“7 Lushington Road, Eastbourne,“September 17, 1893.“Oh, you naughty, naughty little culprit! If only I could fly to Fulham with a handy little stick (ten feet long and four inches thick is my favourite size) how I would rap your wicked little knuckles. However, there isn’t much harm done, so I will sentenceyou to a very mild punishment—only one year’s imprisonment. If you’ll just tell the Fulham policeman about it, he’ll manage all the rest for you, and he’ll fit you with a nice pair of handcuffs, and lock you up in a nice cosy dark cell, and feed you on nice dry bread, and delicious cold water.
“7 Lushington Road, Eastbourne,“September 17, 1893.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty little culprit! If only I could fly to Fulham with a handy little stick (ten feet long and four inches thick is my favourite size) how I would rap your wicked little knuckles. However, there isn’t much harm done, so I will sentenceyou to a very mild punishment—only one year’s imprisonment. If you’ll just tell the Fulham policeman about it, he’ll manage all the rest for you, and he’ll fit you with a nice pair of handcuffs, and lock you up in a nice cosy dark cell, and feed you on nice dry bread, and delicious cold water.
ST. GEORGE THE DRAGON
“But how badly youdospell your words! Iwasso puzzled about the ‘sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses!’ But at last I made out why, of course, you meant ‘a sack full ofgloves, and a basket full ofkittens!’ Then I understood what you were sending me. And just then Mrs. Dyer came to tell me a large sack and a basket had come. There was such a miawing in the house, as if all the cats in Eastbourne had come to see me! ‘Oh, just open them please, Mrs. Dyer, and count the things in them!’“So in a few minutes Mrs. Dyer came and said, ‘500 pairs of gloves in the sack and 250 kittens in the basket.’“‘Dear me! That makes 1000 gloves! four times as many gloves as kittens! It’s very kind of Maggie, but why did she send so many gloves? for I haven’t got 1000hands, you know, Mrs. Dyer.’“And Mrs. Dyer said, ‘No, indeed, you’re 998 hands short of that!’“However the next day I made out what to do, and I took the basket with me and walked off to the parish school—thegirl’sschool, you know—and I said to the mistress, ‘How many little girls are there at school to-day?’“‘Exactly 250, sir.’“‘And have they all beenverygood all day?’“‘As good as gold, sir.’“So I waited outside the door with my basket, and as each little girl came out, I just popped a soft little kitten into her hands! Oh, what joy there was! The little girls went all dancing home, nursing their kittens, and the whole air was full of purring! Then, the next morning, I went to the school, before it opened, to ask the little girls how the kittens had behaved in the night. And they all arrived sobbing and crying, and their faces and hands were all covered with scratches, and they had the kittens wrapped up in their pinafores to keep them from scratching any more. And they sobbed out, ‘The kittens have been scratching us all night, all the night.’“So then I said to myself, ‘What a nice little girl Maggie is.NowI see why she sent all those gloves, and why there are four times as many gloves as kittens!’ and I said loud to the little girls, ‘Never mind, my dear children, do your lessonsverynicely, and don’t cry any more, and when school is over, you’ll find me at the door, and you shall see what you shall see!’“So, in the evening, when the little girls came running out, with the kittens still wrapped up in their pinafores, there was I, at the door, with a big sack! And, as each little girl came out, I just popped into her hand two pairs of gloves! And each little girl unrolled her pinafore and took out an angry little kitten, spitting and snarling, with its claws sticking out like a hedgehog. But it hadn’t time to scratch,for, in one moment, it found all its four claws popped into nice soft warm gloves! And then the kittens got quite sweet-tempered and gentle, and began purring again!“So the little girls went dancing home again, and the next morning they came dancing back to school. The scratches were all healed, and they told me ‘The kittenshavebeen good!’ And, when any kitten wants to catch a mouse, it just takes offoneof its gloves; and if it wants to catchtwomice, it takes off two gloves; and if it wants to catchthreemice, it takes offthreegloves; and if it wants to catchfourmice, it takes off all its gloves. But the moment they’ve caught the mice, they pop their gloves on again, because they know we can’t love them without their gloves. For, you see ‘gloves’ have got ‘love’insidethem—there’s noneoutside!“So all the little girls said, ‘Please thank Maggie, and we send her 250loves, and 1000kissesin return for her 250 kittens and her 1000loves!!’ And I told them in the wrong order! and they said they hadn’t.“Your loving old Uncle,“C. L. D.“Love and kisses to Nellie and Emsie.”
“But how badly youdospell your words! Iwasso puzzled about the ‘sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses!’ But at last I made out why, of course, you meant ‘a sack full ofgloves, and a basket full ofkittens!’ Then I understood what you were sending me. And just then Mrs. Dyer came to tell me a large sack and a basket had come. There was such a miawing in the house, as if all the cats in Eastbourne had come to see me! ‘Oh, just open them please, Mrs. Dyer, and count the things in them!’
“So in a few minutes Mrs. Dyer came and said, ‘500 pairs of gloves in the sack and 250 kittens in the basket.’
“‘Dear me! That makes 1000 gloves! four times as many gloves as kittens! It’s very kind of Maggie, but why did she send so many gloves? for I haven’t got 1000hands, you know, Mrs. Dyer.’
“And Mrs. Dyer said, ‘No, indeed, you’re 998 hands short of that!’
“However the next day I made out what to do, and I took the basket with me and walked off to the parish school—thegirl’sschool, you know—and I said to the mistress, ‘How many little girls are there at school to-day?’
“‘Exactly 250, sir.’
“‘And have they all beenverygood all day?’
“‘As good as gold, sir.’
“So I waited outside the door with my basket, and as each little girl came out, I just popped a soft little kitten into her hands! Oh, what joy there was! The little girls went all dancing home, nursing their kittens, and the whole air was full of purring! Then, the next morning, I went to the school, before it opened, to ask the little girls how the kittens had behaved in the night. And they all arrived sobbing and crying, and their faces and hands were all covered with scratches, and they had the kittens wrapped up in their pinafores to keep them from scratching any more. And they sobbed out, ‘The kittens have been scratching us all night, all the night.’
“So then I said to myself, ‘What a nice little girl Maggie is.NowI see why she sent all those gloves, and why there are four times as many gloves as kittens!’ and I said loud to the little girls, ‘Never mind, my dear children, do your lessonsverynicely, and don’t cry any more, and when school is over, you’ll find me at the door, and you shall see what you shall see!’
“So, in the evening, when the little girls came running out, with the kittens still wrapped up in their pinafores, there was I, at the door, with a big sack! And, as each little girl came out, I just popped into her hand two pairs of gloves! And each little girl unrolled her pinafore and took out an angry little kitten, spitting and snarling, with its claws sticking out like a hedgehog. But it hadn’t time to scratch,for, in one moment, it found all its four claws popped into nice soft warm gloves! And then the kittens got quite sweet-tempered and gentle, and began purring again!
“So the little girls went dancing home again, and the next morning they came dancing back to school. The scratches were all healed, and they told me ‘The kittenshavebeen good!’ And, when any kitten wants to catch a mouse, it just takes offoneof its gloves; and if it wants to catchtwomice, it takes off two gloves; and if it wants to catchthreemice, it takes offthreegloves; and if it wants to catchfourmice, it takes off all its gloves. But the moment they’ve caught the mice, they pop their gloves on again, because they know we can’t love them without their gloves. For, you see ‘gloves’ have got ‘love’insidethem—there’s noneoutside!
“So all the little girls said, ‘Please thank Maggie, and we send her 250loves, and 1000kissesin return for her 250 kittens and her 1000loves!!’ And I told them in the wrong order! and they said they hadn’t.
“Your loving old Uncle,“C. L. D.
“Love and kisses to Nellie and Emsie.”
This letter takes up eight pages of close writing, and I should very much doubt if any child ever had a more charming one from anybody. The whimsical fancy in it,the absolute comprehension of a child’s intellect, the quickness with which the writer employs the slightest incident or thing that would be likely to please a little girl, is simply wonderful. I shall never forget how the letter charmed and delighted my sister Maggie and myself. We called it “The glove and kitten letter,” and as I look at the tremulous handwriting which is lying by my side, it all comes back to me very vividly—like the sound of forgotten fingers on the latch to some lonely fireside watcher, when the wind is wailing round the house with a wilder inner note than it has in the daytime.
At Eastbourne I was happier even with Lewis Carroll than I was at Oxford. We seemed more free, and there was the air of holiday over it all. Every day of my stay at the house in Lushington Road was a perfect dream of delight.
There was one regular and fixed routine which hardly ever varied, and which I came to know by heart; and I will write anaccount of it here, and ask any little girl who reads it, if she ever had such a splendid time in her life.
To begin with, we used to get up very early indeed. Our bedroom doors faced each other at the top of the staircase. When I came out of mine I always knew if I might go into his room or not by his signal. If, when I came into the passage, I found that a newspaper had been put under the door, then I knew I might go in at once; but if there was no newspaper, then I had to wait till it appeared. I used to sit down on the top stair as quiet as a mouse, watching for the paper to come under the door, when I would rush in almost before uncle had time to get out of the way. This was always the first pleasure and excitement of the day. Then we used to downstairs to breakfast, after which we always read a chapter out of the Bible. So that I should remember it, I always had to tell it to him afterwards as a story of my own.
“LEWIS CARROLL’S” HOUSE AT EASTBOURNE
“Now then, Isa dearest,” he would say, “tell me a story, and mind you begin with ‘once upon a time.’ A story which does not begin with ‘once upon a time’ can’t possibly be a good story. It’smostimportant.”
When I had told my story it was time to go out.
I was learning swimming at the Devonshire Park baths, and we always had a bargain together. He would never allow me to go to the swimming-bath—which I revelled in—until I had promised him faithfully that I would go afterwards to the dentist’s.
He had great ideas upon the importance of a regular and almost daily visit to the dentist. He himself went to a dentist as he would have gone to a hairdresser’s, and he insisted that all the little girls he knew should go too. The precaution sounds strange, and one might be inclined to think that Lewis Carroll carried it to an unnecessary length; but I can only bear personalwitness to the fact that I have firm strong teeth, and have never had a toothache in my life. I believe I owe this entirely to those daily visits to the Eastbourne dentist.
Soon after this it was time for lunch, and we both went back hand-in-hand to the rooms in Lushington Road. Lewis Carroll never had a proper lunch, a fact which always used to puzzle me tremendously.
I could not understand how a big grown-up man could live on a glass of sherry and a biscuit at dinner time. It seemed such a pity when there was lots of mutton and rice-pudding that he should not have any. I always used to ask him, “Aren’t you hungry, uncle, evento-day?”
After lunch I used to have a lesson in backgammon, a game of which he was passionately fond, and of which he could never have enough. Then came what to me was the great trial of the day. I am afraid I was a very lazy little girl in those days, and I know I hated walking far. The trial was,that we should walk to the top of Beachy Head every afternoon. I used to like it very much when I got there, but the walk was irksome. Lewis Carroll believed very much in a great amount of exercise, and said one should always go to bed physically wearied with the exercise of the day. Accordingly there was no way out of it, and every afternoon I had to walk to the top of Beachy Head. He was very good and kind. He would invent all sorts of new games to beguile the tedium of the way. One very curious and strange trait in his character was shown on these walks. I used to be very fond of flowers and of animals also. A pretty dog or a hedge of honeysuckle were always pleasant events upon a walk to me. And yet he himself cared for neither flowers nor animals. Tender and kind as he was, simple and unassuming in all his tastes, yet he did not like flowers! I confess that even now I find it hard to understand. He knew children so thoroughly and well—perhapsbetter than any one else—that it is all the stranger that he did not care for things that generally attract them so much. However, be that as it may, the fact remained. When I was in raptures over a poppy or a dogrose, he would try hard to be as interested as I was, but even to my childish eyes it was an obvious effort, and he would always rather invent some new game for us to play at. Once, and once only, I remember him to have taken an interest in a flower, and that was because of the folk-lore that was attached to it, and not because of the beauty of the flower itself.
We used to walk into the country that stretched, in beautiful natural avenues of trees, inland from Eastbourne. One day while we sat under a great tree, and the hum of the myriad insect life rivalled the murmur of the far-away waves, he took a foxglove from the heap that lay in my lap and told me the story of how they came by their name; how, in the old days, when, all overEngland, there were great forests, like the forest of Arden that Shakespeare loved, the pixies, the “little folks,” used to wander at night in the glades, like Titania, and Oberon, and Puck, and because they took great pride in their dainty hands they made themselves gloves out of the flowers. So the particular flower that the “little folks” used came to be called “folks’ gloves.” Then, because the country people were rough and clumsy in their talk, the name was shortened into “Fox-gloves,” the name that every one uses now.
When I got very tired we used to sit down upon the grass, and he used to show me the most wonderful things made out of his handkerchief. Every one when a child has, I suppose, seen the trick in which a handkerchief is rolled up to look like a mouse, and then made to jump about by a movement of the hand. He did this better than any one I ever saw, and the trick was a never-failing joy. By a sort of consentbetween us the handkerchief trick was kept especially for the walk to Beachy Head, when, about half-way, I was a little tired and wanted to rest. When we actually got to the Head there was tea waiting in the coastguard’s cottage. He always said I ate far too much, and he would never allow me more than one rock cake and a cup of tea. This was an invariable rule, and much as I wished for it, I was never allowed to have more than one rock cake.
It was in the coastguard’s house or on the grass outside that I heard most of his stories. Sometimes he would make excursions into the realms of pure romance, where there were scaly dragons and strange beasts that sat up and talked. In all these stories there was always an adventure in a forest, and the great scene of each tale always took place in a wood. The consummation of a story was always heralded by the phrase, “The children now came to a deep dark wood.” When I heard thatsentence, which was always spoken very slowly and with a solemn dropping of the voice, I always knew that the really exciting part was coming. I used to nestle a little nearer to him, and he used to hold me a little closer as he told of the final adventure.
He did not always tell me fairy tales, though I think I liked the fairy tale much the best. Sometimes he gave me accounts of adventures which had happened to him. There was one particularly thrilling story of how he was lost on Beachy Head in a sea fog, and had to find his way home by means of boulders. This was the more interesting because we were on the actual scene of the disaster, and to be there stimulated the imagination.
The summer afternoons on the great headland were very sweet and peaceful. I have never met a man so sensible to the influences of Nature as Lewis Carroll. When the sunset was very beautiful he was often affected by the sight. The widespreadwrinkled sea below, in the mellow melancholy light of the afternoon, seemed to fit in with his temperament. I have still a mental picture that I can recall of him on the cliff. Just as the sun was setting, and a cool breeze whispered round us, he would take off his hat and let the wind play with his hair, and he would look out to sea. Once I saw tears in his eyes, and when we turned to go he gripped my hand much tighter than usual.
MISS ISA BOWMAN AND MISS BESSIE HATTONAS THE LITTLE PRINCES IN THE TOWER
We generally got back to dinner about seven or earlier. He would never let me change my frock for the meal, even if we were going to a concert or theatre afterwards. He had a curious theory that a child should not change her clothes twice in one day. He himself made no alteration in his dress at dinner time, nor would he permit me to do so. Yet he was not by any means an untidy or slovenly man. He had many little fads in dress, but his great horror and abomination was high-heeled shoeswith pointed toes. No words were strong enough, he thought, to describe such monstrous things.
Lewis Carroll was a deeply religious man, and on Sundays at Eastbourne we always went twice to church. Yet he held that no child should be forced into church-going against its will. Such a state of mind in a child, he said, needed most careful treatment, and the very worst thing to do was to make attendance at the services compulsory. Another habit of his, which must, I feel sure, sound rather dreadful to many, was that, should the sermon prove beyond my comprehension, he would give me a little book to read; it was better far, he maintained, to read, than to stare idly about the church. When the rest of the congregation rose at the entrance of the choir he kept his seat. He argued that rising to one’s feet at such a time tended to make the choir-boys conceited. I think he was quite right.
He kept no special books for Sundayreading, for he was most emphatically of opinion that anything tending to make Sunday a day dreaded by a child should be studiously avoided. He did not like me to sew on Sunday unless it was absolutely necessary.
One would have hardly expected that a man of so reserved a nature as Lewis Carroll would have taken much interest in the stage. Yet he was devoted to the theatre, and one of the commonest of the treats that he gave his little girl friends was to organise a party for the play. As a critic of acting he was naïve and outspoken, and never hesitated to find fault if he thought it justifiable. The following letter that he wrote to me criticising my acting in “Richard III.” when I was playing with Richard Mansfield, is one of the most interesting that I ever received from him. Although it was written for a child to understand and profit by, and moreover written in the simplest possible way, it yet even now strikes me as a trenchant and valuable piece of criticism.
ISA BOWMAN AS DUKE OF YORK
“Ch. Ch. Oxford,“Ap. 4, ’89.“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 themverymuch, 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 Walesverynicely and lovingly; and, in teasing your Uncle for his dagger and his sword, you are very sweet and playful and—‘butthat’snot 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 abeggarnay,’ leaning on the word ‘beggar’? If so, it was a mistake.Myrule for knowing which word to lean on is the word that tells you somethingnew, something that isdifferentfrom 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 abagof pears.’ The ‘bag’ is nothing new, because it was a bag in the first part of the sentence. But thepearsare new, and different from theapples. So you would say, ‘then I bought a bag ofpears.’“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 ofthosewords. But ‘light’ is different from ‘heavy,’ and ‘yes’ is different from ‘nay.’ So the way to say the sentence would be ‘withlightgifts you’ll say to a beggar “yes”: withheavygifts you’ll say to a beggar “nay”.’ And the way to say the lines in the play is—‘O, then I see you willpartbut withlightgifts;Inweightierthings you’ll say a beggarnay.’“One more sentence.“When Richard says, ‘What, would you have myweapon, little Lord?’ and you reply ‘Iwould, 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 asentence. It will soundmuchnicer 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 asnatural, when acting the Duke, as you were when you acted Alice. You seemed to me not to forgotyourselfenough. It was not so much a realprincetalking to his elder brother and his uncle; it wasIsa Bowmantalking to people she didn’tmuchcare about, for an audience to listen to—I don’t mean it was that allthrough, butsometimesyou wereartificial. Now don’t be jealous of Miss Hatton, when I say she wassweetlynatural. She looked and spoke like arealPrince of Wales. And she didn’t seem to know that there was any audience. If you are ever to be agoodactress (as I hope you will), you must learn toforget‘Isa’ altogether, andbethe character you are playing. Try to think ‘This isreallythe Prince of Wales. I’m his little brother, and I’mveryglad to meet him, and I love himverymuch,’ and ‘this isreallymy uncle: he’s very kind, and lets me say saucy things to him,’ anddoforget that there’s anybody else listening!“My sweet pet, Ihopeyou won’t be offended with me for saying what I fancy might make your acting better!“Your loving old Uncle,“Charles.X forNellie.X forMaggie.X forEmsie.X forIsa.”
“Ch. Ch. Oxford,“Ap. 4, ’89.
“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 themverymuch, 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 Walesverynicely and lovingly; and, in teasing your Uncle for his dagger and his sword, you are very sweet and playful and—‘butthat’snot 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 abeggarnay,’ leaning on the word ‘beggar’? If so, it was a mistake.Myrule for knowing which word to lean on is the word that tells you somethingnew, something that isdifferentfrom 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 abagof pears.’ The ‘bag’ is nothing new, because it was a bag in the first part of the sentence. But thepearsare new, and different from theapples. So you would say, ‘then I bought a bag ofpears.’
“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 ofthosewords. But ‘light’ is different from ‘heavy,’ and ‘yes’ is different from ‘nay.’ So the way to say the sentence would be ‘withlightgifts you’ll say to a beggar “yes”: withheavygifts you’ll say to a beggar “nay”.’ And the way to say the lines in the play is—
‘O, then I see you willpartbut withlightgifts;Inweightierthings you’ll say a beggarnay.’
“One more sentence.
“When Richard says, ‘What, would you have myweapon, little Lord?’ and you reply ‘Iwould, 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 asentence. It will soundmuchnicer 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 asnatural, when acting the Duke, as you were when you acted Alice. You seemed to me not to forgotyourselfenough. It was not so much a realprincetalking to his elder brother and his uncle; it wasIsa Bowmantalking to people she didn’tmuchcare about, for an audience to listen to—I don’t mean it was that allthrough, butsometimesyou wereartificial. Now don’t be jealous of Miss Hatton, when I say she wassweetlynatural. She looked and spoke like arealPrince of Wales. And she didn’t seem to know that there was any audience. If you are ever to be agoodactress (as I hope you will), you must learn toforget‘Isa’ altogether, andbethe character you are playing. Try to think ‘This isreallythe Prince of Wales. I’m his little brother, and I’mveryglad to meet him, and I love himverymuch,’ and ‘this isreallymy uncle: he’s very kind, and lets me say saucy things to him,’ anddoforget that there’s anybody else listening!
“My sweet pet, Ihopeyou won’t be offended with me for saying what I fancy might make your acting better!
“Your loving old Uncle,“Charles.
X forNellie.X forMaggie.X forEmsie.X forIsa.”
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 hisacquaintances. 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 régime 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 lovedcorrect elocution, and would take any pains to make a child perfect in a piece.
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”—whatdoes “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 “rôle” and “mise” and “tout ensemble” and “grit.”Ethel.Well, Mollie, “rôle” means somany 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 wouldnot be lightto dream on but VERY heavy.Mollie.Thank you, Ethel.
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”—whatdoes “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 “rôle” and “mise” and “tout ensemble” and “grit.”
Ethel.Well, Mollie, “rôle” means somany 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 wouldnot be lightto 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 hisfamous “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 meanbeginsif 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 thathimbeen havemustit see you so:grandfathermy was,thenalive was that, ‘Dodgson Uncle’ only the. Born wasIbefore 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.”
“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 thathimbeen havemustit see you so:grandfathermy was,thenalive was that, ‘Dodgson Uncle’ only the. Born wasIbefore 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.”
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 wasveryhungry 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’dmuchrather not. You know I do melt soveryeasily!’ And she made me take her quite to the other side of the room, where it wasverycold: 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 noideahow 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 droppedrightoff! There now!’ ‘Of course it droppedrightoff,’ I said, ‘because it was therighthand.’ ‘And how do you know it was therighthand, Mister Carroll?’ the doll said. So I said, ‘I think it must have been therighthand because the other hand wasleft.’“The doll said, ‘I shan’t laugh. It’s a very badjoke. 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 Ican’tlaugh 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.”
“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 wasveryhungry 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’dmuchrather not. You know I do melt soveryeasily!’ And she made me take her quite to the other side of the room, where it wasverycold: 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 noideahow 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 droppedrightoff! There now!’ ‘Of course it droppedrightoff,’ I said, ‘because it was therighthand.’ ‘And how do you know it was therighthand, Mister Carroll?’ the doll said. So I said, ‘I think it must have been therighthand because the other hand wasleft.’
“The doll said, ‘I shan’t laugh. It’s a very badjoke. 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 Ican’tlaugh 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 likethishouse?”
“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’thistime 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 aweekto 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. Ifallone’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’tcross! Remember the old proverb, ‘Cross writing makes cross reading.’ ‘Theoldproverb,’ you say inquiringly; ‘how old?’ Well, not soveryancient, 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 bequitejustified in addressing a chicken just out of the shell as ‘Old Boy!’when comparedwith another chicken that was only half out!”
“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’tcross! Remember the old proverb, ‘Cross writing makes cross reading.’ ‘Theoldproverb,’ you say inquiringly; ‘how old?’ Well, not soveryancient, 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 bequitejustified in addressing a chicken just out of the shell as ‘Old Boy!’when comparedwith 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 OXFORDJune 9 to 13, 1899When Maggie once to Oxford cameOn tour as ‘Booties’ Baby,’She said ‘I’ll see this place of fame,However dull the day be!’So with her friend she visitedThe sights that it was rich in:And first of all she poked her headInside the Christ Church Kitchen.The cooks around that little childStood 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,Forherto dine:Meringues so sweet,Forherto eat—For Maggie may beBootles’ Baby!’Then hand-in-hand, in pleasant talk,They wandered, and admiredThe Hall, Cathedral, and Broad Walk,Till Maggie’s feet were tired:One friend they called upon—her nameWas Mrs. Hassall—thenInto a College Room they came,Some savage Monster’s Den!‘And, when that Monster dined, I guessHe tore her limb from limb?’Well, no: in fact, I must confessThatMaggie 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 roundIts lawns so green and flat:And in that Garden Maggie foundA lovely Pussey-Cat!A quarter of an hour they spentIn 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 welcomeher—For Maggie may beBootles’ Baby!’So back to Christ Church—not too lateFor them to go and seeA 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 facedalone,That fierce Wild-Boar, because, you see,The thing was made of stone!On Magdalen walls they saw a faceThat filled her with delight,A giant-face, that made grimaceAnd grinned with all its might!A little friend, industrious,Pulled upwards, all the while,The corner of its mouth, and thusHe helped that face to smile!‘How nice,’ thought Maggie, ‘it would beIfIcould have a friendTo do that very thing forme,And make my mouth turn up with glee,By pulling at one end!’In Magdalen Park the deer are wildWith joy that Maggie bringsSome 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 childSo sweet and mild:We all rejoiceAt Maggie’s voice:We all are fedWith Maggie’s bread—For Maggie may beBootles’ Baby!’To Pembroke College next they go,Where little Maggie meetsThe Master’s wife and daughter: soOnce 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 thoughtnot, because, you see,She was soveryyoung,And he was old as old could be—So Maggie held her tongue.‘My Lord, she’sBootles’ Baby: weAre going up and down,’Her friend explained, ‘that she may seeThe 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 sawTwo players hurl aboutA hoop, but by what rule or lawThey could not quite make out.‘Ringo’ the Game is called, although‘Les Graces’ was once its name,Whenitwas—as its name will show—A much moregracefulGame.The Misses Symonds next they sought,Who begged the child to takeA book they long ago had bought—A gift for friendship’s sake!Away, next morning, Maggie wentFrom Oxford-town: but yetThe happy hours she there had spentShe 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 beBooties’ Baby!’—Lewis Carroll.”
“MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD
June 9 to 13, 1899
When Maggie once to Oxford cameOn tour as ‘Booties’ Baby,’She said ‘I’ll see this place of fame,However dull the day be!’So with her friend she visitedThe sights that it was rich in:And first of all she poked her headInside the Christ Church Kitchen.The cooks around that little childStood 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,Forherto dine:Meringues so sweet,Forherto eat—For Maggie may beBootles’ Baby!’Then hand-in-hand, in pleasant talk,They wandered, and admiredThe Hall, Cathedral, and Broad Walk,Till Maggie’s feet were tired:One friend they called upon—her nameWas Mrs. Hassall—thenInto a College Room they came,Some savage Monster’s Den!‘And, when that Monster dined, I guessHe tore her limb from limb?’Well, no: in fact, I must confessThatMaggie 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 roundIts lawns so green and flat:And in that Garden Maggie foundA lovely Pussey-Cat!A quarter of an hour they spentIn 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 welcomeher—For Maggie may beBootles’ Baby!’So back to Christ Church—not too lateFor them to go and seeA 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 facedalone,That fierce Wild-Boar, because, you see,The thing was made of stone!On Magdalen walls they saw a faceThat filled her with delight,A giant-face, that made grimaceAnd grinned with all its might!A little friend, industrious,Pulled upwards, all the while,The corner of its mouth, and thusHe helped that face to smile!‘How nice,’ thought Maggie, ‘it would beIfIcould have a friendTo do that very thing forme,And make my mouth turn up with glee,By pulling at one end!’In Magdalen Park the deer are wildWith joy that Maggie bringsSome 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 childSo sweet and mild:We all rejoiceAt Maggie’s voice:We all are fedWith Maggie’s bread—For Maggie may beBootles’ Baby!’To Pembroke College next they go,Where little Maggie meetsThe Master’s wife and daughter: soOnce 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 thoughtnot, because, you see,She was soveryyoung,And he was old as old could be—So Maggie held her tongue.‘My Lord, she’sBootles’ Baby: weAre going up and down,’Her friend explained, ‘that she may seeThe 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 sawTwo players hurl aboutA hoop, but by what rule or lawThey could not quite make out.‘Ringo’ the Game is called, although‘Les Graces’ was once its name,Whenitwas—as its name will show—A much moregracefulGame.The Misses Symonds next they sought,Who begged the child to takeA book they long ago had bought—A gift for friendship’s sake!Away, next morning, Maggie wentFrom Oxford-town: but yetThe happy hours she there had spentShe 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 beBooties’ Baby!’—Lewis Carroll.”