The Story of Lewis Carroll: Told for Young People by the Real Alice in Wonderland

								


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THE STORY OF
LEWIS CARROLL


TOLD FOR YOUNG PEOPLE BY
THE REAL ALICE IN WONDERLAND


MISS ISA BOWMAN

  WITH A DIARY AND NUMEROUS
FACSIMILE LETTERS WRITTEN TO
MISS ISA BOWMAN AND
OTHERS. ALSO MANY SKETCHES
AND PHOTOS BY LEWIS CARROLL
AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS.

  NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
1900

  COPYRIGHT, 1899
BY E. P. DUTTON & CO.

  The Knickerbocker Press, New York

ILLUSTRATIONS

                                                              PAGE


MISS ISA BOWMAN (IN PHOTOGRAVURE)                 Frontispiece


LEWIS CARROLL'S ROOM IN OXFORD                                 9


C. L. DODGSON                                                 13


A CHINAMAN                                                    17


BEGGAR CHILDREN                                               35


ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON                                     59


LEWIS CARROLL'S HOUSE AT EASTBOURNE                           65


MISS ISA BOWMAN AND MISS BESSIE HATTON AS THE LITTLE
PRINCES IN THE TOWER                                          73


ISA BOWMAN AS DUKE OF YORK                                    77


MISS ISA BOWMAN AS "ALICE IN WONDERLAND" (IN PHOTOGRAVURE)    80


THE LITTLE PRINCES                                            83


"DOLLY VARDEN"                                                95


"A TURK"                                                     103


FACSIMILE OF A CHARADE                               108-109-110

LEWIS CARROLL

It seems to me a very difficult task to sit down at a desk and write
"reminiscences" of a friend who has gone from us all.
It is not easy to make an effort and to remember all the little personalia
of some one one has loved very much, and by whom one has been loved. And
yet it is in a measure one's duty to tell the world something of the inner
life of a famous man; and Lewis Carroll was so wonderful a personality,
and so good a man, that if my pen dragged ever so slowly, I feel that I
can at least tell something of his life which is worthy the telling.
Writing with the sense of his loss still heavy upon me, I must of
necessity colour my account with sadness. I am not in the ordinary sense
a biographer. I cannot set down a critical estimate, a cold, dispassionate
summing-up of a man I loved; but I can write of a few things that happened
when I was a little girl, and when he used to say to me that I was "his
little girl."
The gracious presence of Lewis Carroll is with us no longer. Never again
will his hand hold mine, and I shall never hear his voice more in this
world. Forever while I live that kindly influence will be gone from my