So many children will grieve over the sad event—the death that deprived them of one of the best and kindest friends that children ever came across—the children who have followed "Alice" through all the wonderful adventures of "Wonderland" will be saddened by the thought that the hand which held the pen that gave them such amusement is now still for ever; and the children now grown up who knew Lewis Carroll personally will look back into the years agone and remember his delightful stories, and his never-ceasing kindness towards them in their youthful days.
LEWIS CARROLL.
(At the age of 8.)
To my mind Oxford will never be quite the same again, now that so many of the dear old friends of one's childhood have "gone over to the great majority." My poor old father, though always wishing to go for little excursions back to the old University town where so many years of his life had been spent, came back to his country rectory in the Cotswold Hills bemoaning the loss of the "many who had gone before," and how the familiar forms of his old college friends were, alas! no more to be seen.
Often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the old wainscoted wall, have we—father and I—chatted over the old Oxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together in Long-Wall Street. I was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child, and, for some years, I might say, I was quite alone in the nursery, my small, fat baby-brother being much more appreciated than myself. I was left almost entirely to the kind and gentle mercy of Mary Pearson, my own particular attendant, and though father, of course, had commenced his friendship with Mr. Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) long before, I only remember him first when I was about seven, and from that time until we went to live in Gloucestershire, he was one of my most delightful friends.
(From a Photo by Lewis Carroll.)
THE AUTHOR AND HER FATHER (THE REV. E. A. LITTON).
I shall never forget when, sitting on a rustic seat with Mr. Dodgson under a dear old tree in the Botanical Gardens, I heard for the first time the delightful and ever-entertaining story of Hans Andersen's "Ugly Duckling." I was devoted to books, and could read quite well for so small a child, but I cannot explain the delightful way in which Mr. Dodgson read and told his stories: as he read, the characters were real flesh and blood—living figures. This particular story made a great impression on me, and, being very sensitive about my ugly little self, it greatly interested me. I remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good, truthful, and to try not to think of self, than to be a pretty, selfish child, spoilt and disagreeable, and he, from that story, gave me the name of "Ducky," which name clung to me for many years; in fact, from that day Mary Pearson always called me "Miss Ducky."