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The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood

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Madam, I'm very sorry to say your little girl has got _no
health at all_! I never saw such a thing in my life!"
"Oh, I can easily explain it!" your mother will say. "You
see she would go and make friends with a strange gentleman,
and yesterday he drank her health!" "Well, Mrs. Chataway,"
he will say, "the only way to cure her is to wait till his
next birthday, and then for _her_ to drink _his_

And then we shall have changed healths. I wonder how you'll
like mine! Oh, Gertrude, I wish you wouldn't talk such

Your loving friend,

Lewis Carroll.

Christ Church, Oxford, _Dec_. 9, 1875.

My dear Gertrude,--This really will _not_ do, you know,
sending one more kiss every time by post: the parcel gets so
heavy it is quite expensive. When the postman brought in the
last letter, he looked quite grave. "Two pounds to pay,
sir!" he said. "_Extra weight_, sir!" (I think he
cheats a little, by the way. He often makes me pay two
_pounds_, when I think it should be _pence_). "Oh,
if you please, Mr. Postman!" I said, going down gracefully
on one knee (I wish you could see me go down on one knee to
a postman--it's a very pretty sight), "do excuse me just
this once! It's only from a little girl!"

"Only from a little girl!" he growled. "What are little
girls made of?" "Sugar and spice," I began to say, "and all
that's ni--" but he interrupted me. "No! I don't mean
_that_. I mean, what's the good of little girls, when
they send such heavy letters?" "Well, they're not
_much_ good, certainly," I said, rather sadly.

"Mind you don't get any more such letters," he said, "at
least, not from that particular little girl. _I know her
well, and she's a regular bad one!"_ That's not true, is
it? I don't believe he ever saw you, and you're not a bad
one, are you? However, I promised him we would send each
other _very_ few more letters--"Only two thousand four
hundred and seventy, or so," I said. "Oh!" he said, "a
little number like _that_ doesn't signify. What I meant
is, you mustn't send _many_."

So you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two
thousand four hundred and seventy, we mustn't write any
more, unless the postman gives us leave.

I sometimes wish I was back on the shore at Sandown; don't

Your loving friend,

Lewis Carroll.

Why is a pig that has lost its tail like a little girl on
the sea-shore?

Because it says, "I should like another tale, please!"

Christ Church, Oxford, _July_ 21, 1876.

My dear Gertrude,--Explain to me how I am to enjoy Sandown
without _you_. How can I walk on the beach alone? How
can I sit all alone on those wooden steps? So you see, as I
shan't be able to do without you, you will have to come. If
Violet comes, I shall tell her to invite you to stay with
her, and then I shall come over in the Heather-Bell and
fetch you.

If I ever _do_ come over, I see I couldn't go back the
same day, so you will have to engage me a bed somewhere in
Swanage; and if you can't find one, I shall expect
_you_ to spend the night on the beach, and give up your
room to _me_. Guests of course must be thought of
before children; and I'm sure in these warm nights the beach
will be quite good enough for _you_. If you _did_
feel a little chilly, of course you could go into a
bathing-machine, which everybody knows is _very_
comfortable to sleep in--you know they make the floor of
soft wood on purpose. I send you seven kisses (to last a
week) and remain

Your loving friend,

Lewis Carroll.

Christ church, Oxford, _October_ 28, 1876.

My dearest Gertrude,--You will be sorry, and surprised, and
puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since
you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, "Give me some
medicine, for I'm tired." He said, "Nonsense and stuff! You
don't want medicine: go to bed!" I said, "No; it isn't the
sort of tiredness that wants bed. I'm tired in the
_face_." He looked a little grave, and said, "Oh, it's
your _nose_ that's tired: a person often talks too
much when he thinks he nose a great deal." I said, "No; it
isn't the nose. Perhaps it's the _hair_." Then he
looked rather grave, and said, "_Now_ I understand:
you've been playing too many hairs on the piano-forte." "No,
indeed I haven't!" I said, "and it isn't exactly the
_hair_: it's more about the nose and chin." Then he
looked a good deal graver, and said, "Have you been walking
much on your chin lately?" I said, "No." "Well!" he said,
"it puzzles me very much. Do you think that it's in the
lips?" "Of course!" I said. "That's exactly what it is!"
Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "I think you
must have been giving too many kisses." "Well," I said, "I
did give _one_ kiss to a baby child, a little friend of
mine." "Think again," he said; "are you sure it was only
_one_?" I thought again, and said, "Perhaps it was
eleven times." Then the doctor said, "You must not give her
_any_ more till your lips are quite rested again." "But
what am I to do?" I said, "because you see, I owe her a
hundred and eighty-two more." Then he looked so grave that
the tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "You may send
them to her in a box." Then I remembered a little box that I
once bought at Dover, and thought I would some day give it
to _some_ little girl or other. So I have packed them
all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe, or if
any are lost on the way.

Reading Station, _April_ 13, 1878.

My dear Gertrude,--As I have to wait here for half an
hour, I have been studying Bradshaw (most things, you know,
ought to be studied: even a trunk is studded with nails),
and the result is that it seems I could come, any day next
week, to Winckfield, so as to arrive there about one; and
that, by leaving Winckfield again about half-past six, I
could reach Guildford again for dinner. The next question
is, _How far is it from Winckfield to Rotherwick?_ Now
do not deceive me, you wretched child! If it is more than a
hundred miles, I can't come to see you, and there is no use
to talk about it. If it is less, the next question is,
_How much less?_ These are serious questions, and you
must be as serious as a judge in answering them. There
mustn't be a smile in your pen, or a wink in your ink
(perhaps you'll say, "There can't be a _wink_ in
_ink_: but there _may_ be _ink_ in a
_wink_"--but this is trifling; you mustn't make jokes
like that when I tell you to be serious) while you write to
Guildford and answer these two questions. You might as well
tell me at the same time whether you are still living at
Rotherwick--and whether you are at home--and whether you get
my letter--and whether you're still a child, or a grown-up
person--and whether you're going to the seaside next
summer--and anything else (except the alphabet and the
multiplication table) that you happen to know. I send you
10,000,000 kisses, and remain.

Your loving friend,

C. L. Dodgson.

The Chestnuts, Guildford, _April_ 19, 1878.

My dear Gertrude,--I'm afraid it's "no go"--I've had such a
bad cold all the week that I've hardly been out for some
days, and I don't think it would be wise to try the
expedition this time, and I leave here on Tuesday. But after
all, what does it signify? Perhaps there are ten or twenty
gentlemen, all living within a few miles of Rotherwick, and
any one of them would do just as well! When a little girl is
hoping to take a plum off a dish, and finds that she can't
have that one, because it's bad or unripe, what does she do?
Is she sorry, or disappointed? Not a bit! She just takes
another instead, and grins from one little ear to the other
as she puts it to her lips! This is a little fable to do you
good; the little girl means _you_--the bad plum means
_me_--the other plum means some other friend--and all
that about the little girl putting plums to her lips
means--well, it means--but you know you can't expect
_every bit_ of a fable to mean something! And the
little girl grinning means that dear little smile of yours,
that just reaches from the tip of one ear to the tip of the

Your loving friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

I send you 4-3/4 kisses.

The next letter is a good example of the dainty little notes Lewis
Carroll used to scribble off on any scrap of paper that lay to his

Chestnuts, Guildford, _January_ 15, 1886.

Yes, my child, if all be well, I shall hope, and you may
fear, that the train reaching Hook at two eleven, will

Your loving friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

Only a few years ago, illness prevented him from fulfilling his usual
custom of spending Christmas with his sisters at Guildford. This is
the allusion in the following letter:--

My dear old Friend,--(The friendship is old, though the
child is young.) I wish a very happy New Year, and many of
them, to you and yours; but specially to you, because I know
you best and love you most. And I pray God to bless you,
dear child, in this bright New Year, and many a year to
come. ... I write all this from my sofa, where I have been
confined a prisoner for six weeks, and as I dreaded the
railway journey, my doctor and I agreed that I had better
not go to spend Christmas with my sisters at Guildford. So I
had my Christmas dinner all alone, in my room here, and
(pity me, Gertrude!) it wasn't a Christmas dinner at all--I
suppose the cook thought I should not care for roast beef or
plum pudding, so he sent me (he has general orders to send
either fish and meat, or meat and pudding) some fried sole
and some roast mutton! Never, never have I dined before, on
Christmas Day, without _plum pudding_. Wasn't it sad?
Now I think you must be content; this is a longer letter
than most will get. Love to Olive. My clearest memory of her
is of a little girl calling out "Good-night" from her room,
and of your mother taking me in to see her in her bed, and
wish her good-night. I have a yet clearer memory (like a
dream of fifty years ago) of a little bare-legged girl in a
sailor's jersey, who used to run up into my lodgings by the
sea. But why should I trouble you with foolish reminiscences
of _mine_ that _cannot_ interest you?

Yours always lovingly,

C. L. Dodgson.

It was a writer in _The National Review_ who, after eulogising
the talents of Lewis Carroll, and stating that _he_ would never
be forgotten, added the harsh prophecy that "future generations will
not waste a single thought upon the Rev. C.L. Dodgson."

If this prediction is destined to be fulfilled, I think my readers
will agree with me that it will be solely on account of his
extraordinary diffidence about asserting himself. But such an
unnatural division of Lewis Carroll, the author, from the Rev. C.L.
Dodgson, the man, is forced in the extreme. His books are simply the
expression of his normal habit of mind, as these letters show. In
literature, as in everything else, he was absolutely natural.

To refer to such criticisms as this (I am thankful to say they have
been very few) is not agreeable; but I feel that it is owing to Mr.
Dodgson to do what I can to vindicate the real unity which underlay
both his life and all his writings.

Of many anecdotes which might be adduced to show the lovable character
of the man, the following little story has reached me through one of
his child-friends:--

My sister and I [she writes] were spending a day of
delightful sightseeing in town with him, on our way to his
home at Guildford, where we were going to pass a day or two
with him. We were both children, and were much interested
when he took us into an American shop where the cakes for
sale were cooked by a very rapid process before your eyes,
and handed to you straight from the cook's hands. As the
preparation of them could easily be seen from outside the
window, a small crowd of little ragamuffins naturally
assembled there, and I well remember his piling up seven of
the cakes on one arm, and himself taking them out and doling
them round to the seven hungry little youngsters. The simple
kindness of his act impressed its charm on his child-friends
inside the shop as much as on his little stranger friends

It was only to those who had but few personal dealings with him that
he seemed stiff and "donnish"; to his more intimate acquaintances, who
really understood him, each little eccentricity of manner or of habits
was a delightful addition to his charming and interesting personality.
That he was, in some respects, eccentric cannot be denied; for
instance he hardly ever wore an overcoat, and always wore a tall hat,
whatever might be the climatic conditions. At dinner in his rooms
small pieces of cardboard took the place of table-mats; they answered
the purpose perfectly well, he said, and to buy anything else would be
a mere waste of money. On the other hand, when purchasing books for
himself, or giving treats to the children he loved, he never seemed to
consider expense at all.

He very seldom sat down to write, preferring to stand while thus
engaged. When making tea for his friends, he used, in order, I
suppose, to expedite the process, to walk up and down the room waving
the teapot about, and telling meanwhile those delightful anecdotes of
which he had an inexhaustible supply.

Great were his preparations before going a journey; each separate
article used to be carefully wrapped up in a piece of paper all to
itself, so that his trunks contained nearly as much paper as of the
more useful things. The bulk of the luggage was sent on a day or two
before by goods train, while he himself followed on the appointed day,
laden only with his well-known little black bag, which he always
insisted on carrying himself.

He had a strong objection to staring colours in dress, his favourite
combination being pink and grey. One little girl who came to stay with
him was absolutely forbidden to wear a red frock, of a somewhat
pronounced hue, while out in his company.

At meals he was very abstemious always, while he took nothing in the
middle of the day except a glass of wine and a biscuit. Under these
circumstances it is not very surprising that the healthy appetites of
his little friends filled him with wonder, and even with alarm. When
he took a certain one of them out with him to a friend's house to
dinner, he used to give the host or hostess a gentle warning, to the
mixed amazement and indignation of the child, "Please be careful,
because she eats a good deal too much."

Another peculiarity, which I have already referred to, was his
objection to being invited to dinners or any other social gatherings;
he made a rule of never accepting invitations. "Because you have
invited me, therefore I cannot come," was the usual form of his
refusal. I suppose the reason of this was his hatred of the
interference with work which engagements of this sort occasion.

He had an extreme horror of infection, as will appear from the
following illustration. Miss Isa Bowman and her sister, Nellie, were
at one time staying with him at Eastbourne, when news came from home
that their youngest sister had caught the scarlet fever. From that day
every letter which came from Mrs. Bowman to the children was held up
by Mr. Dodgson, while the two little girls, standing at the opposite
end of the room, had to read it as best they could. Mr. Dodgson, who
was the soul of honour, used always to turn his head to one side
during these readings, lest he might inadvertently see some words that
were not meant for his eyes.

Some extracts from letters of his to a child-friend, who prefers to
remain anonymous, follow:

_November_ 30, 1879.

I have been awfully busy, and I've had to write _heaps_
of letters--wheelbarrows full, almost. And it tires me so
that generally I go to bed again the next minute after I get
up: and sometimes I go to bed again a minute _before_ I
get up! Did you ever hear of any one being so tired as

_November_ 7, 1882.

My dear E--, How often you must find yourself in want of a
pin! For instance, you go into a shop, and you say to the
man, "I want the largest penny bun you can let me have for a
halfpenny." And perhaps the man looks stupid, and doesn't
quite understand what you mean. Then how convenient it is to
have a pin ready to stick into the back of his hand, while
you say, "Now then! Look sharp, stupid!"... and even when
you don't happen to want a pin, how often you think to
yourself, "They say Interlacken is a very pretty place. I
wonder what it looks like!" (That is the place that is
painted on this pincushion.)

When you don't happen to want either a pin or pictures, it
may just remind you of a friend who sometimes thinks of his
dear little friend E--, and who is just now thinking of the
day he met her on the parade, the first time she had been
allowed to come out alone to look for him....

_December_ 26, 1886.

My dear E--, Though rushing, rapid rivers roar between us
(if you refer to the map of England, I think you'll find
that to be correct), we still remember each other, and feel
a sort of shivery affection for each other....

_March_ 31, 1890.

I _do_ sympathise so heartily with you in what you say
about feeling shy with children when you have to entertain
them! Sometimes they are a real _terror_ to
me--especially boys: little girls I can now and then get on
with, when they're few enough. They easily become "de trop."
But with little _boys_ I'm out of my element
altogether. I sent "Sylvie and Bruno" to an Oxford friend,
and, in writing his thanks, he added, "I think I must bring
my little boy to see you." So I wrote to say "_don't_,"
or words to that effect: and he wrote again that he could
hardly believe his eyes when he got my note. He thought I
doted on _all_ children. But I'm _not_
omnivorous!--like a pig. I pick and choose....

You are a lucky girl, and I am rather inclined to envy you,
in having the leisure to read Dante--_I_ have never
read a page of him; yet I am sure the "Divina Commedia" is
one of the grandest books in the world--though I am
_not_ sure whether the reading of it would _raise_
one's life and give it a nobler purpose, or simply be a
grand poetical treat. That is a question you are beginning
to be able to answer: I doubt if _I_ shall ever (at
least in this life) have the opportunity of reading it; my
life seems to be all torn into little bits among the host of
things I want to do! It seems hard to settle what to do
_first. One_ piece of work, at any rate, I am clear
ought to be done this year, and it will take months of hard
work: I mean the second volume of "Sylvie and Bruno." I
fully _mean_, if I have life and health till Xmas next,
to bring it out then. When one is close on sixty years old,
it seems presumptuous to count on years and years of work
yet to be done....

She is rather the exception among the hundred or so of
child-friends who have brightened my life. Usually the child
becomes so entirely a different being as she grows into a
woman, that our friendship has to change too: and
_that_ it usually does by gliding down from a loving
intimacy into an acquaintance that merely consists of a
smile and a bow when we meet!...

_January_ 1, 1895.

... You are quite correct in saying it is a long time since
you have heard from me: in fact, I find that I have not
written to you since the 13th of last November. But what of
that? You have access to the daily papers. Surely you can
find out negatively, that I am all right! Go carefully
through the list of bankruptcies; then run your eye down the
police cases; and, if you fail to find my name anywhere, you
can say to your mother in a tone of calm satisfaction, "Mr.
Dodgson is going on _well_."

* * * * *


(THE SAME--_continued_.)

Books for children--"The Lost Plum-Cake"--"An Unexpected
Guest"--Miss Isa Bowman--Interviews--"Matilda Jane"--Miss
Edith Rix--Miss Kathleen Eschwege.

Lewis Carroll's own position as an author did not prevent him from
taking a great interest in children's books and their writers. He had
very strong ideas on what was or was not suitable in such books, but,
when once his somewhat exacting taste was satisfied, he was never
tired of recommending a story to his friends. His cousin, Mrs. Egerton
Allen, who has herself written several charming tales for young
readers, has sent me the following letter which she received from him
some years ago:--

Dear Georgie,--_Many_ thanks. The book was at Ch. Ch.
I've done an unusual thing, in thanking for a book, namely,
_waited to read it_. I've read it _right through_!
In fact, I found it very refreshing, when jaded with my own
work at "Sylvie and Bruno" (coming out at Xmas, I hope) to
lie down on the sofa and read a chapter of "Evie." I like it
very much: and am so glad to have helped to bring it out. It
would have been a real loss to the children of England, if
you had burned the MS., as you once thought of doing....

[Illustration: Xie Kitchin as a Chinaman. _From a
photograph by Lewis Carroll_.]

The very last words of his that appeared in print took the form of a
preface to one of Mrs. Allen's tales, "The Lost Plum-Cake," (Macmillan
& Co., 1898). So far as I know, this was the only occasion on which he
wrote a preface for another author's book, and his remarks are doubly
interesting as being his last service to the children whom he loved.
No apology, then, is needed for quoting from them here:--

Let me seize this opportunity of saying one earnest word to
the mothers in whose hands this little book may chance to
come, who are in the habit of taking their children to
church with them. However well and reverently those dear
little ones have been taught to behave, there is no doubt
that so long a period of enforced quietude is a severe tax
on their patience. The hymns, perhaps, tax it least: and
what a pathetic beauty there is in the sweet fresh voices of
the children, and how earnestly they sing! I took a little
girl of six to church with me one day: they had told me she
could hardly read at all--but she made me find all the
places for her! And afterwards I said to her elder sister
"What made you say Barbara couldn't read? Why, I heard her
joining in, all through the hymn!" And the little sister
gravely replied, "She knows the _tunes_, but not the
_words_." Well, to return to my subject--children in
church. The lessons, and the prayers, are not wholly beyond
them: often they can catch little bits that come within the
range of their small minds. But the sermons! It goes to
one's heart to see, as I so often do, little darlings of
five or six years old, forced to sit still through a weary
half-hour, with nothing to do, and not one word of the
sermon that they can understand. Most heartily can I
sympathise with the little charity-girl who is said to have
written to some friend, "I think, when I grows up, I'll
never go to church no more. I think I'se getting sermons
enough to last me all my life!" But need it be so? Would it
be so _very_ irreverent to let your child have a
story-book to read during the sermon, to while away that
tedious half-hour, and to make church-going a bright and
happy memory, instead of rousing the thought, "I'll never go
to church no more"? I think not. For my part, I should love
to see the experiment tried. I am quite sure it would be a
success. My advice would be to _keep_ some books
for that special purpose. I would call such books
"Sunday-treats"--and your little boy or girl would soon
learn to look forward with eager hope to that half-hour,
once so tedious. If I were the preacher, dealing with some
subject too hard for the little ones, I should love to see
them all enjoying their picture-books. And if _this_
little book should ever come to be used as a "Sunday-treat"
for some sweet baby reader, I don't think it could serve a
better purpose.

Lewis Carroll.

Miss M.E. Manners was another writer for children whose books pleased
him. She gives an amusing account of two visits which he paid to her
house in 1889:--

_An Unexpected Guest._

"Mr. Dobson wants to see you, miss."

I was in the kitchen looking after the dinner, and did not
feel that I particularly wished to see anybody.

"He wants a vote, or he is an agent for a special kind of
tea," thought I. "I don't know him; ask him to send a

Presently the maid returned--

"He says he is Mr. Dodgson, of Oxford."

"Lewis Carroll!" I exclaimed; and somebody else had to
superintend the cooking that day.

My apologies were soon made and cheerfully accepted. I
believe I was unconventional enough to tell the exact truth
concerning my occupation, and matters were soon on a
friendly footing. Indeed I may say at once that the stately
college don we have heard so much about never made his
appearance during our intercourse with him.

He did not talk "Alice," of course; authors don't generally
_talk_ their books, I imagine; but it was undoubtedly
Lewis Carroll who was present with us.

A portrait of Ellen Terry on the wall had attracted his
attention, and one of the first questions he asked was, "Do
you ever go to the theatre?" I explained that such things
were done, occasionally, even among Quakers, but they were
not considered quite orthodox.

"Oh, well, then you will not be shocked, and I may venture
to produce my photographs." And out into the hall he went,
and soon returned with a little black bag containing
character portraits of his child-friends, Isa and Nellie

"Isa used to be Alice until she grew too big," he said.
"Nellie was one of the oyster-fairies, and Emsie, the tiny
one of all, was the Dormouse."

"When 'Alice' was first dramatised," he said, "the poem of
the 'Walrus and the Carpenter' fell rather flat, for people
did not know when it was finished, and did not clap in the
right place; so I had to write a song for the ghosts of the
oysters to sing, which made it all right."

[Illustration: Alice and the Dormouse. _From a photograph
by Elliott & Fry_.]

He was then on his way to London, to fetch Isa to stay with
him at Eastbourne. She was evidently a great favourite, and
had visited him before. Of that earlier time he said:--

"When people ask me why I have never married, I tell them I
have never met the young lady whom I could endure for a
fortnight--but Isa and I got on so well together that I said
I should keep her a month, the length of the honeymoon, and
we didn't get tired of each other."

Nellie afterwards joined her sister "for a few days," but
the days spread to some weeks, for the poor little dormouse
developed scarlet fever, and the elder children had to be
kept out of harm's way until fear of infection was over.

Of Emsie he had a funny little story to tell. He had taken
her to the Aquarium, and they had been watching the seals
coming up dripping out of the water. With a very pitiful
look she turned to him and said, "Don't they give them any
towels?" [The same little girl commiserated the bear,
because it had got no tail.]

Asked to stay to dinner, he assured us that he never took
anything in the middle of the day but a glass of wine and a
biscuit; but he would be happy to sit down with us, which he
accordingly did and kindly volunteered to carve for us. His
offer was gladly accepted, but the appearance of a rather
diminutive piece of neck of mutton was somewhat of a puzzle
to him. He had evidently never seen such a joint in his life
before, and had frankly to confess that he did not know how
to set about carving it. Directions only made things worse,
and he bravely cut it to pieces in entirely the wrong
fashion, relating meanwhile the story of a shy young man who
had been asked to carve a fowl, the joints of which had been
carefully wired together beforehand by his too attentive

The task and the story being both finished, our visitor
gazed on the mangled remains, and remarked quaintly: "I
think it is just as well I don't want anything, for I don't
know where I should find it."

At least one member of the party felt she could have managed
matters better; but that was a point of very little

A day or two after the first call came a note saying that he
would be taking Isa home before long, and if we would like
to see her he would stop on the way again.

Of course we were only too delighted to have the
opportunity, and, though the visit was postponed more than
once, it did take place early in August, when he brought
both Isa and Nellie up to town to see a performance of
"Sweet Lavender." It is needless to remark that we took
care, this time, to be provided with something at once
substantial and carvable.

The children were bright, healthy, happy and childlike
little maidens, quite devoted to their good friend, whom
they called "Uncle"; and very interesting it was to see them

But he did not allow any undue liberties either, as a little
incident showed.

He had been describing a particular kind of collapsible
tumbler, which you put in your pocket and carried with you
for use on a railway journey.

"There now," he continued, turning to the children, "I
forgot to bring it with me after all."

"Oh Goosie," broke in Isa; "you've been talking about that
tumbler for days, and now you have forgotten it."

He pulled himself up, and looked at her steadily with an air
of grave reproof.

Much abashed, she hastily substituted a very subdued "Uncle"
for the objectionable "Goosie," and the matter dropped.

The principal anecdote on this occasion was about a dog
which had been sent into the sea after sticks. He brought
them back very properly for some time, and then there
appeared to be a little difficulty, and he returned swimming
in a very curious manner. On closer inspection it appeared
that he had caught hold of his own tail by mistake, and was
bringing it to land in triumph.

This was told with the utmost gravity, and though we had
been requested beforehand not to mention "Lewis Carroll's"
books, the temptation was too strong. I could not help
saying to the child next me--

"That was like the Whiting, wasn't it?"

Our visitor, however, took up the remark, and seemed quite
willing to talk about it.

"When I wrote that," he said, "I believed that whiting
really did have their tails in their mouths, but I have
since been told that fishmongers put the tail through the
eye, not in the mouth at all."

He was not a very good carver, for Miss Bremer also describes a little
difficulty he had--this time with the pastry: "An amusing incident
occurred when he was at lunch with us. He was requested to serve some
pastry, and, using a knife, as it was evidently rather hard, the knife
penetrated the d'oyley beneath--and his consternation was extreme when
he saw the slice of linen and lace he served as an addition to the

It was, I think, through her connection with the "Alice" play that Mr.
Dodgson first came to know Miss Isa Bowman. Her childish friendship
for him was one of the joys of his later years, and one of the last
letters he wrote was addressed to her. The poem at the beginning of
"Sylvie and Bruno" is an acrostic on her name--

Is all our Life, then, but a dream,
Seen faintly in the golden gleam
Athwart Times'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 the merry noontide, send
No glance to meet the silent end.

Every one has heard of Lewis Carroll's hatred of interviewers; the
following letter to Miss Manners makes one feel that in some cases, at
least, his feeling was justifiable:--

If your Manchester relatives ever go to the play, tell them
they ought to see Isa as "Cinderella"--she is evidently a
success. And she has actually been "interviewed" by one of
those dreadful newspapers reporters, and the "interview" is
published with her picture! And such rubbish he makes her
talk! She tells him that something or other was "tacitly
conceded": and that "I love to see a great actress give
expression to the wonderful ideas of the immortal master!"

(N.B.--I never let her talk like that when she is with _me_!)

Emsie recovered in time to go to America, with her mother
and Isa and Nellie: and they all enjoyed the trip much; and
Emsie has a London engagement.

Only once was an interviewer bold enough to enter Lewis Carroll's
_sanctum_. The story has been told in _The Guardian_ (January 19,
1898), but will bear repetition:--

Not long ago Mr. Dodgson happened to get into correspondence
with a man whom he had never seen, on some question of
religious difficulty, and he invited him to come to his
rooms and have a talk on the subject. When, therefore, a Mr.
X-- was announced to him one morning, he advanced to meet
him with outstretched hand and smiles of welcome. "Come in
Mr. X--, I have been expecting you." The delighted visitor
thought this a promising beginning, and immediately pulled
out a note-book and pencil, and proceeded to ask "the usual
questions." Great was Mr. Dodgson's disgust! Instead of his
expected friend, here was another man of the same name, and
one of the much-dreaded interviewers, actually sitting in
his chair! The mistake was soon explained, and the
representative of the Press was bowed out as quickly as he
had come in.

It was while Isa and one of her sisters were staying at Eastbourne
that the visit to America was mooted. Mr. Dodgson suggested that it
would be well for them to grow gradually accustomed to seafaring, and
therefore proposed to take them by steamer to Hastings. This plan was
carried out, and the weather was unspeakably bad--far worse than
anything they experienced in their subsequent trip across the
Atlantic. The two children, who were neither of them very good
sailors, experienced sensations that were the reverse of pleasant. Mr.
Dodgson did his best to console them, while he continually repeated,
"Crossing the Atlantic will be much worse than this."

However, even this terrible lesson on the horrors of the sea did not
act as a deterrent; it was as unsuccessful as the effort of the old
lady in one of his stories: "An old lady I once knew tried to check
the military ardour of a little boy by showing him a picture of a
battlefield, and describing some of its horrors. But the only answer
she got was, 'I'll be a soldier. Tell it again!'"

The Bowman children sometimes came over to visit him at Oxford, and he
used to delight in showing them over the colleges, and pointing out
the famous people whom they encountered. On one of these occasions he
was walking with Maggie, then a mere child, when they met the Bishop
of Oxford, to whom Mr. Dodgson introduced his little guest. His
lordship asked her what she thought of Oxford. "I think," said the
little actress, with quite a professional _aplomb,_ "it's the
best place in the Provinces!" At which the Bishop was much amused.
After the child had returned to town, the Bishop sent her a copy of a
little book called "Golden Dust," inscribed "From W. Oxon," which
considerably mystified her, as she knew nobody of that name!

Another little stage-friend of Lewis Carroll's was Miss Vera Beringer,
the "Little Lord Fauntleroy," whose acting delighted all theatre-goers
eight or nine years ago. Once, when she was spending a holiday in the
Isle of Man, he sent her the following lines:--

There was a young lady of station,
"I love man" was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried, "You flatter,"
She replied, "Oh! no matter,
Isle of Man is the true explanation."

Many of his friendships with children began in a railway carriage, for
he always took about with him a stock of puzzles when he travelled, to
amuse any little companions whom chance might send him. Once he was in
a carriage with a lady and her little daughter, both complete
strangers to him. The child was reading "Alice in Wonderland," and
when she put her book down, he began talking to her about it. The
mother soon joined in the conversation, of course without the least
idea who the stranger was with whom she was talking. "Isn't it sad,"
she said, "about poor Mr. Lewis Carroll? He's gone mad, you know."
"Indeed," replied Mr. Dodgson, "I had never heard that." "Oh, I assure
you it is quite true," the lady answered. "I have it on the best
authority." Before Mr. Dodgson parted with her, he obtained her leave
to send a present to the little girl, and a few days afterwards she
received a copy of "Through the Looking-Glass," inscribed with her
name, and "From the Author, in memory of a pleasant journey."

When he gave books to children, he very often wrote acrostics on their
names on the fly-leaf. One of the prettiest was inscribed in a copy of
Miss Yonge's "Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe," which he gave to Miss
Ruth Dymes:--

R ound the wondrous globe I wander wild,
U p and down-hill--Age succeeds to youth--
T oiling all in vain to find a child
H alf so loving, half so dear as Ruth.

In another book, given to her sister Margaret, he

M aidens, if a maid you meet
A lways free from pout and pet,
R eady smile and temper sweet,
G reet my little Margaret.
A nd if loved by all she be
R ightly, not a pampered pet,
E asily you then may see
'Tis my little Margaret.

Here are two letters to children, the one interesting as a specimen of
pure nonsense of the sort which children always like, the other as
showing his dislike of being praised. The first was written to Miss
Gertrude Atkinson, daughter of an old College friend, but otherwise
unknown to Lewis Carroll except by her photograph:--

My dear Gertrude,--So many things have happened since we met
last, really I don't know _which_ to begin talking
about! For instance, England has been conquered by William
the Conqueror. We haven't met since _that_ happened,
you know. How did you like it? Were you frightened?

And one more thing has happened: I have got your
photograph. Thank you very much for it. I like it "awfully."
Do they let you say "awfully"? or do they say, "No, my dear;
little girls mustn't say 'awfully'; they should say 'very
much indeed'"?

I wonder if you will ever get as far as Jersey? If not, how
_are_ we to meet?

Your affectionate friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

From the second letter, to Miss Florence Jackson, I take the following

I have two reasons for sending you this fable; one is, that
in a letter you wrote me you said something about my being
"clever"; and the other is that, when you wrote again you
said it again! And _each_ time I thought, "Really, I
_must_ write and ask her _not_ to say such things;
it is not wholesome reading for me."

The fable is this. The cold, frosty, bracing air is the
treatment one gets from the world generally--such as
contempt, or blame, or neglect; all those are very
wholesome. And the hot dry air, that you breathe when you
rush to the fire, is the praise that one gets from one's
young, happy, rosy, I may even say _florid_ friends!
And that's very bad for me, and gives pride--fever, and
conceit--cough, and such-like diseases. Now I'm sure you
don't want me to be laid up with all these diseases; so
please don't praise me _any_ more!

The verses to "Matilda Jane" certainly deserve a place in this
chapter. To make their meaning clear, I must state that Lewis Carroll
wrote them for a little cousin of his, and that Matilda Jane was the
somewhat prosaic name of her doll. The poem expresses finely the
blind, unreasoning devotion which the infant mind professes for
inanimate objects:--

Matilda Jane, you never look
At any toy or picture-book;
I show you pretty things in vain,
You must be blind, Matilda Jane!

I ask you riddles, tell you tales,
But all our conversation fails;
You never answer me again,
I fear you're dumb, Matilda Jane!

Matilda, darling, when I call
You never seem to hear at all;
I shout with all my might and main,
But you're _so_ deaf, Matilda Jane!

Matilda Jane, you needn't mind,
For though you're deaf, and dumb, and blind,
There's some one loves you, it is plain,
And that is _me_, Matilda Jane!

In an earlier chapter I gave some of Mr. Dodgson's letters to Miss
Edith Rix; the two which follow, being largely about children, seem
more appropriate here:--

My dear Edith,--Would you tell your mother I was aghast at
seeing the address of her letter to me: and I would much
prefer "Rev. C.L. Dodgson, Ch. Ch., Oxford." When a letter
comes addressed "Lewis Carroll, Ch. Ch.," it either goes to
the Dead Letter Office, or it impresses on the minds of all
letter-carriers, &c., through whose hands it goes, the very
fact I least want them to know.

Please offer to your sister all the necessary apologies for
the liberty I have taken with her name. My only excuse is,
that I know no other; and how _am_ I to guess what the
full name is? It _may_ be Carlotta, or Zealot, or
Ballot, or Lotus-blossom (a very pretty name), or even
Charlotte. Never have I sent anything to a young lady of
whom I have a more shadowy idea. Name, an enigma; age,
somewhere between 1 and 19 (you've no idea how bewildering
it is, alternately picturing her as a little toddling thing
of 5, and a tall girl of 15!); disposition--well, I
_have_ a fragment of information on _that_
question--your mother says, as to my coming, "It must be
when Lottie is at home, or she would never forgive us."
Still, I _cannot_ consider the mere fact that she is of
an unforgiving disposition as a complete view of her
character. I feel sure she has some other qualities besides.

Believe me,

Yrs affectionately,

C.L. Dodgson.

My dear child,--It seems quite within the bounds of
possibility, if we go on long in this style, that our
correspondence may at last assume a really friendly tone. I
don't of course say it will actually do so--that would be
too bold a prophecy, but only that it may tend to shape
itself in that direction.

Your remark, that slippers for elephants _could_ be
made, only they would not be slippers, but boots, convinces
me that there is a branch of your family in _Ireland_.
Who are (oh dear, oh dear, I am going distracted! There's a
lady in the opposite house who simply sings _all_ day.
All her songs are wails, and their tunes, such as they have,
are much the same. She has one strong note in her voice, and
she knows it! I _think_ it's "A natural," but I haven't
much ear. And when she gets to that note, she howls!) they?
The O'Rixes, I suppose?

About your uninteresting neighbours, I sympathise with you
much; but oh, I wish I had you here, that I might teach you
_not_ to say "It is difficult to visit one's district
regularly, like every one else does!"

And now I come to the most interesting part of your letter--
May you treat me as a perfect friend, and write anything you
like to me, and ask my advice? Why, _of course_ you
may, my child! What else am I good for? But oh, my dear
child-friend, you cannot guess how such words sound to
_me_! That any one should look up to _me_, or
think of asking _my_ advice--well, it makes one feel
humble, I think, rather than proud--humble to remember,
while others think so well of me, what I really _am_,
in myself. "Thou, that teachest another, teachest thou not
thyself?" Well, I won't talk about myself, it is not a
healthy topic. Perhaps it may be true of _any_ two
people, that, if one could see the other through and
through, love would perish. I don't know. Anyhow, I like to
_have_ the love of my child-friends, tho' I know I
don't deserve it. Please write as freely as _ever_ you

I went up to town and fetched Phoebe down here on Friday in
last week; and we spent _most_ of Saturday upon the
beach--Phoebe wading and digging, and "as happy as a bird
upon the wing" (to quote the song she sang when first I saw
her). Tuesday evening brought a telegram to say she was
wanted at the theatre next morning. So, instead of going to
bed, Phoebe packed her things, and we left by the last
train, reaching her home by a quarter to 1 a.m. However,
even four days of sea-air, and a new kind of happiness, did
her good, I think. I am rather lonely now she is gone. She
is a very sweet child, and a thoughtful child, too. It was
very touching to see (we had a little Bible-reading every
day: I tried to remember that my little friend had a soul to
be cared for, as well as a body) the far-away look in her
eyes, when we talked of God and of heaven--as if her angel,
who beholds His face continually, were whispering to her.

Of course, there isn't _much_ companionship possible,
after all, between an old man's mind and a little child's,
but what there is is sweet--and wholesome, I think.

Three letters of his to a child-friend, Miss Kathleen Eschwege, now
Mrs. Round, illustrate one of those friendships which endure: the sort
of friendship that he always longed for, and so often failed to

[Illustrations and: Facsimile of a "Looking-Glass
Letter" from Lewis Carroll to Miss Edith Ball.]

Ch. Ch., Oxford, _October_ 24, 1879.

My dear Kathleen,--I was really pleased to get your letter,
as I had quite supposed I should never see or hear of you
again. You see I knew only your Christian name--not the
ghost of a surname, or the shadow of an address--and I was
not prepared to spend my little all in advertisements--"If
the young lady, who was travelling on the G.W. Railway, &c."
--or to devote the remainder of my life to going about
repeating "Kathleen," like that young woman who came from
some foreign land to look for her lover, but only knew that
he was called "Edward" (or "Richard" was it? I dare say you
know History better than I do) and that he lived in England;
so that naturally it took her some time to find him. All I
knew was that _you_ could, if you chose, write to me
through Macmillan: but it is three months since we met, so I
was _not_ expecting it, and it was a pleasant surprise.

Well, so I hope I may now count you as one of my
child-friends. I am fond of children (except boys), and have
more child-friends than I could possibly count on my
fingers, even if I were a centipede (by the way, _have_
they fingers? I'm afraid they're only feet, but, of course,
they use them for the same purpose, and that is why no other
insects, _except centipedes_, ever succeed in doing
_Long Multiplication_), and I have several not so very
far from you--one at Beckenham, two at Balham, two at Herne
Hill, one at Peckham--so there is every chance of my being
somewhere near you _before the year_ 1979. If so, may I
call? I am _very_ sorry your neck is no better, and I
wish they would take you to Margate: Margate air will make
_any_ body well of _any_ thing.

It seems you have already got my two books about "Alice."
Have you also got "The Hunting of the Snark"? If not, I
should be very glad to send you one. The pictures (by Mr.
Holiday) are pretty: and you needn't read the verses unless
you like.

How do you pronounce your surname? "esk-weej"? or how? Is it
a German name?

If you can do "Doublets," with how many links do you turn

With kind remembrances to your mother, I am

Your affectionate friend,

Charles L. Dodgson

(_alias_ "Lewis Carroll").

Ch. Ch., Oxford, _January_ 20, 1892.

My dear Kathleen,--Some months ago I heard, from my cousin,
May Wilcox, that you were engaged to be married. And, ever
since, I have cherished the intention of writing to offer my
congratulations. Some might say, "Why not write _at
once?"_ To such unreasoning creatures, the obvious reply
is, "When you have bottled some peculiarly fine Port, do you
usually begin to drink it _at once?"_ Is not that a
beautiful simile? Of course, I need not remark that my
congratulations are like fine old Port--only finer, and

Accept, my dear old friend, my _heartiest_ wishes for
happiness, of all sorts and sizes, for yourself, and for him
whom you have chosen as your other self. And may you love
one another with a love second only to your love for God--a
love that will last through bright days and dark days, in
sickness and in health, through life and through death.

A few years ago I went, in the course of about three months,
to the weddings of three of my old child-friends. But
weddings are not very exhilarating scenes for a miserable
old bachelor; and I think you'll have to excuse me from
attending _yours_.

However, I have so far concerned myself in it that I
actually _dreamed_ about it a few nights ago! I dreamed
that you had had a photograph done of the wedding-party, and
had sent me a copy of it. At one side stood a group of
ladies, among whom I made out the faces of Dolly and Ninty;
and in the foreground, seated in a boat, were two people, a
gentleman and a lady I _think_ (could they have been
the bridegroom and the bride?) engaged in the natural and
usual occupation for a riverside picnic--pulling a Christmas
cracker! I have no idea what put such an idea into my head.
_I_ never saw crackers used in such a scene!

I hope your mother goes on well. With kindest regards to her
and your father, and love to your sisters--and to yourself
too, if HE doesn't object!--I am,

Yours affectionately,

C.L. Dodgson.

P.S.--I never give wedding-presents; so please regard the
enclosed as an _unwedding_ present.

Ch. Ch., Oxford, _December_ 8, 1897.

My dear Kathleen,--Many thanks for the photo of yourself and
your _fiance_, which duly reached me January 23, 1892.
Also for a wedding-card, which reached me August 28, 1892.
Neither of these favours, I fear, was ever acknowledged. Our
only communication since, has been, that on December 13,
1892, I sent you a biscuit-box adorned with "Looking-Glass"
pictures. This _you_ never acknowledged; so I was
properly served for my negligence. I hope your little
daughter, of whose arrival Mrs. Eschwege told me in
December, 1893, has been behaving well? How quickly the
years slip by! It seems only yesterday that I met, on the
railway, a little girl who was taking a sketch of Oxford!

Your affectionate old friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

The following verses were inscribed in a copy of "Alice's Adventures,"
presented to the three Miss Drurys in August, 1869:--

_To three puzzled little girls, from the Author._

Three little maidens weary of the rail,
Three pairs of little ears listening to a tale,
Three little hands held out in readiness,
For three little puzzles very hard to guess.
Three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide,
At three little scissors lying side by side.
Three little mouths that thanked an unknown Friend,
For one little book, he undertook to send.
Though whether they'll remember a friend, or book, or day--
In three little weeks is very hard to say.

He took the same three children to German Reed's entertainment, where
the triple bill consisted of "Happy Arcadia," "All Abroad," and "Very
Catching." A few days afterwards he sent them "Phantasmagoria," with a
little poem on the fly-leaf to remind them of their treat:--

Three little maids, one winter day,
While others went to feed,
To sing, to laugh, to dance, to play,
More wisely went to--Reed.

Others, when lesson-time's begun,
Go, half inclined to cry,
Some in a walk, some in a run;
But _these_ went in a--Fly.

I give to other little maids
A smile, a kiss, a look,
Presents whose memory quickly fades,
I give to these--a Book.

_Happy Arcadia _may blind,
While _all abroad,_ their eyes;
At home, this book (I trust) they'll find
A _very catching_ prize.

The next three letters were addressed to two of Mr. Arthur Hughes'
children. They are good examples of the wild and delightful nonsense
with which Lewis Carroll used to amuse his little friends:--

My dear Agnes,--You lazy thing! What? I'm to divide the
kisses myself, am I? Indeed I won't take the trouble to do
anything of the sort! But I'll tell _you_ how to do it.
First, you must take _four_ of the kisses, and--and
that reminds me of a very curious thing that happened to me
at half-past four yesterday. Three visitors came knocking at
my door, begging me to let them in. And when I opened the
door, who do you think they were? You'll never guess. Why,
they were three cats! Wasn't it curious? However, they all
looked so cross and disagreeable that I took up the first
thing I could lay my hand on (which happened to be the
rolling-pin) and knocked them all down as flat as pan-cakes!
"If _you_ come knocking at _my_ door," I said,
"_I_ shall come knocking at _your_ heads." "That
was fair, wasn't it?"

Yours affectionately,

Lewis Carroll.

My dear Agnes,--About the cats, you know. Of course I didn't
leave them lying flat on the ground like dried flowers: no,
I picked them up, and I was as kind as I could be to them. I
lent them the portfolio for a bed--they wouldn't have been
comfortable in a real bed, you know: they were too thin--but
they were _quite_ happy between the sheets of
blotting-paper--and each of them had a pen-wiper for a
pillow. Well, then I went to bed: but first I lent them the
three dinner-bells, to ring if they wanted anything in the

You know I have _three_ dinner-bells--the first (which
is the largest) is rung when dinner is _nearly_ ready;
the second (which is rather larger) is rung when it is quite
ready; and the third (which is as large as the other two put
together) is rung all the time I am at dinner. Well, I told
them they might ring if they happened to want anything--and,
as they rang _all_ the bells _all_ night, I
suppose they did want something or other, only I was too
sleepy to attend to them.

In the morning I gave them some rat-tail jelly and buttered
mice for breakfast, and they were as discontented as they
could be. They wanted some boiled pelican, but of course I
knew it wouldn't be good _for_ them. So all I said was
"Go to Number Two, Finborough Road, and ask for Agnes
Hughes, and if it's _really_ good for you, she'll give
you some." Then I shook hands with them all, and wished them
all goodbye, and drove them up the chimney. They seemed very
sorry to go, and they took the bells and the portfolio with
them. I didn't find this out till after they had gone, and
then I was sorry too, and wished for them back again. What
do I mean by "them"? Never mind.

How are Arthur, and Amy, and Emily? Do they still go up and
down Finborough Road, and teach the cats to be kind to mice?
I'm _very_ fond of all the cats in Finborough Road.

Give them my love.
Who do I mean by "them"?
Never mind.

Your affectionate friend,

Lewis Carroll.

[Illustration: Arthur Hughes and his daughter Agnes. _From
a photograph by Lewis Carroll._]

My dear Amy,--How are you getting on, I wonder, with
guessing those puzzles from "Wonderland"? If you think
you've found out any of the answers, you may send them to
me; and if they're wrong, I won't tell you they're right!

You asked me after those three cats. Ah! The dear creatures!
Do you know, ever since that night they first came, they
have _never left me?_ Isn't it kind of them? Tell Agnes
this. She will be interested to hear it. And they _are_
so kind and thoughtful! Do you know, when I had gone out for
a walk the other day, they got _all_ my books out of
the bookcase, and opened them on the floor, to be ready for
me to read. They opened them all at page 50, because they
thought that would be a nice useful page to begin at. It was
rather unfortunate, though: because they took my bottle of
gum, and tried to gum pictures upon the ceiling (which they
thought would please me), and by accident they spilt a
quantity of it all over the books. So when they were shut up
and put by, the leaves all stuck together, and I can never
read page 50 again in any of them!

However, they meant it very kindly, so I wasn't angry. I
gave them each a spoonful of ink as a treat; but they were
ungrateful for that, and made dreadful faces. But, of
course, as it was given them as a treat, they had to drink
it. One of them has turned black since: it was a white cat
to begin with.

Give my love to any children you happen to meet. Also I send
two kisses and a half, for you to divide with Agnes, Emily,
and Godfrey. Mind you divide them fairly.

Yours affectionately,

C.L. Dodgson.

The intelligent reader will make a discovery about the first of the
two following letters, which Miss Maggie Cunningham, the
"child-friend" to whom both were addressed, perhaps did not hit upon
at once. Mr. Dodgson wrote these two letters in 1868:--

Dear Maggie,--I found that _the friend, _that the
little girl asked me to write to, lived at Ripon, and not at
Land's End--a nice sort of place to invite to! It looked
rather suspicious to me--and soon after, by dint of
incessant inquiries, I found out that _she_ was called
Maggie, and lived in a Crescent! Of course I declared,
"After that" (the language I used doesn't matter), "I will
_not_ address her, that's flat! So do not expect me to

Well, I hope you will soon see your beloved Pa come
back--for consider, should you be quite content with only
Jack? Just suppose they made a blunder! (Such things happen
now and then.) Really, now, I shouldn't wonder if your
"John" came home again, and your father stayed at school! A
most awkward thing, no doubt. How would you receive him?
You'll say, perhaps, "you'd turn him out." That would answer
well, so far as concerns the boy, you know--but consider
your Papa, learning lessons in a row of great inky
schoolboys! This (though unlikely) might occur: "Haly" would
be grieved to miss him (don't mention it to _her_).

No _carte_ has yet been done of me, that does real
justice to my _smile_; and so I hardly like, you see,
to send you one. However, I'll consider if I will or
not--meanwhile, I send a little thing to give you an idea of
what I look like when I'm lecturing. The merest sketch, you
will allow--yet still I think there's something grand in the
expression of the brow and in the action of the hand.

Have you read my fairy tale in _Aunt Judy's Magazine?_
If you have you will not fail to discover what I mean when I
say "Bruno yesterday came to remind me that _he_ was my
god-son!"--on the ground that I "gave him a name"!

Your affectionate friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

P.S.--I would send, if I were not too shy, the same message
to "Haly" that she (though I do not deserve it, not I!) has
sent through her sister to me. My best love to yourself--to
your Mother my kindest regards--to your small, fat,
impertinent, ignorant brother my hatred. I think that is

[Illustration: What I look like when I'm Lecturing. _From a
drawing, by Lewis Carroll._]

My dear Maggie,--I am a very bad correspondent, I fear, but
I hope you won't leave off writing to me on that account. I
got the little book safe, and will do my best about putting
my name in, if I can only manage to remember what day my
birthday is--but one forgets these things so easily.

Somebody told me (a little bird, I suppose) that you had
been having better photographs done of yourselves. If so, I
hope you will let me buy copies. Fanny will pay you for
them. But, oh Maggie, how _can_ you ask for a better
one of me than the one I sent! It is one of the best ever
done! Such grace, such dignity, such benevolence, such--as a
great secret (please don't repeat it) the _Queen_ sent
to ask for a copy of it, but as it is against my rule to
give in such a case, I was obliged to answer--

"Mr. Dodgson presents his compliments to her Majesty, and
regrets to say that his rule is never to give his photograph
except to _young_ ladies." I am told she was annoyed
about it, and said, "I'm not so old as all that comes to!"
and one doesn't like to annoy Queens; but really I couldn't
help it, you know.

I will conclude this chapter with some reminiscences of Lewis Carroll,
which have been kindly sent me by an old child-friend of his, Mrs.
Maitland, daughter of the late Rev. E.A. Litton, Rector of Naunton,
and formerly Fellow of Oriel College and Vice-Principal of Saint
Edmund's Hall:--

To my mind Oxford will be never quite the same again now
that so many of the dear old friends of one's childhood have
"gone over to the great majority."

Often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced
on the old wainscotted wall, have we--father and I--chatted
over the old Oxford days and friends, and the merry times we
all had together in Long Wall Street. I was a nervous, thin,
remarkably ugly child then, and for some years I was left
almost entirely to the care of Mary Pearson, my own
particular attendant. I first remember Mr. Dodgson when I
was about seven years old, and from that time until we went
to live in Gloucestershire he was one of my most delightful

I shall never forget how Mr. Dodgson and I sat once under a
dear old tree in the Botanical Gardens, and how he told me,
for the first time, Hans Andersen's story of the "Ugly
Duckling." I cannot explain the charm of Mr. Dodgson's way
of telling stories; as he spoke, the characters seemed to be
real flesh and blood. This particular story made a great
impression upon me, and interested me greatly, as I was very
sensitive about my ugly little self. I remember his
impressing upon me that it was better to be good and
truthful and to try not to think of oneself than to be a
pretty, selfish child, spoiled and disagreeable; and, after
telling me this story, he gave me the name of "Ducky."
"Never mind, little Ducky," he used often to say, "perhaps
some day you will turn out a swan."

I always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of
Mr. Dodgson: his stories about them, his knowledge of their
lives and histories, his enthusiasm about birds and
butterflies enlivened many a dull hour. The monkeys in the
Botanical Gardens were our special pets, and when we fed
them with nuts and biscuits he seemed to enjoy the fun as
much as I did.

Every day my nurse and I used to take a walk in Christ
Church Meadows, and often we would sit down on the soft
grass, with the dear old Broad Walk quite close, and, when
we raised our eyes, Merton College, with its walls covered
with Virginian creeper. And how delighted we used to be to
see the well-known figure in cap and gown coming, so
swiftly, with his kind smile ready to welcome the "Ugly
Duckling." I knew, as he sat beside me, that a book of fairy
tales was hidden in his pocket, or that he would have some
new game or puzzle to show me--and he would gravely accept a
tiny daisy-bouquet for his coat with as much courtesy as if
it had been the finest hot-house _boutonniere_.

Two or three times I went fishing with him from the bank
near the Old Mill, opposite Addison's Walk, and he quite
entered into my happiness when a small fish came wriggling
up at the end of my bent pin, just ready for the dinner of
the little white kitten "Lily," which he had given me.

My hair was a great trouble to me, as a child, for it would
tangle, and Mary was not too patient with me, as I twisted
about while she was trying to dress it. One day I received a
long blue envelope addressed to myself, which contained a
story-letter, full of drawings, from Mr. Dodgson. The first
picture was of a little girl--with her hat off and her
tumbled hair very much in evidence--asleep on a rustic bench
under a big tree by the riverside, and two birds, holding
what was evidently a very important conversation, above in
the branches, their heads on one side, eyeing the sleeping
child. Then there was a picture of the birds flying up to
the child with twigs and straw in their beaks, preparing to
build their nest in her hair. Next came the awakening, with
the nest completed, and the mother-bird sitting on it; while
the father-bird flew round the frightened child. And then,
lastly, hundreds of birds--the air thick with them--the
child fleeing, small boys with tin trumpets raised to their
lips to add to the confusion, and Mary, armed with a basket
of brushes and combs, bringing up the rear! After this,
whenever I was restive while my hair was being arranged,
Mary would show me the picture of the child with the nest on
her head, and I at once became "as quiet as a lamb."

I had a daily governess, a dear old soul, who used to come
every morning to teach me. I disliked particularly the
large-lettered copies which she used to set me; and as I
confided this to Mr. Dodgson, he came and gave me some
copies himself. The only ones which I can remember were
"Patience and water-gruel cure gout" (I always wondered what
"gout" might be) and "Little girls should be seen and not
heard" (which I thought unkind). These were written many
times over, and I had to present the pages to him, without
one blot or smudge, at the end of the week.

One of the Fellows of Magdalen College at that time was a
Mr. Saul, a friend of my father's and of Mr. Dodgson, and a
great lover of music--his rooms were full of musical
instruments of every sort. Mr. Dodgson and father and I all
went one afternoon to pay him a visit. At that time he was
much interested in the big drum, and we found him when we
arrived in full practice, with his music-book open before
him. He made us all join in the concert. Father undertook
the 'cello, and Mr. Dodgson hunted up a comb and some paper,
and, amidst much fun and laughter, the walls echoed with the
finished roll, or shake, of the big drum--a roll that was
Mr. Saul's delight.

My father died on August 27, 1897, and Mr. Dodgson on
January 14, 1898. And we, who are left behind in this cold,
weary world can only hope we may some day meet them again.
Till then, oh! Father, and my dear old childhood's friend,
_requiescalis in pace!_

* * * * *


Oxford: Parker. 8vo. 6d

"PHOTOGRAPHS." (?)1860
(Printed for private circulation; a
list of negatives taken by the Rev. C. L.
Dodgson.) Pp. 4, 4to

systematically arranged, with formal definitions,
postulates, and axioms. By Charles Lutwidge
Dodgson. Part I. Containing Points, Right Lines,
Rectilinear Figures, Pencils and Circles.
Oxford: Parker. Pp. xvi + 164, 8vo. Cloth, paper label. 5s

(A new game, invented by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson.)
Pp. 4. (Reprinted in 1862).

printed with symbols (instead of words) to express the
"goniometrical ratios." By Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.
Oxford: Parker. Pp. 19, 4to. Stitched, 1s.

Oxford: Parker. 8vo. 6d

[Suggested and edited by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson;
much of the actual work of compilation was
done by his sisters]
London: Moxon.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

(A new game invented by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson).
London(?) Pp. 4. (Reprinted, with additions
and alterations, in 1866 at Oxford.)

(A letter to the Vice-Chancellor.)
Pp. 2, 4 to. Oxford.

Lutwidge Dodgson. Part I. Pure Mathematics.
Oxford: Parker. Two leaves and pp. 27, 8vo.
Stitched, 1s.

"THE DYNAMICS OF A PARTI-CLE, with an Excursus on 1865
the New Method of Evaluation as applied to pi."
Oxford: Vincent. Pp. 28, 8vo. (Three editions).

Carroll, with forty-two illustrations by John
Tenniel. London: Macmillan. Pp. 192, cr. 8vo.
Cloth, gilt edges. 6s.
The 1st edition (recalled) was printed in Oxford,
and is very rare; all subsequent editions (1865
onwards) by Richard Clay in London. Now in its
86th thousand. [People's Edition, price 2s. 6d.;
first published in 1887. Now in its 70th

"CONDENSATION OF DETERMINANTS," being a new and 1866
brief method for computing their arithmetical
values. By the Rev. C.L. Dodgson. From "The
Proceedings of the Royal Society, No. 84, 1866."
London: Taylor and Francis. Pp. 8, 8vo.

London: Macmillan. (Printed in Oxford.)
Pp. viii + 143, 4to. Cloth. 10s. 6d.

With notes. By Charles L. Dodgson. Oxford and
London: Parker. Two leaves and pp. 37, 8vo. In
wrapper, 1s. 6d.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

(Invented, in 1868, by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson.)

By Lewis Carroll.
London: Macmillan. (Printed in Oxford.)
Pp. viii + 202, small 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges.

Par Lewis Carroll, ouvrage illustre de 42 vignettes
par John Tenniel. Traduit de l'anglais, par H. Bue.
London: Macmillan. Pp. 196, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt
edges. 6s. (Now in its 2nd thousand.)

Carroll, mit zweiundvierzig Illustrationen von
John Tenniel. Uebersetzt von Antonie Zimmermann.
London: Macmillan. Pp. 178, cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt
edges. 6s.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.


THERE." By Lewis Carroll. With fifty illustrations
by John Tenniel.
London: Macmillan. Pp. 224., cr. 8vo. Cloth,
gilt edges. 6s. Now in its 61st thousand
[People's edition. Price 2s. 6d. First
published in 1887. Now in its 46th thousand.]

Per Lewis Carroll. Tradotte dall'inglese da T.
Pietrocola-Rossetti. Con 42 vignette di Giovanni
London: Macmillan. Pp. 189, cr. 8vo.
Cloth, gilt edges. 6s.

London: Macmillan.

Books I. and II."
Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Printed at the University Press.

Monograph. By D.C.L.
Oxford: Parker. Pp. 2 + 31, cr. 8vo.
In wrapper. 6d. (Five editions.)

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Christ Church, Oxford, against certain proposed
alterations in the Great Quadrangle."
Oxford: Printed at the University Press. Pp. 4, 4to.
[Printed for Private Circulation.]

"THE VISION OF THE THREE T's." A Threnody. By the 1873
Author of "The New Belfry."
Oxford. Parker. Pp. 37 + 3, 8vo. In wrapper, 9d.
(Three editions.)

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

it relates to Commensurable Magnitudes. To which
is prefixed a summary of all the necessary
algebraical operations, arranged in order of
difficulty. By Charles L. Dodgson.
Oxford: Parker.
Pp. viii + 62, 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d.

where more than two Issues are to be voted on."
Oxford: Hall and Stacy. Pp. 8, 8vo.

"THE BLANK CHEQUE." A Fable. By the Author of "The 1874
New Belfry," and "The Vision of The Three T's"
Oxford: Parker. Pp. 14 + 2, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 4d.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Oxford: Parker. Pp. 24, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 6d.

Oxford: Parker. Pp. 16, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 4d.

"FACTS, FIGURES, AND FANCIES," relating to the 1874
Elections to the Hebdomadal Council, the Offer of
the Clarendon Trustees, and the Proposal to
convert the Parks into Cricket-Grounds.
Oxford: Parker. Pp. 29 + 3, cr. 8vo. In wrapper. 8d.

Oxford: Parker. Cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt edges.
[This book consists of the following six pamphlets
bound together--"The New Method of Evaluation,"
"The Dynamics of a Particle," "Facts, Figures, and
Fancies," "The New Belfry," "The Vision of the
Three T's," and "The Blank Cheque."]

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

"EUCLID, BOOKS I. and II." Edited by Charles L. 1875
Oxford: Parker. Diagram, Title, Preface,
and pp. 102, cr. 8vo. Cloth.
[The book was circulated privately among
Mathematical friends for hints. "Not yet
published" was printed above title.]

(Three leaflets.)
Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.
Pp. 20, cr. 8vo.
[A note on the title-page runs as follows: "As I
hope to investigate this subject further, and to
publish a more complete pamphlet on the subject, I
shall feel greatly obliged if you will enter in
this copy any remarks that occur to you, and
return it to me any time before--"]

Printed at the University Press.

"AN EASTER GREETING." [Reprinted in London, by 1876
Macmillan & Co., in 1880.]

"FAME'S PENNY TRUMPET." Not published. 1876
Oxford: Baxter. Pp. 4, 4to.
[Afterwards published in "Rhyme? and Reason?"]

"THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK." An Agony, in Eight 1876
Fits. By Lewis Carroll. With nine illustrations by
Henry Holiday.
London: Macmillan. Pp. xi + 83, 8vo. Cloth,
gilt edges. 4s.. 6d.

(A letter to the Vice-Chancellor.)
Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

"A CHARADE." (Written with a cyclostyle.) Pp. 4. 1878

"WORD-LINKS." (A game, afterwards called 1878
"DOUBLETS," invented by the Rev. C.L. Dodgson.)
Oxford: Printed at the University Press. Pp. 4,
8vo.[There is also a form written with a

"DOUBLETS." A Word-Puzzle. By Lewis Carroll. 1879
London: Macmillan. Pp. 73, 8vo. Cloth. 2s. (2nd
edition, 1880.)

London: Macmillan. 8vo. Cloth. 6s.
(2nd edition, 1885. Pp. xxxi + 275.)

"DOUBLETS." A Word-Puzzle. By Lewis Carroll. 1880
Oxford: Printed at the University Press. Pp. 8.
8vo. [This Puzzle appeared in Vanity Fair, April
19, 1879.]

"LETTER FROM MABEL TO EMILY." To illustrate common 1880
errors in letter-writing. (Written with a

Naar het Engelsch. [A Dutch version of "Alice
in Wonderland."]
Nijmegen. 4to.

"ON CATCHING COLD." (A pamphlet, consisting of 1881
extracts from two books by Dr. Inman.)
Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

"JABBERWOCKY." (Lewis Carroll's Poem, with A.A. 1881
Vansittart's Latin rendering.)
Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

"LANRICK." A Game for Two Players. 1881
Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

MICHAELMAS, 1873, to Michaelmas, 1881."
Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

Oxford: Printed at the University Press.
[Two different forms, one pp. 2, the other pp. 4.]

"EUCLID, BOOKS I. and II." 1882
London: Macmillan. Printed in Oxford.
Pp. xi + 108. 8vo. Cloth. 2s.
[Seven editions were subsequently published.]

"DREAMLAND." A Song. Words by Lewis Carroll; music 1882
by Rev. C. E. Hutchinson.
Oxford: Printed at the University Press.

"MISCHMASCH." (A game invented by the Rev. C. L. 1882
Dodgson.) Oxford: Printed at the University Press.
Two editions.

"RHYME? AND REASON?" By Lewis Carroll. With 1883
sixty-five illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and
nine by Henry Holiday.
London: Macmillan. Pp. xii + 214, cr. 8vo.
Cloth, 7s. (Now in its 6th thousand.)
[This book is a reprint, with a few additions, of
"The Hunting of the Snark," and of the comic
portions of "Phantasmagoria and Other Poems."]

ASSIGNING PRIZES, with a Proof of the Fallacy of
the Present Method."
London: Macmillan. Printed in Oxford. 8vo.

Oxford: Baxter.

By One who has tried it.
Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter.
Pp. 52, 8vo

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 8, 8vo

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 2, 8vo.

London: Macmillan.

"THE PROFITS OF AUTHORSHIP." By Lewis Carroll. 1884
London: Macmillan. 8vo. 6d.

London: Harrison. Pp. 56, 8vo. (Reprinted in

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 8, 8vo.
Two editions.

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, 8vo.
Two editions.

MODERN RIVALS." London: Macmillan. 8vo. 1s

"A TANGLED TALE." By Lewis Carroll. With six 1885
illustrations by Arthur B. Frost. London:
Macmillan. Printed in Oxford. Pp. 152, cr. 8vo.
Cloth, gilt edges. 4s. 6d. (Now in its 4th
[First appeared in Monthly Packet, April,
1882-November, 1884. There are also separate
reprints of each "Knot," and of the Answers to
"Knots" I. and II.]

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, 4to.

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 3, 4to.

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, 4to.
(Reprinted, with additions, in 1886)

Carroll. With thirty-seven illustrations by the
London: Macmillan. Pp. viii + 95, cr. 8vo. Cloth,
gilt edges. 4s. (Now in its 4th thousand.)
[This book is a facsimile of the original
Manuscript story, afterwards developed into "Alice
in Wonderland."]

By one whom it has tried.
Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 32, cr. 8vo.

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 8, cr. 8vo.

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 4, cr. 8vo.

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 12, 8vo.

Oxford: Printed by E. Baxter. Pp. 2, 8vo.


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