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.
Facsimile of a "Looking-Glass Letter"
from Lewis Carroll to Miss Edith Ball.
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:—
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!
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 fiancé, 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?"
Complete Works of Lewis Carroll Page 150
