On Letters

( Originally Published 1922 )

THE pleasantest thing in the world to receive is a good letter. Our dearest literary joys are not to be weighed in comparison; indeed they are not at all of the argument, for we share them with many. But a letter—a true letter I would say—belongs to us in an intimate and peculiar sense; something in ourselves has summoned it, and perhaps the deepest source of our pleasure is, that it could not have been written to another.

For it takes two to make a true letter—one to inspire and one to write it; one to summon and one to send.

Such a letter is the child of love, and we rightly hold ourselves blessed for it. A few such letters—none of us can expect many—make shining epochs in our lives.

But these letters are of the rarest, and I would now speak rather of such as we may not too uncommonly hope to receive, supposing (egotistically) we have that in us which has grace to summon them.

A genuine letter is the best gift and proof of friendship. No man can write it who is only half or three-quarters your friend; he might give you money—this he could not give.

I have sometimes been convinced that a man was heartily my friend until I received a letter from him which showed me my error. Not in-deed that such was his desire, nor could I point out the word or phrase that enlightened me. I knew—that was all.

This will perhaps seem the very opposite of the truth to persons who have never considered the matter deeply, and who think nothing is so easily given and obtained as a letter. But I am writing for those who understand.

If you have ever been deceived in your dreams of friendship, look now over those old letters you kept, and you will wonder how you could have cheated yourself; the truth you were once blind to, stares out from every written page. It was there always, but your self-love would not see.

Into every real letter the soul of the writer passes. It is this that gives a fabulous value to the letters of great and famous persons concerning whom the world is ever curious—makers of history, poets, warriors, kings and criminals, queens and courtesans, all who for good or evil cause have gained a lasting renown. The collectors are justified by a psychology which few of them can penetrate.

The letters of some persons of whom we possess not a scrap of writing, would be absolutely priceless.

Is there, for example, enough worth in money to estimate the value of a letter written by the hand of JESUS? Can you imagine any-thing that would so thrill the world?

Or, to take a lower and more probable in-stance: A First Folio of Shakespeare is worth several thousand dollars, and the owner of one never has to haggle for his price—the book it-self is the ready money. The number of copies in the world is accurately known, as well as the fortunate owners. Some rich men are content with the distinction of possessing this rare volume, and they would like to have the fact mentioned on their tombstone. Well, a genuine letter of Shakespeare's—say to "Mr. W. H.", for example—would probably be worth more than all the First Folios in existence. True, the poet had hardly a thought or sentiment or idea that he did not express somewhere in his plays or poems. No matter---these were of public note, in the way of his calling; what the world wants is a look into the innermost soul of the man Shakespeare, who has escaped amid the glory of the poet. A letter! a letter!

Charles Lamb offers a notable proof of the superiority of genuine letters over mere literary compositions. He wrote many letters to his friends from his high stool in Leadenhall street; letters that have never been equalled for quaint humor, shrewd-glancing observation, kindly comment on men and manners, and, above all, the intimate revelation of one of the most charming personalities ever known. Being thrifty in a literary sense, and by no means a ready writer—he speaks of composing with "slow pain"—it was his habit to make his personal letters do a double service by turning them into essays for the press—and, generally, spoiling them. At any rate, I prefer the letters.

The truth behind this matter is, that if a man be capable and make a practice of writing many good letters, he will surely fall off in other lines of literary effort. Renan discov ered this early in his career, and was very sparing thereafter of letters which took any-thing out of him in a literary way. One might call this a sort of economy, keeping the honey for the hive. It is not a bad plan, in a thrifty sense, but this article can not sympathize with it, as it makes for the poverty of letters.

ONE hears it said often that the age of letter-writing is past, and certainly it may be granted that the heavy firing in this department of Literature is over and done with. Chesterfield and Madame de Sévigné we have not always with us, save in their classic residuum, and few are those who seek to challenge their long-maintained primacy. Letter-writing is regarded as "slow work" in this rapid age—there are the telephone and telegraph, those arch-enemies of the Epistolary Muse; and alack ! there is the typewriter, that marvellous aid to novelists and most effectual kill-joy of the letter-writer—why this should be so is another curious point of psychology, but so it is, as all the world agrees.

The shy Genius of Letter-writing revolts from this mechanical, public contrivance which must have everything in crude black-and-white, and permits of no subtle reticence or half-disclosure, or discreet adumbration, such as we may confide to the intimate pen. Perhaps letter-writing went out with the advent of this so-called Tool of Progress and multiplier of Popular Fiction. Indubitable it is at any rate that while the blood of the true letter-writer circulates genially in his pen, it never seems to get into the typewriter.

Even literary persons nowadays,—nay, these particularly, I am assured,—are but little given to the gentle art of letter-writing. I have been astonished by the inept, spiritless, even dull letters of two or three authors of my acquaintance who have a great public vogue on account of their reputed wit and brilliancy;—one would no more suspect it from their letters than from their laundry-bills. Why this anomaly? "Thrift, Horatio, thrift!"—these gifted authors bring to letter-writing the dregs of their minds, saving their spirit, grace, charm and sincerity for the shop, i.e., the professional "copy". The vital note of sympathy, the instant flow from mind to mind, in a word, all that goes to make a genuine letter, is vain to seek in their postal effusions.

However, admitting a sensible abatement and falling off in the epistolary province, and allowing that the classic letter-writers are in no danger from contemporary rivalship, I believe there is still abundant reason for hope and comfort on the part of all who cherish true letters. A very ancient scribe has observed that the thing which hath been is that which shall be. So I think one is justified in holding that there will always be good letters written, and especially by women—bless their kind hearts and busy, fertile minds !—who, literary or unliterary, have from the first use of post or messenger scribbled off the best letters in the world.

And why? the skeptical reader may ask.

It is a large subject and an intricate, comprehending the whole difference between the sexes, but for the present occasion we may con-tent ourselves with this: There is a peculiar sort of abnegation and devotion, an unselfish and naïve desire to please, implicit in the true letter-writer, which rarely falls to the endowment of mere Man! It must also be conceded that in the subsidiary graces of the epistolary art, women have always excelled their lords and masters (pre-Twentieth century style).

Finally, the deepest word on this point is yet to be said, and it is suggested by the Scriptural phrase, "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings". Goodness and purity, loving faith and loyalty will continue, as always, to signalize this medium of expression.

I have said that women write the best letters, and for their dear sake I shrink not from what is both a truism and a tautology. Should I ever be able to acknowledge the debt I owe them?—to pay it were not possible, even in dreams. There is dear "E. W. W.", who came, a late blessing into my life, just when I sorely needed such a friend, and who sends me frequently of her rich store of wisdom and sweetness and strength, though her pen knows no rest and the publishers will not be denied. Strange !—I find in these gracious letters, alive with the breath of her spirit, something that even she is unable to express in her public writings—or is it the vitality of the personal note, the concentrated challenge of the intimate word, that makes me think so? . . . There is charming "T. G.", more beautiful even than her poetry, who writes too seldom (thriftiest she of the daughters of the Muse), but each of whose joyous letters fills with light the happy week of its arrival. And "D. H.", who was not long ago "D. M."—what pleasure have I not received from her demure gayety and the sweet cordial note of her letters! . . . And "E. R.", who was even more recently "E. H." (ah, happy he who won her gracious youth !) — in what book shall I find a hint of her tricksy humor and bewitching pertness? . . . And "B. A.", whose pensive spirit ever seeking the Unknown, often startles me with its clear divinations—the privilege of the white-souled. . . . And "T. S.", whose prattling pen has given me cheer when weary and cast down, and who is so near to me in faith and sympathy, though I have never looked into her candid eyes. And "S. B.", the sweet silent Quakeress, who too rarely writes, and the thought of whom often lies like a sinless peace upon me. But let me cite no more lest I tempt the envious fates by a rash disclosure of my joys.