Part 4

"MY LORD DUKE,--The photographs, which Your Grace did me the honour of sending arrived safely; and I can assure your Royal Highness that I am very glad to have them, and like them _very_ much, particularly the large head of your late Royal Uncle's little little son. I do not wonder that your excellent Uncle Richard should say 'off with his head!' as a hint to the photographer to print it off. Would your Highness like me to go on calling you the Duke of York, or shall I say 'my own own darling Isa?' Which do you like best?

"Now I'm going to find fault with my pet about her acting. What's the good of an old Uncle like me except to find fault?

"You do the meeting with the Prince of Wales _very_ nicely and lovingly; and, in teasing your Uncle for his dagger and his sword, you are very sweet and playful and--'but _that's_ not finding fault!' Isa says to herself. Isn't it? Well, I'll try again. Didn't I hear you say 'In weightier things you'll say a _beggar_ nay,' leaning on the word 'beggar'? If so, it was a mistake. _My_ rule for knowing which word to lean on is the word that tells you something _new_, something that is _different_ from what you expected.

"Take the sentence 'first I bought a bag of apples, then I bought a bag of pears,' you wouldn't say 'then I bought a _bag_ of pears.' The 'bag' is nothing new, because it was a bag in the first part of the sentence. But the _pears_ are new, and different from the _apples_. So you would say, 'then I bought a bag of _pears_.'

"Do you understand that, my pet?"

"Now what you say to Richard amounts to this, 'With light gifts you'll say to a beggar "yes": with heavy gifts you'll say to a beggar "nay."' The words 'you'll say to a beggar' are the same both times; so you mustn't lean on any of _those_ words. But 'light' is different from 'heavy,' and 'yes' is different from 'nay.' So the way to say the sentence would be 'with _light_ gifts you'll say to a beggar "_yes_": with _heavy_ gifts you'll say to a beggar "_nay_".' And the way to say the lines in the play is--

'O, then I see you will _part_ but with _light_ gifts; In _weightier_ things you'll say a beggar _nay_.'

"One more sentence.

"When Richard says, 'What, would you have my _weapon_, little Lord?' and you reply 'I _would_, that I might thank you as you call me,' didn't I hear you pronounce 'thank' as if it were spelt with an 'e'? I know it's very common (I often do it myself) to say 'thenk you!' as an exclamation by itself. I suppose it's an odd way of pronouncing the word. But I'm sure it's wrong to pronounce it so when it comes into a _sentence_. It will sound _much_ nicer if you'll pronounce it so as to rhyme with 'bank.'

"One more thing. ('What an impertinent old uncle! Always finding fault!') You're not as _natural_, when acting the Duke, as you were when you acted Alice. You seemed to me not to forgot _yourself_ enough. It was not so much a real _prince_ talking to his elder brother and his uncle; it was _Isa Bowman_ talking to people she didn't _much_ care about, for an audience to listen to--I don't mean it was that all _through_, but _sometimes_ you were _artificial_. Now don't be jealous of Miss Hatton, when I say she was _sweetly_ natural. She looked and spoke like a _real_ Prince of Wales. And she didn't seem to know that there was any audience. If you are ever to be a _good_ actress (as I hope you will), you must learn to _forget_ 'Isa' altogether, and _be_ the character you are playing. Try to think 'This is _really_ the Prince of Wales. I'm his little brother, and I'm _very_ glad to meet him, and I love him _very_ much,' and 'this is _really_ my uncle: he's very kind, and lets me say saucy things to him,' and _do_ forget that there's anybody else listening!

"My sweet pet, I _hope_ you won't be offended with me for saying what I fancy might make your acting better!

"Your loving old Uncle, "CHARLES.

X for NELLIE. X for MAGGIE. X for EMSIE. X for ISA."

He was a fairly constant patron of all the London theatres, save the Gaiety and the Adelphi, which he did not like, and numbered a good many theatrical folk among his acquaintances. Miss Ellen Terry was one of his greatest friends. Once I remember we made an expedition from Eastbourne to Margate to visit Miss Sarah Thorne's theatre, and especially for the purpose of seeing Miss Violet Vanbrugh's Ophelia. He was a great admirer of both Miss Violet and Miss Irene Vanbrugh as actresses. Of Miss Thorne's school of acting, too, he had the highest opinion, and it was his often expressed wish that all intending players could have so excellent a course of tuition. Among the male members of the theatrical profession he had no especial favourites, excepting Mr. Toole and Mr. Richard Mansfield.

He never went to a music-hall, but considered that, properly managed, they might be beneficial to the public. It was only when the refrain of some

## particularly vulgar music-hall song broke upon his ears in the streets

that he permitted himself to speak harshly about variety theatres.

Comic opera, when it was wholesome, he liked, and was a frequent visitor to the Savoy theatre. The good old style of Pantomime, too, was a great delight to him, and he would often speak affectionately of the pantomimes at Brighton during the regime of Mr. and Mrs. Nye Chart. But of the up-to-date pantomime he had a horror, and nothing would induce him to visit one. "When pantomimes are written for children once more," he said, "I will go. Not till then."

Once when a friend told him that she was about to take her little girls to the pantomime, he did not rest till he had dissuaded her.

To conclude what I have said about Lewis Carroll's affection for the dramatic art, I will give a kind of examination paper, written for a child who had been learning a recitation called "The Demon of the Pit." Though his stuttering prevented him from being himself anything of a reciter, he loved correct elocution, and would take any pains to make a child perfect in a piece.

[Illustration: THE LITTLE PRINCES]

First of all there is an explanatory paragraph.

"As you don't ask any questions about 'The Demon of the Pit,' I suppose you understand it all. So please answer these questions just as you would do if a younger child (say Mollie) asked them."

_Mollie._ Please, Ethel, will you explain this poem to me. There are some very hard words in it.

_Ethel._ What are they, dear?

_Mollie._ Well, in the first line, "If you chance to make a sally." What does "sally" mean?

_Ethel._ Dear Mollie, I believe sally means to take a chance work.[2]

_Mollie._ Then, near the end of the first verse--"Whereupon she'll call her cronies"--what does "whereupon" mean? And what are cronies?

_Ethel._ I think whereupon means at the same time, and cronies means her favourite playfellows.

_Mollie._ "And invest in proud polonies." What's to "invest?"

_Ethel._ To invest means to spend money in anything you fancy.

_Mollie._ And what's "A woman of the day?"

_Ethel._ A woman of the day means a wonder of the time with the general public.

_Mollie._ "Pyrotechnic blaze of wit." What's pyrotechnic?

_Ethel._ Mollie, I think you will find that pyrotechnic means quick, with flashes of lightning.

_Mollie._ Then the 8 lines that begin "The astounding infant wonder"--please explain "role" and "mise" and "tout ensemble" and "grit."

_Ethel._ Well, Mollie, "role" means so many different things, but in "The Demon of the Pit" I should think it meant the leading part of the piece, and "mise" means something extra good introduced, and "tout" means to seek for applause, but "ensemble" means the whole of the parts taken together, and grit means something good.

_Mollie._ "And the Goblins prostrate tumble." What's "prostrate"?

_Ethel._ I believe prostrate means to be cast down and unhappy.

_Mollie._ "And his accents shake a bit." What are "accents"?

_Ethel._ To accent is to lay stress upon a word.

_Mollie._ "Waits resignedly behind." What's "resignedly"?

_Ethel._ Resignedly means giving up, yielding.

_Mollie._ "They have tripe as light to dream on." What does "as" mean here? and what does "to dream on" mean?

_Ethel._ Mollie, dear, your last question is very funny. In the first place, I have always been told that hot suppers are not good for any one, and I should think that tripe would _not be light_ to dream on but VERY heavy.

_Mollie._ Thank you, Ethel.

I have now nearly finished my little memoir of Lewis Carroll; that is to say, I have written down all that I can remember of my personal knowledge of him. But I think it is from the letters and the diaries published in this book that my readers must chiefly gain an insight into the character of the greatest friend to children who ever lived. Not only did he study children's ways for his own pleasure, but he studied them in order that he might please them. For instance, here is a letter that he wrote to my little sister Nelly eight years ago, which begins on the last page and is written entirely backwards--a kind of variant on his famous "Looking-Glass" writing. You have to begin at the last word and read backwards before you can understand it. The only ordinary thing about it is the date. It begins--I mean _begins_ if one was to read it in the ordinary way--with the characteristic monogram, C. L. D.

"_Nov. 1, 1891._

"C. L. D., Uncle loving your! Instead grandson his to it give to had you that so, years 80 or 70 for it forgot you that was it pity a what and: him of fond so were you wonder don't I and, gentleman old nice very a was he. For it made you that _him_ been have _must_ it see you so: _grandfather_ my was, _then_ alive was that, 'Dodgson Uncle' only the. Born was _I_ before long was that, see you, then But. 'Dodgson Uncle for pretty thing some make I'll now,' it began you when, yourself to said you that, me telling her without, knew I course of and: ago years many great a it made had you said she. Me told Isa what from was it? For meant was it who out made I how know you do! Lasted has it well how and. Grandfather my for made had you Antimacassar pretty that me give to you of nice so was it, Nelly dear my."

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration: "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."

[Illustration: "A TURK"]

The tale has been often told of how "Alice in Wonderland" came to be written, but it is a tale so well worth the telling again, that, very shortly, I will give it to you here.

Years ago in the great quadrangle of Christ Church, opposite to Mr. Dodgson, lived the little daughters of Dean Liddell, the great Greek scholar and Dean of Christ Church. The little girls were great friends of Mr. Dodgson's, and they used often to come to him and to plead with him for a fairy tale. There was never such a teller of tales, they thought! One can imagine the whole delightful scene with little trouble. That big cool room on some summer's afternoon, when the air was heavy with flower scents, and the sounds that came floating in through the open window were all mellowed by the distance. One can see him, that good and kindly gentleman, his mobile face all aglow with interest and love, telling the immortal story.