her in 1873, about a large wax doll that he had given her. It is
interesting to notice that this letter, written long before any of the
others that he wrote to me, is identically the same in form and
expression. It is a striking proof how fresh and unimpaired the writer's
sympathies must have been. Year after year he retained the same sweet,
kindly temperament, and, if anything, his love for children seemed to
increase as he grew older.
"MY DEAR BIRDIE,--I met her just outside Tom Gate, walking very
stiffly, and I think she was trying to find her way to my rooms. So I
said, 'Why have you come here without Birdie?' So she said, 'Birdie's
gone! and Emily's gone! and Mabel isn't kind to me!' And two little
waxy tears came running down her cheeks.
"Why, how stupid of me! I've never told you who it was all the time!
It was your new doll. I was very glad to see her, and I took her to my
room, and gave her some vesta matches to eat, and a cup of nice melted
wax to drink, for the poor little thing was _very_ hungry and thirsty
after her long walk. So I said, 'Come and sit down by the fire, and
let's have a comfortable chat?' 'Oh no! _no_!' she said, 'I'd _much_
rather not. You know I do melt so _very_ easily!' And she made me take
her quite to the other side of the room, where it was _very_ cold: and
then she sat on my knee, and fanned herself with a pen-wiper, because
she said she was afraid the end of her nose was beginning to melt.
"'You've no _idea_ how careful we have to be,' we dolls, she said.
'Why, there was a sister of mine--would you believe it?--she went up
to the fire to warm her hands, and one of her hands dropped _right_
off! There now!' 'Of course it dropped _right_ off,' I said, 'because
it was the _right_ hand.' 'And how do you know it was the _right_
hand, Mister Carroll?' the doll said. So I said, 'I think it must have
been the _right_ hand because the other hand was _left_.'
"The doll said, 'I shan't laugh. It's a very bad joke. Why, even a
common wooden doll could make a better joke than that. And besides,
they've made my mouth so stiff and hard, that I _can't_ laugh if I try
ever so much?' 'Don't be cross about it,' I said, 'but tell me this:
I'm going to give Birdie and the other children one photograph each,
which ever they choose; which do you think Birdie will choose?' 'I
don't know,' said the doll; 'you'd better ask her!' So I took her home
in a hansom cab. Which would you like, do you think? Arthur as Cupid?
or Arthur and Wilfred together? or you and Ethel as beggar children?
or Ethel standing on a box? or, one of yourself?--Your affectionate
friend,
"LEWIS CARROLL."
Among the bundle of letters and MS. before me, I find written on a half
sheet of note-paper the following Ollendorfian dialogue. It is interesting
because, slight and trivial as it is, it in some strange way bears the
imprint of Lewis Carroll's style. The thing is written in the familiar
violet ink, and neatly dated in the corner 29/9/90:--
"Let's go and look at the house I want to buy. Now do be quick! You move
so slow! What a time you take with your boots!"
"Don't make such a row about it: it's not two o'clock yet. How do you like
_this_ house?"
"I don't like it. It's too far down the hill. Let's go higher. I heard a
nice account of one at the top, built on an improved plan."
"What does the rent amount to?"
"Oh, the rent's all right: it's only nine pounds a year."
* * * * *
Over all matters connected with letter writing, Lewis Carroll was
accustomed to take great pains. All letters that he received that were of
any interest or importance whatever he kept, putting them away in old
biscuit tins, numbers of which he kept for the purpose.
[Illustration: "DOLLY VARDEN"]
In 1888 he published a little book which he called "Eight or Nine Wise
Words about Letter Writing," and as this little book of mine is so full of
letters, I think I can do no better than make a few extracts:--
"_Write Legibly._--The average temper of the human race would be
perceptibly sweeter if every one obeyed this rule! A great deal of the
bad writing in the world comes simply from writing too quickly. Of
course you reply, 'I do it to save time.' A very good object, no
doubt; but what right have you to do it at your friend's expense?
Isn't _his_ time as valuable as yours? Years ago I used to receive
letters from a friend--and very interesting letters too--written in
one of the most atrocious hands ever invented. It generally took me
about a _week_ to read one of his letters! I used to carry it about in
my pocket, and take it out at leisure times, to puzzle over the
riddles which composed it--holding it in different positions, and at
different distances, till at last the meaning of some hopeless scrawl
would flash upon me, when I at once wrote down the English under it;
and, when several had thus been guessed, the context would help one
with the others, till at last the whole series of hieroglyphics was
deciphered. If _all_ one's friends wrote like that, life would be
entirely spent in reading their letters."
In writing the last wise word, the author no doubt had some of his girl
correspondents in his mind's eye, for he says--
"_My Ninth Rule._--When you get to the end of a note sheet, and find
you have more to say, take another piece of paper--a whole sheet or a
scrap, as the case may demand; but, whatever you do, _don't cross_!
Remember the old proverb, 'Cross writing makes cross reading.' 'The
_old_ proverb,' you say inquiringly; 'how old?' Well, not so _very_
ancient, I must confess. In fact I'm afraid I invented it while
writing this paragraph. Still you know 'old' is a comparative term. I
think you would be _quite_ justified in addressing a chicken just out
of the shell as 'Old Boy!' _when compared_ with another chicken that
was only half out!"
I have another diary to give to my readers, a diary that Lewis Carroll
wrote for my sister Maggie when, a tiny child, she came to Oxford to play
the child part, Mignon, in "Booties' Baby." He was delighted with the
pretty play, for the interest that the soldiers took in the little lost
girl, and how a mere interest ripened into love, till the little Mignon
was queen of the barracks, went straight to his heart. I give the diary in
full:--
"MAGGIE'S VISIT TO OXFORD
JUNE 9 TO 13, 1899
When Maggie once to Oxford came
On tour as 'Booties' Baby,'
She said 'I'll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be!'
So with her friend she visited
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she poked her head
Inside the Christ Church Kitchen.
The cooks around that little child
Stood waiting in a ring:
And, every time that Maggie smiled,
Those cooks began to sing--
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
'Roast, boil, and bake,
For Maggie's sake!
Bring cutlets fine,
For _her_ to dine:
Meringues so sweet,
For _her_ to eat--
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!'
Then hand-in-hand, in pleasant talk,
They wandered, and admired
The Hall, Cathedral, and Broad Walk,
Till Maggie's feet were tired:
One friend they called upon--her name
Was Mrs. Hassall--then
Into a College Room they came,
Some savage Monster's Den!
'And, when that Monster dined, I guess
He tore her limb from limb?'
Well, no: in fact, I must confess
That _Maggie dined with him_!
To Worcester Garden next they strolled--
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St. John's, a College old,
Their devious way they take.
In idle mood they sauntered round
Its lawns so green and flat:
And in that Garden Maggie found
A lovely Pussey-Cat!
A quarter of an hour they spent
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went,
That Cat was sure to go--
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
'Miaow! Miaow!
Come, make your bow!
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy Cats!
And purr, and purr,
To welcome _her_--
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!'
So back to Christ Church--not too late
For them to go and see
A Christ Church Undergraduate,
Who gave them cakes and tea.
Next day she entered, with her guide,
The Garden called 'Botanic':
And there a fierce Wild-Boar she spied,
Enough to cause a panic!
But Maggie didn't mind, not she!
She would have faced _alone_,
That fierce Wild-Boar, because, you see,
The thing was made of stone!
On Magdalen walls they saw a face
That filled her with delight,
A giant-face, that made grimace
And grinned with all its might!
A little friend, industrious,
Pulled upwards, all the while,
The corner of its mouth, and thus
He helped that face to smile!
'How nice,' thought Maggie, 'it would be
If _I_ could have a friend
To do that very thing for _me_,
And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end!'
In Magdalen Park the deer are wild
With joy that Maggie brings
Some bread a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.
They flock round Maggie without fear:
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer--
Still, as they munch and munch,
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
'Yes, Deer are we,
And dear is she!
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
We all rejoice
At Maggie's voice:
We all are fed
With Maggie's bread--
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!'
To Pembroke College next they go,
Where little Maggie meets
The Master's wife and daughter: so
Once more into the streets.
They met a Bishop on their way--
A Bishop large as life--
With loving smile that seemed to say
'Will Maggie be my wife?'
Maggie thought _not_, because, you see,
She was so _very_ young,
And he was old as old could be--
So Maggie held her tongue.
'My Lord, she's _Bootles' Baby_: we
Are going up and down,'
Her friend explained, 'that she may see
The sights of Oxford-town.'
'Now say what kind of place it is!'
The Bishop gaily cried.
'The best place in the Provinces!'
That little maid replied.
Next to New College, where they saw
Two players hurl about
A hoop, but by what rule or law
They could not quite make out.
'Ringo' the Game is called, although
'Les Graces' was once its name,
When _it_ was--as its name will show--
A much more _graceful_ Game.
The Misses Symonds next they sought,
Who begged the child to take
A book they long ago had bought--
A gift for friendship's sake!
Away, next morning, Maggie went
From Oxford-town: but yet
The happy hours she there had spent
She could not soon forget.
The train is gone: it rumbles on:
The engine-whistle screams:
But Maggie's deep in rosy sleep--
And softly, in her dreams,
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom!
'Oxford, good-bye!'
She seems to sigh,
'You dear old City,
With Gardens pretty,
And lawns, and flowers,
And College-towers,
And Tom's great Bell--
Farewell, farewell!
For Maggie may be
Booties' Baby!'
--LEWIS CARROLL."
[Illustration: "A TURK"]
The tale has been often told of how "Alice in Wonderland" came to be
written, but it is a tale so well worth the telling again, that, very
shortly, I will give it to you here.
Years ago in the great quadrangle of Christ Church, opposite to Mr.
Dodgson, lived the little daughters of Dean Liddell, the great Greek
scholar and Dean of Christ Church. The little girls were great friends of
Mr. Dodgson's, and they used often to come to him and to plead with him
for a fairy tale. There was never such a teller of tales, they thought!
One can imagine the whole delightful scene with little trouble. That big
cool room on some summer's afternoon, when the air was heavy with flower
scents, and the sounds that came floating in through the open window were
all mellowed by the distance. One can see him, that good and kindly
gentleman, his mobile face all aglow with interest and love, telling the
immortal story.
Round him on his knee sat the little sisters, their eyes wide open and
their lips parted in breathless anticipation. When Alice (how the little
Alice Liddell who was listening must have loved the tale!) rubbed the
mushroom and became so big that she quite filled the little fairy house,
one can almost hear the rapturous exclamations of the little ones as they
heard of it.
The story, often continued on many summer afternoons, sometimes in the
cool Christ Church rooms, sometimes in a slow gliding boat in a still
river between banks of rushes and strange bronze and yellow waterflowers,
or sometimes in a great hay-field, with the insects whispering in the
grass all round, grew in its conception and idea.
Other folk, older folk, came to hear of it from the little ones, and Mr.
Dodgson was begged to write it down. Accordingly the first MS. was
prepared with great care and illustrated by the author. Then, in 1865,
memorable year for English children, "Alice" appeared in its present form,
with Sir John Tenniel's drawings.
In 1872 "Alice Through the Looking-Glass," appeared, and was received as
warmly as its predecessor. That fact, I think, proves most conclusively
that Lewis Carroll's success was a success of absolute merit, and due to
no mere mood or fashion of the public taste. I can conceive nothing more
difficult for a man who has had a great success with one book than to
write a sequel which should worthily succeed it. In the present case that
is exactly what Lewis Carroll did. "Through the Looking-Glass" is every
whit as popular and charming as the older book. Indeed one depends very
much upon the other, and in every child's book-shelves one sees the two
masterpieces side by side.
[Illustrations: Facsimile:
B.H.
from C. L. D.
A CHARADE.
[NB FIVE POUNDS will be given to any one who succeeds in writing an
original poetical Charade, introducing the line "My First is followed by a
bird," but making no use of the answer to this Charade.
Ap 8 1878
(signed)
Lewis Carroll]
My First is a singular at best
More plural is my Second.
My Third is far the pluralest--
So plural-plural, I protest,
It scarcely can be reckoned!
My First is followed by a bird
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd,
And plausible deceivers.
My First to get at wisdom tries--
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revere as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom fall
To depths of frantic folly!
My First is ageing day by day,
My Second's age is ended.
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended!
My Whole? I need a Poet's pen
To paint her myriad phases
The monarch, and the slave, of men--
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes!
A flashing light--a fleeting shade--
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made,
Or wit devised "Go, seek her aid,
If you would guess my riddle."]
While on the subject of the two "Alices," I will put in a letter that he
wrote mentioning his books. He was so modest about them, that it was
extremely difficult to get him to say, or write, anything at all about
them. I believe it was a far greater pleasure for him to know that he had
pleased some child with "Alice" or "The Hunting of the Snark," than it was
to be hailed by the press and public as the first living writer for
children.
"EASTBOURNE.
"MY OWN DARLING ISA,--The full value of a copy of the French 'Alice'
is L45: but, as you want the 'cheapest' kind, and as you are a great
friend of mine, and as I am of a very noble, generous disposition, I
have made up my mind to a _great_ sacrifice, and have taken L3, 10s.
0d. off the price. So that you do not owe me more than L41, 10s. 0d.,
and this you can pay me, in gold or bank-notes _as soon as you ever
like_. Oh dear! I wonder why I write such nonsense! Can you explain to
me, my pet, how it happens that when I take up my pen to write a
letter to _you_ it won't write sense? Do you think the rule is that
when the pen finds it has to write to a nonsensical good-for-nothing
child, it sets to work to write a nonsensical good-for-nothing letter?
Well, now I'll tell you the real truth. As Miss Kitty Wilson is a
dear friend of yours, of course she's a _sort_ of a friend of mine. So
I thought (in my vanity) 'perhaps she would like to have a copy' from
the author, 'with her name written in it.' So I've sent her one--but I
hope she'll understand that I do it because she's _your_ friend, for,
you see, I had never _heard_ of her before: so I wouldn't have any
other reason.
"I'm still exactly 'on the balance' (like those scales of mine, when
Nellie says 'it won't weigh!') as to whether it would be wise to have
my pet Isa down here! how _am_ I to make it weigh, I wonder? Can you
advise any way to do it? I'm getting on grandly with 'Sylvie and Bruno
Concluded.' I'm afraid you'll expect me to give you a copy of it?
Well, I'll see if I have one to spare. It won't be out before
Easter-tide, I'm afraid.
"I wonder what sort of condition the book is in that I lent you to
take to America? ('Laneton Parsonage,' I mean). Very shabby, I expect.
I find lent books _never_ come back in good condition. However, I've
got a second copy of this book, so you may keep it as your own. Love
and kisses to any one you know who is lovely and kissable.--
"Always your loving Uncle,
"C. L. D."
In 1876 appeared the long poem called the "Hunting of the Snark; or, An
Agony in Eight Fits," and besides those verses we have from Lewis
Carroll's pen two books called "Phantasmagoria" and "Rhyme and Reason."
The last work of his that attained any great celebrity was "Sylvie and
Bruno," a curious romance, half fairy tale, half mathematical treatise.
Mr. Dodgson was employed of late years on his "Symbolic Logic," only one
part of which has been published, and he seems to have been influenced by
his studies. One can easily trace the trail of the logician in Sylvie and
Bruno, and perhaps this resulted in a certain lack of "form." However,
some of the nonsense verses in this book were up to the highest level of
the author's achievement. Even as I write the verse comes to me--
"He thought he saw a kangaroo
Turning a coffee-mill;
He looked again, and found it was
A vegetable pill!
'Were I to swallow you,' he said,
'I should be very ill'!"
The fascinating jingle stays in the memory when graver verse eludes all
effort at recollection. I personally could repeat "The Walrus and the
Carpenter" from beginning to end without hesitation, but I should find a
difficulty in writing ten lines of "Hamlet" correctly.
At the beginning of "Sylvie and Bruno" is a little poem in three verses
which forms an acrostic on my name. I quote it--
"Is all our life, then, but a dream,
Seen faintly in the golden gleam
Athwart Time's dark resistless stream?
Bowed to the earth with bitter woe,
Or laughing at some raree-show,
We flutter idly to and fro.
Man's little day in haste we spend,
And, from its merry noontide, send
No glance to meet the silent end."
You see that if you take the first letter of each line, or if you take the
first three letters of the first line of each verse, you get the name Isa
Bowman.
[Illustration: Facsimile:
Prologue
[Enter Beatrice, leading Wilfred She leaves him to centre (front) & after
going round on tip-toe to make sure they are not overheard returns & takes
his arm.]
B. "Wiffie! I'm sure that something is the matter!
All day there's been--oh such a fuss and clatter!
Mamma's been trying on a funny dress--
I never =saw= the house in such a mess!
(puts her arm round his neck)
Is there a secret, Wiffie?"
W. (Shaking her off) "yes, of course!"
B. "And you won't tell it? (whispers) Then you're very cross!
(turns away from, & clasps her hands, looking up ecstatically)
I'm sure of =this=! It's something =quite= uncommon!"
W. (stretching up his arms with a mock-heroic air)
"Oh, Curiosity! Thy name is Woman!
(puts his arm round her coaxingly)
Well, Birdie, then I'll tell. (mysteriously) What should you say
If they were going to act--a little play?"
B. (jumping and clapping her hands)
"I'd say '=How nice=!'"
W. (pointing to audience)
"But will it please the rest?"
B. "Oh =yes=! Because, you know, they'll do their best!
[turns to audience]
"You'll praise them, won't you, when you've seen the play?
Just say '=How nice=!' before you go away!"
[they run away hand in hand].
Feb 14. 1873.]
Although he never wrote anything in the dramatic line, he once wrote a
prologue for some private theatricals, which was to be spoken by Miss
Hatch and her brother. This prologue is reproduced in facsimile on the
preceding page.
Miss Hatch has also sent me a charade (reproduced on pp. 108-10) which he
wrote for her, and illustrated with some of his funny drawings.
I have one more letter, the last, which, as it mentions the book "Sylvie
and Bruno," I will give now.
"CHRIST CHURCH,
"_May 16, '90_.
"DEAREST ISA,--I had this ('this' was 'Sylvie and Bruno') bound for
you when the book first came out, and it's been waiting here ever
since Dec. 17, for I really didn't dare to send it across the
Atlantic--the whales are so inconsiderate. They'd have been sure to
want to borrow it to show to the little whales, quite forgetting that
the salt water would be sure to spoil it.
"Also, I've only been waiting for you to get back to send Emsie the
'Nursery Alice.' I give it to the youngest in a family generally; but
I've given one to Maggie as well, because she travels about so much,
and I thought she would like to have one to take with her. I hope
Nellie's eyes won't get _quite_ green with jealousy, at two (indeed
_three_!) of her sisters getting presents, and nothing for her! I've
nothing but my love to send her to-day: but she shall have _something
some_ day.--Ever your loving
"UNCLE CHARLES."
Socially, Lewis Carroll was of strong conservative tendencies. He viewed
with wonder and a little pain the absolute levelling tendencies of the
last few years of his life. I have before me an extremely interesting
letter which deals with social observances, and from which I am able to
make one or two extracts. The bulk of the letter is of a private nature.
"Ladies have 'to be _much_' more particular than gentlemen in
observing the distinctions of what is called 'social position': and
the _lower_ their own position is (in the scale of 'lady' ship), the
more jealous they seem to be in guarding it.... I've met with just the
same thing myself from people several degrees above me. Not long ago I
was staying in a house along with a young lady (about twenty years
old, I should think) with a title of her own, as she was an earl's
daughter. I happened to sit next her at dinner, and every time I
spoke to her, she looked at me more as if she was looking down on me
from about a mile up in the air, and as if she were saying to herself
'How _dare_ you speak to _me_! Why, you're not good enough to black my
shoes!' It was so unpleasant, that, next day at luncheon, I got as far
off her as I could!
"Of course we are all _quite_ equal in God's sight, but we _do_ make a
lot of distinctions (some of them quite unmeaning) among ourselves!"
The picture that this letter gives of the famous writer and learned
mathematician obviously rather in terror of some pert young lady fresh
from the schoolroom is not without its comic side. One cannot help
imagining that the girl must have been very young indeed, for if he were
alive to-day there are few ladies of any state who would not feel honoured
by the presence of Charles Dodgson.
However, he was not always so unfortunate in his experience of great
people, and the following letter, written when he was staying with Lord
Salisbury at Hatfield House, tells delightfully of his little royal
friends, the Duchess of Albany's children:
"HATFIELD HOUSE, HATFIELD,
"HERTS, _June 8, '89_."
"MY DARLING ISA,--I hope this will find you, but I haven't yet had any
letter from _Fulham_, so I can't be sure if you have yet got into your
new house.
"This is Lord Salisbury's house (he is the father, you know, of that
Lady Maud Wolmer that we had luncheon with): I came yesterday, and I'm
going to stay until Monday. It is such a nice house to stay in! They
let one do just as one likes--it isn't 'Now you must do some
geography! now it's time for your sums!' the sort of life _some_
little girls have to lead when they are so foolish as to visit
friends--but one can just please one's own dear self.
"There are some sweet little children staying in the house. Dear
little 'Wang' is here with her mother. By the way, _I_ made a mistake
in telling you what to call her. She is 'the Honourable Mabel
_Palmer_'--'Palmer' is the family name: 'Wolmer' is the _title_, just
as the _family_ name of Lord Salisbury is 'Cecil,' so that his
daughter was Lady Maud Cecil, till she married.