Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (292 page)

Miss Hatch has also sent me an original letter that Lewis Carroll wrote to her in 1873, about a large wax doll that he had given her.
It is interesting to notice that this letter, written long before any of the others that he wrote to me, is identically the same in form and expression.
It is a striking proof how fresh and unimpaired the writer’s sympathies must have been.
Year after year he retained the same sweet, kindly temperament, and, if anything, his love for children seemed to increase as he grew older.

“My dear Birdie,—I met her just outside Tom Gate, walking very stiffly, and I think she was trying to find her way to my rooms.
So I said, ‘Why have you come here without Birdie?’
So she said, ‘Birdie’s gone!
and Emily’s gone!
and Mabel isn’t kind to me!’
And two little waxy tears came running down her cheeks.

“Why, how stupid of me!
I’ve never told you who it was all the time!
It was your new doll.
I was very glad to see her, and I took her to my room, and gave her some vesta matches to eat, and a cup of nice melted wax to drink, for the poor little thing was
very
hungry and thirsty after her long walk.
So I said, ‘Come and sit down by the fire, and let’s have a comfortable chat?’
‘Oh no!
no
!’
she said, ‘I’d
much
rather not.
You know I do melt so
very
easily!’
And she made me take her quite to the other side of the room, where it was
very
cold: and then she sat on my knee, and fanned herself with a pen-wiper, because she said she was afraid the end of her nose was beginning to melt.

“‘You’ve no
idea
how careful we have to be,’ we dolls, she said.
‘Why, there was a sister of mine—would you believe it?—she went up to the fire to warm her hands, and one of her hands dropped
right
off!
There now!’
‘Of course it dropped
right
off,’ I said, ‘because it was the
right
hand.’
‘And how do you know it was the
right
hand, Mister Carroll?’
the doll said.
So I said, ‘I think it must have been the
right
hand because the other hand was
left
.’

“The doll said, ‘I shan’t laugh.
It’s a very bad joke.
Why, even a common wooden doll could make a better joke than that.
And besides, they’ve made my mouth so stiff and hard, that I
can’t
laugh if I try ever so much?’
‘Don’t be cross about it,’ I said, ‘but tell me this: I’m going to give Birdie and the other children one photograph each, which ever they choose; which do you think Birdie will choose?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the doll; ‘you’d better ask her!’
So I took her home in a hansom cab.
Which would you like, do you think?
Arthur as Cupid?
or Arthur and Wilfred together?
or you and Ethel as beggar children?
or Ethel standing on a box?
or, one of yourself?—Your affectionate friend,

“Lewis Carroll.”

Among the bundle of letters and MS.
before me, I find written on a half sheet of note-paper the following Ollendorfian dialogue.
It is interesting because, slight and trivial as it is, it in some strange way bears the imprint of Lewis Carroll’s style.
The thing is written in the familiar violet ink, and neatly dated in the corner 29/9/90:—

“Let’s go and look at the house I want to buy.
Now do be quick!
You move so slow!
What a time you take with your boots!”

“Don’t make such a row about it: it’s not two o’clock yet.
How do you like
this
house?”

“I don’t like it.
It’s too far down the hill.
Let’s go higher.
I heard a nice account of one at the top, built on an improved plan.”

“What does the rent amount to?”

“Oh, the rent’s all right: it’s only nine pounds a year.”

Over all matters connected with letter writing, Lewis Carroll was accustomed to take great pains.
All letters that he received that were of any interest or importance whatever he kept, putting them away in old biscuit tins, numbers of which he kept for the purpose.

“DOLLY VARDEN”

In 1888 he published a little book which he called “Eight or Nine Wise Words about Letter Writing,” and as this little book of mine is so full of letters, I think I can do no better than make a few extracts:—

“
Write Legibly.
—The average temper of the human race would be perceptibly sweeter if every one obeyed this rule!
A great deal of the bad writing in the world comes simply from writing too quickly.
Of course you reply, ‘I do it to save time.’
A very good object, no doubt; but what right have you to do it at your friend’s expense?
Isn’t
his
time as valuable as yours?
Years ago I used to receive letters from a friend—and very interesting letters too—written in one of the most atrocious hands ever invented.
It generally took me about a
week
to read one of his letters!
I used to carry it about in my pocket, and take it out at leisure times, to puzzle over the riddles which composed it—holding it in different positions, and at different distances, till at last the meaning of some hopeless scrawl would flash upon me, when I at once wrote down the English under it; and, when several had thus been guessed, the context would help one with the others, till at last the whole series of hieroglyphics was deciphered.
If
all
one’s friends wrote like that, life would be entirely spent in reading their letters.”

In writing the last wise word, the author no doubt had some of his girl correspondents in his mind’s eye, for he says—

“
My Ninth Rule.
—When you get to the end of a note sheet, and find you have more to say, take another piece of paper—a whole sheet or a scrap, as the case may demand; but, whatever you do,
don’t cross
!
Remember the old proverb, ‘Cross writing makes cross reading.’
‘The
old
proverb,’ you say inquiringly; ‘how old?’
Well, not so
very
ancient, I must confess.
In fact I’m afraid I invented it while writing this paragraph.
Still you know ‘old’ is a comparative term.
I think you would be
quite
justified in addressing a chicken just out of the shell as ‘Old Boy!’
when compared
with another chicken that was only half out!”

I have another diary to give to my readers, a diary that Lewis Carroll wrote for my sister Maggie when, a tiny child, she came to Oxford to play the child part, Mignon, in “Booties’ Baby.”
He was delighted with the pretty play, for the interest that the soldiers took in the little lost girl, and how a mere interest ripened into love, till the little Mignon was queen of the barracks, went straight to his heart.
I give the diary in full:—

“MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD

June 9 to 13, 1899

When Maggie once to Oxford came
On tour as ‘Booties’ Baby,’
She said ‘I’ll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be!’
 
So with her friend she visited
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she poked her head
Inside the Christ Church Kitchen.
 
The cooks around that little child
Stood waiting in a ring:
And, every time that Maggie smiled,
Those cooks began to sing—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
 
‘Roast, boil, and bake,
For Maggie’s sake!
Bring cutlets fine,
For
her
to dine:
Meringues so sweet,
For
her
to eat—
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!’
 
Then hand-in-hand, in pleasant talk,
They wandered, and admired
The Hall, Cathedral, and Broad Walk,
Till Maggie’s feet were tired:
 
One friend they called upon—her name
Was Mrs.
Hassall—then
Into a College Room they came,
Some savage Monster’s Den!
 
‘And, when that Monster dined, I guess
He tore her limb from limb?’
Well, no: in fact, I must confess
That
Maggie dined with him
!
 
To Worcester Garden next they strolled—
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St.
John’s, a College old,
Their devious way they take.
 
In idle mood they sauntered round
Its lawns so green and flat:
And in that Garden Maggie found
A lovely Pussey-Cat!
 
A quarter of an hour they spent
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went,
That Cat was sure to go—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
 
‘Miaow!
Miaow!
Come, make your bow!
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy Cats!
And purr, and purr,
To welcome
her
—
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!’
 
So back to Christ Church—not too late
For them to go and see
A Christ Church Undergraduate,
Who gave them cakes and tea.
 
Next day she entered, with her guide,
The Garden called ‘Botanic’:
And there a fierce Wild-Boar she spied,
Enough to cause a panic!
 
But Maggie didn’t mind, not she!
She would have faced
alone
,
That fierce Wild-Boar, because, you see,
The thing was made of stone!
 
On Magdalen walls they saw a face
That filled her with delight,
A giant-face, that made grimace
And grinned with all its might!
 
A little friend, industrious,
Pulled upwards, all the while,
The corner of its mouth, and thus
He helped that face to smile!
 
‘How nice,’ thought Maggie, ‘it would be
If
I
could have a friend
To do that very thing for
me
,
And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end!’
 
In Magdalen Park the deer are wild
With joy that Maggie brings
Some bread a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.
 
They flock round Maggie without fear:
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer—
Still, as they munch and munch,
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
 
‘Yes, Deer are we,
And dear is she!
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
We all rejoice
At Maggie’s voice:
We all are fed
With Maggie’s bread—
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!’
 
To Pembroke College next they go,
Where little Maggie meets
The Master’s wife and daughter: so
Once more into the streets.
 
They met a Bishop on their way—
A Bishop large as life—
With loving smile that seemed to say
‘Will Maggie be my wife?’
 
Maggie thought
not
, because, you see,
She was so
very
young,
And he was old as old could be—
So Maggie held her tongue.
 
‘My Lord, she’s
Bootles’ Baby
: we
Are going up and down,’
Her friend explained, ‘that she may see
The sights of Oxford-town.’
 
‘Now say what kind of place it is!’
The Bishop gaily cried.
‘The best place in the Provinces!’
That little maid replied.
 
Next to New College, where they saw
Two players hurl about
A hoop, but by what rule or law
They could not quite make out.
 
‘Ringo’ the Game is called, although
‘Les Graces’ was once its name,
When
it
was—as its name will show—
A much more
graceful
Game.
 
The Misses Symonds next they sought,
Who begged the child to take
A book they long ago had bought—
A gift for friendship’s sake!
 
Away, next morning, Maggie went
From Oxford-town: but yet
The happy hours she there had spent
She could not soon forget.
 
The train is gone: it rumbles on:
The engine-whistle screams:
But Maggie’s deep in rosy sleep—
And softly, in her dreams,
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom!
 
‘Oxford, good-bye!’
She seems to sigh,
‘You dear old City,
With Gardens pretty,
And lawns, and flowers,
And College-towers,
And Tom’s great Bell—
Farewell, farewell!
For Maggie may be
Booties’ Baby!’
 
—Lewis Carroll.”