_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-Gla.s.s" 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 Antimaca.s.sar pretty that me give to you of nice so was it, Nelly dear my."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 sc.r.a.p, 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 sh.e.l.l 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. Ha.s.sall--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 p.u.s.s.ey-Cat!