all his days in the land. Calverley, Ruskin, Millais, Tennyson, the Rossettis, Ellen Terry, these pass by in the long procession of his friends; but the greater part of his thought and his genius and his devotion was given to the children who one by one succeeded Alice Liddell in the garden of his friendship. He met them in railway carriages (for he always carried a few puzzles in his pocket against such chance encounters) and he scraped acquaintance with them on the beach, being well supplied always with safety pins in case they wanted to go in wading. His letters to them would run like this:
I have been awfully busy, and I've had to write heaps of letters—wheelbarrows full, almost. And it tires me so that generally I go to bed again the next minute after I get up: and sometimes I go to bed again a minute before I get up! Did you ever hear of any one being so tired as that? ...
Or like this:
My dear E———,—Though rushing, rapid rivers roar between us (if you refer to the map of England, I think you'll find that to be correct), we still remember each other, and feel a sort of shivery affection for each other....
Or like this:
My Dear Gaynor,—My name is spelt with a "G," that is to say "Dodgson." Any one who spells it the same as that wretch (I mean of course the Chairman of Committees in the House of Commons) offends me deeply, and for ever! It is a thing I can forget, but never can forgive! If you do it again, I shall call you "'aynor." Could you live happy with such a name?
