“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.”