My Dear Edith,—­I am interested by what you say of Miss—.  You will know, without my saying it, that if she, or any other friend of yours with any troubles, were to like to write to me, I would very gladly try to help:  with all my ignorance and weakness, God has, I think, blessed my efforts in that way:  but then His strength is made perfect in weakness....

    Ch.  Ch., Feb. 14, 1886.

My Dear Edith,...  I think I’ve already noticed, in a way, most of the rest of that letter—­except what you say about learning more things “after we are dead.” I certainly like to think that may be so.  But I have heard the other view strongly urged, a good deal based on “then shall we know even as we are known.”  But I can’t believe that that means we shall have all knowledge given us in a moment—­nor can I fancy it would make me any happier:  it is the learning that is the chief joy, here, at any rate....

I find another remark anent “pupils”—­a bold speculation that my 1,000 pupils may really “go on” in the future life, till they have really outstripped Euclid.  And, please, what is Euclid to be doing all that time? ...

One of the most dreadful things you have ever told me is your students’ theory of going and speaking to any one they are interested in, without any introductions.  This, joined with what you say of some of them being interested in “Alice,” suggests the horrid idea of their some day walking into this room and beginning a conversation.  It is enough to make one shiver, even to think of it!

Never mind if people do say “Good gracious!” when you help old women:  it is being, in some degree, both “good” and “gracious,” one may hope.  So the remark wasn’t so inappropriate.

I fear I agree with your friend in not liking all sermons.  Some of them, one has to confess, are rubbish:  but then I release my attention from the preacher, and go ahead in any line of thought he may have started:  and his after-eloquence acts as a kind of accompaniment—­like music while one is reading poetry, which often, to me, adds to the effect.

    C. L. Dodgson.

The “Alice” operetta, which Mr. Dodgson had despaired of, was at last to become a reality.  Mr. Savile Clarke wrote on August 28th to ask his leave to dramatise the two books, and he gladly assented.  He only made one condition, which was very characteristic of him, that there should be “no suggestion even of coarseness in libretto or in stage business.”  The hint was hardly necessary, for Mr. Savile Clarke was not the sort of man to spoil his work, or to allow others to spoil it, by vulgarity.  Several alterations were made in the books before they were suitable for a dramatic performance; Mr. Dodgson had to write a song for the ghosts of the oysters, which the Walrus and the Carpenter had devoured.  He also completed “Tis the voice of the lobster,” so as to make it into a song.  It ran as follows:—­