My dear Edith,—­Would you tell your mother I was aghast at seeing the address of her letter to me:  and I would much prefer “Rev. C.L.  Dodgson, Ch.  Ch., Oxford.”  When a letter comes addressed “Lewis Carroll, Ch.  Ch.,” it either goes to the Dead Letter Office, or it impresses on the minds of all letter-carriers, &c., through whose hands it goes, the very fact I least want them to know.

Please offer to your sister all the necessary apologies for the liberty I have taken with her name.  My only excuse is, that I know no other; and how am I to guess what the full name is?  It may be Carlotta, or Zealot, or Ballot, or Lotus-blossom (a very pretty name), or even Charlotte.  Never have I sent anything to a young lady of whom I have a more shadowy idea.  Name, an enigma; age, somewhere between 1 and 19 (you’ve no idea how bewildering it is, alternately picturing her as a little toddling thing of 5, and a tall girl of 15!); disposition—­well, I have a fragment of information on that question—­your mother says, as to my coming, “It must be when Lottie is at home, or she would never forgive us.”  Still, I cannot consider the mere fact that she is of an unforgiving disposition as a complete view of her character.  I feel sure she has some other qualities besides.

    Believe me,

    Yrs affectionately,

    C.L.  Dodgson.

My dear child,—­It seems quite within the bounds of possibility, if we go on long in this style, that our correspondence may at last assume a really friendly tone.  I don’t of course say it will actually do so—­that would be too bold a prophecy, but only that it may tend to shape itself in that direction.

Your remark, that slippers for elephants could be made, only they would not be slippers, but boots, convinces me that there is a branch of your family in Ireland.  Who are (oh dear, oh dear, I am going distracted!  There’s a lady in the opposite house who simply sings all day.  All her songs are wails, and their tunes, such as they have, are much the same.  She has one strong note in her voice, and she knows it!  I think it’s “A natural,” but I haven’t much ear.  And when she gets to that note, she howls!) they?  The O’Rixes, I suppose?

About your uninteresting neighbours, I sympathise with you much; but oh, I wish I had you here, that I might teach you not to say “It is difficult to visit one’s district regularly, like every one else does!”

And now I come to the most interesting part of your letter—­ May you treat me as a perfect friend, and write anything you like to me, and ask my advice?  Why, of course you may, my child!  What else am I good for?  But oh, my dear child-friend, you cannot guess how such words sound to me!  That any one should look up to me, or think of asking