The allusion is to the beautiful lawns, for which St. John’s is famous.

In his power of remembering anecdotes, and bringing them out just at the right moment, Mr. Dodgson was unsurpassed.  A guest brought into Christ Church Common Room was usually handed over to him to be amused.  He was not a good man to tell a story to—­he had always heard it before; but as a raconteur I never met his equal.  And the best of it was that his stories never grew—­except in number.

One would have expected that a mind so clear and logical and definite would have fought shy of the feminine intellect, which is generally supposed to be deficient in those qualities; and so it is somewhat surprising to find that by far the greater number of his friends were ladies.  He was quite prepared to correct them, however, when they were guilty of what seemed to him unreasoning conduct, as is shown by the following extract from a letter of his to a young lady who had asked him to try and find a place for a governess, without giving the latter’s address:—­

Some of my friends are business-men, and it is pleasant to see how methodical and careful they are in transacting any business-matter.  If, for instance, one of them were to write to me, asking me to look out for a place for a French governess in whom he was interested, I should be sure to admire the care with which he would give me her name in full—­(in extra-legible writing if it were an unusual name)—­as well as her address.  Some of my friends are not men of business.

So many such requests were addressed to him that at one time he had a circular letter printed, with a list of people requiring various appointments or assistants, which he sent round to his friends.

In one respect Lewis Carroll resembled the stoic philosophers, for no outward circumstance could upset the tranquillity of his mind.  He lived, in fact, the life which Marcus Aurelius commends so highly, the life of calm contentment, based on the assurance that so long as we are faithful to ourselves, no seeming evils can really harm us.  But in him there was one exception to this rule.  During an argument he was often excited.  The war of words, the keen and subtle conflict between trained minds—­in this his soul took delight, in this he sought and found the joy of battle and of victory.  Yet he would not allow his serenity to be ruffled by any foe whom he considered unworthy of his steel; he refused to argue with people whom he knew to be hopelessly illogical—­definitely refused, though with such tact that no wound was given, even to the most sensitive.

He was modest in the true sense of the term, neither overestimating nor underrating his own mental powers, and preferring to follow his own course without regarding outside criticism.  “I never read anything about myself or my books,” he writes in a letter to a friend; and the reason he used to give was that if the critics praised him he might become conceited, while, if they found fault, he would only feel hurt and angry.  On October 25, 1888, he wrote in his Diary:  “I see there is a leader in to-day’s Standard on myself as a writer; but I do not mean to read it.  It is not healthy reading, I think.”