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One of them might hold the tiller rope, and if the boat wove a crooked course, it was all in the name of education. Dodgson celebrated by doffing his new clericals, and appearing in white ﬂannel trousers and a hard straw hat, with black shoes, of course, since tennis shoes had not been invented. These were the most festive times of his life—he was only thirty on July 4, 1862, when all the rays converge. His life was before him and his powers were at their height. Drifting on the slow Isis that becomes the Thames, in his pleasant, slow voice with its “curious stutter,” he wove a dream story for three lovely young ladies and a don.
What wert thou, dream-Alice, in thy foster-father’s eyes? How shall he picture thee? Loving, ﬁrst, loving and gentle: loving as a dog (forgive the prosaic simile, but I know no earthly love so pure and perfect), and gentle as a fawn: then courteous— courteous to all, high or low, grand or grotesque, King or Caterpillar, even as though she were herself a King’s daughter, and her clothing of wrought gold; then trustful, ready to accept the wildest possibilities with all that utter trust that only dreamers know; and, lastly, curious—wildly curious, and with the eager enjoyment of Life that comes only in the happy hours of childhood, when all is new and fair, and when sin and sorrow are but names—empty words signifying nothing!
The books are so frankly about growing up that there is no great discovery in translating them into Freudian terms; it seems only the proper exegesis of a classic even where it would be a shock to the author. On the whole, the results of the analysis, when put into drawing-room language, are his conscious opinions; and if there was no other satisfactory outlet for his feelings but the special one ﬁxed in his books, the same is true in a degree of any original artist. I shall use psychoanalysis where it seems relevant, and feel I had better begin by saying what use it is supposed to be.