Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (283 page)

“...
One day while we sat under a great tree, and the hum of the myriad insect life rivaled 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 it came by its name; how in the old days, when all over England 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 ‘foxgloves,’ the name that everyone uses now.”

This special walk always ended in the coastguard’s house, where they partook of tea and rock cake, and here most of his prettiest stories were told.
The most thrilling part occurred when “the children came to a deep dark wood,” always described with a solemn dropping of the voice; by that Isa knew that the exciting part was coming, then she crept nearer to him, and he held her close while he finished the tale.
Isa, as was quite natural, was a most dramatic little person, so she always knew what emotions would suit the occasion, and used them like the clever little actress that she was.

We find something very beautiful in this intimacy between the grave scholar and the light-hearted, innocent little girl, who used to love to watch him in some of those deep silences which neither cared to break.
This small maid understood his every mood.
A beautiful sunset, she tells us, touched him deeply.
He would take off his hat and let the wind toss his hair, and look seaward with a very grave face.
Once she saw tears in his eyes, and he gripped her hand very hard as they turned away.

Perhaps, what caught her childish fancy more than anything else, was his observance of Sunday.
He always took Isa twice to church, and she went because she wanted to go; he did not believe in forcing children in such matters, but he made a point of slipping some interesting little book in his pocket, so in case she got tired, or the sermon was beyond her, she would have something pleasant to do instead of staring idly about the church or falling asleep, which was just as bad.
Another peculiarity, she tells us, was his habit of keeping seated at the entrance of the choir.
He contended that the rising of the congregation made the choir-boys conceited.

One could go on telling anecdotes of Lewis Carroll and this well-beloved child, but of a truth his own letters will show far better than any description how he regarded this “star” child of his.
So far as her acting went, he never spared either praise or criticism where he thought it just.
Here is a letter criticising her acting as the little
Duke of York
:

“Ch.
Ch.
Oxford.
Ap.
4, ’89.

“My Lord Duke:—The photographs your Grace did me the honor 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 darling Isa’?
Which do you like best?

“Now, I’m gong to find fault with my pet about her acting.
What’s the good of an old Uncle like me except to find fault?”

Then follows some excellent criticism on the proper emphasis of words, explained so that the smallest child could understand; he also notes some mispronounced words, and then he adds:

“One thing more.
(What an impertinent 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 forget
yourself
enough.
It was not so much a real prince talking to his brother and uncle; it was Isa Bowman talking to people she didn’t care much 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 there was any audience.
If you ever get 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 is 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 Isa.”

“X for Emsie.

The crosses were unmistakably kisses.
He was certainly a most affectionate “Uncle.”
He rarely signed his name “Charles.”
It was only on special occasions and to very “special” people.

Here is another letter written to Isa’s sister Nellie, thanking her for a “tidy” she made him.
(He called it an Antimacassar.) “The only ordinary thing about it,” Isa tells us, “is the date.”
The letter reads backward.
One has to begin at the very bottom and read up, instead of reading from the top downward:

“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, Nellie dear my.”

He had often written a looking-glass letter which could only be read by holding it up to a mirror, but this sort of writing was a new departure.

In one of her letters Isa sent “sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses.”

“How badly you
do
spell your words!”
he answered her.
“I
was
so puzzled about the ‘sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses.’
But at last I made out that, of course, you meant a ‘sack full of
gloves
and a basket full of
kittens
.’”
Then he composed a regular nonsense story on the subject.
Isa and her sisters called it the “glove and kitten letter” and read it over and over with much delight, for it was full of quaint fancies, such as Lewis Carroll loved to shower upon the children.

When “Bootle’s Baby” was put upon the stage, Maggie Bowman, though but a tiny child, played the part of
Mignon
, the little lost girl, who walked into the hearts of the soldiers, and especially one young fellow, to whom she clung most of all.
Lewis Carroll, besides taking a personal interest in Maggie herself, was charmed with the play, which appealed to him strongly, so when little Maggie came to Oxford with the company she was treated like a queen.
She stayed four days, during which time her “Uncle” took her to see everything worth looking at, and made a rhyming diary for her which he called—

MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD.

When Maggie once to Oxford came

On tour as “Bootle’s 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

Bootle’s Baby.”

There are a great many verses describing her walks and what she saw, among other wonders “a lovely Pussy Cat.”

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

Bootle’s 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.

······

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 are fed

With Maggie’s bread—

For Maggie may be

Bootle’s Baby!”

······

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 Bootle’s 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 gayly cried,

“The best place in the Provinces!”

The little maid replied.

······

Away next morning Maggie went

From Oxford-town; but yet

The happy hours she there had spent

She could not soon forget.

······

“Oxford, good-bye!

She seemed to sigh,

You dear old City

With gardens pretty,

And lawns and flowers

And College towers,

And Tom’s great Bell,

Farewell!
farewell!