The (almost really) Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

Ch. 1

It was a snowy December morning. A family party were seated in the snug little breakfast parlour of M^r Hamilton, apparently enjoying the snug fireside, the hissing urn, and the hot tea and toast, all the more for the heavy snow storm, which was to be heard at intervals, clamourously and hopelessly beating against the closely shut windows. The eldest daughter, with all the sedateness of a matron, was pouring out the tea, and dispensing to the younger members of the household their daily portions of oatmeal porridge. The said oatmeal porridge, I may as well state for the benefit of the uninformed, is a curious and indefinite compound bearing a striking resemblance to dirty paste, and in flavour not unlike a mixture of slate-pencil-dust and sand. I may as well add that connoisseurs in this delicacy are in the habit of improving it with a small portion of butter, which has the effect of giving it such an unctuous and greasy appearance as would sicken a Greenlander. The little Hamiltons, however, appeared to relish and even enjoy the wretched mess. The elder daughter would seem a very ordinary individual to any one merely regarding her outward form and figure, but look in her face and there could be no mistake; the turn of the head, the curl of the lip, the haughty eyebrow, every line and feature proclaimed the fact; she was a Hamilton out and out!

The father was a stern and thinking man: “cold and cross-grained,” the neighbours called him, though what the meaning of the term “cross-grained” may be, I will not undertake to say, as I only understand the term when applied to wood. At the present moment his thoughts appeared to be directed towards his eldest son, on whom he incessantly gazed as he sat, likewise wrapped in thought, carelessly cuttling up his bread-and-butter into all sorts of fantastic and inconceivable shapes, out of mere abstraction. How long he might have remained thus it is impossible to say, as his daughter broke into the midst of his cogitations by gently reminding him that his tea was getting quite cold. Thus roused, he hastily swallowed his tea, and merely saying, “When you’ve finished your breakfast, Sidney, come into my study. I’ve something to say to you,” left the room, and his son, a handsome young man of about eighteen, somewhat disturbed by this abrupt form of address, lost no time in following him, leaving his meal unfinished.

Sidney had just left school, during a flourishing career at which, he had contracted an intimate friendship with a young man of decidedly low origin, “vulgar and mean” the father was pleased to call him, with a bitter sneer at his son’s bad taste in forming acquaintances: and this, be it observed, was a constant source of quarrel between father and son.

On the present occasion, when his son entered the room, he received him with a cold and distant manner, and a brow gloomier than that which he usually wore. “You are aware, of course, my dear Sidney,” he commenced, in a conciliating tone, “that we are now arrived at that period of your life when I must begin to think about get you some employment, and you have hitherto expressed a preference for a mercantile line of life?” The young man gave a cold assent.

“You are aware of this,” continued his father, “and you are further aware that it is in my power to give you the greatest assistance in your wishes. You are aware that I am acquainted with many powerful men, whose interest may be of the greatest service to you?” The son nodded: he did not deign a reply.

“Then observe this, young man!” continued the father, getting more and more excited as he spoke, “unless you agree to drop, at once and forever, all your vulgar acquaintances,” (an emphasis on “vulgar” which raised a flush on the pale brow of the young man) “unless you will do this, though you would give me the world for it, I will not stir a finger, no, nor utter a syllable, in your service!”

“Look you here, sir!” shouted he, seeing that his words made little impression on his son, “obey me, or on this spot I disinherit you!”

Sadly did his son look upon him: “Father,” he replied with an effort, “I owe you the highest respect, and—I should be very sorry to offend you or disobey you, but—but the calls of honour must be obeyed! To cast of Edmund Tracy, the dearest friend I have ever known, beyond my own family, would be an act not only of the most flagrant insolence, but, you will permit me to add, of the deepest ingratitude.” Without giving his father time to reply, he turned and left the room. One moment his steps were heard echoing through the spacious hall, another, and he was gone.

Ch. 2

In the hall he was stopped by his sister: “Dearest Sidney!” she exclaimed, “Stop! why do you look so pale? What has my father been saying to you?”

He turned his face towards her. What a change had these few minutes wrought! The compressed lip, the glassy eye, and the unnaturally pale expression of his face, showed that some terrible straggle had been going on within. “I am going away, Lucy,” he replied in a strangley quiet tone, “goodbye: Kiss little Rosa for me,” and without trusting himself to say any more, he snatched up his hat and hastily left the house.

His sister gazed after his retreating form with unutterable fondness as long as he remained in sight, and even then remained at the door, watching his footsteps imprinted on the deep snow, all that remained to her of him she loved so well, heed less of the storm which was beating upon her, till she heard the harsh voice of her father calling to her, “What in the world are you doing out there, Lucy? You’ll catch your death of cold, come in, foolish child!” “Father,” said she anxiously, she could say no more. “Well what’s the matter,” was his careless reply. “Oh Father! Sidney—” again she stopped.

“Speak not to me of Sidney,” said her father, his anger now thouroughly roused, “he has disobeyed, wilfully, wantonly, disobeyed me: he is no longer to me a son, and you must no longer mention him as your brother. Never let his name cross your lips again! He—” She waited to hear no more, but fainted away on the spot, and her father was hardly able to catch her before she reached the ground.

Ch. 3

After walking for some distance along the hight road, through the driving snow which wet him to the skin, in a state of excitement and wretchedness which may be more easily imagined than described, Sidney overtook a covered waggon, proceeding in the same direction as himself, but at a more leisurely pace. Any change was prferable to his present distracted state, so without a moment’s hesitation he asked the driver, in as unconcerned a voice as he could assume, to give him a lift to the next town: the goodnatured carter at once consented, remarking as he did so, “Whyy, young man, thee’s something wettish. What made thee coom out such a day?” Muttering a few unintelligible words in reply, Sidney selected the most comfortable place he could find amongst the straw of the waggon, and at once composed himself to sleep.

Towards night, (for the distance to the next town was so considerable that the carrier’s waggon seldom reached it before morning) the carter awoke him to offer him some food, and told him while he was eating that a few miles further on they would pass a place called by the country people “stand-and-deliver corner”, on account of it’s being a common resort for highway men, in fact, he concluded, “I never passes it without a bloonderbuss boy me.” “Wake me up when you come to it,” said Sidney sleepily. “I should rather like to see it,” and, anxious as soon as possible to forget his cares in sleep, he again lay down.

Once more in the land of dreams, he imagined himself in company with Edmund Tracy, they were rowing a small boat together on the sea, all was bright and delicious. Suddenly a storm arose, and by one of those strange and sudden changes which so frequently happen in dreams, the boat was gone, and he and his friend were clinging to an oar and drifting on the rocks: his father was standing there, and he had already raised his hand to be helped out of the water, when he heard the voice of his father, harsh as it had sounded to him on that morning, pronounce the words, “Leave him, or perish with him!” and at the word they sunk. Oh! the horrors of that endless falling in dreams down, down, down he went, down to the fathomless abyss of ocean, clinging to his friend, with the harsh voice of his father still ringing in his ears, when he was suddenly aroused by a push from the carter, “this is the place, young man,” he whispered. He started up: a low, black grove skirted the road, and, as he gazed on it, two men sprang forth into the moonlight, one of whom seized the horse’s bridle.

Ch. 4

When Lucy Hamilton recovered, she found herself lying on one of the drawingroom sofas, where her father had put her down, and left her, caring very little whether she recovered or not. She roused herself instantly, attempted to forget the dreadful event of the morning, and to busy herself with her domestic duties, but all was of no use: the sigh unbidden was always rising to her lips, and floods of involuntary tears streaming from her eyes. A melancholy little party were they when they met that day at dinner. Her father who came in the last, eat his dinner in silence, without speaking a word to any of his family, and left the room as quickly as possible. She attempted to keep up a conversation with her brothers and sisters, but all were as wretched as herself, and the vacant chair at the table was enough of itself to throw a damp over all cheerfulness.

As M^r Hamilton gradually realised the feeling that his son was really gone, gone, in all probability, never to return, the gloom of his mind grew into absolute misery, but his pride would not yet suffer him to admit that it was his own doing, and that he had himself driven him from his roof. The hope that his son would speedily return to submit and ask forgiveness, which he had cherished in the morning, gradually faded away as the day wore on, and was succeeded by such a sickening sense of vacuity and oppression as well nigh drove him to distraction.

The pitiless storm had never ceased for a moment during the whole day, and the thought which was always coming with greater force of the distress his son must even then be enduring, gooded him to the extreme pitch of wretchedness, and sent him to bed in a state of mind bordering on insanity.

Ch. 5

Almost before he knew where he was, Sidney found himself out of the cart. To grasp one of their assailants by the shoulders, and fling him under the horse’s feet was the work of a moment, but the other, taller and more muscular than his companion, proved more than a match for him, and after a short struggle, succeeded in getting him down on the ground and placing his knee on his chest. His brain reeled, he heard the clicking of a pistol at his ear, and was already preparing himself for instant death, when the report of the carter’s blunderbuss was heard and the robber fell dead beside him.

The goodnatured carter, having thus saved his life, lost no time in extricating him from his fallen enemy, and the two now approached the second ruffian, who was lying strechted on his face in the middle of the road, stunned by the violence with which Sidney had thrown him down. On raising him up, it was quite evident that he was still alive, and the carter, by Sidney’s advice, placed him in the cart, having first taken the precaution of binding him hand and foot. They then proceeded, leaving the other ruffian, who had thus dearly paid the price of his own temerity, lying by the road-side.

Sidney, as before, seated himself in the cart, still greatly excited by the contest in which he had just been engaged and occupied himself in watching the inanimate ruffian who was strechted on the straw at the other side of the cart: after a short time, he fancied he saw him moving one of his arms, but taking it for an illusion of his delirious fancy, he did not think it worthwhile to mention it to the carter, but not many minutes had elapsed when the robber sprang up with a drawn knife in his hand, with which he had been cutting the cords, rushed upon Sidney with a savage yell, and in a moment had him half out of the cart.

Ch. 6

At five in the morning M^r Hamilton rose from his uneasy couch, plunged in even deeper melancholy than he had been the night before, distracted by the many conflicting emotions which bewildered his brain, and feeling that if he did not do something he must inevitably go mad before night. The one prevailing idea of his mind was to seek his son, and he delayed no longer to put it into execution. He accordingly left the house as quietly as he could without disturbing any of the family. The storm of the proceeding day had worn itself out: the sky was without a cloud, and the ground was covered with a thick mantle of dazzling white snow.

Wrapped up in a thick great coat, yet even then shivering with the intensity of the piercing frost, which was all the more bitter as the sun had scarcely yet risen, he traversed the high road with hasty steps, sinking every moment in the frozen snow nearly up to his knees. He knocked at the door of the first cottage he come to, forgetting in his distraction that there was very little probability of any of the inhabitants being up. After a long delay, the old Scotchwoman appeared at the door, and M^r Hamilton hastily enquired if she had seen any one go by that way during the storm of yesterday. “Ou ay,” replied the old woman, “there were twa went by yestreen. Ane was an uncolarge illfavoured body, muckle like yersel, sir: he came towards night; it had chappit eight of the clock when he passed.” “What was the other like?” asked M^r Hamilton impatiently. “Was it the t’other ane ye were speering at? weel, he was a younker, I mind: he went by in ane of those hurry-skurry, whirry-awa things, I think they ca’t a dog cart.” “What o’clock was it?” asked M^r Hamilton. “Ah, weel, it was no sae late, nor it was no sae early,” was the reply, and M^r Hamilton, with a hasty “good morning” hurried on, convinced that this must be the direction his son had taken.

On entering the next town, two or three miles further on, he entered the hotel and ordered breakfast, and as the waiter was laying the cloth, carelessly asked, “Did you happen to see a young gentleman in a dog-cart pass through here yesterday morning, waiter?” “Young gentleman in a dog cart, sir? yizzr,” was the ready reply, “put up here, sir, ordered dinner, tea and a bed, sir, for dinner, sir,” rapidly counting on his fingers, “salmon and lobster sauce, roast-chicken, two beers, one wine, one bread; tea and a bed, sir, had a glass of brandy before he went to bed sir; a pipe and the newspaper, sir, not got up yet, sir.” “Tell him a gentleman wishes to see him, when comes down,” “see him sir? yizzr.” and the waiter rapidly vanished. M^r Hamilton waited anxiously, and about 9 o’clock, the door opened and the young gentleman entered.

Ch. 7

Such was the suddenness and violence with which Sidney was attacked that he lost his hold of the cart and fell to the ground: instantly starting up, for he had received no more serious injury than a bruise on the shoulder, he followed closely and perceived his friend the carter, who had stopped his horse at the first alarm, engaged in a murderous contest with the robber. The moment seemed favourable: he lightly vaulted over the back rail of the cart and approached the scene of conflict, but, before he reached it, his friend had disappeared, and the robber, who did not know of any one else being in the cart, began flogging on the horse, but in another moment Sidney had got him by the arm, flung him over the shaft, and taken possession of the reins. His attempts to pull up however were vain, for the animal, alarmed both at the unusual noise he heard going on behind, and at the strange hand he felt guiding him, took the bit between his teeth, and broke into a furious gallop. Sidney pulled violently at the reins for some time, but without effect, and he now gradually awoke to the disagreeable consciousness that he was being run away with by a spirited horse, alone, in a cart, on a road he did not know, and at night! He felt that his only course was to sit still and keep quiet, and he did so, as far as the jolting of the vehicle would allow him. He now began to descend a steep hill, and perceived to his alarm that the horse was gradually swerving to the right where the road shelved into a gravel pit: he attempted to turn to the other side of the road, but the animal was now beyond all control, the pace increased every instant, and in another moment horse cart and man were precipitated headlong into it.

Ch. 8

In a burst of parental feeling, entirely forgetting all ideas of anger and reproof, M^r Hamilton rose from his seat to meet his son, and threw himself upon his neck. Instead however of receiving the affectionate and filial embrace he expected, he received a tremendous blow in each eye, followed by another in the chest which felled him to the ground. On looking up he encountered the face of a stranger, his fists convulsively clenched, and his eyes glaring with fiery: “I’ll tell you what, you old hypocrite,” were the first words he managed to articulate, “you’d better not try to come that dodge over me again: I’m not going to have my pockets picked by a sham father for nothing, I can tell you: you’ll find I’m not so easily done as all that,” and, ringing the bell violently, he instantly dispatched the waiter for a policeman: meanwhile he seated himself in a chair to prevent the escape of his victim. “Sir, sir,” began M^r Hamilton in broken and subdued accents, “there—has—been—some—some mistake—here—I believe!” “There has been some mistake,” replied the stranger with a bitter sneer, “I’ve an idea you mistook your mark a little when you supposed I was green enough to be taken in by your tricks, you old vagabond: but I’m too old a bird to be caught with chaff.” “No but, I assure you,” exposticulated his miserable prisoner. “I had no idea—I didn’t think—” “You didn’t think I was up to the dodge, hey, old fellow?” replied the young man, “was that it? well, one lives and one learns, you see.” At his moment the waiter returned with a constable, into whose custody M^r Hamilton was at once commited, after attempting a rambling defence, which the young man cut short at once with, “there, you’d better not waste your sweetness on the desert air, it’s no go, I assure you, take him away, constable.”

Ch. 9

On recovering his consciousness, Sidney perceived a number of people standing round, some were raising the horse and cart, some were leaning over him, and curiously touching him to discover if any bones were broken, “Poor body,” said one woman who was bathing his temples with vinegar, “poor body, he’s smashed all to nothing, I expect.” “Not quite,” said Sidney with a smile; the woman was delighted at finding him alive, and, as the others were removing the horse, which had been killed by the fall, and collecting the broken pieces of the cart, she lifted him up, and took him into her cottage which was close by; she then left him, having seated him in a chair, and soon returned with a doctor. “There are no bones broken, I assure you, good woman,” said he, rapidly and skilfully examining Sidney, “the system has received a slight shake, but that is all. Give him a little brandy, and he’ll be quite well again in a few hours.”

His predictions were fulfilled; Sidney rapidly recovered, and, having rewarded his kind friend with something more solid than thanks, he once more set off on his return home, for his recent adventure had cooled his head, and he was anxious to be reconciled with his father. Having arrived at the post town which was a few miles off his home, he felt too faint to go further without refreshment: he accordingly ordered dinner at the inn, and strolled into the town to while away the half hour which the waiter said must elapse before it could be ready, “and if you’d like to go into the town, sir,” said the waiter, “there’s a most curious case being tried at the police court, there is indeed, sir. It a case of assault with robbery, I believe, sir, but it’s a most curious case, sir. You see, sir, the prisoner pretended he was the other’s father, sir; threw his arms round him, sir, kissed him, cried, sir, real tears, I assure you, sir, I saw them myself, sir, and it’s a most curious case, I assure you, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Sidney, “I think I’ll just look in,” and with these words he departed. Having entered the court, and taken his seat among the spectators, he carelessly cast eyes around him: suddenly a flush overspread his features, what? could that be Edmund Tracy in the witness box? and his father at the bar? it was indeed! oh! day of horrors! he concealed his face, and anxiously listened to the proceedings.

“It’s my opinion,” said the worthy magistrate, “that it was a mistake altogether, and therefore I think the wisest thing you can do sir, is to say no more about the matter. I think it’s pretty clear he didn’t intend to rob you.” “Well, I suppose that’ll be the best course,” muttered Edmund Tracy, “and so,” continued the magistrate, “the case is over, and you are free, M^r Hamilton.”

A general rush was immediately made to the outer air, for the court was densely crowded, and in the street Sidney joined his father, “Father!” he cried, but his father heard him not, “my watch is gone!” was his only cry, Sidney suddenly perceived it in Tracy’s hand, knocked him down, got the watch and rejoinded his father, “I forgive you, my son,” he said, “but—oh—the horrors of that dreadful morning—there was a whole piece of toast left—unfinished—oh! my son—whatever you do—never—never again leave your breakfast unfinished!”