Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (15 page)

‘Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?' asked another of the jurymen.

‘No, they're not,' said the White Rabbit, ‘and that's the queerest thing about it.' (The jury all looked puzzled.)

‘He must have imitated somebody else's hand,' said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.)

‘Please your Majesty,' said the Knave, ‘I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end.'

‘If you didn't sign it,' said the King, ‘that only makes the matter worse. You
must
have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man.'

There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.

‘That
proves
his guilt,' said the Queen.

‘It proves nothing of the sort!' said Alice. ‘Why, you don't even know what they're about!'

‘Read them,' said the King.

The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. ‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?' he asked.

‘Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'

These were the verses the White Rabbit read:

‘That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet,' said the King, rubbing his hands; ‘so now let the jury –'

‘If any one of them can explain it,' said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting him,) ‘I'll give him sixpence.
I
don't believe there's an atom of meaning in it.'

The jury all wrote down on their slates,
‘She
doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it,' but none of them attempted to explain the paper.

‘If there's no meaning in it,' said the King, ‘that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. And yet I don't know,' he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; ‘I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. “–
said I could not swim
–” you can't swim, can you?' he added, turning to the Knave.

The Knave shook his head sadly. ‘Do I look like it?' he said. (Which he certainly did
not,
being made entirely of cardboard.)

‘All right, so far,' said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: ‘ “We
know it to be true
–” that's the jury, of course –
“I gave her one, they gave him two
–” why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know –'

‘But, it goes on
“they all returned from him to you
,” ' said Alice.

‘Why, there they are!' said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. ‘Nothing can be clearer than
that
. Then again –
“before she had this fit
–” you never had fits, my dear, I think?' he said to the Queen.

‘Never!' said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.)

‘Then the words don't
fit
you,' said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence.

‘It's a pun!' the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed. ‘Let the jury consider their verdict,' the King said, for about the twentieth time that day.

‘No, no!' said the Queen. ‘Sentence first – verdict afterwards.'

‘Stuff and nonsense!' said Alice loudly. ‘The idea of having the sentence first!'

‘Hold your tongue!' said the Queen, turning purple.

‘I won't!' said Alice.

‘Off with her head!' the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.

‘Who cares for you?' said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) ‘You're nothing but a pack of cards!'

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

‘Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister. ‘Why, what a long sleep you've had!'

‘Oh, I've had such a curious dream!' said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, ‘It
was
a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it's getting late.' So Alice got up
and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers – she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that
would
always get into her eyes – and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister's dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by – the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool – she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution – once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it – once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard's slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality – the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds – the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy – and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard – while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make
their
eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

THE END

DEAR CHILD,

Please to fancy, if you can, that you are reading a real letter, from a real friend whom you have seen, and whose voice you can seem to yourself to hear wishing you, as I do now with all my heart, a happy Easter
.

Do you know that delicious dreamy feeling when one first wakes on a summer morning, with the twitter of birds in the air, and the fresh breeze coming in at the open window – when, lying lazily with eyes half-shut, one sees as in a dream green boughs waving, or waters rippling in a golden light? It is a pleasure very near to sadness, bringing tears to one's eyes like a beautiful picture or poem. And is not that a Mother's gentle hand that undraws your curtains, and a Mother's sweet voice that summons you to rise? To rise and forget, in the bright sunlight, the ugly dreams that frightened you so when all was dark – to rise and enjoy another happy day, first kneeling to thank that unseen Friend, who sends you the beautiful sun?

Are these strange words from a writer of such tales as
‘
Alice
'? And is this a strange letter to find in a book of nonsense? It may be so. Some perhaps may blame me for thus mixing together things grave and gay; others may smile and think it odd that any one should speak of solemn things at all, except in church and on a Sunday: but I think – nay, I am sure – that some children will read this gently and lovingly, and in the spirit in which I have written it
.

For I do not believe God means us thus to divide life into two halves – to wear a grave face on Sunday, and to think it out-of-place to even so much as mention Him on a weekday. Do you think He cares to see only kneeling figures, and to hear only tones of prayer – and that He does not also love to see the lambs leaping in the sunlight, and to hear the merry voices of the children, as they roll among the hay? Surely their innocent laughter is as sweet in His ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from the ‘dim religious light' of some solemn cathedral?

And if I have written anything to add to those stories of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the children I love so well, it is surely something I may hope to look back upon without shame and sorrow (as how much of life must then be recalled!) when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows
.

This Easter sun will rise on you, dear child, feeling your ‘life in every limb', and eager to rush out into the fresh morning air – and many an Easter-day will come and go, before it finds you feeble and gray-headed, creeping wearily
out to bask once more in the sunlight – but it is good, even now, to think sometimes of that great morning when the ‘Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings'
.

Surely your gladness need not be the less for the thought that you will one day see a brighter dawn than this – when lovelier sights will meet your eyes than any waving trees or rippling waters – when angel-hands shall undraw your curtains, and sweeter tones than ever loving Mother breathed shall wake you to a new and glorious day – and when all the sadness, and the sin, that darkened life on this little earth, shall be forgotten like the dreams of a night that is past!

Your affectionate friend,   

LEWIS CARROLL

Easter,
1876