"The following letter written to me in 1873, about a large wax doll that Mr. Dodgson had presented to me, and which I left behind when I went on a visit from home, is an interesting specimen. Emily and Mabel [referred to in the letter] were other dolls of mine and known also by him, but though they have long since departed this life, I need hardly say I still possess _the_ doll 'Alice.'

"'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 who it was all the time! It was your own doll. I was very glad to see her, and 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 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 have 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, whichever 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.'"

There were, as you see, special occasions when boys were accepted, or rather tolerated, and special boys with whom he exchanged courtesies from time to time. The little Hatch boys were favored, we cannot say for their own small sakes, but because there were two little sisters and _their_ feelings had to be considered. Lewis Carroll even took their pictures, and went so far as to write a little prologue for Beatrice and her brother Wilfred. The "grown-ups" were to give some private theatricals which the children were to introduce in the following dialogue:

(Enter Beatrice leading Wilfred. She leaves him at center [front], and after going round on tiptoe to make sure they are not overheard, returns and takes his arm.)

B. Wiffie! I'm _sure_ that something is the matter!

All day there's been-oh, such a fuss and clatter!

Mamma's been trying on a funny dress-- I never saw the house in such a mess!

(_Puts her arms around his neck._) _Is_ there a secret, Wiffie?

W. (_Shaking her off._) Yes, of course!

B. And you won't tell it? (_Whimpers._) Then you're very cross!

(_Turns away from him and clasps her hands ecstatically._) I'm sure of this! It's something _quite_ uncommon!

W. (Stretching up his arms with a mock heroic air.) Oh, Curiosity! Thy name is woman!

(_Puts his arm round her coaxingly._) Well, Birdie, then I'll tell! (_Mysteriously._) What should you say If they were going to act--a little play?

B. (_Jumping up and clapping her hands._) I'd say, "How nice!"

W. (_Pointing to audience._) But will it please the rest?

B. Oh, yes! Because, you know, they'll do their best!

(_Turns to audience._) You'll praise them, won't you, when you've seen the play?

Just say, "How nice!" before you go away!

(_They run away hand in hand._)

Of course the little girl had the last word, but then, as Lewis Carroll himself would say, "Little girls usually had."

This prologue, Miss Hatch tells us, was Lewis Carroll's only attempt in the dramatic line, and the two tots made a pretty picture as they ran off the stage.

"Mr. Dodgson's chief form of entertaining," writes Miss Hatch, "was giving dinner parties. Do not misunderstand me, nor picture to yourself a long row of guests on either side of a gayly-decorated table. Mr. Dodgson's theory was that it was much more enjoyable to have your friends singly, consequently these 'dinner parties,' as he liked to call them, consisted almost always of one guest only, and that one a child friend. One of his charming and characteristic little notes, written in his clear writing, often on a half sheet of note paper and signed with the C.L.D. monogram [Monogram: CLD] would arrive, containing an invitation, of which the following is a specimen." [Though written when Beatrice was no longer a little girl.]

Ch. Ch. Nov. 21, '96.

"'MY DEAR BEE:--The reason I have for so long a time not visited the hive is a _logical_ one," (he was busy on his symbolic _Logic_), "'but is not (as you might imagine) that I think there is no more honey in it! Will you come and dine with me? Any day would suit me, and I would fetch you at 6:30.

"'Ever your affectionate "'C.L.D.'

"Let us suppose this invitation has been accepted.... After turning in at the door of No. 7 staircase, and mounting a rather steep and winding stair, we find ourselves outside a heavy black door, of somewhat prisonlike appearance, over which is painted 'The Rev. C. L. Dodgson.'

Then a pa.s.sage, then a door with gla.s.s panels, and at last we reach the familiar room that we love so well. It is large and lofty and extremely cheerful-looking. All around the walls are bookcases and under them the cupboards of which I have spoken, and which even now we long to see opened that they may pour out their treasures.

"Opposite to the big window with its cushioned seat is the fireplace; and this is worthy of some notice on account of the lovely red tiles which represent the story of 'The Hunting of the Snark.' Over the mantelpiece hang three painted portraits of child friends, the one in the middle being the picture of a little girl in a blue cap and coat who is carrying a pair of skates."

This picture is a fine likeness of Xie (Alexandra) Kitchin, the little daughter of the Dean of Durham, another of his Oxford favorites.

"Mr. Dodgson," continues Miss Hatch, "seats his guest in a corner of the red sofa, in front of the fireplace, and the few minutes before dinner are occupied with anecdotes about other child friends, small or grown up, or anything in particular that has happened to himself.... Dinner is served in the smaller room, which is also filled with bookcases and books....

Those who have had the privilege of enjoying a college dinner need not be told how excellent it is.... The rest of the evening slips away very quickly, there is so much to be shown. You may play a game--one of Mr.

Dodgson's own invention-- ... or you may see pictures, lovely drawings of fairies, whom your host tells you 'you can't be sure don't really exist.'

Or you may have music if you wish it."

This was of course before the days of the phonograph, but Lewis Carroll had the next best thing, which Miss Hatch describes as an organette, in a large square box, through the side of which a handle is affixed. "Another box holds the tunes, circular perforated cards, all carefully catalogued by their owner. The picture of the author of 'Alice' keenly enjoying every note as he solemnly turns the handle, and raises or closes the lid of the box to vary the sound, is more worthy of your delight than the music itself. Never was there a more delightful host for a 'dinner-party' or one who took such pains for your entertainment, fresh and interesting to the last."

One of the first things a little girl learned in her intercourse with Lewis Carroll was to be methodical and orderly, as he was himself, in the arrangement of papers, photographs, and books; he kept lists and registers of everything. Miss Hatch tells of a wonderful letter register of his own invention "that not only recorded the names of his correspondents and the dates of their letters, but also noted the contents of each communication, so that in a few seconds he could tell you what you had written to him about on a certain day in years gone by.

"Another register contained a list of every menu supplied to every guest who dined at Mr. Dodgson's table. Yet," she explains, "his dinners were simple enough, never more than two courses. But everything that he did must be done in the most perfect manner possible, and the same care and attention would be given to other people's affairs, if in any way he could a.s.sist or give them pleasure.

"If he took you up to London to see a play, you were no sooner seated in the railway carriage than a game was produced from his bag and all the occupants were invited to join in playing a kind of 'Halma' or 'draughts'

of his own invention, on the little wooden board that had been specially made at his design for railway use, with 'men' warranted not to tumble down, because they fitted into little holes in the board."

Children, little girls especially, remember through life the numberless small kindnesses that are shown to them. Is it any wonder, then, that the name of Lewis Carroll is held in such loving memory by the scores of little girls he drew about him? Beatrice Hatch was only one among many to feel the warmth of his love. This quiet, almost solitary, man whose home was in the shadow of a great college, whose daily life was such a long walk of dull routine, could yet find time to make his own sunshine and to draw others into the light of it.

But the children did _their_ part too. He grew dependent on them as the years rolled on; a fairy circle of girls was always drawing him to them, and he was made one of them. They told him their childish secrets feeling sure of a ready sympathy and a quick appreciation. He seemed to know his way instinctively to a girl's heart; she felt for him an affection, half of comradeship, half of reverence, for there was something inspiring in the fearless carriage of the head, the clear, serene look in the eyes, that seemed to pierce far ahead upon the path over which their own young feet were stumbling, perhaps.

With the pa.s.sing of the years, some of the seven sisters married, and a fair crop of nieces and nephews shot up around him, also some small cousins in whom he took a deep interest. It is to one of these that he dedicated his poem called "Matilda Jane," in honor of the doll who bore the name, which meant nothing in the world to such an unresponsive bit of doll-dom.

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!

A little tender-hearted, ungrammatical, motherly "_me_"--how well the writer knew the small "Bessie" whose affection for this doll inspired the verses!

In after years when more serious work held him close to his study, and he made a point of declining all invitations, he took care that no small girl should be put on his black list. "If," says Miss Hatch, "you were very anxious to get him to come to your house on any particular day, the only chance was _not_ to _invite_ him, but only to inform him that you would be at home; otherwise he would say 'As you have _invited_ me, I cannot come, for I have made a rule to decline all _invitations_, but I will come the next day,'" and in answer to an invitation to tea, he wrote her in his whimsical way:

"What an awful proposition! To drink tea from four to six would tax the const.i.tution even of a hardened tea-drinker. For me, who hardly ever touches it, it would probably be fatal."

If only we could read half the clever letters which pa.s.sed between Lewis Carroll and his girl friends, what a volume of wit and humor, of sound common sense, of clever nonsense we should find! Yet behind it all, that underlying seriousness which made his friendship so precious to those who were so fortunate as to possess it. The "little girl" whose loving picture of him tells us so much lived near him all her life; she felt his influence in all the little things that go to make up a child's day, long after the real childhood had pa.s.sed her by. And so with all the girls who knew and loved him, and even those to whom his name was but a suggestion of what he really was.

Surely this fairy ring of girls encircles the English-speaking world, the girls whom Lewis Carroll loved, the hundreds he knew, the millions he had never seen.