whom he told it during one Christmas week at Lord Salisbury's. Most likely he selected this story with an object, in order to show how necessary it was that those of royal blood should behave like true princes and princesses if they would be truly loved. Our good "don" was fond of pointing a moral now and then. _Uggug_, with all his badness, somehow appeals to the human child, far more than _Bruno_, with his baby talk and his old-man wisdom and his odd little "fay" ways. _Sylvie_ was much more natural. _Bruno_, however, was a sweet little songster; it needed no urging to set him to music, and he always sang quite plainly when he had real rhymes to tackle. One of his favorites was called: