Chapter VI: ), about "Alice." Writing to acknowledge this gift, Lewis

Carroll said:--

Permit me to offer you my sincere thanks for the very sweet
verses you have written about my dream-child (named after a
real Alice, but none the less a dream-child) and her
Wonderland. That children love the book is a very precious
thought to me, and, next to their love, I value the sympathy
of those who come with a child's heart to what I have tried
to write about a child's thoughts. Next to what conversing
with an angel _might_ be--for it is hard to imagine
it--comes, I think, the privilege of having a real child's
thoughts uttered to one. I have known some few _real_
children (you have too, I am sure), and their friendship is
a blessing and a help in life.

It is interesting to note how in "Sylvie and Bruno" his idea of the thoughts of a child has become deeper and more spiritual. Yet in the earlier tale, told "all in a golden afternoon," to the plash of oars and the swish of a boat through the waters of Cherwell or Thames, the ideal child is strangely beautiful; she has all Sylvie's genuineness and honesty, all her keen appreciation of the interest of life; only there lacks that mysterious charm of deep insight into the hidden forces of nature, the gentle power that makes the sky "such a darling blue," which almost links Sylvie with the angels.

Another of Lewis Carroll's early favourites was Miss Alexandra (Xie) Kitchin, daughter of the Dean of Durham. Her father was for fifteen years the Censor of the unattached members of the University of Oxford, so that Mr. Dodgson had plenty of opportunities of photographing his little friend, and it is only fair to him to say that he did not neglect them.

It would be futile to attempt even a bare list of the children whom he loved, and who loved him; during forty years of his life he was constantly adding to their number. Some remained friends for life, but in a large proportion of cases the friendship ended with the end of childhood. To one of those few, whose affection for him had not waned with increasing years, he wrote:--

I always feel specially grateful to friends who, like you,
have given me a child-friendship and a woman-friendship.
About nine out of ten, I think, of my child-friendships get
ship-wrecked at the critical point, "where the stream and
river meet," and the child-friends, once so affectionate,
become uninteresting acquaintances, whom I have no wish to
set eyes on again.

These friendships usually began all very much in the same way. A chance meeting on the sea-shore, in the street, at some friend's house, led to conversation; then followed a call on the parents, and after that all sorts of kindnesses on Lewis Carroll's part, presents of books, invitations to stay with him at Oxford, or at Eastbourne, visits with him to the theatre. For the amusement of his little guests he kept a large assortment of musical-boxes, and an organette which had to be fed with paper tunes. On one occasion he ordered about twelve dozen of these tunes "on approval," and asked one of the other dons, who was considered a judge of music, to come in and hear them played over. In addition to these attractions there were clock-work bears, mice, and frogs, and games and puzzles in infinite variety.

One of his little friends, Miss Isabel Standen, has sent me the following account of her first meeting with him:--

We met for the first time in the Forbury Gardens, Reading.
He was, I believe, waiting for a train. I was playing with
my brothers and sisters in the Gardens. I remember his
taking me on his knee and showing me puzzles, one of which
he refers to in the letter (given below. This puzzle was, by
the way, a great favourite of his; the problem is to draw
three interlaced squares without going over the same lines
twice, or taking the pen off the paper), which is so
thoroughly characteristic of him in its quaint humour:--

"The Chestnuts, Guildford,

_August _22, 1869.

My Dear Isabel,--Though I have only been acquainted
with you for fifteen minutes, yet, as there is no one
else in Reading I have known so long, I hope you will
not mind my troubling you. Before I met you in the
Gardens yesterday I bought some old books at a shop in
Reading, which I left to be called for, and had not
time to go back for them. I didn't even remark the name
of the shop, but I can tell _where_ it was, and if
you know the name of the woman who keeps the shop, and
would put it into the blank I have left in this note,
and direct it to her I should be much obliged ... A
friend of mine, called Mr. Lewis Carroll, tells me he
means to send you a book. He is a _very_ dear
friend of mine. I have known him all my life (we are
the same age) and have _never_ left him. Of course
he was with me in the Gardens, not a yard off--even
while I was drawing those puzzles for you. I wonder if
you saw him?

Your fifteen-minute friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

Have you succeeded in drawing the three squares?"

Another favourite puzzle was the following--I give it in his own words:--

A is to draw a fictitious map divided into counties.

B is to colour it (or rather mark the counties with
_names_ of colours) using as few colours as possible.

Two adjacent counties must have _different_ colours.

A's object is to force B to use as _many_ colours as
possible.

How many can he force B to use?

One of his most amusing letters was to a little girl called Magdalen, to whom he had given a copy of his "Hunting of the Snark":--

Christ Church, _December_ 15, 1875.

My dear Magdalen,--I want to explain to you why I did not
call yesterday. I was sorry to miss you, but you see I had
so many conversations on the way. I tried to explain to the
people in the street that I was going to see you, but they
wouldn't listen; they said they were in a hurry, which was
rude. At last I met a wheelbarrow that I thought would
attend to me, but I couldn't make out what was in it. I saw
some features at first, then I looked through a telescope,
and found it was a countenance; then I looked through a
microscope, and found it was a face! I thought it was father
like me, so I fetched a large looking-glass to make sure,
and then to my great joy I found it was me. We shook hands,
and were just beginning to talk, when myself came up and
joined us, and we had quite a pleasant conversation. I said,
"Do you remember when we all met at Sandown?" and myself
said, "It was very jolly there; there was a child called
Magdalen," and me said, "I used to like her a little; not
much, you know--only a little." Then it was time for us to
go to the train, and who do you think came to the station to
see us off? You would never guess, so I must tell you. They
were two very dear friends of mine, who happen to be here
just now, and beg to be allowed to sign this letter as your
affectionate friends,

Lewis Carroll and C.L. Dodgson.

Another child-friend, Miss F. Bremer, writes as follows:--

Our acquaintance began in a somewhat singular manner. We
were playing on the Fort at Margate, and a gentleman on a
seat near asked us if we could make a paper boat, with a
seat at each end, and a basket in the middle for fish! We
were, of course, enchanted with the idea, and our new
friend--after achieving the feat--gave us his card, which we
at once carried to our mother. He asked if he might call
where we were staying, and then presented my elder sister
with a copy of "Alice in Wonderland," inscribed "From the
Author." He kindly organised many little excursions for
us--chiefly in the pursuit of knowledge. One memorable visit
to a light house is still fresh in our memories.

It was while calling one day upon Mrs. Bremer that he scribbled off the following double acrostic on the names of her two daughters--

DOUBLE ACROSTIC--FIVE LETTERS.

Two little girls near London dwell,
More naughty than I like to tell.

1.
Upon the lawn the hoops are seen:
The balls are rolling on the green. T ur F

2.
The Thames is running deep and wide:
And boats are rowing on the tide. R ive R

3.
In winter-time, all in a row,
The happy skaters come and go. I c E

4.
"Papa!" they cry, "Do let us stay!"
He does not speak, but says they may. N o D

5.
"There is a land," he says, "my dear,
Which is too hot to skate, I fear." A fric A

At Margate also he met Miss Adelaide Paine, who afterwards became one of his greatest favourites. He could not bear to see the healthy pleasures of childhood spoiled by conventional restraint. "One piece of advice given to my parents," writes Miss Paine, "gave me very great glee, and that was not to make little girls wear gloves at the seaside; they took the advice, and I enjoyed the result." _Apropos_ of this I may mention that, when staying at Eastbourne, he never went down to the beach without providing himself with a supply of safety-pins. Then if he saw any little girl who wanted to wade in the sea, but was afraid of spoiling her frock, he would gravely go up to her and present her with a safety-pin, so that she might fasten up her skirts out of harm's way.

Tight boots were a great aversion of his, especially for children. One little girl who was staying with him at Eastbourne had occasion to buy a new pair of boots. Lewis Carroll gave instructions to the bootmaker as to how they were to be made, so as to be thoroughly comfortable, with the result that when they came home they were more useful than ornamental, being very nearly as broad as they were long! Which shows that even hygienic principles may be pushed too far.

The first meeting with Miss Paine took place in 1876. When Lewis Carroll returned to Christ Church he sent her a copy of "The Hunting of the Snark," with the following acrostic written in the fly-leaf:--

'A re you deaf, Father William?' the young man said,
'D id you hear what I told you just now?
E xcuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
L ike a blundering, sleepy old cow!
A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
I s my friend, so I beg to remark:
D o you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
E ntitled "The Hunt of the Snark?"'

'P ack it up in brown paper!' the old man cried,
'A nd seal it with olive-and-dove.
I command you to do it!' he added with pride,
'N or forget, my good fellow, to send her beside
E aster Greetings, and give her my love.'

This was followed by a letter, dated June 7, 1876:--

My dear Adelaide,--Did you try if the letters at the
beginnings of the lines about Father William would spell
anything? Sometimes it happens that you can spell out words
that way, which is very curious.

I wish you could have heard him when he shouted out "Pack it
up in brown paper!" It quite shook the house. And he threw
one of his shoes at his son's head (just to make him attend,
you know), but it missed him.

He was glad to hear you had got the book safe, but his eyes
filled with tears as he said, "I sent _her_ my love,
but she never--" he couldn't say any more, his mouth was so
full of bones (he was just finishing a roast goose).

Another letter to Miss Paine is very characteristic of his quaint humour:--

Christ Church, Oxford, _March_ 8, 1880.

My dear Ada,--(Isn't that your short name? "Adelaide" is all
very well, but you see when one's _dreadfully_ busy one
hasn't time to write such long words--particularly when it
takes one half an hour to remember how to spell it--and even
then one has to go and get a dictionary to see if one has
spelt it right, and of course the dictionary is in another
room, at the top of a high bookcase--where it has been for
months and months, and has got all covered with dust--so
one has to get a duster first of all, and nearly choke
oneself in dusting it--and when one _has_ made out at
last which is dictionary and which is dust, even _then_
there's the job of remembering which end of the alphabet "A"
comes--for one feels pretty certain it isn't in the
_middle_--then one has to go and wash one's hands
before turning over the leaves--for they've got so thick
with dust one hardly knows them by sight--and, as likely as
not, the soap is lost, and the jug is empty, and there's no
towel, and one has to spend hours and hours in finding
things--and perhaps after all one has to go off to the shop
to buy a new cake of soap--so, with all this bother, I hope
you won't mind my writing it short and saying, "My dear
Ada"). You said in your last letter you would like a
likeness of me: so here it is, and I hope you will like
it--I won't forget to call the next time but one I'm in
Wallington.

Your very affectionate friend,

Lewis Carroll.

It was quite against Mr. Dodgson's usual rule to give away photographs of himself; he hated publicity, and the above letter was accompanied by another to Mrs. Paine, which ran as follows:--

I am very unwilling, usually, to give my photograph, for I
don't want people, who have heard of Lewis Carroll, to be
able to recognise him in the street--but I can't refuse Ada.
Will you kindly take care, if any of your ordinary
acquaintances (I don't speak of intimate friends) see it,
that they are _not_ told anything about the name of
"Lewis Carroll"?

He even objected to having his books discussed in his presence; thus he writes to a friend:--

Your friend, Miss--was very kind and complimentary about my
books, but may I confess that I would rather have them
ignored? Perhaps I am too fanciful, but I have somehow taken
a dislike to being talked to about them; and consequently
have some trials to bear in society, which otherwise would
be no trials at all.... I don't think any of my many little
stage-friends have any shyness at all about being talked to
of their performances. _They_ thoroughly enjoy the
publicity that I shrink from.

The child to whom the three following letters were addressed, Miss Gaynor Simpson, was one of Lewis Carroll's Guildford friends. The correct answer to the riddle propounded in the second letter is "Copal":--

_December_ 27, 1873.

My dear Gaynor,--My name is spelt with a "G," that is to say
"_Dodgson_." Any one who spells it the same as that
wretch (I mean of course the Chairman of Committees in the
House of Commons) offends me _deeply_, and _for
ever!_ It is a thing I _can_ forget, but _never
can forgive! _If you do it again, I shall call you
"'aynor." Could you live happy with such a name?

As to dancing, my dear, I _never_ dance, unless I am
allowed to do it _in my own peculiar way. _There is no
use trying to describe it: it has to be seen to be believed.
The last house I tried it in, the floor broke through. But
then it was a poor sort of floor--the beams were only six
inches thick, hardly worth calling beams at all: stone
arches are much more sensible, when any dancing, _of my
peculiar kind_, is to be done. Did you ever see the
Rhinoceros, and the Hippopotamus, at the Zoölogical Gardens,
trying to dance a minuet together? It is a touching sight.

Give any message from me to Amy that you think will be most
likely to surprise her, and, believe me,

Your affectionate friend,

Lewis Carroll.

My dear Gaynor,--So you would like to know the answer to
that riddle? Don't be in a hurry to tell it to Amy and
Frances: triumph over them for a while!

My first lends its aid when you plunge into trade.

_Gain_. Who would go into trade if there were no gain
in it?

My second in jollifications--

_Or_ [The French for "gold"--] Your jollifications
would be _very_ limited if you had no money.

My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish
To pictorial representations.

_Gaynor_. Because she will be an ornament to the
Shakespeare Charades--only she must be "laid on thinnish,"
that is, _there musn't be too much of her._

Yours affectionately,

C. L. Dodgson.

My dear Gaynor,--Forgive me for having sent you a
sham answer to begin with.

My first--_Sea_. It carries the ships of the merchants.

My second--_Weed_. That is, a cigar, an article much used
in jollifications.

My whole--_Seaweed_. Take a newly painted oil-picture;
lay it on its back on the floor, and spread over it, "thinnish,"
some wet seaweed. You will find you have "finished" that
picture.

Yours affectionately,

C.L. Dodgson.

Lewis Carroll during the last fifteen years of his life always spent the Long Vacation at Eastbourne; in earlier times, Sandown, a pleasant little seaside resort in the Isle of Wight, was his summer abode. He loved the sea both for its own sake and because of the number of children whom he met at seaside places. Here is another "first meeting"; this time it is at Sandown, and Miss Gertrude Chataway is the narrator:--

I first met Mr. Lewis Carroll on the sea-shore at Sandown in
the Isle of Wight, in the summer of 1875, when I was quite a
little child.

We had all been taken there for change of air, and next door
there was an old gentlemen--to me at any rate he seemed
old--who interested me immensely. He would come on to his
balcony, which joined ours, sniffing the sea-air with his
head thrown back, and would walk right down the steps on to
the beach with his chin in air, drinking in the fresh
breezes as if he could never have enough. I do not know why
this excited such keen curiosity on my part, but I remember
well that whenever I heard his footstep I flew out to see
him coming, and when one day he spoke to me my joy was
complete.

Thus we made friends, and in a very little while I was as
familiar with the interior of his lodgings as with our own.

I had the usual child's love for fairy-tales and marvels,
and his power of telling stories naturally fascinated me. We
used to sit for hours on the wooden steps which led from our
garden on to the beach, whilst he told the most lovely tales
that could possibly be imagined, often illustrating the
exciting situations with a pencil as he went along.

One thing that made his stories particularly charming to a
child was that he often took his cue from her remarks--a
question would set him off on quite a new trail of ideas, so
that one felt that one had somehow helped to make the story,
and it seemed a personal possession It was the most lovely
nonsense conceivable, and I naturally revelled in it. His
vivid imagination would fly from one subject to another, and
was never tied down in any way by the probabilities of life.

To _me_ it was of course all perfect, but it is
astonishing that _he_ never seemed either tired or to
want other society. I spoke to him once of this since I have
been grown up, and he told me it was the greatest pleasure
he could have to converse freely with a child, and feel the
depths of her mind.

He used to write to me and I to him after that summer, and
the friendship, thus begun, lasted. His letters were one of
the greatest joys of my childhood.

I don't think that he ever really understood that we, whom
he had known as children, could not always remain such. I
stayed with him only a few years ago, at Eastbourne, and
felt for the time that I was once more a child. He never
appeared to realise that I had grown up, except when I
reminded him of the fact, and then he only said, "Never
mind: you will always be a child to me, even when your hair
is grey."

Some of the letters, to which Miss Chataway refers in these reminiscences, I am enabled, through her kindness, to give below:--

Christ Church, Oxford, _October_ 13, 1875.

My dear Gertrude,--I never give birthday _presents_,
but you see I _do_ sometimes write a birthday
_letter_: so, as I've just arrived here, I am writing
this to wish you many and many a happy return of your
birthday to-morrow. I will drink your health, if only I can
remember, and if you don't mind--but perhaps you object? You
see, if I were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your
tea, you wouldn't like _that_, would you? You would say
"Boo! hoo! Here's Mr. Dodgson's drunk all my tea, and I
haven't got any left!" So I am very much afraid, next time
Sybil looks for you, she'll find you sitting by the sad
sea-wave, and crying "Boo! hoo! Here's Mr. Dodgson has drunk
my health, and I haven't got any left!" And how it will
puzzle Dr. Maund, when he is sent for to see you! "My dear
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_
health."

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

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
you?

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
other!

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 hand:--

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
contain

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
outside.

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
_that?_...

_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_."

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