Lewis Carroll E-Book

Lewis Carroll

• Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 275

Beschreibung

Lewis Carroll's 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' is a whimsical and fantastical journey through a world of nonsensical creatures and perplexing riddles. The book's playful language and imaginative settings have captivated readers since its publication in the 19th century, making it a classic of children's literature. Carroll's clever use of wordplay and satire adds depth to the seemingly simple story, inviting readers to explore themes of identity, logic, and the absurdity of adulthood. The book's enduring popularity can be attributed to its ability to entertain both young and old alike, offering something new to discover with each reading. Lewis Carroll's unique literary style and timeless characters have solidified his place in the literary canon, inspiring generations of writers and artists to create their own interpretations of Wonderland. With its charming narrative and thought-provoking themes, 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' is a must-read for anyone looking to escape reality and explore the limitless possibilities of imagination.

Leseprobe

Lewis Carroll

Lewis Carroll: A Tangled Tale, Bruno's Revenge and Other Stories & What the Tortoise Said to Achilles

(3 Books in One Edition)

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Table of Contents

A Tangled Tale

Bruno’s Revenge and Other Stories

What the Tortoise Said to Achilles

A Tangled Tale

Main TOC

(1885)

Illustrated by

Arthur B. Frost

Contents

Preface.

Knot I.

Knot II.

Knot III.

Knot IV.

Knot V.

Knot VI.

Knot VII.

Knot VIII.

Knot IX.

Knot X.

Appendix.

“At a Pace of Six Miles in the Hour.” Frontispiece.

To My Pupil.

Beloved pupil! Tamed by thee,

Addish-, Subtrac-, Multiplica-tion,

Division, Fractions, Rule of Three,

Attest thy deft manipulation!

Then onward! Let the voice of Fame

From Age to Age repeat thy story,

Till thou hast won thyself a name

Exceeding even Euclid’s glory!

Preface.

Table of Contents

This Tale originally appeared as a serial in The Monthly Packet, beginning in April, 1880. The writer’s intention was to embody in each Knot (like the medicine so dexterously, but ineffectually, concealed in the jam of our early childhood) one or more mathematical questions—in Arithmetic, Algebra, or Geometry, as the case might be—for the amusement, and possible edification, of the fair readers of that Magazine.

L. C.

October, 1885.

Knot I.

Excelsior.

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“Goblin, lead them up and down.”

The ruddy glow of sunset was already fading into the sombre shadows of night, when two travellers might have been observed swiftly—at a pace of six miles in the hour—descending the rugged side of a mountain; the younger bounding from crag to crag with the agility of a fawn, while his companion, whose aged limbs seemed ill at ease in the heavy chain armour habitually worn by tourists in that district, toiled on painfully at his side.

As is always the case under such circumstances, the younger knight was the first to break the silence.

“A goodly pace, I trow!” he exclaimed. “We sped not thus in the ascent!”

“Goodly, indeed!” the other echoed with a groan. “We clomb it but at three miles in the hour.”

“And on the dead level our pace is——?” the younger suggested; for he was weak in statistics, and left all such details to his aged companion.

“Four miles in the hour,” the other wearily replied. “Not an ounce more,” he added, with that love of metaphor so common in old age, “and not a farthing less!”

“’Twas three hours past high noon when we left our hostelry,” the young man said, musingly. “We shall scarce be back by supper-time. Perchance mine host will roundly deny us all food!”

“He will chide our tardy return,” was the grave reply, “and such a rebuke will be meet.”

“A brave conceit!” cried the other, with a merry laugh. “And should we bid him bring us yet another course, I trow his answer will be tart!”

“We shall but get our deserts,” sighed the elder knight, who had never seen a joke in his life, and was somewhat displeased at his companion’s untimely levity. “’Twill be nine of the clock,” he added in an undertone, “by the time we regain our hostelry. Full many a mile shall we have plodded this day!”

“How many? How many?” cried the eager youth, ever athirst for knowledge.

The old man was silent.

“Tell me,” he answered, after a moment’s thought, “what time it was when we stood together on yonder peak. Not exact to the minute!” he added hastily, reading a protest in the young man’s face. “An’ thy guess be within one poor half-hour of the mark, ’tis all I ask of thy mother’s son! Then will I tell thee, true to the last inch, how far we shall have trudged betwixt three and nine of the clock.”

A groan was the young man’s only reply; while his convulsed features and the deep wrinkles that chased each other across his manly brow, revealed the abyss of arithmetical agony into which one chance question had plunged him.

Knot II.

Eligible Apartments.

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 “Straight down the crooked lane,

 And all round the square.”

“Let’s ask Balbus about it,” said Hugh.

“All right,” said Lambert.

“He can guess it,” said Hugh.

“Rather,” said Lambert.

No more words were needed: the two brothers understood each other perfectly.

“Balbus Was Assisting his Mother-in-Law to Convince the Dragon.”

Balbus was waiting for them at the hotel: the journey down had tired him, he said: so his two pupils had been the round of the place, in search of lodgings, without the old tutor who had been their inseparable companion from their childhood. They had named him after the hero of their Latin exercise-book, which overflowed with anecdotes of that versatile genius—anecdotes whose vagueness in detail was more than compensated by their sensational brilliance. “Balbus has overcome all his enemies” had been marked by their tutor, in the margin of the book, “Successful Bravery.” In this way he had tried to extract a moral from every anecdote about Balbus—sometimes one of warning, as in “Balbus had borrowed a healthy dragon,” against which he had written “Rashness in Speculation”—sometimes of encouragement, as in the words “Influence of Sympathy in United Action,” which stood opposite to the anecdote “Balbus was assisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon”—and sometimes it dwindled down to a single word, such as “Prudence,” which was all he could extract from the touching record that “Balbus, having scorched the tail of the dragon, went away.” His pupils liked the short morals best, as it left them more room for marginal illustrations, and in this instance they required all the space they could get to exhibit the rapidity of the hero’s departure.

Their report of the state of things was discouraging. That most fashionable of watering-places, Little Mendip, was “chockfull” (as the boys expressed it) from end to end. But in one Square they had seen no less than four cards, in different houses, all announcing in flaming capitals “eligible apartments.” “So there’s plenty of choice, after all, you see,” said spokesman Hugh in conclusion.

“That doesn’t follow from the data,” said Balbus, as he rose from the easy chair, where he had been dozing over The Little Mendip Gazette. “They may be all single rooms. However, we may as well see them. I shall be glad to stretch my legs a bit.”

An unprejudiced bystander might have objected that the operation was needless, and that this long, lank creature would have been all the better with even shorter legs: but no such thought occurred to his loving pupils. One on each side, they did their best to keep up with his gigantic strides, while Hugh repeated the sentence in their father’s letter, just received from abroad, over which he and Lambert had been puzzling. “He says a friend of his, the Governor of——what was that name again, Lambert?” (“Kgovjni,” said Lambert.) “Well, yes. The Governor of——what-you-may-call-it——wants to give a very small dinner-party, and he means to ask his father’s brother-in-law, his brother’s father-in-law, his father-in-law’s brother, and his brother-in-law’s father: and we’re to guess how many guests there will be.”

There was an anxious pause. “How large did he say the pudding was to be?” Balbus said at last. “Take its cubical contents, divide by the cubical contents of what each man can eat, and the quotient——”

“He didn’t say anything about pudding,” said Hugh, “—and here’s the Square,” as they turned a corner and came into sight of the “eligible apartments.”

“It is a Square!” was Balbus’ first cry of delight, as he gazed around him. “Beautiful! Beau-ti-ful! Equilateral! And rectangular!”

The boys looked round with less enthusiasm. “Number nine is the first with a card,” said prosaic Lambert; but Balbus would not so soon awake from his dream of beauty.

“See, boys!” he cried. “Twenty doors on a side! What symmetry! Each side divided into twenty-one equal parts! It’s delicious!”

“Shall I knock, or ring?” said Hugh, looking in some perplexity at a square brass plate which bore the simple inscription “ring also.”

“Both,” said Balbus. “That’s an Ellipsis, my boy. Did you never see an Ellipsis before?”

“I couldn’t hardly read it,” said Hugh, evasively. “It’s no good having an Ellipsis, if they don’t keep it clean.”

“Which there is one room, gentlemen,” said the smiling landlady. “And a sweet room too! As snug a little back-room——”

“We will see it,” said Balbus gloomily, as they followed her in. “I knew how it would be! One room in each house! No view, I suppose?”

“Which indeed there is, gentlemen!” the landlady indignantly protested, as she drew up the blind, and indicated the back garden.

“Cabbages, I perceive,” said Balbus. “Well, they’re green, at any rate.”

“Which the greens at the shops,” their hostess explained, “are by no means dependable upon. Here you has them on the premises, and of the best.”

“Does the window open?” was always Balbus’ first question in testing a lodging: and “Does the chimney smoke?” his second. Satisfied on all points, he secured the refusal of the room, and they moved on to Number Twenty-five.

This landlady was grave and stern. “I’ve nobbut one room left,” she told them: “and it gives on the back-gyardin.”

“But there are cabbages?” Balbus suggested.

The landlady visibly relented. “There is, sir,” she said: “and good ones, though I say it as shouldn’t. We can’t rely on the shops for greens. So we grows them ourselves.”

“A singular advantage,” said Balbus: and, after the usual questions, they went on to Fifty-two.

“And I’d gladly accommodate you all, if I could,” was the greeting that met them. “We are but mortal,” (“Irrelevant!” muttered Balbus) “and I’ve let all my rooms but one.”

“Which one is a back-room, I perceive,” said Balbus: “and looking out on—on cabbages, I presume?”

“Yes, indeed, sir!” said their hostess. “Whatever other folks may do, we grows our own. For the shops——”

“An excellent arrangement!” Balbus interrupted. “Then one can really depend on their being good. Does the window open?”

The usual questions were answered satisfactorily: but this time Hugh added one of his own invention—“Does the cat scratch?”

The landlady looked round suspiciously, as if to make sure the cat was not listening, “I will not deceive you, gentlemen,” she said. “It do scratch, but not without you pulls its whiskers! It’ll never do it,” she repeated slowly, with a visible effort to recall the exact words of some written agreement between herself and the cat, “without you pulls its whiskers!”

“Much may be excused in a cat so treated,” said Balbus, as they left the house and crossed to Number Seventy-three, leaving the landlady curtseying on the doorstep, and still murmuring to herself her parting words, as if they were a form of blessing, “—— not without you pulls its whiskers!”

At Number Seventy-three they found only a small shy girl to show the house, who said “yes’m” in answer to all questions.

“The usual room,” said Balbus, as they marched in: “the usual back-garden, the usual cabbages. I suppose you can’t get them good at the shops?”

“Yes’m,” said the girl.

“Well, you may tell your mistress we will take the room, and that her plan of growing her own cabbages is simply admirable!”

“Yes’m,” said the girl, as she showed them out.

“One day-room and three bed-rooms,” said Balbus, as they returned to the hotel. “We will take as our day-room the one that gives us the least walking to do to get to it.”

“Must we walk from door to door, and count the steps?” said Lambert.

“No, no! Figure it out, my boys, figure it out!” Balbus gaily exclaimed, as he put pens, ink, and paper before his hapless pupils, and left the room.

“I say! It’ll be a job!” said Hugh.

“Rather!” said Lambert.

Knot III.

Mad Mathesis.

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“I waited for the train.”

“Well, they call me so because I am a little mad, I suppose,” she said, good-humouredly, in answer to Clara’s cautiously-worded question as to how she came by so strange a nick-name. “You see, I never do what sane people are expected to do now-a-days. I never wear long trains, (talking of trains, that’s the Charing Cross Metropolitan Station—I’ve something to tell you about that), and I never play lawn-tennis. I can’t cook an omelette. I can’t even set a broken limb! There’s an ignoramus for you!”

Clara was her niece, and full twenty years her junior; in fact, she was still attending a High School—an institution of which Mad Mathesis spoke with undisguised aversion. “Let a woman be meek and lowly!” she would say. “None of your High Schools for me!” But it was vacation-time just now, and Clara was her guest, and Mad Mathesis was showing her the sights of that Eighth Wonder of the world—London.

“The Charing Cross Metropolitan Station!” she resumed, waving her hand towards the entrance as if she were introducing her niece to a friend. “The Bayswater and Birmingham Extension is just completed, and the trains now run round and round continuously—skirting the border of Wales, just touching at York, and so round by the east coast back to London. The way the trains run is most peculiar. The westerly ones go round in two hours; the easterly ones take three; but they always manage to start two trains from here, opposite ways, punctually every quarter-of-an-hour.”

“They part to meet again,” said Clara, her eyes filling with tears at the romantic thought.

“No need to cry about it!” her aunt grimly remarked. “They don’t meet on the same line of rails, you know. Talking of meeting, an idea strikes me!” she added, changing the subject with her usual abruptness. “Let’s go opposite ways round, and see which can meet most trains. No need for a chaperon—ladies’ saloon, you know. You shall go whichever way you like, and we’ll have a bet about it!”

“I never make bets,” Clara said very gravely. “Our excellent preceptress has often warned us——”

“You’d be none the worse if you did!” Mad Mathesis interrupted. “In fact, you’d be the better, I’m certain!”

“Neither does our excellent preceptress approve of puns,” said Clara. “But we’ll have a match, if you like. Let me choose my train,” she added after a brief mental calculation, “and I’ll engage to meet exactly half as many again as you do.”

“Not if you count fair,” Mad Mathesis bluntly interrupted. “Remember, we only count the trains we meet on the way. You mustn’t count the one that starts as you start, nor the one that arrives as you arrive.”

“That will only make the difference of one train,” said Clara, as they turned and entered the station. “But I never travelled alone before. There’ll be no one to help me to alight. However, I don’t mind. Let’s have a match.”

A ragged little boy overheard her remark, and came running after her. “Buy a box of cigar-lights, Miss!” he pleaded, pulling her shawl to attract her attention. Clara stopped to explain.

“I never smoke cigars,” she said in a meekly apologetic tone. “Our excellent preceptress——,” but Mad Mathesis impatiently hurried her on, and the little boy was left gazing after her with round eyes of amazement.

The two ladies bought their tickets and moved slowly down the central platform, Mad Mathesis prattling on as usual—Clara silent, anxiously reconsidering the calculation on which she rested her hopes of winning the match.

“Mind where you go, dear!” cried her aunt, checking her just in time. “One step more, and you’d have been in that pail of cold water!”

“I know, I know,” Clara said, dreamily. “The pale, the cold, and the moony——”

“Take your places on the spring-boards!” shouted a porter.

“What are they for!” Clara asked in a terrified whisper.

“Merely to help us into the trains.” The elder lady spoke with the nonchalance of one quite used to the process. “Very few people can get into a carriage without help in less than three seconds, and the trains only stop for one second.” At this moment the whistle was heard, and two trains rushed into the station. A moment’s pause, and they were gone again; but in that brief interval several hundred passengers had been shot into them, each flying straight to his place with the accuracy of a Minie bullet—while an equal number were showered out upon the side-platforms.

Three hours had passed away, and the two friends met again on the Charing Cross platform, and eagerly compared notes. Then Clara turned away with a sigh. To young impulsive hearts, like hers, disappointment is always a bitter pill. Mad Mathesis followed her, full of kindly sympathy.

“Try again, my love!” she said, cheerily. “Let us vary the experiment. We will start as we did before, but not to begin counting till our trains meet. When we see each other, we will say ‘One!’ and so count on till we come here again.”

Clara brightened up. “I shall win that,” she exclaimed eagerly, “if I may choose my train!”

Another shriek of engine whistles, another upheaving of spring-boards, another living avalanche plunging into two trains as they flashed by: and the travellers were off again.

Each gazed eagerly from her carriage window, holding up her handkerchief as a signal to her friend. A rush and a roar. Two trains shot past each other in a tunnel, and two travellers leaned back in their corners with a sigh—or rather with two sighs—of relief. “One!” Clara murmured to herself. “Won! It’s a word of good omen. This time, at any rate, the victory will be mine!”

But was it?

Knot IV.

The Dead Reckoning.

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“I did dream of money-bags to-night.”

Noonday on the open sea within a few degrees of the Equator is apt to be oppressively warm; and our two travellers were now airily clad in suits of dazzling white linen, having laid aside the chain-armour which they had found not only endurable in the cold mountain air they had lately been breathing, but a necessary precaution against the daggers of the banditti who infested the heights. Their holiday-trip was over, and they were now on their way home, in the monthly packet which plied between the two great ports of the island they had been exploring.

Along with their armour, the tourists had laid aside the antiquated speech it had pleased them to affect while in knightly disguise, and had returned to the ordinary style of two country gentlemen of the Twentieth Century.

Stretched on a pile of cushions, under the shade of a huge umbrella, they were lazily watching some native fishermen, who had come on board at the last landing-place, each carrying over his shoulder a small but heavy sack. A large weighing-machine, that had been used for cargo at the last port, stood on the deck; and round this the fishermen had gathered, and, with much unintelligible jabber, seemed to be weighing their sacks.

“More like sparrows in a tree than human talk, isn’t it?” the elder tourist remarked to his son, who smiled feebly, but would not exert himself so far as to speak. The old man tried another listener.

“What have they got in those sacks, Captain?” he inquired, as that great being passed them in his never ending parade to and fro on the deck.

The Captain paused in his march, and towered over the travellers—tall, grave, and serenely self-satisfied.

“Fishermen,” he explained, “are often passengers in My ship. These five are from Mhruxi—the place we last touched at—and that’s the way they carry their money. The money of this island is heavy, gentlemen, but it costs little, as you may guess. We buy it from them by weight—about five shillings a pound. I fancy a ten pound-note would buy all those sacks.”

By this time the old man had closed his eyes—in order, no doubt, to concentrate his thoughts on these interesting facts; but the Captain failed to realise his motive, and with a grunt resumed his monotonous march.

Meanwhile the fishermen were getting so noisy over the weighing-machine that one of the sailors took the precaution of carrying off all the weights, leaving them to amuse themselves with such substitutes in the form of winch-handles, belaying-pins, &c., as they could find. This brought their excitement to a speedy end: they carefully hid their sacks in the folds of the jib that lay on the deck near the tourists, and strolled away.

When next the Captain’s heavy footfall passed, the younger man roused himself to speak.

“What did you call the place those fellows came from, Captain?” he asked.

“Mhruxi, sir.”

“And the one we are bound for?”

The Captain took a long breath, plunged into the word, and came out of it nobly. “They call it Kgovjni, sir.”

“K—I give it up!” the young man faintly said.

He stretched out his hand for a glass of iced water which the compassionate steward had brought him a minute ago, and had set down, unluckily, just outside the shadow of the umbrella. It was scalding hot, and he decided not to drink it. The effort of making this resolution, coming close on the fatiguing conversation he had just gone through, was too much for him: he sank back among the cushions in silence.

His father courteously tried to make amends for his nonchalance.

“Whereabouts are we now, Captain?” said he, “Have you any idea?”

The Captain cast a pitying look on the ignorant landsman. “I could tell you that, sir,” he said, in a tone of lofty condescension, “to an inch!”

“You don’t say so!” the old man remarked, in a tone of languid surprise.

“And mean so,” persisted the Captain. “Why, what do you suppose would become of My ship, if I were to lose My Longitude and My Latitude? Could you make anything of My Dead Reckoning?”

“Nobody could, I’m sure!” the other heartily rejoined.

But he had overdone it.

“It’s perfectly intelligible,” the Captain said, in an offended tone, “to any one that understands such things.” With these words he moved away, and began giving orders to the men, who were preparing to hoist the jib.

Our tourists watched the operation with such interest that neither of them remembered the five money-bags, which in another moment, as the wind filled out the jib, were whirled overboard and fell heavily into the sea.

But the poor fishermen had not so easily forgotten their property. In a moment they had rushed to the spot, and stood uttering cries of fury, and pointing, now to the sea, and now to the sailors who had caused the disaster.

The old man explained it to the Captain.

“Let us make it up among us,” he added in conclusion. “Ten pounds will do it, I think you said?”

But the Captain put aside the suggestion with a wave of the hand.

“No, sir!” he said, in his grandest manner. “You will excuse Me, I am sure; but these are My passengers. The accident has happened on board My ship, and under My orders. It is for Me to make compensation.” He turned to the angry fishermen. “Come here, my men!” he said, in the Mhruxian dialect. “Tell me the weight of each sack. I saw you weighing them just now.”

Then ensued a perfect Babel of noise, as the five natives explained, all screaming together, how the sailors had carried off the weights, and they had done what they could with whatever came handy.

Two iron belaying-pins, three blocks, six holystones, four winch-handles, and a large hammer, were now carefully weighed, the Captain superintending and noting the results. But the matter did not seem to be settled, even then: an angry discussion followed, in which the sailors and the five natives all joined: and at last the Captain approached our tourists with a disconcerted look, which he tried to conceal under a laugh.

“It’s an absurd difficulty,” he said. “Perhaps one of you gentlemen can suggest something. It seems they weighed the sacks two at a time!”

“If they didn’t have five separate weighings, of course you can’t value them separately,” the youth hastily decided.

“Let’s hear all about it,” was the old man’s more cautious remark.

“They did have five separate weighings,” the Captain said, “but—Well, it beats me entirely!” he added, in a sudden burst of candour. “Here’s the result. First and second sack weighed twelve pounds; second and third, thirteen and a half; third and fourth, eleven and a half; fourth and fifth, eight: and then they say they had only the large hammer left, and it took three sacks to weigh it down—that’s the first, third and fifth—and they weighed sixteen pounds. There, gentlemen! Did you ever hear anything like that?”

The old man muttered under his breath “If only my sister were here!” and looked helplessly at his son. His son looked at the five natives. The five natives looked at the Captain. The Captain looked at nobody: his eyes were cast down, and he seemed to be saying softly to himself “Contemplate one another, gentlemen, if such be your good pleasure. I contemplate Myself!”

Knot V.

Oughts and Crosses.

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“Look here, upon this picture, and on this.”

“And what made you choose the first train, Goosey?” said Mad Mathesis, as they got into the cab. “Couldn’t you count better than that?”

“I took an extreme case,” was the tearful reply. “Our excellent preceptress always says ‘When in doubt, my dears, take an extreme case.’ And I was in doubt.”

“Does it always succeed?” her aunt enquired.

Clara sighed. “Not always,” she reluctantly admitted. “And I can’t make out why. One day she was telling the little girls—they make such a noise at tea, you know—‘The more noise you make, the less jam you will have, and vice versâ.’ And I thought they wouldn’t know what ‘vice versâ’ meant: so I explained it to them. I said ‘If you make an infinite noise, you’ll get no jam: and if you make no noise, you’ll get an infinite lot of jam.’ But our excellent preceptress said that wasn’t a good instance. Why wasn’t it?” she added plaintively.

Her aunt evaded the question. “One sees certain objections to it,” she said. “But how did you work it with the Metropolitan trains? None of them go infinitely fast, I believe.”

“I called them hares and tortoises,” Clara said—a little timidly, for she dreaded being laughed at. “And I thought there couldn’t be so many hares as tortoises on the Line: so I took an extreme case—one hare and an infinite number of tortoises.”

“An extreme case, indeed,” her aunt remarked with admirable gravity: “and a most dangerous state of things!”

“And I thought, if I went with a tortoise, there would be only one hare to meet: but if I went with the hare—you know there were crowds of tortoises!”

“It wasn’t a bad idea,” said the elder lady, as they left the cab, at the entrance of Burlington House. “You shall have another chance to-day. We’ll have a match in marking pictures.”

Clara brightened up. “I should like to try again, very much,” she said. “I’ll take more care this time. How are we to play?”

To this question Mad Mathesis made no reply: she was busy drawing lines down the margins of the catalogue. “See,” she said after a minute, “I’ve drawn three columns against the names of the pictures in the long room, and I want you to fill them with oughts and crosses—crosses for good marks and oughts for bad. The first column is for choice of subject, the second for arrangement, the third for colouring. And these are the conditions of the match. You must give three crosses to two or three pictures. You must give two crosses to four or five——”

“Do you mean only two crosses?” said Clara. “Or may I count the three-cross pictures among the two-cross pictures?”

“Of course you may,” said her aunt. “Any one, that has three eyes, may be said to have two eyes, I suppose?”

Clara followed her aunt’s dreamy gaze across the crowded gallery, half-dreading to find that there was a three-eyed person in sight.

“And you must give one cross to nine or ten.”

“And which wins the match?” Clara asked, as she carefully entered these conditions on a blank leaf in her catalogue.

“Whichever marks fewest pictures.”

“But suppose we marked the same number?”

“Then whichever uses most marks.”

Clara considered. “I don’t think it’s much of a match,” she said. “I shall mark nine pictures, and give three crosses to three of them, two crosses to two more, and one cross each to all the rest.”

“Will you, indeed?” said her aunt. “Wait till you’ve heard all the conditions, my impetuous child. You must give three oughts to one or two pictures, two oughts to three or four, and one ought to eight or nine. I don’t want you to be too hard on the R.A.’s.”

Clara quite gasped as she wrote down all these fresh conditions. “It’s a great deal worse than Circulating Decimals!” she said. “But I’m determined to win, all the same!”

Her aunt smiled grimly. “We can begin here,” she said, as they paused before a gigantic picture, which the catalogue informed them was the “Portrait of Lieutenant Brown, mounted on his favorite elephant.”

“He looks awfully conceited!” said Clara. “I don’t think he was the elephant’s favorite Lieutenant. What a hideous picture it is! And it takes up room enough for twenty!”

“Mind what you say, my dear!” her aunt interposed. “It’s by an R.A.!”

But Clara was quite reckless. “I don’t care who it’s by!” she cried. “And I shall give it three bad marks!”

Aunt and niece soon drifted away from each other in the crowd, and for the next half-hour Clara was hard at work, putting in marks and rubbing them out again, and hunting up and down for suitable pictures. This she found the hardest part of all. “I can’t find the one I want!” she exclaimed at last, almost crying with vexation.

“What is it you want to find, my dear?” The voice was strange to Clara, but so sweet and gentle that she felt attracted to the owner of it, even before she had seen her; and when she turned, and met the smiling looks of two little old ladies, whose round dimpled faces, exactly alike, seemed never to have known a care, it was as much as she could do—as she confessed to Aunt Mattie afterwards—to keep herself from hugging them both.

“I was looking for a picture,” she said, “that has a good subject—and that’s well arranged—but badly coloured.”

The little old ladies glanced at each other in some alarm. “Calm yourself, my dear,” said the one who had spoken first, “and try to remember which it was. What was the subject?”

“Was it an elephant, for instance?” the other sister suggested. They were still in sight of Lieutenant Brown.

“I don’t know, indeed!” Clara impetuously replied. “You know it doesn’t matter a bit what the subject is, so long as it’s a good one!”

Once more the sisters exchanged looks of alarm, and one of them whispered something to the other, of which Clara caught only the one word “mad.”

“They mean Aunt Mattie, of course,” she said to herself—fancying, in her innocence, that London was like her native town, where everybody knew everybody else. “If you mean my aunt,” she added aloud, “she’s there—just three pictures beyond Lieutenant Brown.”

“Ah, well! Then you’d better go to her, my dear!” her new friend said, soothingly. “She’ll find you the picture you want. Good-bye, dear!”

“Good-bye, dear!” echoed the other sister, “Mind you don’t lose sight of your aunt!” And the pair trotted off into another room, leaving Clara rather perplexed at their manner.

“They’re real darlings!” she soliloquised. “I wonder why they pity me so!” And she wandered on, murmuring to herself “It must have two good marks, and——”

Knot VI.

Her Radiancy.

Table of Contents

 “One piece thing that my have got,

 Maskee(1) that thing my no can do.

 You talkee you no sabey what?

   Bamboo.”

They landed, and were at once conducted to the Palace. About half way they were met by the Governor, who welcomed them in English—a great relief to our travellers, whose guide could speak nothing but Kgovjnian.

“I don’t half like the way they grin at us as we go by!” the old man whispered to his son. “And why do they say ‘Bamboo!’ so often?”

“It alludes to a local custom,” replied the Governor, who had overheard the question. “Such persons as happen in any way to displease Her Radiancy are usually beaten with rods.”

“Why Do They Say ‘Bamboo!’ so Often?”

The old man shuddered. “A most objectional local custom!” he remarked with strong emphasis. “I wish we had never landed! Did you notice that black fellow, Norman, opening his great mouth at us? I verily believe he would like to eat us!”

Norman appealed to the Governor, who was walking at his other side. “Do they often eat distinguished strangers here?” he said, in as indifferent a tone as he could assume.

“Not often—not ever!” was the welcome reply. “They are not good for it. Pigs we eat, for they are fat. This old man is thin.”

“And thankful to be so!” muttered the elder traveller. “Beaten we shall be without a doubt. It’s a comfort to know it won’t be Beaten without the B! My dear boy, just look at the peacocks!”