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Page 8
A perfect sneer, a perfectly guarded and telling rebuff. But I do not
care to speak about the literature of quarrels; my concern is mainly
with those readers who have relatives scattered here and there, and
who try to keep up communications with the said relatives. Judging
from the countless letters which I see, only a small percentage of
people understand that the duty of a correspondent is to say something.
As a general rule, it may be taken for granted that abstract
reflections are a bore; and I am certain that an exiled Englishman
would be far more delighted with the letter of a child who told him
about the farm or the cows, or the people in the street, or the
marriages and christenings and engagements, than he would be with
miles of sentiment from an adult, no matter how noble might be the
language in which the sentiment was couched. Partly, then, as a hint
to the good folk who load the foreign-bound mails, partly as a hint to
my own army of correspondents,[1] I have given a fragment of the
fruits of wide experience. Remember that stately Sir William Temple is
all but forgotten; chatty Pepys is immortal. Windy Philip de Commines
is unread; Montaigne is the delight of leisurely men all the world
over. The mighty Doctor Robertson is crowned chief of bores; the
despised Boswell is likely to be the delight of ages to come. The
lesson is--be simple, be natural, be truthful; and let style, grace,
grammar, and everything else take care of themselves. I spoke just now
of the best letter I have ever read, and I venture to give a piece of
it--
[1] Written when Mr. Runciman answered correspondents of the
_Family Herald_.
"DEAR MADAM,--No doubt you and Frank's friends have heard the sad
fact of his death here, through his uncle or the lady who took his
things. I will write you a few lines, as a casual friend that sat
by his death-bed. Your son, Corporal Frank H. ----, was wounded
near Fort Fisher. The wound was in the left knee, pretty bad. On
the 4th of April the leg was amputated a little above the knee;
the operation was performed by Dr. Bliss, one of the best surgeons
in the Army--he did the whole operation himself. The bullet was
found in the knee. I visited and sat by him frequently, as he was
fond of having me. The last ten or twelve days of April I saw that
his case was critical. The last week in April he was much of the
time flighty, but always mild and gentle. He died 1st of May.
Frank, as far as I saw, had everything requisite in surgical
treatment, nursing, &c. He had watchers most of the time--he was
so good and well-behaved and affectionate. I myself liked him very
much. I was in the habit of coming in afternoons and sitting by
him and soothing him; and he liked to have me--liked to put his
arm out and lay his hand on my knee--would keep it so a long
while. Towards the last he was more restless and flighty at
night--often fancied himself with his regiment, by his talk
sometimes seemed as if his feelings were hurt by being blamed by
his officers for something he was entirely innocent of--said, 'I
never in my life was thought capable of such a thing, and never
was.' At other times he would fancy himself talking, as it seemed,
to children and such like--his relatives, I suppose--and giving
them good advice--would talk to them a long while. All the time he
was out of his head not one single bad word or idea escaped him.
It was remarked that many a man's conversation in his senses was
not half so good as Frank's delirium. He seemed quite willing to
die--he had become weak and had suffered a good deal, and was
quite resigned, poor boy! I do not know his past life, but I feel
as if it must have been good; at any rate, what I saw of him here
under the most trying circumstances, with a painful wound, and
among strangers, I can say that he behaved so brave, so composed,
and so sweet and affectionate, it could not be surpassed.... I
thought perhaps a few words, though from a stranger, about your
son, from one who was with him at the last, might be worth while,
for I loved the young man, though I but saw him immediately to
lose him."
The grammar here is all wrong, but observe the profound goodness of
the writer; he hides nothing he knows that bereaved mother wants to
know about her Frank, her boy; and he tells her everything essential
with rude and noble tenderness, just as though the woman's sorrowing
eyes were on his face. It is a beautiful letter, bald as it is, and I
commend the style to writers on all subjects, even though a
schoolmaster could pick the syntax to pieces.
II.
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