The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood

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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
message."

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
Bowman.

"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
friends.

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
consequence.

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
together.

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
tart!"

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
wrote:--

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
extract:--

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
like.

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
secure:--

[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
KATH into LEEN?

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
_older!_

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