Introduction

If-and the thing is wildly possible-the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive work, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the authors surreptitious use of the writing of Lewis Caroll, namely the forms and styles of his poems. In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed: I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral purpose of this work itself, to the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in Natural History--I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened. Reading Mr. Caroll’s works lends itself well to the delve into the Wrabbitholes of space, only so often as not, to silently and suddenly vanish away in the presents of the Boojum, Bandersatch with frumious bites, and red queens’ call for my head, and all manor of other manxome foe therein do we deal with, and I only with my bell to toll must tell the Baker’s tail.

This however could be meet with uffish response of foul or dire disagreement. And so with the cry of “Rilchiam!" I dive into the wrabbithole as their Pistols' cries for my Bezonian blood.